She heard the sound of the wardrobe door opening, but thought he was just getting some clean clothes out to get changed. She decided it was better to leave it for now, and she began to lay the table.
She looked round as he came out of the bedroom, and to her consternation he was just standing on the landing looking at her, his duffel bag in his hand.
He looked exactly as he had when they first met. A bit grubby, hair in need of a wash, stubble on his chin, even the duffel bag was the same one. But he’d smiled all the time that evening, and now his expression was cold and unreadable.
‘I’ll be off now. I’ve left money on the chest of drawers for you. When you go back to Bristol drop a line to the site, and I’ll come and get the rest of my stuff.’
‘You’re leaving me?’ she asked incredulously.
‘It’s better for me to go now than pull you down even further.’
The hurt in his voice matched that in his eyes.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dan,’ she pleaded with him. ‘You know perfectly well I didn’t mean it.’
‘You did, and I can’t really blame you either. It’s true, I have pulled you down.’ He was off down the stairs too fast for Fifi even to attempt to stop him.
‘Come back, Dan,’ she yelled, but the front door slammed and he was gone.
The shock was so great that she just stood on the landing like a statue. She couldn’t believe it. She half expected him to come back in after a few moments and say it was a joke.
He surely couldn’t leave her over something as petty as a letter. Could he?
As the minutes ticked by and he didn’t reappear, she realized he was deadly serious. It wasn’t just that cruel and thoughtless remark, she knew that. It had been building throughout the strain of the past weeks. Her mother’s visit, the letter, the way she treated him last night had all joined together in his head, and her angry words had just topped it off.
She collapsed on to the bed, crying. She could be strong as long as he was by her side, loving her, but without him she would fall apart.
Chapter fourteen
On Monday morning Fifi dragged herself reluctantly out of bed. She had spent the whole weekend alternately crying or looking out of the window in the hope that she’d suddenly see Dan coming down the street, and that everything would be all right again.
But by Sunday night she realized he wasn’t going to come back, and all there was left was the post mortem, apportioning blame for all the incidents that led up to him walking out. She felt she was responsible for almost all of them.
The thought of going back to work today filled her with dread. The other girls were bound to question her about the miscarriage, and maybe about Angela’s death if they’d read about Fifi’s role in the papers. She couldn’t talk to them about all that without revealing Dan had left her. If only she hadn’t been so smug in the past about her happy marriage! It was always ‘Dan does this, or Dan does that,’ as if he was Mr Perfect Husband.
She’d never admitted that her parents disapproved of him, or that their home was just two rooms in a seedy backstreet either, so how would she be able to explain why it had all gone wrong?
If she knew where Dan had gone, she’d have run to him yesterday and pleaded with him to come home. But she didn’t know and had no idea where to look. He talked about the men he worked with often, but it was all about what they were like, their funny habits or interests, jokes they’d told him. He’d never said, ‘Owen lives in So and So’, or ‘Jack comes up on the train from Catford.’ Even if he had, what use would that be? London was a huge place, and she didn’t even know his workmates’ surnames.
It was tempting to skip work today and go down to the building site in Stockwell. But it wouldn’t look good if she didn’t turn up at work after having so much time off, and she’d need the job even more if Dan never came back. Besides, Dan had always insisted she wasn’t to go to the site, he said it was no place for women. She guessed he would be even crosser with her if she showed him up in front of his friends and his boss.
All she could do was post the letter she’d written to him last night, and hope that by the time he got it tomorrow morning, he’d be missing her so much that he’d come straight back.
‘Good to see you back, Mrs Reynolds,’ Mr Unwin said as he came into the office and saw her at her desk. ‘I hope you are fully recovered.’
Fifi thought Mr Unwin was a rarity in the legal world, genuinely kind and considerate to his staff, so very different to some of the brusque and heartless solicitors in the Bristol office. He was an ugly man, tall and thin, with a beak-like nose and very big prominent teeth, yet surprisingly he had a very beautiful blonde wife who appeared to adore him.
‘Yes thank you, sir,’ she replied, wondering how many more people would ask her that today, and how long she could keep up pretending she was fine.
Mr Unwin asked Beryl, the office junior, to bring him some coffee and then turned to Fifi again.
‘Would you like to come in now for some dictation, Mrs Reynolds? I won’t work you too hard today,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve got two letters I must get out, but once you’ve done those you can do some copy-typing or filing for the rest of the day.’
By lunchtime Fifi’s arm and fingers were aching, but at least that gave her a good excuse for being less than vibrant. Some of the girls asked her to join them for lunch, clearly wanting to hear about everything, but she made the excuse she had some shopping to do, and went down to her favourite place by the Thames so she could think things through.
It was a warm but dull day, and the river looked grey and sluggish, just the way she felt inside. She remembered how joyful she’d been the first time she came to this spot. She’d been so excited to be by the famous river, to see all those landmarks like the Houses of Parliament and the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. She had really believed then that she and Dan would be together for ever, whatever life threw at them.
But without him, London had no romance, no excitement, it was just a huge, sprawling city that some people claimed was the loneliest place in the world.
She already felt unbearably lonely. Dan had once said teasingly that she didn’t have any real friends in London, only acquaintances, and she’d find out the difference when she was in trouble. She’d been indignant at the time, running through about a dozen people she’d met since they’d come to London whom she classed as friends, and swore she knew they’d lend her money, give her a bed for the night or anything else she needed.
Yet now, when all she needed was a shoulder to cry on, someone who would listen and care, she couldn’t think of anyone who would fit that bill. Yvette, Miss Diamond, Stan, Frank, they’d all kind of distanced themselves from her recently. So she guessed Dan was right, they weren’t real friends. Patty was the only person she knew she could rely on – she’d catch the next train up to London if Fifi called her. But she wasn’t going to call her. If she did, her mother would know she’d won.
In her letter to Dan she’d explained that if he hadn’t taken that letter to work with him, she would have read it, destroyed it and then written back to her mother to say they either came together for a visit or not at all. She had said that he did come first, she’d got along without her family for this long, and she could manage without them for ever if necessary. But she could not manage without him.
Fifi was bone-weary as she walked home from the tube station that evening. A full day back at work, after doing nothing for so long, had proved exhausting.
She stopped at the corner shop to get some bread. Mrs Witherspoon, the shopkeeper, was deep in conversation with Eva Price, the red-headed divorcee, but both women turned as Fifi walked in.
‘Carry on if you were talking about me,’ Fifi said sarcastically, thinking they’d heard Dan had left her.
‘We weren’t talking about you, dear,’ Mrs Witherspoon said. ‘We were just wondering what more could happen in this street.’
It was the tone of the shopkeeper’s v
oice that jerked Fifi out of her own problems. Normally it was low, almost conspiratorial, possibly because Mrs Witherspoon spent a large portion of her day receiving and passing on gossip, but now it was shrill and frightened.
‘We can’t blame Alfie for this one, not when he’s under lock and key,’ said Eva, looking even more troubled than Mrs Witherspoon.
‘What’s happened?’ Fifi asked.
‘You haven’t heard?’ Mrs Witherspoon asked. ‘The police have been up and down the street all day!’
‘I went back to work today,’ Fifi said. ‘I was just going home. It’s not something to do with Dan, is it?’
‘No, love. It’s John Bolton. He’s dead. They found his body in the river early this morning,’ Eva said with a heavy sigh. ‘Not an accident either. They’ve started a murder enquiry.’
Dan walking out had driven all the thoughts about the man in the Jaguar and John Bolton out of Fifi’s mind. But this shocking piece of news brought them right back. ‘No!’ she exclaimed, suddenly feeling quite faint.
‘Vera came in here for her fags this morning,’ Mrs Witherspoon said, leaning her hefty bosom on the counter. ‘She was going on about him staying out all night, said when he came home she’d be ready with the rolling pin. It were only a couple of hours later the police came. Soon as I saw the car I guessed something had happened to John. Poor Vera, there’s some around here that’s got no sympathy for her cos John was a villain, but to me she’s just a woman who’s lost her old man. I feel real sorry for her.’
‘How awful for her,’ Fifi said weakly. She could well imagine how she would feel if the police came to tell her Dan was dead. ‘Have they got any idea who did it?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Eva replied. ‘They’ve been asking lots of questions, but John weren’t the kind to talk about his business.’
‘Some folk are saying his “business” was protection rackets,’ Mrs Witherspoon said, her eyes glinting. ‘If it were, then he deserves what he got. But it’s poor Vera I’m worried about, she’ll be beside herself.’
It was too much for Fifi. Suddenly she couldn’t stay in the shop a moment longer. She put the money for the bread down on the counter, excused herself and rushed off.
As she opened the front door, Frank saw her from his kitchen.
‘How did you get on at work?’ he called out.
‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, wanting to get upstairs immediately because she felt so panicky.
‘Have you heard about John Bolton?’ he asked, and came down the passage towards her.
Fifi’s heart sank. She couldn’t be rude and rush away. ‘Yes, just. Mrs Witherspoon told me. It’s awful, isn’t it? As if there hasn’t been enough misery in this street already.’
‘Common sense tells me it can’t have anything to do with Angela’s death.’ Frank shook his head sadly. ‘But what are the chances of two people living in the same street being killed within weeks of each other, without there being a connection?’
‘There was a connection. John played cards at the Muckles’,’ Fifi said a little sharply.
‘Yeah, but that’s not much of one, and he certainly weren’t there at the last game,’ Frank said thoughtfully. ‘Of course, he might have been able to finger the blokes that were there. Maybe they were afraid he’d blow the whistle on them?’
She couldn’t continue talking to Frank, her legs felt as if they were about to give way. ‘I’m really tired. I must go on up and see to the tea,’ she said.
‘You all right, love?’ Frank asked, taking a step closer. ‘You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I just need to sit down and put my feet up,’ she said, trying to smile.
‘You make Dan go and get you fish and chips tonight,’ he said, patting her paternally on the shoulder. ‘And tuck yerself up in bed nice and early.’
Fifi felt even sicker then. Obviously Frank didn’t realize Dan had gone. She certainly couldn’t bring herself to tell him, not now when she felt so wobbly and tearful.
While Fifi was talking to Frank, Nora Diamond was in the bathroom rinsing out her stockings and she heard what was said. She quickly went into her living room and shut the door before Fifi came up the stairs because she couldn’t face her.
She hung her stockings over the back of a chair to dry, then poured herself a large gin and tonic. She had already taken off her office suit and her girdle, and put on her housecoat, just as she did every evening when she got home from work. Normally she only had a small gin and sat down to watch the news before making her dinner, but tonight she needed a large one to steady her nerves.
Nora had heard the argument between Dan and Fifi on Saturday. She had been cleaning her living room with the door open. When Dan went rushing down the stairs she looked out of the window and saw him hurrying up the street with a bag over his shoulder.
Nora heard Fifi crying several times over the weekend. Her heart kept telling her to go up there and offer some comfort, but her head told her it was none of her business and that if Fifi needed help or someone to talk to, she’d call on her.
This morning Nora had watched Fifi from the window as she went off to work. She had looked elegant in a checked blue jacket, tight skirt and high-heeled shoes, her shiny blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders. The sight brought back memories of when her own heart was broken, yet she’d still done her face and hair and marched out to meet the world head on.
Nora liked both Dan and Fifi, so she didn’t want to apportion blame to either of them. Whatever the causes of the breakup, it was a terrible shame. They’d been so good together.
But it wasn’t Fifi and Dan’s problems that bothered her tonight. It was John Bolton’s death.
Mrs Witherspoon was better than the BBC at broadcasting trouble and disaster. Nora had only gone into the shop for a quarter of tea on her way home, and was immediately regaled with the news.
She was deeply shocked and horrified, but she had to control her emotions and react in the way Mrs Witherspoon expected of snooty Miss Diamond, a woman who was as unyielding and cold as her namesake.
In twelve years of living in Dale Street, Nora had learned that when her neighbours were puzzled by someone new, in the absence of fact, they invented something which suited them. Yvette was rumoured to have been a member of the French Resistance, Stan was sometimes a Polish war hero, but more often an illegal immigrant. When Fifi first appeared it was said she was a model, though this rumour soon died as Fifi candidly told the truth about herself.
Nora had been amused when she discovered that she was supposed to be a doctor who had been struck off. She could only imagine this was because in her first week here she’d given first aid to a man who had been knocked down by a car. In fact her limited medical knowledge had been gained during the war, when she was a volunteer nurse’s aide in a hospital in Dorset.
She had chosen not to dispel this myth, however, because it proved to be a good smokescreen.
John Bolton was the only person who knew the truth about her. He had helped her when she had absolutely no one else to turn to, but by mutual agreement they had never revealed their connections with one another. Even Vera, his wife, knew nothing of it.
Nora sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She never normally dwelt on the past. But John was dead, by tomorrow or the next day the newspapers would be digging up his lurid history, and she felt it only right to spend this evening recalling what he was like as a young man. He’d been compassionate and courageous then, a man whose looks, wit and intelligence could have taken him right to the top. Sadly he chose to become enmeshed in the criminal world, but even that hadn’t stopped her feeling gratitude and affection for him.
She was thirty-one when she met him. It was 1950, shortly after Reggie had run out on her. She had reverted to her maiden name of Amy Tuckett, because she wanted to forget she had ever been Mrs Reggie Soames.
A friend in Plymouth had put her in touch with the owner of the Starlight nightclub in Soho. He was looking for a mature a
nd classy woman to act as his manageress, and her friend thought she’d be perfect for the job. John was the head barman at the club.
Despite everything Reggie had put her through, she was still a head-turner in those days. She was overweight now, and she dyed her hair to cover up the grey, but back then it was a rich glossy auburn, and she had a perfect figure. People used to say she looked like Ava Gardner, and she copied the film star’s famous hairstyle, swept back at one side with a cascade of waves down to her shoulders on the other.
Even in 1950, long before Soho became synonymous with vice and stripclubs, it still had a hardcore of criminal activity. But to Nora, who had spent almost all her life in Dorset, it was an exciting, sophisticated place and it was some weeks before she became aware of its seedier undertones. The club in Greek Street was elegantly appointed, with a clientele of aristocrats and very wealthy people. Her job was to greet them and make sure they had a good time, and to supervise twenty hostesses who kept the unattached men company for the evening.
Nora loved the job and took a pride in it. The hostesses got a fee for their entertainment services, and Nora got a proportion of each one. She went out of her way to know a little about all her girls, advised them on clothes, hair and makeup, and did her best to match the right girl with the right man. She was fair too, never singling out favourites who got all the work when the club was quiet, as she heard they did in other clubs. There was a rule that no hostess should go home with a customer, for the club could be closed down if it became a front for prostitution, and Nora was vigilant about this.
Released at last from all the anxiety and heartache Reggie had caused her, and earning around fifty pounds a week when as a secretary she would have been lucky to earn ten, her new life was good. Each night she met interesting, charming people, and she found a small, comfortable flat just a short walk from the club.
All the girls were half in love with John Bolton, the head barman. It wasn’t just that he was only twenty-five, lean and handsome, while most of the regulars in the club were portly and well past forty, but he had an irrepressible sense of humour and great charm.