Frankie's Manor Read online

  Mary would have probed further, but hunger got the better of her, and instead she said, ‘Well, let’s get started on supper, then. Gawd! I knew it! I knew they’d be ruined.’ Mary had opened the greasy parcel and, as she settled herself at the table, she grumbled on for the next five minutes about her meal being cold, remarking between mouthfuls, ‘You should’ve brought them in and put ’em in the oven to keep warm if you was gonna stand chattering on the doorstep.’ Rose listened half-heartedly to her aunt’s diatribe without comment. If there was one thing her aunt loved more than food, it was a good moan. Rose carried on eating and let Mary’s voice wash over her without much notice.

  When there were only three chips left in the paper bag, Mary pushed them away, saying pettishly, ‘You know how cold grease lays on me chest, Rosie. I’ll probably be up half the night with wind now.’

  She felt a sudden urge to shout, ‘Well, nobody forced you to eat them,’ but she kept quiet. Her aunt could be maddening at times, and on occasions like this, Rose found it best to ignore her. Gathering up the remnants of the meal, she carried them into the scullery, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll make the cocoa now, Auntie. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for my bed.’

  Mary, her niece home, her stomach filled, and feeling better for a good grumble, answered amiably, ‘Yeah, all right, love. D’yer want any help?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. You let your supper get down.’

  Rose waited for another comment on Mary’s irregular digestion. When none was forthcoming she started to prepare their nightcap. While she waited for the milk to heat, Rose pondered on whether or not to tell Mary about Frankie being out. Of course she’d have to tell her, there was no question of that; the problem was when rather than if. And if she told Mary about his early release now, the delighted woman would keep her up all night talking about it. She really didn’t feel like hearing again about how the police had it in for Frankie, not tonight. She just wasn’t in the mood. Especially after the row she’d just had with Jack on the same subject.

  Carrying two steaming cups of cocoa into the parlour, she decided to leave it until tomorrow. Mary would probably give her hell for not imparting the good news straight away, but by then Rose would have had a good night’s sleep and be able to deal with the truculent, maddening and often irritable woman – whom she loved more than words could ever say.

  Flopping down in the armchair opposite her aunt, Rose slipped off her shoes, propped her feet on the fender and laced her hands around her cup. She peered over the rim at Mary.

  ‘Hot enough for you, Auntie?’

  Mary glanced up, surprised. ‘What? Oh, yeah, thanks, love.’

  Rose smiled to herself. The veiled jibe had gone unnoticed.

  Later, when Mary had retired to the brass bed in the comer of the room, Rose sat on by the empty grate, her thoughts centred on Jack Adams. She had only known him a year, but it sometimes felt as if she’d known him all her life. They had met one night when she was on her way home from the pub, and a group of young lads had barred her way in the street. They hadn’t meant any harm, but Jack, who had been watching from the other side of the road, had thought differently. He had sent them running off, then walked with her the rest of the way.

  At first, they had been just friends, meeting occasionally by chance in the street. Then he had begun to turn up on a Sunday afternoon in Victoria Park where she sometimes went when it was fine. It was nearly five months before he asked her out, and had escorted her to a show at the Hackney Empire. She had not wanted him to take their friendship too seriously, so she had limited the times she agreed to go out with him, not because she didn’t like him but because of her aunt’s animosity towards the police. Yet, despite her reservations, she’d found herself growing more fond of him than she’d anticipated. He was good company, when out of uniform – and when she could keep him off the subject of Frankie Buchannon.

  She also had a sneaking suspicion he was working up the courage to ask her to marry him. Giving vent to a long drawn-out sigh, she cupped her face in her hands and stared gloomily into the fireplace. She was fond of Jack, more than fond, in fact, but not enough to marry him – at least, not at the moment. Maybe in time her feelings for him would grow stronger, but for now she was happy as she was.

  She wasn’t ready to settle down and start a family. Jack would insist she gave up her job – and what about Aunt Mary? She couldn’t leave her on her own, and her aunt and Jack, although civil enough to each other, would never get on living together, not while Frankie remained in their lives – which he was and always would be. Jack’s main ambition in life was to lock him up and throw away the key, but her aunt thought the sun shone out of him… ‘And so do you,’ a voice in her head came back at her. No! It would never work between her and Jack. Then again, she might be mistaken about him wanting to marry her. If that was so then she had nothing to worry about. After all, there was no law that said a man and woman couldn’t be just friends, was there? And if Jack did start to get too serious, well, then, she’d just have to put him straight, wouldn’t she? A wide yawn split Rose’s face and she shivered as she got up.

  As long as she lived, her aunt would always come first in Rose’s affections. She owed everything to the elderly woman asleep in the corner of the room. And if that meant she had to remain single, then so be it. Rose snuffed out the lamp and went up to her bedroom, which she had shared with her aunt until Mary’s legs had become too swollen and painful to manage the stairs.

  The tiny landing held only two rooms: one was the small boxroom that had once been Frank’s and was now used to store bits and pieces of old furniture; the other, a larger room, was now Rose’s domain. It was furnished sparsely, Rose had never liked clutter, and held a brass double bed, similar to the one downstairs, a dressing-table with side mirrors, a chest of drawers and a tallboy. On the floor beside the bed lay a bright, multi-coloured mat, which Mary had taken a year to weave and which cushioned Rose’s feet from the cold impact of the bare floorboards first thing in the morning.

  Before she fell asleep, Rose remembered that she had promised to spend tomorrow morning down Petticoat Lane with Jack. She wondered idly if he would remember – or, indeed, if he would bother to come round for her after their argument this evening.

  Chapter Four

  Petticoat Lane on a Sunday morning was a thriving, bustling, noisy mass of humanity. People from all walks of life flocked together every weekend to the East End market, widely renowned for its numerous stalls and rich atmosphere. Holding Jack’s arm, Rose sniffed the hot June air in delight, savouring the glorious summer’s day, and the mixed aromas of coffee, fresh-baked bread and fried food that wafted under her nose.

  ‘Hungry?’ Jack looked down at her affectionately.

  From beneath a wide straw bonnet Rose nodded, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, yes, I am, actually.’

  Delving into the pocket of his navy pin-stripe trousers, Jack took out a shilling and offered it to a stall-holder, who handed over a greasy paper with four apple fritters inside.

  ‘Hmmm, oh, Lord, it’s boiling!’ Rose spluttered, fanning her mouth as the piping hot filling scalded her mouth.

  Jack watched in amusement as she blew furiously on it before popping it into her mouth again. He took one for himself and remarked, ‘You’re in a good mood today.’

  Rose glanced up at him guiltily. It was the first time this morning that Jack had alluded to last evening’s heated exchange. She answered lightly, ‘I’m not making any apologies for speaking up for a friend, Jack, and in Frankie’s case he’s more like family. If you want my good humour to continue, you’d better drop that particular topic of conversation’.

  Throwing up his hands in mock surrender, Jack said, ‘Okay, Rose. I won’t say another word about him! At least, not today.’

  Rose laughed at the look of false penitence displayed on Jack’s face.

  Walking on in companionable silence, Rose took stock surreptitiously of the man at her side. Jack A
dams was twenty-five, of medium height for a man and slim built, with grey eyes and a mop of dark brown hair he wore combed back from his face. He wasn’t what could be termed handsome, yet the strength in his features showed character, an attribute far more attractive than mere good looks. ‘When you’ve finished admiring me, maybe we could go for a drink. I’m gasping for a beer.’

  Rose’s eyes widened at the words, then she punched his arm and cried, ‘You should be so lucky, Jack Adams. If you must know, I was looking at that piece of pastry you’ve got stuck on your cheek.’

  Swiftly Jack put his hand to his face, and his lips twitched wryly when he found no evidence of his snack.

  ‘It’s no good you denying it, Rose. I’m trained in observing people, and you were definitely giving me the once-over. Not that I’m complaining, mind. I have that effect on most women.’

  As if to give credence to his jocular opinion, three young women, all dressed in their Sunday-best clothes and matching bonnets, jostled against Rose in the crush, their eyes fixed in open admiration on her companion. Giggling coquettishly they made a great play of brushing past Jack, while the man himself, delighted at the attention, flirted shamelessly with his admirers for a few seconds before he took Rose’s arm and led her on through the crowd. ‘There! What did I tell you, Rose? Women just can’t leave me alone!’ he crowed triumphantly. ‘It’s a curse, but I suppose I’ll just have to live with it as best I can.’

  Rose refused to rise to the bait, and said impishly, ‘I wouldn’t get too carried away, Jack. I know those three girls, and they’d go after a broom if it was wearing trousers.’

  Jack’s grin broadened, and he chuckled. ‘Why, Rose, I do believe you’re jealous, but you’ve no need to worry, I—’ He broke off, his attention distracted by the sight of a well-known pickpocket. ‘Hang on a minute, will you, love? I won’t be long,’ he said, before pushing his way to where a shabbily dressed man was loitering by two middle-aged women examining a display of crockery.

  ‘Morning, Nobby. Nice day for it.’

  The man spun round, his mouth dropping open at the sight of Jack Adams hovering over him. ‘Nice day for what, Officer? I ain’t doing nuffink wrong,’ he blustered. His shifty eyes narrowed as he muttered, ‘Anyways, yer off duty so it ain’t none of yer business.’

  ‘Oh, no, Nobby, never off duty, me,’ Jack replied, good-naturedly. ‘So make sure your fingers stay firmly in your pockets!’

  The man muttered a soft oath and shuffled off, out of the sight of prying eyes. Jack smiled grimly. He didn’t know why he’d bothered. The market was swarming with characters like Nobby. Venues like Petticoat Lane acted like a magnet to the low-life that flourished in crowded places, and unless he could catch them in the act he was powerless to stop them.

  ‘Who was that?’ Rose asked, when Jack rejoined her. ‘He looked like a desperate villain to me. Do you think you should have gone after him on your own?’

  Jack made to reply, then, realised she was teasing him and guffawed.

  For the next two hours he had to wait patiently for his longed-for beer while Rose browsed among the stalls, picking up a few purchases on her way. He wondered why women took so long to shop: his mother, dead now for the past three years, had been the same, going down the markets for hours on end and coming back with just the week’s groceries. Whenever he wanted to buy something, he went out, bought it and came home. Finally, at the end of the market, they stopped at a pub noted for its good food and sat outside, between a wooden bench and table, with platefuls of steak and kidney pudding, boiled potatoes and peas.

  Throughout lunch, the two chatted, at ease in each other’s company. When her plate was empty, Rose pushed it away and picked up her lemonade. ‘That was lovely,’ she said, ‘though you can’t beat a proper Sunday dinner of roast beef, potatoes and Yorkshire pud – well, not in my opinion, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ Jack raised his tankard. ‘That reminds me. What’s Mary doing for her Sunday dinner? She’s not sitting at home nibbling a bit of cold toast, is she?’

  Instantly on the defensive, Rose snapped, ‘Don’t be silly, Jack! As if I’d scoff down a dinner knowing Aunt Mary was going hungry. How do you think she manages when I’m at work all day? She’s perfectly able to cook herself a meal. If she wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now.’ Then, seeing the sheepish expression on Jack’s face, she relented. ‘Sorry, Jack. I know you didn’t mean any harm, it’s just my guilty conscience talking. You see, my aunt used to love coming down here on a Sunday morning. She knew a lot of the stall-holders so it was like an outing for her every week. Now she can’t even get round the shops near home for very long and – oh, go away!’ She flapped her hand at a wasp hovering near her drink and continued, ‘It^7^s just that I always feel bad about leaving her at home. That’s what I meant by having a guilty conscience. It’s silly, I know, but I can’t help it. Anyway, cheers.’ Raising her glass, she touched Jack’s tankard with it and added, ‘Lord, it’s hot today.’ Languidly lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes against the glare of its rays.

  Jack let his gaze linger on the figure opposite him, his eyes softening with tenderness. Rose looked so lovely. She had taken off her bonnet, and the sun picked out golden highlights in the dark copper hair that fell in twisted curls around her face and down over her shoulders. The dark red cotton dress she was wearing suited her but, then, as far as he was concerned, Rose would look beautiful in a canvas sack. The temptation to propose to her was overwhelming, but he contained it. Not here, he told himself. This wasn’t the time or place, but soon, he vowed, soon.

  Deep down, though, he knew the reason behind his reluctance to ask Rose to marry him. While the words were left unsaid, he could go on hoping she would say yes, but when he got round to asking her, there would be no going back. And if she refused him, what then? Even if they carried on walking out together, there would almost certainly be an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been present before. And Jack didn’t want to risk spoiling the easy, affectionate friendship they enjoyed. So he would hold his tongue, though for how long he didn’t know.

  ‘Now who’s being given the once-over?’

  Taken by surprise, Jack started. ‘Guilty, Your Worship.’ He drained his tankard and pointed to Rose’s half-empty glass. ‘D’yer want another one, love?’

  ‘Hmm, yes, all right, then I must be getting back. Like I said before, I don’t like leaving Aunt Mary too long on her own on Sundays. It’s the only day we have together – though the way things are going at the pub, I might soon have to work on Sundays as well.’

  ‘Why? I thought you’d made it clear to Dixon that you wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I know, but things change. The other two barmaids have to take their turn working on Sunday, and I don’t want them thinking I’m getting any special favours. Rita doesn’t mind too much, but Sally’s been having a moan. Then again, Sally’s always moaning where I’m concerned. Though I must admit, she’s right in this case. It isn’t fair that they have to work at the weekend when I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ Jack said, indignantly. ‘You don’t get paid as much as they do, and you cover for them when they have their day off during the week. Besides, it’s different for them. They’ve probably always worked in some pub or other – neither of them would know how to do anything else – but you’re only filling in time until you can find something more suitable or until your circumstances change.’

  Rose’s head jerked back. ‘What do you mean, until my circumstances change?’ she demanded. ‘My aunt’s got a good few more years yet. She’s as healthy as you or I. Just because she can’t get around like she used to doesn’t mean she’s ready for the knacker’s yard just yet.’

  Jack stared at her in dismay. ‘Good Lord, Rosie, that thought never entered my head, I swear it didn’t.’

  The distress in his voice humbled Rose. ‘I know you didn’t, Jack, and I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m a bit sensitive where
Aunt Mary’s concerned, as you might have noticed.’ A smile of apology touched her lips. ‘As for the other business, well…’ She shrugged. ‘Seeing as my circumstances aren’t likely to change for the foreseeable future, it looks as though I’ll be at the pub for a while yet and, that being the case, I’ll have to knuckle down and do my share of the work, Sundays included.’

  Jack rose from the bench, shaking his head. ‘You stick to your guns, Rose. Dixon won’t let you go, you’re too popular with the locals, and if you give in on working Sundays, he’ll start to take advantage of your good nature.’ Leaning across the wooden table, he winked slyly. ‘He might even ask you to start dressing like the other two, and I can’t see you in plunging necklines with your face painted. Mind you, that would get the men flocking into the Red Lion, wouldn’t it? I’d pay a few bob to see that myself.’

  Chortling loudly he strode off into the pub, which was fortunate because the look on Rose’s face would surely have aroused his suspicion.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she watched him disappear into the pub. Dear Jack. What would she do without him? The very idea gave her a jolt and sent her stomach into a wave of nervous fluttering, while a voice in her head admonished her, ‘You carry on being so blooming touchy every time he mentions Aunt Mary and you’ll soon find out. Then you won’t have to worry about turning down a wedding proposal – which you don’t know for sure he’s thinking of anyway. He’ll get fed up with having his head bitten off for no good reason, and that’s the last you’ll see of him. So be warned!’

  The sun had become hotter and Rose reached for her bonnet. She was about to tie the ribbons under her chin when a shabbily dressed man brushed past her. ‘Oops, sorry, darlin’, ’ad one too many. Me apologies to yer.’ Rose glared up at him. The man stank of beer. But as he staggered away, something nagged at her. She had seen the man recently, he had been… Oh, my Lord!