Goodnight Lady

  Her girl had picked wisely.

  Boysie kissed Suzy fervently, feeling her hard little breasts squeezing against his chest.

  ‘I knew you couldn’t have done that terrible thing, Boysie. I told me mum and dad that!’

  ‘It was all a big mistake, darlin’. Now how about me and you go for a little drive and plan that wedding of ours?’

  Suzy grinned as he placed her on the ground gently.

  ‘That would be lovely, Boysie.’

  He took her to Hatton Garden where he bought her an engagement ring that was staggeringly expensive and inordinately showy.

  Suzy, pleased that her man was back home and the wedding was still on, looked at it with both pride and fear.

  Now she was owned by Boysie, irrevocably and forever. In fact, a little voice told her, she was owned by the whole of the Cavanagh clan.

  But she swallowed the feeling down and kissed Boysie full on the lips in front of the aged jeweller. She couldn’t wait to flash this ring in her friends’ and relatives’ faces.

  Chapter Forty-four

  ‘So where have you been then, Boysie? You just march out of here without a by your leave, and stay out all night. I wanna know where you’ve been? And more to the point, Boysie Cavanagh, who you’ve been with?’

  Suzy’s voice was shrill. It seemed that in the year since they had married her voice had taken on a strident quality, frighteningly similar to that of a pantomime dame.

  Boysie tried unsuccessfully to put his arms around his wife’s swelling belly.

  ‘Don’t you touch me, I don’t know where you’ve been.’

  Boysie gritted his teeth together and then said, as quietly as his anger would allow, ‘Suzy darlin’, I have been out on a bit of business. That’s all. I never discuss my business dealings with you, love. The less you know, the better. Now, shut your trap and get me a bit of brekky, will you? I’m starving.’

  Suzy knew by the inflection in Boysie’s voice that she had pushed him as far as she could. Knowing when to retreat, she gave him a cold stare for a few seconds before she went into the kitchen and began cooking eggs and bacon. Her face was closed now, but she was still fuming.

  She lived in a large imposing house, it was furnished to her taste, she had more money than she knew what to do with, and she was having a baby. Her husband, she knew, doted on her. So why wasn’t she happy? Why did she cause this ruckus every time she felt like it?

  Because, she told herself, you hate every second of it. You have hated it since the novelty wore off and you got a real inkling of what your life was going to be.

  She could not go out alone or with friends. She went out only with her husband, normally to clubs he owned or pubs where he was more than welcome. His aunts were frequent visitors to her house, and she was expected to visit them frequently.

  Boysie watched her like a hawk. The friends who still visited were given the silent treatment by him, who said he had nothing to say to a gang of young girls.

  Well, she was still a young girl, wasn’t she?

  She wanted a life of her own but even her music had to be turned down because Boysie couldn’t stand loud noise.

  Even the novelty of being treated like visiting royalty in shops and around the markets had long worn off. In fact it got on her nerves. The day before she had gone into the grocer’s and he had stopped serving someone to serve her. She had seen the naked hatred on the other girl’s face, as she looked at Suzy’s new clothes, her packed purse, and the deferential manner bestowed on her by the shopkeeper.

  Suzy had felt like screaming at her: ‘You wouldn’t want to be me, love. It all looks nice but it’s not. My life is like a caged bird’s. I can’t move but there’s six people asking me where I’m going, what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it.’

  Even his bloody granny, Granny Moll as he still called her, was like another appendage of him. Always round the house, poking her beak in where it wasn’t wanted. His Auntie Briony listened to him with rapt attention, the same as she listened to that little brat Faithey. Faithey! What a stupid name.

  Suzy flung three rashers of best bacon into the frying pan. The fat was so hot it spat at her immediately, hitting her on her cheeks. The stinging sensation brought tears to her lovely china blue eyes.

  She hated being pregnant, and she hated being married. Married to a man who treated her like some kind of doll, to be picked up and played with when it suited him, and then cast back into the toy cupboard until he wanted to play with her again.

  She placed his breakfast in front of him ten minutes later and, pouring out two cups of tea, sat and watched her big fine husband eat the lot.

  It occurred to her then, that she was beginning to hate him.

  Bessie and Liselle helped Kerry dress for her television appearance. After appearing on the Music Show on BBC2, at Briony’s instigation, Kerry had enjoyed a little of her former fame. Now, a year on, she was taking on quite a few engagements. Liselle was over the moon at the turn events had taken. She was now her mother’s manager, which cut down the number of visits to see her father in New York but which nevertheless pleased her immensely.

  ‘This deep green suits you, Mum, it brings out the highlights in your eyes. You’ll look well on camera.’

  Kerry sighed slightly.

  She didn’t care that much about her looks, she was more interested in getting in the green room before the show and having a quick snifter of vodka. She made the effort and smiled though.

  ‘Thanks, darlin’. I think I’ll shock quite a few people this time with my choice of song. I mean, me on the Old Grey Whistle Test! At my age.’

  Her laughter was genuine.

  ‘Listen, Mum, John Peel knows a good thing when he hears it. There’s a big jazz revival that’s been going on since the late-fifties. It was only a matter of time before you were remembered. You were one of the best blues and jazz singers of your day. You were singing the blues when most of the singers today weren’t even thought of! I’m not surprised you’re back on top again. You deserve it.’

  Kerry smiled at her daughter’s words. Lissy, as she still thought of her, was one hell of a daughter in some respects. Her absolute belief in her mother’s talent being one of them. Liselle, no matter what, had always had a great respect and regard for her mother’s voice, and now she managed her with an iron will. No one would knock Kerry Cavanagh while her daughter was there. No one.

  In some respects she reminded Kerry of Briony. She had the same single-mindedness her aunt possessed when she wanted something badly enough. Briony had kept her promise a year ago, albeit a few days late. She had taken Kerry out, dressed her from head to toe, and had arranged for Kerry to appear on the Music Show, taking her there herself and giving her two large neat vodkas to calm her nerves. Kerry had sung ‘Miss Otis Regrets’, clearly and hauntingly, gathering all her old fans to her once more, and quite a few new ones. Young fans who looked through old seventy-eight records on the markets to hear her old songs. In the last twelve months her life had taken on some surprising new angles, but at least she was enjoying it again.

  Today, she would have two large vodkas before her performance, and the few snifters she could sneak herself. Liselle had come to terms with the fact Kerry needed a drink to sing. It was that simple. If they monitored her drinking, they could get a performance from her which pleased Kerry, Lissy, Briony and the audience. She had already guested at Ronnie Scott’s and Bessie had sung with her at other venues around London.

  Kerry was drinking again, but she was drinking in a constructive way that even the Harley Street doctor, bought and paid for by Briony, couldn’t find fault with. As he had said himself, many people had a couple of large drinks every day. It took the edge off stressful work situations, and from otherwise claustrophobic marriages.

  Kerry liked Dr Montgomery. He was her kind of doctor. She hadn’t told anyone that he was the kind of guy who also administered shots of demerol for forty quid a time. After all, no one had asked her about
that, had they? So why spoil a good thing?

  Briony and Tommy sat in the studio with the whole of the family around them. Briony watched Boysie and his wife sitting at the end of the row. She sighed inwardly. There was trouble there, she’d lay money on that. Daniel sat beside her, his current amour Christabel - what a Godawful name that was - chattering to him nineteen to the dozen. Briony smiled grimly to herself. She wouldn’t last long.

  Bernadette sat with Marcus and her face, the skin stretched over the bones like parchment, was heavily made-up. Since Rosalee’s death and Marcus’s misbehaviour at that time, Bernie had taken an inordinate interest in her appearance. She now spent a small fortune on cosmetic surgery, and any other paraphernalia she could lay her hands on to keep her young-looking. Well, poor old Marcus was too old for his philandering now. Bernie should come down to earth with the rest of the mere mortals and start looking a little more her age.

  Beside Bernie and Marcus sat Rebecca and her husband John. Briony saw the thin-lipped look of husband and wife and suppressed a smile. They even looked alike these two, with their dark hair, their almond-shaped eyes and Roman noses. Rebecca had on a fur coat even in the heat of the studio lights and Briony guessed correctly it was new. Second hand, but new to Rebecca. It was her way of showing them John was doing all right. Strangely, this fact pleased Briony. Rebecca was doing all right, and she was glad. If she wanted to go it alone, without the help of the family, all the more power to her.

  Briony’s eyes clouded a little as she looked at Delia. She sat with another one of the great unwashed, which was the family’s terms for Delia’s boyfriends. She sat quietly though. Unlike her old self, unlike the girl she was before all the trouble with Jimmy. Her pupils were dilated and Briony wondered what shit was pulsing through her system tonight. It was strange how drugs and drink seemed to play a big part in the Cavanagh women’s lives. There was Kerry and her drinking and her drug taking. Now Delia. It was a crying shame really. How could they be so weak?

  It amazed Briony, who could never understand that not everyone was as strong as herself, could cope with life as she did. It was one of the things everyone else knew and admitted to themselves except Briony. Because she was such a strong personality, she abhorred weakness in others.

  She shifted her eyes to her mother, then grinned at Tommy who shook his head and smiled. Molly was sitting between her two grandsons, her beaver lamb coat sending out a powerful whiff of mothballs and lavender toilet water. She was a great age and a great woman, Briony accepted that fact now, all the old animosity buried. At the end was Cissy, hankie already out for when she started crying. Cissy, love her heart, cried at the drop of a hat.

  The studio lights were warm and Briony settled herself into her seat. All around her were people who, young or old, had one thing in common. They wanted to hear Kerry Cavanagh sing. Briony felt so secure as she sat there, so invincible, it was like a warm invisible cloak wrapped tightly around her. They had weathered so much, this family. There was nothing more that could befall them. Or so she thought.

  John Peel came out and began talking to the camera and the studio audience.

  ‘Tonight we have a woman who has sung for nearly five decades. After a lull in her career of nearly twenty years she’s back, proving that she is still one of the greats. Miss Kerry Cavanagh!’

  The lights came up at the back of the stage to show Kerry and her backing group. The applause was deafening and took three minutes to settle down. When the studio was quiet, Kerry spoke to the audience in her sing-song voice.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you one and all. Tonight I’m going to do a few of the old numbers, but first I want to sing a song I heard a few years ago which touched me deeply, and which I hope you all enjoy.’

  A young man began to play an acoustic guitar, then Kerry stepped to the microphone, and taking it in her hand, she beat her foot in time for a few seconds. Then she began to sing ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. The audience sat stunned, listening to the clear tones, to the breadth of her talent. Then of one mind they relaxed and enjoyed the song.

  The lone guitarist was joined by two men on electric guitars, a drummer and a pianist. The blues beat picked up and Kerry belted out the chorus in a voice that was loud and clear.

  Briony sat stunned as she listened to her sister’s voice, belting out the Janis Joplin number in her old inimitable style. This proved not only to Briony, but to everyone who heard Kerry, that she could indeed carry on singing ’til she dropped. She was over sixty years old yet she gave the song a new dimension, a new angle, and the band, who were all playing now as if their lives depended on it, were all feeling privileged to be in on this miraculous fact.

  As she finished the number, the audience stood up and clapped the gaunt woman on stage who could still sing like an angel. The ovation was electric. John Peel came out and clapped with them. The place went wild. Even the cameramen were clapping.

  Briony looked at Cissy and was not surprised to see she was crying.

  Happier than she had been for a long time, Briony sat back in her seat and grasped Tommy’s hand. She squeezed it tightly. He leant towards her and brushed her cheek with his lips.

  ‘She can sing, Bri, no one can take that away from her, love.’

  And Briony nodded at him furiously. Tommy was right. No one could ever take that away from her. Not even Kerry herself, and Christ himself knew she had tried.

  Briony was humming the tune to herself all the next day. It seemed to her as if it was imprinted on her memory. She had heard it many times, but it had just sounded like a noise to her, a record for the young. Now it was a song for everyone.

  Briony was humming it as she walked out of her house to her car. She felt light of spirit and light of foot. She felt quite youthful herself. This thought made her laugh. Tommy had gone to the dog track with Boysie, Daniel and Marcus, a pastime that was both recreational and profitable seeing as the twins owned it. She was driving over to see Kerry and Liselle. At least, that was what she’d planned until she saw the man standing on her drive.

  The sun was in her eyes and she blinked furiously, walking over to the dark-coated figure. He seemed familiar to her somehow even though she couldn’t see his face. As she approached him, her heart stopped dead in her chest.

  The man saw the reaction his presence caused and instinctively put out a hand to steady her. Briony grasped it as if she was a drowning woman, feeling the warmth of her son’s hand for the first time in many years.

  ‘Miss Briony Cavanagh.’ It was a statement not a question.

  Briony felt a sensation in the pit of her stomach, a burning as if she had swallowed a bottle of acid.

  ‘Benedict.’

  As soon as she uttered the word Benedict Dumas knew that it was all true. He had watched her for a year, following in her footsteps, observing her. He had hired private detectives to find out all about her business interests and still his thirst for knowledge had not been quenched. No matter how bad the news about her, how terrible she seemed, she had fascinated him. He had to know about her. Now he had to speak to her.

  A mixture of contempt for her mingled with curiosity. She was his natural mother, she had borne him.

  ‘Come inside ... Come into the house ...’ Briony was finding it difficult to talk. He had sought her out, as she had always prayed. He had sought her out and he was here, on her doorstep, and the joy in her knew no bounds. He followed her silently into the house.

  Cissy took one look at the man with Briony and her jaw dropped with shock. It was like looking at Briony. He had the same green eyes, the same shaped face, he even had a reddish tinge to his hair. This was Briony’s son, come home.

  Briony shut the door and gestured for Benedict to take a seat. He sat down carefully, as if he might break the chair. Briony went to the drinks cabinet and poured two large brandies.

  He accepted his without a word.

  They surveyed one another for long, long minutes. Both acknowledging the likeness. Both wary, and yet grea
tly interested in the other, and both loth to show this fact. Finally, after what seemed an age, Briony broke the silence.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘My father.’

  Briony savoured the sound of his voice, as she might have a delicious pastry or a longed-for drink of cool clean water.

  ‘Henry? Henry told you?’

  Benedict shook his head. ‘He died last year. He mentioned it in his will. I never knew, never had any idea...’

  Briony heard the hurt in him then, the hurt and the unpleasant shock the knowledge had apparently given him. It was a revelation that he hadn’t enjoyed, that much was evident.

  ‘It was a long time ago. Over fifty years actually, but you’d know that of, course.’

  ‘You were a child, a child prostitute ...’

  Briony heard the words and the effect they had on her was like a blow. Her head was reeling. The way he had said them! And then anger came to her. It spewed into her head, and came out of her mouth like molten lava.

  ‘Listen here, Benedict Dumas, I was thirteen when you were born, thirteen years old! My father sold me to your father, it’s as simple as that. It was a business arrangement. My elder sister Eileen had gone to him first, God rest her, she never got over it. She died because of Henry Dumas, she died out of her mind!

  ‘Now you listen to me and you listen good. Your mother bought you from me. I was a kid, that’s all. I didn’t know what life had in store for me, I knew nothing, yet thanks to your father I knew everything! I bore you and I loved you, God help me, I loved you more than anything in the world, but circumstances were such that I had to give you up. It was another of the Dumas business deals.

  ‘Your father was incapable of sleeping with a grown woman, he liked little girls with no breasts and no knowledge of men. He bought and paid for them as other men would a grown prostitute. I’m sorry to shatter your illusions about him, but facts are facts. He shaped my life, Henry Dumas, he shaped it and left me half a woman who felt nothing for years.