Frankie's Manor Page 3

  Rose stared up at him in disbelief. ‘Two weeks ago! Rubbish! He couldn’t have, he…’ She trailed off. So, Frank had been out all that time and hadn’t bothered to get in touch until now. Well, he must have had his reasons, she thought loyally. Even so, she couldn’t help but be hurt that he hadn’t tried to see her or her aunt sooner.

  Swallowing hard she turned away from the sympathetic grey eyes staring down at her. ‘Yes, well… Frank’s a very busy man,’ she said, carelessly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my aunt’s waiting for her supper.’

  ‘Rose, please,’ Jack begged, ‘Don’t be like that. I know I should have told you he was out, but… well, I sort of hoped he’d stay away from you. And if you weren’t working in that place, you might not have seen him for months.’

  Studying the silent figure, Jack moved nearer, his hands going out to embrace her. They dropped to his sides as she pushed open the door and stepped into a dim hallway. He put one foot over the doorstep and asked hopefully, ‘About the pub, Rose. Have you thought any more about leaving. I mean, with your education, you could…’

  Rose tossed her head, her eyes darting down the hall to the open door of the parlour where she knew her aunt would be waiting for her. ‘Could what, Jack? Get a better job? Well, maybe I could, but the pub suits me for now. It’s near home, and I can earn good money with tips, and you know how I’m placed. Aunt Mary hasn’t got anyone else and I have to be nearby in case she needs me. So, unless you can find me a well-paid, respectable job that’s within walking distance of home, keep your nose out of my business.’

  Alarmed by Rose’s unusually sharp manner, Jack nevertheless blundered on recklessly. ‘But what about Buchannon? Please, Rose, stay away from him. He’s not the lovable villain you think he is. God, if you knew only half what I know about him, then—’

  Rose whirled on him angrily, the mass of copper curls bouncing around her face and shoulders. ‘Now, you listen to me, Jack Adams, Frank Buchannon has been good to me and Aunt Mary. She’s known him all his life. His mother was her best friend, and when she died Aunt Mary took Frankie in until he was old enough to look after himself. He’s never forgotten it. Oh! What am I doing telling you all this? You know damn well how my aunt feels about Frank – and that goes for me too. So don’t come round with your tales because I don’t want to know. Just because you and me have gone out together a few times it doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do or who to see. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll say good night.’

  Jack, bemused, found himself staring at a closed door. He swore softly. He waited a few minutes longer, hoping Rose would regret her harsh words and come back, but the door remained shut.

  He cast one more hopeful glance at the green-painted door, then with purposeful strides resumed his beat.

  Chapter Three

  Mary Miller, seated in a well-worn brown armchair by the hearth, laid her knitting in her ample lap, her pale blue eyes lighting up with relief at the sound of Rose’s voice in the hallway.

  Mary was a stout woman of fifty-three, with a plump, smooth, kindly face that belied her formidable character. Her hair, which at the moment was wound tightly in steel grips and covered by an old pair of knickers to keep them in place, was a warm brown colour without a trace of grey, which was more than could be said of many a woman her age. In essence she would give her last sixpence to someone in need, yet her razor-edged tongue could slice you to shreds if you had the misfortune to cross swords with her.

  Although it had only just gone nine o’clock, she was already dressed for bed in a flowery cotton nightgown that fell in folds around her swollen ankles.

  Now, as the voices in the hallway became more audible she leaned forward in her chair, straining to identify the male voice talking to her niece. She was about to call out when she recognised Jack Adams’s familiar tone and sank back, letting her large body relax.

  Mary never felt easy until Rose was safely back from the pub, but it was more than that. Without Rose’s presence, the small terraced house that she had lived in since her early childhood seemed devoid of life, empty and cold, and sometimes frightening. For the past few years, since her legs had started playing her up, Mary had been forced to slow down her busy lifestyle. Her once numerous cleaning jobs had been taken over by able-bodied women, who could still clamber on to chairs and tables to take down heavy curtains and wash ceilings, spend hours on their knees scrubbing floors, and still have enough energy to tackle a week’s washing, as she once had.

  Not that she could be termed a cripple – far from it. But tasks that had once been effortless now took three times as long, with a good rest afterwards. And people who could afford help weren’t going to employ someone like Mary, not when they could take their pick of strong, willing women eager to earn a few extra shillings.

  And slowly, as time passed and she found herself with nothing much to do but look after her own home, Mary’s fierce independence had begun to deteriorate. Where once her days had been full, they now stretched emptily from one week to the next. Day by day she had clung to Rose a little more until now her life seemed to revolve around her niece. And the older Mary got, the more she fretted. She had every reason to worry: Rose was a striking young woman, and it wasn’t unknown for some to fall prey to the riff-raff that prowled the back-streets of the East End.

  Suddenly her nose picked up the tantalising aroma of fish and chips and her stomach rumbled in anticipation of the treat to come. Blast that Jack Adams, keeping Rosie talking while Mary’s supper was getting cold. With an impatient tut, she wondered if she should go out into the hall and get it for herself, because if it wasn’t put into the oven to keep warm it wouldn’t be worth eating.

  She started to heave herself from the chair, then stopped mid-way as the voices in the hallway were raised.

  Maybe they were having a fight, and if that was so Rose wouldn’t thank her for poking her nose in. And if they were… Well, good! Mary had never been over-fond of the police, with good cause. And out of all the men in London, of whom Rose could have had her pick, she had to go and get tangled up with a bleeding copper.

  Mary’s chest rose in hopeful expectation at the now whispered but still evidently angry words that infiltrated the parlour. With luck, Rose was telling him to get lost, and if she was, it would be worth the fish supper getting cold. Mary leaned her head back against the white, lace-edged antimacassar and thought back to the day she had first brought Rose home with her, and the events leading up to her taking charge of her niece’s life. Her mind drifted back to her own youth, as it often did, these days. Her parents had died when she was seventeen, leaving Mary and her sister Ruth, who was a year younger, alone in the world. The two girls, torn apart by grief and ravaged with fear at finding themselves alone, had formed a bond, hitherto unknown to them.

  They had both been working in a machine factory in Bethnal Green at the time of their parents’ death, and although the wages were poor, they survived by sharing every penny they earned. Mary had always been frugal unlike Ruth, who could never hang on to a penny and preferred instead to roam the markets, with one eye on the clothes stalls and the other on any presentable man who walked by. But, to give her her due, in those first early days Ruth had tried, yet as time passed and grief diminished, she returned to her old ways. It wasn’t her fault. She had always been feckless and irresponsible, with a tendency to plod along in a good-natured fashion, smiling impishly whenever her parents, and later Mary, had remonstrated with her for her slipshod ways. Knowing that her sister would never change, and fearful of the future, Mary had put in all the hours she could at the factory, hoarding away the extra money she made, and refusing to listen to Ruth’s pleas for a loan when she found herself broke, which was a regular occurrence.

  When Ruth was nineteen, she met and married a young labourer within the space of three months, without informing her elder sister until after the wedding. Mary was at first hurt, then furious. There was a heated argument, in which both women said things they didn’t mean. Ruth had stormed off with her new husband, vowing never to return.

  Left alone, Mary threw herself into her work, leaving herself no time to feel sorry for her lonely state. She would arrive home feeling so tired that she couldn’t even think straight, let alone dwell on her abject misery over Ruth’s hasty marriage and departure.

  Ten years passed, during which she received a dozen letters from Ruth, each apologising for her behaviour and promising she would come and visit soon; but she never did. And as time went on, Mary hardened her heart. It was the only way she knew how to cope with the shattering sense of betrayal her sister had left in her wake.

  On Mary’s thirtieth birthday, her next-door neighbour and only friend, Mabel Buchannon, died suddenly, creating yet another void in Mary’s lonely life. It was to Mabel that Mary had turned when Ruth had run off, and over the years she had been glad of the cheerful Irishwoman’s friendship.

  Mabel had been a widow for seven years, so when ten-year-old Frankie Buchannon found himself an orphan, Mary stepped in, took the boy into her home and looked after him until he could fend for himself, an accomplishment he had achieved by the time he was eleven.

  Two days after his twelfth birthday he announced that he wasn’t going back to school, and nothing Mary could do or say would change his mind. She tried coaxing and bribing before resorting to threats but, throughout it all, Frankie remained steadfast, until Mary finally admitted defeat. Frankie had always been old for his years, due mainly to his mother having constantly referred to him as ‘the man of the house’; poor Mabel had used the term affectionately, but Frankie had taken the words at face value and had developed a wisdom and maturity that went far beyond the normal scope of a boy his age. And from the day he declared his intention of leaving school to the day he turned fourteen, he became adept at avoiding the truancy officer, leaving a belligerent Mary to protest her innocence as to the whereabouts of her charge until Frankie no longer had to worry about school.

  During those years he contributed to his keep, tipping a small pile of silver on to the kitchen table every Friday night, from odd jobs he did around the local shops and markets. His first official job was as an errand boy for a large clothing firm, but taking orders and being treated like a dogsbody hadn’t suited Frankie’s independent temperament, and after only two weeks he left to find regular work down at Ridley Road market.

  Mary couldn’t remember exactly when it had dawned on her that things weren’t quite right, nor when the first uneasy niggles began to plague her mind. Frankie’s plausible explanations as to the varying amounts of housekeeping he gave her and the odd hours he worked had satisfied her at first; after all, she’d had no reason to suspect him of lying. Even when she had visited the Ridley Road market and found no sign of him she had told herself that he must have slipped off to get something to eat.

  Only once did she mention to Frankie that she had been at the market and hadn’t been able to find him. She had made light of it, insinuating that he had been skiving off to meet some girl, but he hadn’t laughed at the joke. Instead he had carried on eating his supper, the noise of the knife and fork scraping along the china plate the only sound in the room. His meal finished, he had sat silently at the table before raising his head in Mary’s direction. Then, in a voice so quiet she had to strain to hear his words, he’d said, ‘It’s been good of you to look after me, Mary, and I’ll always be grateful to you for taking me in when Mum died, but I think it’s time I started to look after meself. After all, I’m not a kid any more – am I?’ He had been smiling as he spoke, and when he saw the tears of alarm spring to Mary’s eyes he had gone to her, had taken her trembling hands in his and gently chastised her: ‘I’m only thinking of you, Mary. What I mean is, well… I don’t want to cause you any worry. D’yer understand?’

  And she’d understood. The matter was dropped and never mentioned again.

  After that, Frankie began staying out later and later. Some nights he didn’t come home at all, and as he got older his absences became more frequent, but still Mary raised no objection. She was afraid to, in case he left her for good. She had never been one for the men, unlike her younger sister, and the prospect of being an old maid had never frightened her – but being left alone did, so she bit her tongue and stayed silent. Yet for all the worry he caused her, Mary had never regretted taking the boy into her home. Even when the police became regular visitors, Frankie had only to look at her, with those cheeky dark eyes and that affectionate grin, and her anger would melt away. He could have charmed the knickers off a nun if he’d wanted to – still could, for that matter.

  The letter from Ruth came out of the blue. When Mary had read the scrawled message begging for help, all past differences were instantly forgotten. With Frankie, now a strapping seventeen-year-old, at her side, Mary had made the short journey to a dilapidated tenement block in Whitechapel where she had found her sister huddled, dirty and unkempt, in a squalid room at the top of the building. Lying beside her, in a broken, wooden box was her three-year-old daughter, so weak with hunger and neglect, she could only look up at the visitors with wide, glazed eyes.

  Frankie had immediately taken control. Within an hour he had found, and brought back with him, an elderly doctor, who was protesting loudly at being dragged from his surgery to the godforsaken hole he found himself in. To give him his due, he had tried to help Ruth, but she had been beyond the aid of mere mortals. The only thing Mary could do for her was provide her with a decent burial and take care of her orphaned child. The first task was performed with sorrow, the second with joy, for from the moment Mary brought Rose home, she looked upon her as the daughter she would never have.

  She never found out what had happened to Ruth’s husband, or what circumstances had led to her sister ending her days in such dire straits, but she thanked God she had arrived in time to save Rose before she, too, had suffered the same fate as her mother.

  Frankie, too, had instantly taken to the child, and even when he moved out, some months later, not a week went by when he didn’t turn up with a small present for Rose, and after he left Mary would always find money on the kitchen table. The amount varied, but even if it was only a few shillings, there was always something. She used the money she’d saved over the years to send Rose to a decent school, determined that her niece would have a good start in life, which she did; she found a job in an office in the City, which she kept until her aunt became ill.

  For years Mary had been battling with crippling pains in her feet and legs, and when Rose came home one day to find her nearly in tears with the pain – and frustrated because she hadn’t been able to get to one of her cleaning jobs – she promptly found employment in the Red Lion so that she could be nearer to home.

  Mary had wept at seeing her beloved niece having to work in a pub, but Rose had been adamant. As soon as Frankie heard of Mary’s plight, he had immediately offered to pay someone to come in during the day to see to her and the housework. His generous offer hadn’t been well received: Mary, furious at the idea of some busybody – as she put it – poking and prying into her drawers and cupboards, hadn’t minced her words. The dropsy might have slowed her down and she might not be able to do as much as she had in the past, but while she could still manage to wipe her arse, she shouted, she wasn’t going to have anyone running round after her and sticking their nose into her business.

  Mary gave a long sigh, eased herself out of the sagging armchair and into the small kitchen to butter some bread and make a pot of tea for when Rose finally got rid of Jack Adams. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she wondered what Frankie would have to say about their Rose going out with a copper. Although Mary hadn’t seen as much of him over the past few years, she knew he was always there if she needed him – when he wasn’t in prison.

  Her eyes dimmed as she thought of her Frankie banged up behind the grim walls of the Scrubs. She should be used to it by now, she mused silently, she’d visited him there often enough. But this time had been different.

  Up until now, Frankie had never been jailed for longer than a few weeks, but on his last appearance at court, the judge had sentenced him to eighteen months for beating up the owner of a nearby factory when the man had refused to pay protection money.

  A spark of anger flared in Mary’s pale blue eyes. Frankie was no angel, and Lord knows he was no stranger to the law – he had been ducking and diving since he was eleven – but he wasn’t violent. No! No. He wasn’t violent, never had been. Her head bobbed up and down furiously on her thick neck, the affirmative, defensive action adding strength to her conviction. She’d admit that, in the past, Frankie had stolen to provide for her and he had paid for his early crimes. But he was straight now. Over the years he had built up a small empire, and he had worked hard to achieve his success. He owned several businesses, the nature of which she wasn’t quite sure – Frank had always been vague about his ventures – but it was all legal and above board. Just because he had been a tearaway in his youth, the local police had never given up hounding him, turning up on his doorstep every time a crime occurred in the neighbourhood. And the latest incident just proved how vindictive the coppers were. They hadn’t been able to pin anything on him legally, so out of sheer spite they’d set him up on a false charge. Bastards!

  The sound of the front door banging jerked Mary from her reverie. Picking up the plate of buttered bread, she moved slowly into the parlour saying, ‘About bleeding time. Those fish an’ chips’ll be stone cold by now.’ As she put the plate on the table, she glanced up at her niece. Her eyes narrowed at the look of anger on Rose’s face. ‘What’s up, love? You fallen out with Jack, have you?’

  The hopeful note in her voice wasn’t lost on Rose, who immediately began to bustle around the small room. ‘No, not really. We just had a disagreement about something. Nothing important… Look, let’s leave it for now, eh, Auntie?’ She was overcome by tiredness and all she wanted now was to eat her supper in peace. She knew better than to mention Jack’s scathing comments about Frankie to her aunt. Seeing the worried frown creasing Mary’s face, Rose smiled. ‘Honest, Auntie. Everything’s all right. I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.’