‘It’s no wonder no decent man will touch her, gallivanting about with ne’er-do-wells, ruffians and misfits. She deserves to be left on the shelf and grow into a sour old maid. But I will
not
have her spoil Edward’s chances too.’
‘That is
enough
, Emily!’
Both women flinched. It was not often Father laid down the law, Bella thought, but when he chose to, there was no mistaking that benevolent and tolerant though he may be, he was nonetheless master in his own home.
‘I will hear no more on the subject. s that clear?’
Emily tore her handkerchief into shreds and stalked from the room. As the door slammed shut behind her, Simeon let out a deep sigh. ‘Now see what you’ve done. I shall be driven to eat humble pie for days now to bring your poor mother out of the glums and you, young madam, shall cudgel your brains over how to make up for last night’s debacle.’
‘I will. I’m so sorry, Father.’
‘So you should be. For God’s sake try to use at least an atom of common sense with these philanthropic notions of yours. Personally, I shall be glad when you give over with this particular fad, and settle down. Your mother makes a valid point. It’s time you shaped yourself and found a good chap to wed afore its too late. Now I must go to her.’ He planted a kiss on Isabella’s brow. ‘And happen you’d consider finding a more fitting occupation soon, d’you reckon? To please me?’
Bella screwed up her nose as she pretended to consider the matter, hazel eyes alight with laughter. ‘I’ll do my best to be careful Pa, will that do?’
‘I dare say it’ll have to. For now.’ With one hand on the door knob he paused and, returning to her side, pressed a sovereign into her hand. ‘No doubt you’ll need a few items of apparel for this latest lame duck of yours. But don’t tell your mother,’ and with a sideways grin and a knowing wink, he was gone.
Bella wasted no time in putting her plans into effect. Clean sheets were brought from the linen cupboard and Tilly set about making up the bed in the guest bedroom next to her own. Young Sam, aged seventeen and known as the handyman by Simeon and the chauffeur by Emily, was instructed to fetch flowers and then post himself at the front door in order to alert her the moment their patient arrived. She needed him to be on hand as the poor girl would require help climbing the stairs. Bella herself prepared a tea tray and while she did so, sweet-talked Mrs Dyson into producing some of her delicious shortbread.
‘And no doubt you’ll be wanting yet more calf’s foot jelly as well?’
‘I thought perhaps a little oxtail soup for supper? Something warming that’ll stick to her ribs, eh? Dear Mrs Dyson, what a treasure you are,’ and Bella hurried away, allowing no opportunity for protest.
On the dot of three an ambulance drew up outside the Ashton’s end-terrace house in Seedley Park Road, as expected. Emily herself stood on the doorstep to direct operations, if only to show the neighbours that she was in charge. Double fronted and built of the finest dark red Accrington brick, the house possessed bay windows on both ground and upper floors, as Emily would proudly and frequently remind her many friends and acquaintances. She herself did not view the house as an end terrace, choosing to ignore the row of smaller houses attached to its back, since from the front it appeared detached. In addition, unlike many another in less affluent streets, it also possessed a front garden, admittedly minuscule but nonetheless neatly contained by a small privet hedge and a front gate which Emily now opened to permit the brawny young Sam to carry their guest inside.
Jinnie seemed bemused by all the attention, and barely awake. ‘Where am I? What’s happening?’ was all she managed as she was gently put to bed by Bella’s own hands.
She didn’t want the tea; showed not a scrap of interest in Mrs Dyson’s freshly baked shortbread. Within seconds her eyelids had drooped closed and she was fast asleep.
‘Best thing,’ Mrs Dyson wisely remarked. ‘Sleep’ll put her on her feet in no time.’
Bella tucked the sheet in more firmly and, smoothing a curl back from Jinnie’s cheek, looked down upon her patient with a soft smile. ‘You’re right Mrs D. Sleep is exactly what she needs. I should think this is the most rest she’s ever had in her entire life. And first thing tomorrow, while she sleeps, I shall take the opportunity to slip out and see the Stobbs family who I missed completely last night, due to events. At least here she’s safe from whoever did this dreadful thing to her. What I wouldn’t do to him, if I ever got my hands on him. He comes right at the bottom in the pecking order of decent humanity, so far as I’m concerned. Selfish brute!’
Billy Quinn knew all about the pecking order and, so far as he was concerned, his position on it came right at the top. He’d arrived in Salford via Liverpool and the Ship Canal less than a decade ago when he was no more than a lad of fifteen. Leaving his large family behind in County Mayo, he’d come to the mainland seeking his fortune with a bag of clothes slung over his broad shoulders, a bit of luck money in his pocket and the devil in his eyes. He’d slept in ditches and under haystacks, common lodging houses or ‘kip’ houses as they were often called, where he’d fight anyone for a place to lay his head, and generally win.
He’d dragged himself out of those ditches, worked on farms and in factories and finally got himself a good job on a building site; was even happy to be termed a navvy since the effort he put into the job was minimal as it wasn’t his main source of income at all. It was merely a front, meant to provide the veneer of respectability he needed for his real work.
Billy Quinn was a bookie. Small time, as yet, but with a formidable reputation and woe betide any punter who thought he could put one over on him.
As a result of his success, these days he was proud to have his own place, albeit only one rented room in an old terraced house on Liverpool Street. It stated loud and clear that he was on the up-and-up. He’d even got himself a steady girl. Except that this morning, after a long night spent running a particularly lucrative dog fight, he’d returned tired and hungry to find the room empty. No girl in evidence. Not a sign remained that she’d ever been there. Even the bed had been stripped of every sheet and blanket.
Too stunned at first to take in the fact that Jinnie had finally summoned the nerve to leave him, for all she’d frequently threatened to do so, he told himself that she was the loser. His next move would have been to a proper house all his own, a two-up and two-down, and he would’ve taken her with him - if she’d played her cards right. But he was peeved by this sudden display of independence. No one walked out on Billy Quinn, not without his say so.
‘Would ye know where she is?’ The question was asked on a low, growl of anger.
Rarely ever more than a few feet from Quinn’s side, save for when his boss had a woman in tow, Len Jackson was expected to supply the answers to all of his questions, which wasn’t easy, seeing as they were often a mite awkward, demanding answers bound to annoy. Len would’ve liked notice of this one in particular.
‘Nay, Quinn. I know nowt about it. Women are a mystery to me. Allus have been.’ Len sidled over to the window to look down into the back entry, keeping an eye out for likely trouble. He could see Harold Cunliffe leaning nonchalantly against the back yard wall. Harold suddenly bent down to tie his laces and Len turned quickly back to Quinn.
‘Hey up. There’s rozzers about. Harold has just signalled.’ But for once Billy Quinn’s mind wasn’t on business. He smashed his fist down on the rickety table so hard that it almost buckled beneath the pressure. ‘Then bleedin’ well find out where she is.’
It was rare for him to swear. Despite his reputation for meanness, outwardly at least Billy Quinn’s manner was mild, his voice a soft Irish brogue. Quinn saw himself as a gentleman, with the kind of good looks that made women swoon or wish they were eighteen again, the sort they paid sixpence to drool over at the Cromwell Picture House. Thick brown hair swept back from a high brow and, unusually, he never used Brylcreem but left it loose and floppy so that he could flick it back with an arrogant toss of his head whenever it fell forward. His eyes were sleepy, heavy-lidded, often half closed against the curl of blue smoke drifting from the cigarette frequently seen dangling from his lips. And his seductively piercing blue gaze asked only one question of a woman. Was she willing or would he need to use persuasion? For all he liked to have Jinnie around as his regular girl, since she was an attractive little waif, Quinn never disguised the fact that he was fond of other women. He would say that, after gambling, they were his favourite pastime. But he was most particular which ones he slept with. Once having declared an interest, however, it was for him to decide when the relationship should come to an end.
Jinnie had made a big mistake by leaving. A fact he would make plain to her when he caught up with her again. He wondered if their neighbour Sadie knew anything, and vowed to find out.
On this occasion Len could sense this was not the moment to suggest that perhaps Quinn hadn’t treated Jinnie quite as he should, or that it was a wonder she’d hung around as long as she had. He was grateful therefore to be saved from answering by the door bursting open and Harold Cunliffe charging in.
‘Didn’t you catch me signal? The rozzers is here. Get moving. It’s the real McCoy this time.’
To run a successful bookmaking business, Quinn and his punters were required to defy the law which stated that street betting was illegal. He’d been doing so with ease for some considerable time. Conducted from the back entry, he depended on runners to collect bets, and lookouts, known locally as dogger-outs, to keep watch. It was vital that Quinn himself wasn’t caught. His success depended upon it. No punter would place bets with him ever again if their hard earned money was confiscated by the police. What he needed now, therefore, was for someone to act as mug. Like the joker in a pack he would be the throw-away card, and since Harold was the only one handy who they could afford to lose, he was the one selected.
‘Get down the entry Harold. I’ll see you right.’
‘Aw Billy lad, I’ve seven childer to feed, and the missus is badly. How would they manage if I got nicked?’
Quinn rested one large hand on each of Harold’s skinny shoulders. ‘Trust me Harold. Would I let them starve?’
‘Nay, I’m not suggesting you would, only...’
‘And remember,’ the tone dropped to a menacing whisper. ‘There’s worse that could happen to you, Harold m’boy, than spending a few days in clink. Is there not?’
Recognising his cause to be lost and believing that all fines would be paid for him by Billy Quinn, as was normally the case with a bookmaker, Harold hightailed it out the door and stationed himself at the end of the entry, as instructed. In his pocket were a sheaf of betting slips, none of which were genuine.
It was well known that many raids were ‘staged’ since the police were largely sympathetic to the plight of the working man being put on the wrong side of the law just because he wanted to place a threepenny each-way bet. They’d also no real wish to be made unpopular, acting as a ‘spoilsport’ by enforcing the letter of the law too harshly. Every now and then, however, the Chief of Police would take it into his head to send out a surprise raid, a genuine one; usually to please a magistrate or make the arrest sheet look better. Today was one of those days.
Arriving in force, the police spotted Harold, who was duly arrested and carted off to their van. As on previous raids it proved impossible to catch Quinn, or any of his other runners as doors mysteriously opened and were as quickly found locked shut, with no sign of the perpetrators of this ‘crime’ anywhere. Quickly losing interest in the chase, they gave up the search and withdrew, content to at least have one victim to show to their Chief.
Len, back at his lookout post and watching events over a corner of the back yard wall, said, ‘You realise this was Harold’s third offence. It’ll cost you fifty quid to get him out.’
‘Fifty quid?’ Quinn stubbed out his cigarette and lit another before continuing to check betting slips. ‘Over my dead body. He can do three months instead.’
‘But his wife and childer. You said ...’
Quinn paused in his counting, glanced up at Len through those half-closed eyes. ‘Did ye have something to say on the subject?’
Len swallowed. ‘Nay. Not me. I know nowt about owt, me.’