Prized Possessions (41 page)

And the year, as years will, moved on.

*   *   *

It had been a busy Wednesday evening in the Conway household.

Rosie's Sunday-best skirt had been sponged and ironed, each separate pleat rendered sharp as a knife blade. Her blouse was brand-new, best quality, purchased with fifteen shillings that Polly had voluntarily donated to the communal chest, money taken out of her savings, so she said; a claim that only Babs had reason to doubt.

There was a new hairband too, a mottled brown ribbon that Lizzie had bought for herself some months ago but that so lent itself to the image that she envisaged for an aspiring bookseller that she insisted on giving it to Rosie and insisted on her daughter wearing it to the interview at Shelby's in spite of the fact that Rosie thought it made her look like the Lady of the Lake.

Babs had come through with shoes; nothing fancy but a reasonable fit after a knob of newspaper had been squeezed into each toe.

Rosie's hair had been washed, dried, brushed, titivated into this style then that, inspected, rejected and recast until, at long last, Lizzie was satisfied that her youngest was an object to be proud of and that whatever other reasons Shelby's might find for rejecting her it would not be her appearance.

It was after nine, a late hour mid-week for the Conways, before a knock sounded upon the landing door; a tentative knock, seemingly quite timid.

Babs wondered if Jackie had come out of hiding and had cooked up a valid excuse to lure her away from Mammy's apron strings and engage in a bit of what had best be designated as ‘courtship' down in the back close, a procedure that would take about five minutes if Jackie's previous performances were anything to go by.

Lizzie wondered if it might be Bernard dropping in unexpectedly, although he had told her that he wouldn't see her again until Friday. And Rosie, who hadn't heard the sound, of course, but had noticed the family's alertness, became tense, for she hadn't forgotten that night not long since when O'Hara had barged in and threatened them or what O'Hara had done to her down in the backs, or – come to that – what she had thought of Alex O'Hara before she had been taught a lesson in common sense.

It was left to Polly to answer the door.

She had no thoughts, no agenda of her own, no reason to suppose that the late-night caller would have anything to offer her by way of diversion.

‘Auntie Janet? What are you doing here? Is it Gran? Is Gran poorly?'

She came in from the landing with jerky little steps, turned to her right and entered the kitchen as if travelling on a wire. She wore her workaday overcoat, an old tartan scarf and a clam-shaped felt hat. Her frizzy red hair stuck out from under the hat like flames from a broken gas mantle and her normally pallid complexion was mottled not with face powder but by tears.

Rosie, who had been basking in front of the fire in bodice and knickers, hastily covered herself with a shawl and Lizzie, astonished, stood frozen by the table, a towel in her hands.

‘Janet?' she said. ‘Janet, dearest, what's wrong?'

The tears that had apparently flowed freely not too long ago had dried up and Janet's manner was dry and hot now, like an ungreased griddle left too long on the stove. ‘I've been robbed,' she said. ‘I've been stolen.'

‘Stolen from, surely?' said Rosie, not intending to be heartless.

‘Stolen, stolen from?' Janet said, her voice rising. ‘What does it matter what way you put it? I've been robbed, it's all gone, every penny, every pound scrimped an' saved over the past twenty years, nothin' left but a few coppers in the bottom o' the tin, all the rest of it has disappeared.'

‘Robbed?' Lizzie put down the towel and moved to comfort her sister. ‘Did somebody break in? Did they hurt Gran or…'

‘She's fine. She doesn't know. I didn't tell her. Questions. Questions. It would only have led to questions, more questions. I'm sick o' questions.
I've
been robbed an'
I
know who done it.' She elbowed Lizzie aside, and pointed. ‘She done it, your precious daughter done it. She took it. I seen her.'

‘Get bloody stuffed, Auntie,' Babs said. ‘I never touched your cash.'

‘Cash! See! She knew it was cash!'

‘Well, it would hardly be soddin' stocks an' shares, would it?' Babs said.

Rosie piped up. ‘Maybe it is just lost.'

‘Lost! It's not lost.
She
took it, that bitch stole
my
dowry money.'

‘Dowry money!' Babs and Polly exclaimed in unison.

The girls exchanged glances. Janet, quick as a viper, saw it. She pulled out a kitchen chair, perched herself upon it, folded her hands over her handbag and straightened her spine, trying for dignity.

Lizzie said, ‘Are you gettin'… I mean, have you actually got a man?'

‘No, I don't have a man right now. That doesn't mean t' say I'll never have a man again. When the right man turns up I'll have the money for to marry him. I'll not be losin'
my
chance because I'm in debt.' She closed her fists on the handbag. ‘Go on, laugh if you like. Daft Auntie Janet, her an' her dreams.'

‘Nobody thinks you're daft, dearest,' Lizzie, said soothingly.

Babs grunted, ‘Naw, not really.'

‘Twenty years it's taken me t' save that money. Doin' wi'out this, denyin' myself that. Twenty years an' now it's all been taken from me.'

Crouched beside Janet, plump knees spread, Lizzie said, ‘I'm sorry for your loss, but what makes you think my girls know anythin' about it?'

‘Saw them in the cupboard.'

‘You did not,' said Babs.

‘So that is what was hidden in the cupboard,' said Rosie.

‘As well you know,' said Janet.

Rosie propped her chin on her hand, fascinated by what her aunt had divulged. ‘How much was there?'

‘Three hundred an' twenty-four pounds.'

‘My God!' Lizzie sat back on her heels.

‘If ever anythin' happened to our tenement,' Janet said, ‘it would have bought Mammy an' me a place for to live.'

‘Unless your dream-boat came along first,' said Babs. ‘Fat chance!'

That was the key, the catalyst, the detonator, the very last straw.

Janet jerked her head. ‘What do you know about it? What do you know about livin' in that house wi' that woman an' never havin' a man? Aye, you'll have a man, no doubt. You'll have plenty o' men chasin' after you, wi' that blonde hair and those – those things stickin' out on your chest. All I ever had was what was left after Lizzie went off wi' her flash Harry. Never a thought spared, never a thought spared for me.' The hat slipped, releasing a spray of coarse hair that bobbed and chivvied on her brow.
‘Where's my money? Why've you taken my money?'

‘Babs didn't take it,' Polly said. ‘I did.'

‘You?'

Polly got to her feet. She felt no guilt just the dead weight of retribution lying upon her and weariness at the prospect of having to explain to her aunt why it had been necessary to have cash and why she had thought that the money was rightfully hers. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I discovered it by – by accident one day a month or so ago. I thought, I honestly thought it was cash that my father had hidden away.'

‘Frank?' said Janet. ‘What does he have to do with it?'

‘Nothing, apparently,' Polly said. ‘If I'd known they were your life savings I wouldn't have touched them.'

Janet blew out her lips, jerked her head in her sister's direction. ‘Do you believe that, Lizzie? Do you expect me t' swallow such a cock-and-bull story?'

‘It might be the truth,' said Lizzie.

‘Frank's money?' Janet shook her head, and uttered a croak of mirth. ‘Frank never had any money, not a tosser of his own. Frank Conway? Hoh! I'll tell you about Frank Conway. He didn't steal from the Eye-tie. He didn't join up to escape Carlo Manone. He joined up for to escape
you,
Lizzie. To escape you an' that litter o' babies that was takin' up all your time an' attention so there was none left for him, poor soul.'

‘You liar!' Babs said. ‘Daddy would never leave us.'

‘Would he not, but?' Janet went rattling on. ‘Frank's money under the floorboards? Don't make me laugh. He came t' me for money. He came t' me up at the house an' I gave him everythin' we had, every penny we had. Precious little it was but it was his for the askin', all his for the askin'.'

‘He went to you?' said Lizzie. ‘Why did he go t' you?'

‘Because he knew I'd do anythin' for him.' Janet tilted her chin. The hat slipped, almost fell off. She would not spoil her moment of triumph by snatching at it, however. ‘He knew I loved him.'

‘You?' said Lizzie, without scorn.

‘Aye, an' I proved it too. Proved it plenty o' times.' Janet tugged the hat from her head and, waving it as if it were a grenade, swung towards her sister. ‘All those times when you were swelled up who do you think kept Frank happy? Eh? Do you think he stayed wi' you because he loved you? God, he never loved you. He loved
me,
Lizzie. It was
me
he loved an' it was
me
he'd have come back for.' Her lips pursed in a bitter little pout. ‘That's who I was savin' for. He's the one. He's the man. I never gave up the hope he'd come back an' take me away. I never gave up hope.' She got up, small and shabby but with swagger. ‘Now, where's my money, girlie? I want it back.'

‘You can't have it back,' said Polly. ‘I've spent it.'

‘Lyin' bitch,' said Janet.

‘You leave her alone,' said Lizzie, rising too. ‘You can say what you like about me but I'll not have you sayin' those things to my girls.'

‘Thieves, that's all they are. Thieves an' whores.'

Lizzie's blow was more of a punch that a slap. It rocked Janet but did not silence her. She staggered, crumpled against the edge of the table, and went on talking, her voice not dimmed but strengthened.

‘My man, he was,' she said. ‘My man. My money.'

‘Prove it,' Babs shouted. ‘Yeah, prove it, you stupid old cow.'

‘I believe her,' Rosie said.

‘What the hell d' you know about it, dummy?' Babs shouted.

‘Alex O'Hara told me about Dad.'

‘O'Hara, that – that toad!' Babs shouted. ‘I suppose he's been up this old hag an' all.' She leaped towards her aunt. ‘Did you take O'Hara to your bed an' all? Aye, an' who else, I'd like to know?'

‘None else,' said Janet, very still now. ‘Only him. Only Frank. There was never any other man to match him. I wisht he'd come back.'

‘Well, he isn't comin' back,' Babs yelled. ‘He's dead. He's dead an' thank God for it.'

Lizzie sighed. ‘Don't say that, dear.'

‘Right, my money?' Janet said, holding out one thin, hard hand.

‘I haven't got your money,' Polly said. ‘I told you. I spent it.'

‘Not all of it,' said Babs, scowling.

‘Yes, all of it,' said Polly. ‘I gave it to someone. I gave it to him just the way you say you gave it to Daddy. To help him get away.'

‘A likely story.' Janet rubbed her cheek, for the flesh had begun to swell a little and had turned bright red. ‘It'll have gone to Manone. Manone. Hoh! He took you t' the fair, Lizzie, didn't he? Payin' him money all those years when there was nothin' to pay for.'

‘An' you let her,' Babs said. ‘Dear God, you let her.'

And Polly said, ‘Yes, I gave it to Mr Manone.'

That stopped her, that brought her up short. Smugness vanished from her eyes in an instant. ‘What?' Janet said. ‘What are you tellin' me?'

‘Paid back to Dominic Manone,' said Polly.

‘But you said…'

‘Ah, yes, but I'm a born liar, Auntie Janet, aren't I?'

‘You said…'

‘I gave it to Manone, all of it.'

Babs laughed. ‘So why don't you ask
him
to give you it back?'

Janet turned. ‘Is this true, Lizzie?'

‘I don't know. I expect it is,' Lizzie said. ‘If the girls say it is then…'

‘Bye-bye nest egg,' said Babs.

‘But – but it's my money.'

‘Not any more it ain't,' Babs said.

‘I'll – I'll – I'll report you all t' the polis.'

‘No, you won't,' said Lizzie. ‘You can't.'

‘Aye, but I can.'

‘And tell them what?' said Polly. ‘Tell them about Dominic Manone?'

‘I wouldn't do that if I were you, Janet,' Lizzie said with an odd, almost protective note in her voice. ‘It wouldn't be sensible to drag Mr Manone into our family squabble.'

‘My money, my savin's…'

‘Gone,' said Rosie, very distinctly, ‘like my daddy. Gone for good.'

‘And,' Polly said, ‘you've only yourself to blame.'

*   *   *

It had been years since the three Conway girls had clambered into the niche bed beside Mammy all at one time. It seemed a natural thing to do, though, after the crisis that Aunt Janet's visit had incurred and the doubts that trailed in the wake of her revelations; a sign of unity that Lizzie hadn't the heart to reject.

She wore her nightgown and had stuck a few paper curlers in her hair. Rosie too was dressed for bed but Babs and Polly had only kicked off their shoes before, rather sheepishly, they slid on top of the blankets and settled themselves at the foot of the mattress.

‘Now,' Lizzie said, ‘I want the truth. Where's Janet's money?'

Polly said, ‘I gave it straight to Patsy Walsh.'

‘Why?' said Lizzie.

‘Because I thought the Manones might try to kill him.'

‘He robbed the warehouse, I take it?'