all there is to it?’
‘ What? ’ Now Joe was laughing. ‘What, that old bird, and Charlie? You serious?’
‘She’s not that old,’ said Betsy, embarrassed that Joe thought she was blowing all this up out of nothing. Well, maybe she was. But there was no need for him to laugh at her fears.
‘No, but look at the face on her! Serious, Betsy, what are you worrying about? Don’t be daft. And as for the talk, there’s always talk. People got nothing better to do than stand around flapping the lip about other people’s private business. Just ignore it.’
So she was supposed to be reassured. But she wasn’t, not really.
And as Joe walked away from her, he was thinking Jesus! The widow Tranter and Charlie? Was that possible?
That night Charlie and Joe were at the pub drinking beer and waiting to meet one of their many contacts who had a load of forged petrol coupons going cheap, along with a truckload of black market nylons and eighteen thousand tins of fruit that had come his way. Stan was a ‘larker’; he’d been to the National Assistance office after nineteen raids claiming he’d been bombed out. Charlie and Joe were taking bets on whether he’d be banged up when he got to twenty, but it was a poor bet.
The city was in chaos, officials were overwhelmed, they couldn’t check everything. Some of them were busy lining their own pockets, making out blank billeting forms and filling them in so they could draw allowances for non-existent people without having to suffer a real live lodger – someone made homeless by the Blitz, or a serviceman – on the premises. Mostly the councils paid out, and shut up.
‘We’ll offload the fruit at one of the wholesale firms,’ said Charlie. ‘Right?’
‘Fine. I had to have a word with Ben.’
‘Oh?’ Charlie glanced at him. Ben was one of his most trusted boys: sound as a pound, he’d always thought.
‘He’s been splashing his cash around. Bought his old lady a fucking fur coat.’
‘He what ?’
‘Been looking over new motors too, the tit.’
‘What about Chewy and Stevie?’
‘They’re OK. Keeping their heads down.’
‘You sorted Ben out, though?’
‘It’s sorted.’ Joe sipped his pint. He’d given Ben a good going-over about this. Silly cunt.
Charlie nodded, satisfied. ‘The nylons can go door-to-door.’
‘Fine. So what you been up to at the widow Tranter’s, then?’
Charlie choked on a mouthful of best bitter.
‘You what ?’ he spluttered.
‘You heard. People are talking.’ He didn’t mention Betsy, he didn’t want to land her in a screaming match with Charlie. He knew his brother well. Accuse him of anything, and he’d kick off like a mad bastard.
‘Who?’ asked Charlie, slapping his pint back down onto the mat.
‘No one in particular,’ shrugged Joe. ‘There anything going on then? Anything I should know about?’
‘What, you think I’m poking the old biddy?’ Charlie was half-laughing, but in his heart he was hating himself for it. It diminished everything that had passed between him and Rachel, cheapened it.
‘She’s not that old,’ said Joe, in a perfect echo of Betsy’s words.
Charlie picked up his pint and looked his brother square in the eye.
‘There’s nothing going on, bruv. Nothing at all.’
27
Cornelius was outside the Windmill the following week, waiting to see her again, beautifully turned out as always, devastatingly handsome, wearing his blue-striped Old Etonian tie.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake ,’ said Ruby angrily.
‘What’s up, kid?’ asked Vi, signing busily, smiling, being her charming, infinitely desirable self while Ruby stood there, her heart in her mouth at the sight of him, feeling like a moody, truculent child.
‘He’s married, Vi. That’s what’s up.’
Vi stopped signing and stared at her friend. Then her mouth tilted up in a smile.
‘Ruby,’ she said. ‘He’s in his thirties. He’s rich. He’s good-looking. Can you really say you were
‘ What? ’ Now Joe was laughing. ‘What, that old bird, and Charlie? You serious?’
‘She’s not that old,’ said Betsy, embarrassed that Joe thought she was blowing all this up out of nothing. Well, maybe she was. But there was no need for him to laugh at her fears.
‘No, but look at the face on her! Serious, Betsy, what are you worrying about? Don’t be daft. And as for the talk, there’s always talk. People got nothing better to do than stand around flapping the lip about other people’s private business. Just ignore it.’
So she was supposed to be reassured. But she wasn’t, not really.
And as Joe walked away from her, he was thinking Jesus! The widow Tranter and Charlie? Was that possible?
That night Charlie and Joe were at the pub drinking beer and waiting to meet one of their many contacts who had a load of forged petrol coupons going cheap, along with a truckload of black market nylons and eighteen thousand tins of fruit that had come his way. Stan was a ‘larker’; he’d been to the National Assistance office after nineteen raids claiming he’d been bombed out. Charlie and Joe were taking bets on whether he’d be banged up when he got to twenty, but it was a poor bet.
The city was in chaos, officials were overwhelmed, they couldn’t check everything. Some of them were busy lining their own pockets, making out blank billeting forms and filling them in so they could draw allowances for non-existent people without having to suffer a real live lodger – someone made homeless by the Blitz, or a serviceman – on the premises. Mostly the councils paid out, and shut up.
‘We’ll offload the fruit at one of the wholesale firms,’ said Charlie. ‘Right?’
‘Fine. I had to have a word with Ben.’
‘Oh?’ Charlie glanced at him. Ben was one of his most trusted boys: sound as a pound, he’d always thought.
‘He’s been splashing his cash around. Bought his old lady a fucking fur coat.’
‘He what ?’
‘Been looking over new motors too, the tit.’
‘What about Chewy and Stevie?’
‘They’re OK. Keeping their heads down.’
‘You sorted Ben out, though?’
‘It’s sorted.’ Joe sipped his pint. He’d given Ben a good going-over about this. Silly cunt.
Charlie nodded, satisfied. ‘The nylons can go door-to-door.’
‘Fine. So what you been up to at the widow Tranter’s, then?’
Charlie choked on a mouthful of best bitter.
‘You what ?’ he spluttered.
‘You heard. People are talking.’ He didn’t mention Betsy, he didn’t want to land her in a screaming match with Charlie. He knew his brother well. Accuse him of anything, and he’d kick off like a mad bastard.
‘Who?’ asked Charlie, slapping his pint back down onto the mat.
‘No one in particular,’ shrugged Joe. ‘There anything going on then? Anything I should know about?’
‘What, you think I’m poking the old biddy?’ Charlie was half-laughing, but in his heart he was hating himself for it. It diminished everything that had passed between him and Rachel, cheapened it.
‘She’s not that old,’ said Joe, in a perfect echo of Betsy’s words.
Charlie picked up his pint and looked his brother square in the eye.
‘There’s nothing going on, bruv. Nothing at all.’
27
Cornelius was outside the Windmill the following week, waiting to see her again, beautifully turned out as always, devastatingly handsome, wearing his blue-striped Old Etonian tie.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake ,’ said Ruby angrily.
‘What’s up, kid?’ asked Vi, signing busily, smiling, being her charming, infinitely desirable self while Ruby stood there, her heart in her mouth at the sight of him, feeling like a moody, truculent child.
‘He’s married, Vi. That’s what’s up.’
Vi stopped signing and stared at her friend. Then her mouth tilted up in a smile.
‘Ruby,’ she said. ‘He’s in his thirties. He’s rich. He’s good-looking. Can you really say you were
Similar Books
