Frankie's Manor

  Frankie's Manor

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Copyright

  Frankie's Manor

  Anna King

  My sister Maggi Deere (née Masterson),

  my brother-in-law Eddie Deere,

  and my nephews Kevin and Bobby.

  With love.

  Chapter One

  ‘’Ere, get a move on, Rosie, love, I’m near dying of thirst.’ The beer-soaked bar counter was packed to capacity. Flat-capped men in grimy shirts and baggy trousers, held up by braces, stood alongside more smartly dressed customers, all leaning over the bar clamouring for service, eager for their first pint after a hard day’s work.

  Despite the raucous shouts for attention, the atmosphere in the Red Lion in Mare Street, Hackney, on this Saturday evening in June, was good-natured; though whether it would be the same by closing time was a different matter.

  It was barely five months since the death of their immensely popular and much-loved sovereign, but the new king was fast becoming as well liked as his late mother, and the people of London were looking forward to a new era under Edward VII.

  Nineteen-year-old Rose Kennedy, one of three barmaids in the busy public house, looked down the long counter. ‘Hold your horses, Bert, I’ve only got one pair of hands. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Sliding two brimming tankards towards two of her regular customers she took the proffered half-crown and was about to go to the till for change when the older of the men said, ‘Keep the change, Rose, ’ave a drink on me.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Fred, that’s nice of you.’ Rose smiled gratefully before moving on to serve Bert Cox. ‘Here I am, then, Bert. The usual, is it?’

  Taking a tankard from beneath the counter Rose expertly drew a pint of bitter. As she did so, Sally Higgins, a well-endowed, attractive blonde woman in her late twenties, stopped by Rose’s side and said sharply, ‘Here, I hope you ain’t thinking of pocketing that tip. You know the rules. All tips go into the kitty.’

  Rose flicked a disdainful look at her. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Sally. I always share my tips… unlike some I could mention.’

  The woman bridled, her hard eyes glittering dangerously. Placing a coarse hand on her ample hip, she hissed, ‘And what’s that supposed to mean, Miss High an’ bleeding Mighty?’

  Sensing trouble, the men at the bar stopped talking, their expressions tense as the grim-faced blonde moved nearer to their favourite barmaid. Then, as if out of thin air, a heavily built man of dapper appearance materialised between the two women, effectively defusing the situation before it had the chance to gather momentum. ‘Now then, girls, what’s all this, then? I don’t pay you to stand gossiping. Get on with your work, the pair of you.’

  Henry Dixon, landlord and owner of the Red Lion, raised a long-suffering eyebrow at the men gathered at the bar. ‘Women!’ He sighed heavily, evoking murmurs and nods of sympathetic agreement from his male customers. Henry Dixon was forty-eight, a tough East-Ender, who could handle himself against any of his equally rough clientele. He might have been good-looking, but for a badly broken nose, the remnant of a vicious fight in his youth. A widower for the last five years, he had no intention of remarrying. His late wife of twenty years had made his life hell, and he wasn’t about to put himself through that living nightmare again. Women were easy enough to get when the mood was on him, and being the owner of a thriving business certainly helped matters along in that department.

  A faint whiff of lemon drifted beneath his nose, causing him to glance at the girl by his side. Most of the women with whom he came into contact nearly drowned themselves in cheap perfume, usually to hide that they hadn’t washed recently. But not Rose Kennedy. Oh, no, Rosie was different, and that was what caused most of the trouble between her and Sally Higgins.

  Before Rose had put in an appearance just over a year ago, Sally had been the main attraction behind the bar, but the pretty, younger arrival had ousted Sally from the limelight. Not that Rose had set out to steal Sally’s thunder, far from it, for Henry Dixon had never seen her flirt or put herself about with any of the men. She was friendly and sociable, but squashed any unwanted attention from the customers – which only whetted their appetites, as they vied to be the first to succeed in taking her out.

  When Rose had first started working at the pub, a customer had taken one look at the sweet face surrounded by a cascade of curly, burnished copper hair and remarked tactlessly, ‘Bleedin’ hell, a Rose between two thorns,’ which hadn’t pleased either Sally or the other resident barmaid, Rita Watkins.

  But while Rita had gradually warmed to her workmate, Sally never had, and took every opportunity to put the younger woman down.

  Still, he wasn’t in the business of playing nursemaid, and despite Rose’s inexperienced looks, she knew how to take care of herself, and she drew the punters in. Mind you, she might become an even bigger asset if she stopped wearing those dowdy clothes. She looked like a bloody housemaid in those high-necked blouses and straight black skirts. In fact, he had been meaning to have a word with her about that. Even though she was popular, men liked a bit of female flesh to ogle over their beer: it made a change from looking at their harassed, worn-out wives.

  Sally and Rita now… Well, they knew what men liked to see, and weren’t shy of showing off their ample curves; even if the curves in question were a little overripe for Henry Dixon’s tastes. Fingering his neat black moustache, he pulled Rose to one side. ‘I want a word with you later, before you finish your shift’ll do. Meanwhile, leave the serving to Sally and go and help Bill collect the empties, else they’ll be drinking straight from the pumps.’

  Rose looked apprehensively at her governor. ‘I was going to put the money in the kitty, Mr Dixon, I always do, you know that.’

  The landlord clicked his tongue impatiently, ‘I ain’t bothered about your bleeding kitty, love, you can fight that out amongst yerselves. Now collect them empties, and get them washed, or do I have to get them meself? And tell Bill to get a move on, there’s a barrel needs changing on the end pump.’

  Biting back a sharp retort, Rose lifted up the bar flap and walked into the noisy, smoky throng of people jammed tightly together on the sawdust floor, bracing herself for the sly gropes and accidental brushes against her person. Sally and Rita took all such encounters in their stride – Sally actively encouraged them. The friendlier the barmaid, the better the tips, was Sally’s motto, besides which, it was all part and parcel of their work. But Rose found she did well enough without letting herself be groped by any man who took a fancy to her.

  Weaving expertly through the crowd, she stopped by a table where a small, wiry man with a shock of white hair was enjoying a brief rest and a gossip with several market traders. ‘The governor’s on the war-path, Bill,’ she said warningly. ‘He wants a barrel changed, and we’re running short of glasses, so you’d best get a move on’.

  Bill Austin, the c
ellarman, potman and general dogsbody, gave a loud, impatient sigh. ‘Have a heart, Rosie, love, I ain’t hardly stopped for a breather all day.’

  Rose smiled in sympathy at the elderly man. ‘I know, Bill, I know, I’m only passing on the message… Oh, and I’ll need some help making more sandwiches soon – the last lot have nearly all gone.’

  Moving on, Rose heard Bill declare loudly, ‘Bleeding hell. Put a broom up me arse, an’ I’ll sweep the floor as I go along, an’ all.’ The joke was an old one, but it still brought forth a gale of laughter from all who heard it.

  One wag called out cheerfully, ‘Don’t let Dixon hear you, Bill. I heard tell he was on the look-out for a cleaner,’ whereupon more laughter erupted throughout the pub.

  Rose made several trips back and forth, balancing empty glasses and tankards on a large pewter tray, stopping occasionally to have a few words with some of her regulars and their wives before returning to serve behind the bar.

  Over an hour later, as she came from the kitchen carrying yet another load of hot pies and thick-cut sandwiches, the pub door opened and a woman of about thirty, in a bright blue dress, cut low at the neck, and an array of assorted gaudy feathers perched on top of a mass of dark hair, walked in jauntily. The face beneath the garish display was heavily painted. Shoving her way forcefully through the drinkers, she yelled, ‘Lock up your sons, and keep an eye on your husbands, girls, Rita’s here.’

  A wide smile spread over Rose’s lips, her amusement tinged with relief, for if Rita was here it meant that her own shift was nearly over.

  Ten minutes later Rose was standing in the office at the back of the pub, waiting for the landlord to hand over her wages. Seated behind his desk, Henry Dixon cast a critical eye over her. She was an eyeful, there was no denying that. With that mane of coppery hair tumbling around her shoulders, and a pair of deep blue eyes looking out of an oval face over a snub nose sprinkled with freckles, it was little wonder she was so popular with the locals. But it was the passing trade he wanted to attract, and as pretty as she undoubtedly was, she could do with livening her ideas up about the way she dressed. Not that he wanted her to look too much of a tart – he already had two of those working for him – but…

  ‘Is anything the matter, Mr Dixon? Only you said earlier you wanted to have a word with me.’ Rose waited patiently for him to speak, a pink flush spreading over her face and neck as she found herself under close scrutiny. Embarrassed, she pulled on a pair of white gloves, then fiddled nervously with the clasp of her black handbag. The sound of a chair being pushed back on the wooden floor brought her eyes up quickly, her expression turning wary.

  Before she could say any more, Henry Dixon pushed a small pile of coins across the desk saying tersely, ‘Here you are, Rosie, girl, your wages, though it’s not much for a week’s work… Not that I’m saying I underpay you, don’t you go thinking that,’ he amended hastily. ‘The wages I pay are the same as you’d get anywhere else – in fact, a sight more than in some pubs I could mention.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Mr Dixon,’ Rose replied hurriedly, confused by the way the conversation was going and already beginning to inch nearer the door.

  ‘Hold your horses, girl, I ain’t gonna jump on you. I just wanted a word, quiet, like.’

  Feeling a little silly, Rose relaxed, then stiffened, her slight blush burgeoning into a dark red stain of anger as the import of the landlord’s words slowly dawned on her.

  ‘…I don’t expect you to dress like the other two, but if you could just liven yourself up a bit, you know, show the customers a bit of—’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of showing my body off to all and sundry,’ her voice was low and angry. ‘My job here is to serve behind the bar, collect the empties and help prepare the food, all of which I do very well. Now, I don’t mind helping out with other jobs around the pub when we’re busy. Like last week, when that delivery from the brewery turned up an hour early and you were down at the bank. I had to help Bill unload the barrels into the cellar, he couldn’t manage on his own, not at his age, and it was blooming hard work, I can tell you. But I didn’t complain. It had to be done, and I was on hand and, like I said, I don’t mind helping out.’ She paused for a moment, regretting mentioning the incident in case it reminded Dixon that Bill was getting too old for his job, then she jutted out her chin. The elderly cellarman would be the first to tell her to stick up for herself. ‘What I won’t do is dress myself up like – like a prostitute, just so you can get all the local riff-raff in off the streets to gawp at me. If I wanted to go on the game, I’d do it properly and above board, not like Sal—’

  With a roar, Henry Dixon pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Stretching his bulky frame over the table he glowered at his rebellious employee. ‘Like Sally, you was about to say, wasn’t you, you stuck-up little madam? Well, let me tell you something! There’s nothing wrong with what Sally and Rita do in their own time. It’s what all women do, one way and another. Even respectable little wives soon fall on their backs when they want the housekeeping, so you tell me where’s the difference! Anyways…’ Suddenly uncomfortable he dropped his gaze. He hadn’t meant to go on like that, but she’d got him riled, looking at him as if he’d asked her to drop her drawers when all he wanted was to keep his business thriving. There was nothing wrong with that, was there? But he didn’t want to lose Rose. She was a good worker, and honest, and they were qualities that weren’t that easy to come by. He ran a hand through his oiled black hair. Gawd! He wished he hadn’t started this now, but he had, and he wasn’t about to back down. Dropping his voice to a reasonable pitch he said, ‘Look, I ain’t expecting you to do anything you don’t want to, but I ain’t running a charity here, I’ve got to make me money as best I can. You know what it’s like round the East End – there’s pubs every couple a hundred yards and a landlord in each one trying his best to get his share of the custom. And you’d benefit an’ all, ’cos if my takings go up, then you’ll get a rise. Now, I can’t say fairer than that, can I? So, what d’yer say, Rose, eh? Chuck those old clothes and get yourself something decent, something that—’

  ‘Something that shows a bit of tit.’ Rose glared at her employer. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Dixon, but my tits are staying right where they are. Covered up and out of sight. And if you don’t like it, you can get yourself another barmaid. As you’re always saying, there’s plenty of women who’d jump at the chance of a job.’

  A heavy fist banged down on the desk, making Rose jump. She composed herself quickly, though she couldn’t stop a feeling of dread creeping through her. She didn’t want to lose this job. Despite a few drawbacks she liked it here, she was comfortable and at ease, well, most of the time and, above all else, she was settled. If Mr Dixon sacked her, she’d have to start looking around for another job, the prospect of which didn’t appeal to her one little bit.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, girl.’ Dixon’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the desk, his lips tight with anger. ‘Now, I’m giving you fair warning. Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, d’yer understand? I won’t put up with it, not from you or anyone else.’

  Rose stood mute, her courage dwindling by the minute. She hated confrontations, but there was a limit to anyone’s endurance. What he had asked of her went against every grain of her nature, and there was no way she was going to give in; unfortunately, it looked as if her employer was of like mind.

  ‘Here, take your wages and get out before I really lose me temper.’ The coins were shoved roughly across the polished desk and Rose had to jump forward to catch them before they rolled on to the floor. Without looking at the irate man, she took out her purse, dropped in the coins then turned to leave. Her face was still flushed, and she was annoyed to note that her hands were trembling. At the door she hesitated. Then, sounding calm and steady, she asked, ‘Do I still have a job to come back to on Monday?’

  Henry Dixon couldn’t trust himself to answer. Instead he nodded curtly,
then sat down heavily, pulled a thick ledger towards him and opened the pages, silently dismissing her.

  When the door closed after her, he leaned back in the chair, a wry smile tugging at his thin lips. Well! Who would have thought she had it in her to talk back to him like that? She’d always been so obliging up till now – to a point, that is. She never let anyone in the bar take liberties with her, and he’d heard her answer back to Sally on numerous occasions, but he’d never guessed she had such a temper. Well, now he knew, and it was obvious she wasn’t going to fall in with his plans as easily as he’d imagined. So what was he going to do about it?

  He should have been feeling furious, but instead he experienced a sneaking admiration for the way Rose had stood up to him. A soft laugh escaped his lips. ‘She’s got the better of you this time, me old son, and it ain’t often that happens.’

  From out of nowhere, a disturbing thought crossed his mind, causing him to shuffle uneasily in the chair. Then he sat up straighter, his face set determinedly. ‘Bugger him. It’s my pub, and I’ll do what I bleeding well like. And he ain’t around to stick his nose in anyway, thank Gawd!’ he declared to the empty room.

  Feeling somewhat better, he squared his shoulders and bent over the ledger, but the nagging uneasiness persisted.

  * * *

  Still upset from the heated conversation with the landlord, Rose took her share of the week’s tips from a scowling Sally and headed thankfully for the door. Not wanting to stop and chat with anyone she kept her head down and walked purposefully towards the front of the pub. She was nearing the exit when she sensed a sudden change in the atmosphere.

  Miraculously a space appeared in the crowd letting through a tall, dark-haired man in his early thirties, his expensive navy suit and brocade waistcoat setting him instantly apart from all other men present. The fingers holding a gold-tipped walking cane were adorned with gold set diamond rings, while an equally impressive heavy gold bracelet rested against the cuff of a pure white linen shirt. Flanked on all sides by burly minders who glanced menacingly at the onlookers, he stood for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping the pub as if searching for somebody before moving on. Frankie Buchannon, a well-known and often feared man, swept on through and, with each step he took, a path was cleared to make his progress easy.