'Been a while since he turned up with it.'

'Mmm,' Kathy muttered. She felt her face flushing. Nick Raven had been d.o.g.g.i.ng her thoughts more than a married man should. But once she'd had the opportunity to give him a piece of her mind, that'd stop, she was sure.

'Why don't you make use of it till he collects it? He might not want it.'

''Cos, as I said before, a new bike is out of my price range and I can't give it back second-hand.' Before Eunice could pursue the subject, Kathy nodded at the folders in the older woman's hand. 'Thought your husband was waiting for those ...' Kathy went out of the side exit and headed towards her front door, frowning at the shed on pa.s.sing it.

'I saw you earlier in the week driving a car.' Kathy had just remembered the fact and blurted it out to David as they sat in a bustling cafe, sipping tea. She gazed at him expectantly. When he made no comment, simply pulling a face, she added, 'I thought you'd seen me and would stop. You were on your own so I waved, but perhaps you didn't notice me.'

'I didn't,' David said. 'Ready to see the film?'

'It's a lovely evening. Shall we take a walk towards Victoria Park instead of being cooped up inside the Rivoli?'

'If you like.' David pushed away his half-finished tea. 'How's your week been?'

'Much the same.' Kathy's expression turned reflective. She thought back over her busy schedule, which had begun at four o'clock Monday morning when a sixteen-year-old miscarried. The girl's frantic widower father had called Kathy out to the Fieldgate Mansions tenements. He hadn't known she was pregnant and thought some dreadful disease had befallen his daughter when she started bleeding heavily. A tiny lifeless form had alerted him to the truth and he'd panicked and called the surgery. As soon as Kathy arrived she knew the man regretted getting official help. He wanted her gone almost before she'd put a foot over the threshold, the shame of the situation having overtaken his anxiety for his daughter. The haemorrhaging mother ended up in hospital, the baby, down the outside lavvie before Kathy had arrived and prevented the poor little mite's undignified disposal.

It was too depressing a story to want to relive it. She turned her mind to more cheerful characters. 'Mrs Castell is six months gone now and doing fine, so far as I can tell,' she recounted brightly. 'It's good to see her so chirpy. Oh, and I called in to see Mrs Potter. Her little lad is bonny ...' Kathy smiled softly at the memory of the handsome black-haired boy. Paul Potter was gaining weight and his little arms and legs were beginning to plump out. She'd noticed a bruise on Ruby's upper arm making Kathy sure Charlie had again manhandled his wife. But the woman's face had been unblemished apart from the faint scar that remained from the savage beating he'd given her months ago.

'Seen anything of that sister of yours?' David's gruff question broke into Kathy's brooding. He suddenly picked up his cup again and drained it of tea.

'Haven't seen Jenny since the beginning of last week.' Kathy gave David a thoughtful look. It was unusual for him to mention her twin out of the blue. But she felt happy for him to show an interest rather than seeming bored by any mention of her sister, and was about to tell him so when he interrupted.

'It was good that Fred Perry won at Wimbledon, wasn't it?' He indicated the children playing outside in the street with their bats and b.a.l.l.s. Kathy squinted into bright evening sunlight, smiling while watching the squealing children.

Kathy had listened to a radio news broadcast about Fred Perry's victory a couple of days previously. She had never been a sporty type but when living at home at the age of about thirteen Eddie had got hold of a couple of tennis rackets via one of his dodgy a.s.sociates. Before selling them on he'd allowed his twin daughters to take them to the park for a knockabout. The memory of that soft summery afternoon larking about on long gra.s.s with Jenny had stayed with Kathy. She'd often wished her father had allowed them to keep the rackets so they could have relived the lovely day, but Eddie never allowed sentiment to overrule profit. He'd taken the rackets back the same evening, moaning that one had a scuff mark on it.

'Where's the rest of it?'

'What rest?' Charlie Potter muttered sullenly.

Wes Silver stared in disgust at the mound of crumpled ten-shilling notes Charlie had dumped onto his desk. 'You must be losing your touch, Charlie boy, if that's all you managed to collect this evening.' He sounded resigned, on adding, 'I'm gonna need to find myself a new right-hand man, 'cos you're not up to the job any more.'

'It ain't as easy as it was getting them to part with it.' Charlie mimed gossips by tapping a calloused thumb against his fingers. 'That lot in Great Alie Street are geeing each other up about forming committees. I had to whack Butler so he'd hand over that ten bob, and his old woman was going on about getting the law on me.'

'So you after me coming out again with you on the rounds so they show you a bit of respect?' Wes banged a fist on the desk. 'No point in having a dog and barking meself, Charlie, is there.'

'Dishing out slaps and threats ain't working no more. Serious damage is needed.'

Wes knew Charlie's complaint had a ring of truth to it. On the first few occasions they had gone round collecting, the local shopkeepers had been in shock, handing over money to keep the peace ... and their teeth. Some had even been swayed towards supporting the cause. But now they realised they were expected to cough up on a regular basis they were less inclined to be intimidated and had started fighting back.

The anti-Fascists were gaining support from the likes of Mr and Mrs Butler and the other traders. Wes knew some of them were agitating at Mosley's rallies because he'd spotted them in the crowds. Extracting funds from them had turned into a double-edged sword because it had never been his intention to boost the number of his hero's enemies. Nevertheless, Wes calculated that when push came to shove business was more important than politics.

To Wes, ten-bob notes were pocket change. But even small fry had their uses, and he didn't like to lose face or let go of any source of income. He grabbed the notes in a large fist. With a sigh he set about straightening and counting them.

'Eight pounds ten shillings,' he announced bitterly. 'Gonna look a bit of a prat turning up at Sanctuary Buildings and offering that as a contribution for the cause, ain't I? How many dozen Blackshirts will that buy?'

Charlie knew that whatever funds were collected, be it fifty pounds or five, only about half of it ever found its way to Mosley. The rest went home with Wes to his nice big house close to Victoria Park where no doubt May Silver commandeered it.

Charlie watched as Wes folded all the notes and slipped them into an inside pocket of his suit jacket.

'Got me wages?'

'Wages?' Wes parroted, looking affronted. 'Chrissake, Charlie! I'm surprised you had the bleedin' cheek to hand over that little bit ... now you want some back?'

'I need me money,' Charlie growled, swinging about with fists balled at his side. He was going out drinking later and needed a bit of money to flash about.

Wes sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, staring at Charlie. It wasn't the first time he'd sensed his underling would like to leap across his desk and land him one. Charlie was like one of Fritz's unexploded bombs littering the area: you never knew if he might go off under the right conditions. He removed the notes from his pocket, peeled off two. 'Here ... take that, if you're desperate ...' The money was placed on the desk with a magnanimous flourish.

'Thanks,' Charlie muttered, back teeth grinding because he felt self-conscious. He got a decent wage off his shift at the docks, but the amount of drinking, gambling and womanising he did made the extra he earned from Wes a necessity to maintain his way of life. Charlie also prized the standing he got from his a.s.sociation with Wes Silver. So, even though he often felt tempted to let loose his tongue and his fists on his boss, he didn't.

Wes wasn't in the same league as the really big boys: the Sabini brothers or the Solomons and other gangs who ran not just in the East End but had tentacles that stretched into other areas of London and, so it was rumoured, overseas. But on his own little patch in the East End, Wes was feared and respected. Charlie knew it was his job to make sure that continued. He could have collected a bit more tonight if he'd carried on pounding the pavements but he'd wanted to knock off a bit early as he had things planned.

Charlie had already siphoned off a ten-bob note from the takings. Wes probably guessed he regularly dipped in before handing over the money. Even so, Charlie still reckoned he was due his rightful earnings.

Wes watched his minion bringing his temper under control and his lips twitched craftily. 'You seem a bit on edge this evening, mate. Everything all right at home, is it? Ruby and the kids all right?'

'Driving me round the bend, they are, as usual.' Charlie saw what his boss was trying to do: give him an excuse for snapping and snarling. 'Off out tonight for a bit of peace and quiet from the lot of 'em.'

'Best thing that is ... have a few pints on me ...'

Charlie turned away, pocketing his wages. His smile turned snide. 'With any luck, I'll be having more than that on you, mate,' he muttered beneath his breath as he went out, thinking about Blanche Raven.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

'And where d'you think you're sloping off to?'

Davy Wright scowled at his mother. She knew very well where he was off to. He'd been going to see his father in the East End, on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, for months. He wished now he'd never told her about how that started.

He'd b.u.mped into his father by chance, spotting him doing a van delivery to Islington just before Christmas. Davy had recognised his father straight away, despite having only been eight years old last time he clapped eyes on Stan Wright. His father had run out on them several years before, turning up out of the blue on a sentimental visit to his four sons. Stan had not stopped long, as his estranged wife threw the poker at him as soon as she realised he was only giving her a couple of half-crowns to help out the family.

After another long absence, Davy had thought his father might pretend he'd not seen him and hop in the van and drive away, but he'd offered him a lift, and given him two bob on dropping him off at the top of Campbell Road. Stan's unexpected generosity made it worthwhile for Davy to pursue the relationship. His mother gave him nothing and expected him to hand over to her everything he earned from his odd jobs. She'd found out he was acting as a part-time croupier at the weekends during the illegal street-gambling sessions. He'd expected her to go mad but she'd demanded to know what the job paid, so he'd boasted a bit about how well he did. That had been another mistake because she expected something every week now even if he hadn't had work.

So, when Stan had said farewell on Christmas Eve and told him to pop over and see him some time, Davy had taken him up on it, turning up in the East End the very next week.

His father hadn't been so generous on that occasion, or as welcoming, no doubt because the old dragon he lived with had made it clear she didn't want Davy in the house. Father and son had shuffled off together for a walk with Violet Potter bawling down the street after them that Davy could p.i.s.s off back to Islington because she didn't want any of Stan's kids coming calling. Instead of Davy knocking his dad up in Brick Lane, he and Stan now made a habit of meeting up on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon by Petticoat Lane market. Sometimes Davy got no more than a chat about his father's wartime heroics in the navy and the cost of his bus fare during their mooch about; other times Stan dipped in his pocket and was as generous as he'd been that time when wishing Davy a merry Christmas.

'I said, where you off to?' Polly Wright gave her son's arm a shake to hurry his reply.

'East End ... see Dad.' Davy mumbled, pulling away. He knew he had to toe the line. His mother had warned him that either he coughed up each week or he was out on his ear. Davy also knew there was no way his father would take him in if he and his mother had a bust-up. Violet Potter had made that pretty clear.

'Seein' him again, are yer? Well, make sure he sends some money back fer me,' Polly snarled, as she always did if she managed to catch Davy before he set off for the bus stop.

Stan Wright might have run out over a decade ago but she still cla.s.sed him as her husband. The main reason she'd never taken up with another man was that she resented letting Stan off the hook. That was how he'd see it as soon as he found out another fellow was pitching in his wages with hers. Now Davy had discovered his father's whereabouts, Polly reckoned it was high time Stan made good on what he owed her for bringing up his five sons on her own.

'Where you off to?'

'See me old man.'

Tom Finch had just turned up at Davy's house, football under his arm, to find his friend emerging from his doorway looking cleaner and tidier than he usually did when they had a kick-about on a weekend.

'Thought this week you was going over Sunday to see him,' Tom said huffily. Davy had told him he'd got an opportunity to act as croupier on Sat.u.r.day dinnertime.

'Going today; nuthin' doing for me on the corner.' Davy sounded disappointed; the job of croupier could be lucrative and therefore sought after by grown men who thought they were more ent.i.tled to the pickings than any upstart kids showing promise at it. Davy feared he would soon be elbowed out completely as more men in the street lost their regular employment.

'Fancy comin' over there with me?' Davy asked as they walked up the road. He'd asked Tom before if he fancied a bus ride to Whitechapel but his friend had never taken him up on the offer.

'Me mum'll go nuts.'

'Don't tell her.'

Tom fancied doing something now he was at a loose end. He had a shilling burning a hole in his pocket for the fare. Kathy had come by earlier in the week to visit and had slipped him the coin out of sight of their mother's eagle eye. If Winnie had seen it she'd have had it off him the moment Kathy went home.

'Be back by teatime, will we?' Tom asked, partially swayed by the idea of a trip out.

'Yeah ... always back by then 'cos me dad's gotta take that old bag down the pub Sat.u.r.day night.' Davy now knew enough about his father's domestic routine: Violet's rule was that Stan must be home early for his tea so they could get ready to go out on the razzle by six o'clock.

Tom grinned. 'All right ... just get rid of this and tell me mum we're off to the flicks.' He tossed the football in the air, catching it before setting off up the street at a trot.

'Don't take ages, then, or we'll miss the bleedin' bus,' Davy called after his friend.

'h.e.l.lo, son, how you doin'?' Stan Wright extended a hand to Tom and shook it. 'Remember your dad, I do. Me 'n' Eddie would have a pint together now 'n' again when I was living in Islington.'

Tom smiled bashfully, trying not to stare at the big bruise on Davy's dad's cheek. Stan had obviously been in a fight and Tom reckoned the man must be a bit of a rough handful although he looked a lot older than his own dad. Stan's hair was almost completely grey and spa.r.s.e on top, and he had a soft wobbly belly on him, visible beneath his faded check shirt. It was a warm July day and where he'd rolled his sleeves back Tom could see an anchor tattoo adorning one of his forearms. Tom felt impressed that Davy had such a father. His own dad didn't have any tattoos and he was a coward. Tom remembered past occasions when men came round after Eddie to accuse him of short-changing them on a deal. Eddie would get Winnie to say he was out while he hid upstairs, peeping out from behind the bedroom curtains, till the coast was clear.

Stan Wright sensed Tom Finch studying his purple cheek so avoided his son's knowing eye. He was getting sick of Violet branding him for all to see. He knew that daughter-in-law of hers was most of the problem, winding her up by coming over asking for money.

'Where we going then?' Davy asked as they set off, jostling to and fro in the bustling market, smirking at merchants' ribald patter.

'Don't mind, son ... fancy taking the weight off for a cuppa and a bun in a caff?'

'Yeah ... great ...' Davy was happy to take advantage of his father showing off in front of Tom. Usually, Stan's largesse would run to a pie or sausage roll for them both from a street vendor.

'So ... your dad still in the same business, is he, Tom?' Stan asked craftily. He was aware his question made the boy shift uncomfortably on his chair. When he'd lived in Islington he'd come to hear that Eddie earned well ducking and diving on the wrong side of the law.

'Yeah ... he's still got his own business. I'm joining him when I leave school,' Tom added proudly.

'Are yer now?' Stan nodded at his son. 'Hear that, Davy? Yer mate's going in with his dad.'

'Shame you ain't got a business, then I'd go in with you,' Davy answered wistfully.

'Wish I did have me own lark set up, son. But me stepson, as I call him, even though he ain't proper family like you, well, Charlie's in partners with a very big noise round the East End.' Stan had elevated Charlie Potter from Wes's underling to his equal.

'Yeah?' Davy sounded interested. 'I'm done with school soon. Any chance you could put in a word fer me with Charlie?'

'Oh, no, son,' Stan said quickly, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. His stepson wouldn't take kindly to finding out he'd been discussing him. 'Closed shop, it is, if you get me drift ...' He tapped the side of his nose and gulped down his tea.

Davy looked downhearted; he would have liked to be able to brag to pals, as Tom did, that he was going to work in a family firm. Most of the kids who'd left school at the end of term only had dead-end errand-boy jobs or the queue at the Labour Exchange to look forward to.

'What you up to then?'

Charlie Potter had come up behind the trio seated in the caff and taken the table opposite. Politely he yanked back a chair for his female companion before lounging into his own.

Stan had instinctively shot to his feet at the sight of his stepson, wondering if he'd been overheard talking about him a moment ago. When Charlie gave him an easy smile, he sank down into his seat, feeling foolish. 'Bleedin' took me by surprise, Charlie, creeping up like that,' he complained, trying to cover his lapse.

'Guilty conscience, mate, that is.' Charlie smirked at the two lads. He gave the waitress a lazy wink as she set down two cups of tea on the table. 'Reckon one of you must be Stan's son. Me muvver's told me about a lad coming over on a Sat.u.r.day.' He didn't add that Vi had moaned something chronic about it.

'That's me,' Davy piped up when his father sat sullen and silent. 'And this is me pal Tom Finch.'

'Well, nice to meet you both.' Charlie sensed a pair of sharp dark eyes on him. 'I'll introduce you to me friend Blanche now you've done the honours.' Charlie had noticed that Stan had been darting suspicious glances at the pretty brunette with him.

Blanche perked up now she wasn't being overlooked, dimpling a smile. She'd noticed that the older youth had been ogling her bosom while talking to Charlie, so leaned forward, elbows on the table so he could get a better look. 'This your stepfather then, is it, Charlie?' she asked.

'That's him.' Charlie slung a brawny arm around her shoulders, just to let Stan into the nature of his relationship with Blanche. He could tell the old sod was itching to know if he was sleeping with a bit on the side. He wasn't yet, because Blanche was still playing hard to get, but he was confident that once he bought her the dress she'd admired a moment ago, hanging up on a stall in the market, she'd come across. Stan didn't have the guts to make any sly remarks about his wife and kids at home, so, just to rub it in that he'd managed to hook up with a good-looker young enough to be his daughter, Charlie nuzzled Blanche's cheek, making her giggle.

'You lads finished yer teas?' Stan shoved away his cup and saucer. 'Come on, let's get goin' ...'

'Somethin' I said?' Charlie asked, sounding jolly.

'Don't be daft,' Stan muttered. 'We're off now 'cos Davy and his mate have gotta get the bus back to Islington soon. See you later on then, Charlie ...'

'Ain't in a rush to get home, Dad,' Davy piped up, drawing a glare from Stan. He ignored it, getting to his feet. If his father wouldn't put in a word for him, he'd do it himself. 'Me dad's told me how well you're doing in yer business. I'm leaving school soon and looking fer a good job ...' He boldly stuck out a hand to Charlie.

'Told you all about me, did he now?' Charlie cut in, giving Stan a menacing smile. 'That's nice.' He pumped Davy's hand. 'I'll keep you in mind, son, don't you worry about that.'

Davy beamed, then realising his father was already on his way to the door he followed him.

Blanche spooned sugar into her tea and stirred it. 'Fancy a bit of cake,' she announced sulkily.

Charlie looked at her. 'Fancy lots of things, don't yer, gel? Fancy me, do yer?'

'Course I do ...' Blanche purred in a bid to open his wallet.

She realised that oddly it was the truth. She was coming to like his rough-and-ready ways and was glad he'd made an effort to get in touch with her after they met on the day of her fight with Joyce Groves. She'd come out of work one evening to find him hanging about outside the Goldsteins' dress shop. After a bit of dilly-dallying, she'd agreed to go with him for a drink in a pub, because she was losing hope of her and Nick getting back together.

It had been weeks since she'd received a letter from her estranged husband's solicitor about the divorce and she'd resigned herself to the inevitable. Blanche would sooner have got back with Wes Silver if she couldn't have Nick. But she knew that wouldn't happen either. His wife now had a stranglehold on him, following their affair. Although he was only consolation prize, Charlie Potter had a swagger and a powerful presence that impressed her. She'd noticed when they'd been in the market that people were respectful when he was around, moving quickly aside so he could guide her closer to the stalls and let her see the merchandise. She'd heard rumours about him being a wrong 'un but he could be a gentleman to her. So she reckoned Charlie Potter might do till someone better came along ...

'Need a new dress if we're going out later. Got nothing to wear ...' Blanche thought she might as well test how much of a gentleman he was prepared to be. If he paid for it, she knew she'd feel aroused enough to stay the night with him if he again suggested getting them a room in a hotel.

'Don't you get no discount off the clothes where you work?' Charlie had rented an old Humber to pick her up from work last week in the hope of getting her to join him on the back seat. She'd let him get her merry on gin and orange but had turned her nose up at the rest. He'd reluctantly upped his offer to a night in a hotel but still she'd flounced off home. Charlie was starting to think Blanche was hard work and it was high time she let him find out if she was worth the effort.