A Lesser Evil (13 page)

There were so many different nationalities too. In just one day she could hear Germans, French, Greeks, Australians and Americans, and see Africans, West Indians, Arabs, Chinese and Japanese. And the shops catered for everyone – in Kennington alone you could buy anything from a kebab to a yam, fantastic sari material or halal meat. She and Dan had been up to Soho a few times at night, and had been both shocked and amused by the number of strip clubs and dirty-book shops. Yet even more incredible was that it was theatreland too. As people in evening dress hailed cabs or went into the expensive restaurants, just around the corner there were prostitutes plying their trade.

Fifi really didn’t miss Bristol, in fact sometimes she realized that days had gone past without her thinking about it at all. She had written home once, just to give her parents her new address. While she wrote to Patty every week, other friends had only got a postcard telling them how happy she was.

Happy didn’t really adequately describe how she felt; she was joyful. Joining Dan in London had strengthened their marriage and bonded them even closer together. Here they were on an equal footing, both still rather wide-eyed tourists finding their way around.

Fifi loved shopping in Victor Values. Conventional grocers were so dark and cramped, but this shop had bright lights, with everything priced and arranged in wide aisles. Shops like this had been nicknamed ‘supermarkets’, and most people thought they were a five-minute wonder because they didn’t see how they could keep the prices so low. Fifi didn’t agree; she felt it would be the traditional shops that would be forced out of business.

She was on top of the world as she made her way home along the busy Kennington Park Road with two laden bags, enough food for the whole week. Dan had managed to get them a second-hand fridge the previous day, and she thought it would be bliss not to have to shop for meat and milk every day any more. She was also dying to get home to read the paper she’d bought. The on-going scandal about the call-girl Christine Keeler and John Profumo, the Minister for War, was so exciting. It had all started back in March when Christine’s ex-lover had fired shots into the flat she was sharing with Mandy Rice-Davies, but now it seemed that John Profumo had been sleeping with a call-girl, and that she in turn was sleeping with Ivanov, a Russian attaché. Every day there was a new revelation. Dr Stephen Ward, a society osteopath, owned the flat, the two girls had swum naked in Lord Astor’s swimming pool, there were suggestions of kinky sex and drug-taking, and goodness knows what else would be revealed before long.

About twenty yards before the turning to Dale Street there was a piece of waste ground where some houses had been demolished. As always, Fifi glanced through the broken fence panels because it was an improvised playground for the local children. There were usually dozens of children in there, building camps, playing pirates and occasionally lighting fires. Fifi’s feelings were mixed about it. The child in her approved, for there were few places in London where children could have adventure and freedom. But her adult side worried, for it was after all a dangerous place, full of broken bottles, piles of rubble and other hazards.

To her surprise there were no children there today, despite the good weather. But as she walked on by she heard the sound of crying. Curious, she put down her shopping and stuck her head right through a hole in the fence to take another look.

One lone little girl was in there, sitting on the ground, hands covering her face, crying her heart out.

It was Angela, the youngest of the Muckle children.

As this was the child she’d seen being clouted by her mother on her first day in Dale Street, Fifi had put her under even closer scrutiny than anyone else in the family. It was clear she was the least favoured child. Her parents were always shouting at her, her older brother and sister bullied her, even her Aunt Dora appeared to have it in for her.

If Fifi had seen any of the other three children in apparent distress she would have walked on by. She had noticed the low cunning in their eyes and heard their foul language, and would suspect they were trying to trick her. They were known to snatch money from the hands of children on the way to the shop on a message and they’d slip into any open front door to steal. Fifi had seen them barge into old people, overturning dustbins and breaking milk bottles on the pavement. If reprimanded they would scream vicious abuse.

But Angela wasn’t like the others. She was cowed, not cocky, thin and malnourished. If her eyes met those of an adult they were fearful. Fifi hesitated. Common sense told her it would be better to ignore the child, but her crying was a plaintive bleat which plucked at her heart strings. ‘What’s wrong, Angela?’ she called out.

The child started, uncovering her face. ‘Nothin’,’ she said.

But it wasn’t nothing. She had been punched; the flesh around her eye was so livid and swollen that her eye had all but disappeared.

Fifi assumed it had been done by another child, and that was why no one else was playing there. Remembering times when she’d been bullied as a child herself, she felt she had to do something, if only offer some sympathy.

She went back to the place where the fence had been broken down completely. ‘Who did that to you?’ she asked as she cautiously picked her way over the smashed-up fence panels.

The child’s sharp features, the pallor of her skin, tangled dull hair, missing front teeth and dirty clothes made her an unappealing sight at the best of times, but with this injury to her eye she looked utterly pathetic. As Fifi came closer she started to get up as if intending to flee.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Fifi asked, assuming Angela was frightened at being approached and questioned by a stranger. ‘I live opposite you at number four, my name’s Fifi Reynolds, my husband is called Dan.’

The child nodded. ‘I’ve seen you,’ she whispered. ‘You were painting the walls.’

Fifi felt that meant Angela had watched her from an upper window late in the evening. ‘I used to watch people when I was a little girl,’ she said in an effort to win the child’s trust. ‘I used to make up things about them. Nice things mostly, like they were princesses or ballet dancers. Do you do that?’

Angela made a kind of half-nod.

‘So what did you make up about me?’ Fifi asked.

There was no response, but that was hardly surprising given that Angela’s injury had to be hurting a great deal. ‘Come on,’ Fifi insisted. ‘It’s just a game. I’d like to hear what you made up.’

‘That you were my big sister,’ Angela replied, hanging her head.

At that unexpected and touching admission a lump came up in Fifi’s throat. She could guess where that little fantasy had taken the girl. A place of safety across the street, where there were no fights or rows. A place where everything was clean and bright, perhaps with a big sister washing and brushing her hair for her. Did she imagine someone there who cared enough to cuddle her and make a fuss of her?

‘Who hit you, Angela?’ she asked.

The child shrugged, as if it didn’t matter who was responsible.

‘You must tell me. If you let children carry on being bullies they just get worse and worse. I could talk to their mothers about it.’

‘It weren’t another kid,’ Angela mumbled.

‘Well, who was it then? Was it your mum or your dad?’

‘Dad,’ the child whispered, looking fearfully at Fifi. ‘But don’t you go saying nothin’ or he’ll lay into me twice as bad.’

A surge of anger welled up in Fifi. It was hideous that a grown man could punch a helpless child.

She faltered for a few moments. Her heart told her to take Angela home with her, put some ice on the swelling and get Dan to call the police and report Alfie Muckle. But she was afraid of the repercussions.

‘Why did your dad hit you?’ she asked.

‘Cos I spilt a cuppa tea on ’im,’ Angela said glumly. ‘I couldn’t ’elp it, ’e was in bed, see, I tripped up in the dark.’

Fifi got a nasty mental picture of Alfie lying there in his fetid bedroom, too lazy to work for a living, but energetic enough to lash out at a little girl. She knew then that she had to show Angela not everyone in this world was as uncaring. ‘Come home with me and I’ll bathe your eye,’ she said impulsively.

‘I can’t do that! Dad might see me going in your ’ouse,’ Angela said in horror. ‘’E’ll ’urt you.’

‘If he tries to do that, he’ll be sorry,’ Fifi said more calmly than she felt.

‘You don’t know what ’e’s like.’E wouldn’t just come and ’it you, ’e’d do something sneaky. That’s ’is way.’

Fifi was appalled that such a young child could already be so aware that her father was a devious thug. ‘You let me worry about that,’ she said firmly. ‘Your eye needs some urgent attention. Now come with me.’

Fifi half expected Angela to run off once they got to Dale Street, but she didn’t, not even when Yvette Dupré came out of the shop right in front of them.

‘’Ello, Fifi,’ she said. ‘’Ow are you?’

Dan referred to her as the French mistress; he said her accent was the sexiest he’d ever heard. Fifi agreed, but it was the only sexy thing about the woman. Someone had said that she wasn’t even forty, but she looked middle-aged in clothes left over from the war years. On the rare occasions when she went out she wore a grey mid-calf-length fitted coat and a felt hat. Dan called it her Resistance outfit, and said she wore it to hide her astoundingly voluptuous figure, which no man would be able to resist.

Fifi had called on her just a few days after they moved in to ask her to replace the zip in the skirt of the suit she needed for interviews. She found Yvette warm and friendly, and although she didn’t invite her in, she said she would gladly replace the zip and bring it back later.

Dan was of course entirely wrong about her figure; she was very thin, no curves at all showing in a plain dark brown wool dress. Yet close up she was rather beautiful, with large, very dark eyes and a soft, full mouth. Fifi didn’t understand why she pulled her hair back off her face so severely, and why when she made elegant, fashionable clothes for other people, she should choose to look so prim and frumpy herself. She hoped eventually to get to know the woman well enough to persuade her into covering up the grey in her hair with some dye, to wear makeup and change her style of clothes. But she hadn’t got anywhere near close enough for that yet.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Fifi replied in answer to the question of how she was. Normally she was eager to stop to chat with Yvette because she was so intriguing, but with Angela in tow she needed to get home as quickly as possible.

‘
Sacré bleu
,’ Yvette exclaimed as she saw Angela’s rapidly blackening eye. ‘’O
o
did that to you?’

‘Need you ask?’ Fifi said. ‘I’m taking her home with me to bathe it.’

‘Ees that wise?’ Yvette said softly.

In a previous conversation Yvette had told Fifi that it was hell living right next door to the Muckles. Her kitchen window was overlooked by theirs, and she heard and saw the most hideous things. Fifi hadn’t yet managed to get the woman to divulge any details, not just because there had been no opportunity, but because Yvette appeared to be as frightened of the Muckles as Mrs Jarvis.

‘Probably not, but I’m going to do it anyway,’ Fifi said defiantly. Yvette made a gesture with her hands implying she thought such action was foolhardy, then she turned and walked away.

Fifi settled Angela in a chair holding some ice cubes in a bag over her eye, then indicated to Dan he was to come outside on to the landing with her.

‘You must go to the police and report Alfie,’ she whispered, turning on the cold tap so Angela couldn’t hear what they were saying.

‘We can’t go grassing them up,’ Dan said, shaking his head.

‘Why ever not?’ Fifi exclaimed. ‘Surely you don’t agree with a grown man punching a small child?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Dan said, looking concerned. ‘What he needs is a good kicking. But if the police go round there Alfie will make sure Angela tells a different story and nothing will happen to him. Then he’ll lay into her again.’

‘So what do you suggest we do?’ Fifi asked with heavy sarcasm. ‘Just patch her up and send her home? Then curse ourselves later when we hear more screaming?’

‘I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do anything,’ Dan said. His face darkened and his eyes glinted in a manner Fifi had never seen before. He was always so gentle with her, but she suddenly felt she was seeing a more dangerous side of him he’d kept hidden from her.

‘You aren’t going to hit him, are you?’ she said in alarm. She knew that with his background, Dan was unlikely to walk away from a fight.

‘No, I’ll warn him,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell him I’m on his case and if it happens again he’ll be sorry. There’s only one way to deal with scum like him and that’s to put the fear of God into him.’

He didn’t stop to see if Fifi agreed or disagreed, he was off down the stairs taking them two at a time. Fifi felt a little sick; she’d heard so many stories about Alfie Muckle getting back at anyone who opposed him, and some of them at least had to be true.

Going back into the living room with a glass of squash for Angela, she looked out of the window. Dan was banging on the Muckles’ door, and as she watched Molly answered it. Even though the window was open, Fifi couldn’t hear what Dan was saying, but then his voice was soft and deep. But she did hear Molly bellow out for Alfie, and a second or two later he appeared beside her in the doorway. He had his braces over a grubby-looking vest, and the expression on his face was one of surprise to see Dan on his doorstep.

Fifi could hear Dan’s voice now, but not what he was saying, and Alfie backed up into his hall as if afraid of being struck. He appeared to be protesting, perhaps denying he hit Angela, and Molly had got in behind him, her stance one of someone poised for flight.

Whether there was any substance to Alfie’s fearsome reputation or not, next to Dan he looked pathetic. Dan was a good eight inches taller, fit, powerfully built and over twenty years younger. He looked capable of tearing Alfie apart, but he had said on many an occasion that he despised men who resorted to brutality to make a point. Yet on the other hand Fifi knew he felt very strongly about cruelty to children, because he’d been subjected to it himself. So when she saw him lunge forward and grab Alfie by the shoulders she involuntarily covered her face with her hands.