Dancing in the Moonlight (9 page)

Ernie glanced at his father as Walter emerged from the shadows where he’d supposedly gone to relieve himself. His da wasn’t fooling anyone. He was done in, but Ernie knew better than
to suggest it. ‘All right, Da?’

‘Aye, lad.’

The very quietness of his father’s voice was an indication of how he was feeling. It prompted Ernie to say, ‘You can see why they use the crane for these jobs. Them crates were never
meant to be unloaded by hand.’

No, they weren’t, but then they weren’t meant to be knocked off, either, Walter thought wryly. But Tom Crawford was a cunning blighter, he’d give him that. He never swiped an
entire hold of stuff, just enough so that when the gaffer Tom had got in his pocket said there’d been an accident when they were unloading and some crates had been smashed up and lost, it
wasn’t queried. And he chose the ‘accidents’ carefully so that no one owner was hit too often and got suspicious. Maurice Banks, the lad who was working with them, had been
filling them in about Tom Crawford and with a certain amount of respect too. It was clear Tom was held in awe and not a little fear, but then anyone who was pally with the Kane brothers would be
treated that way.

The sickness in Walter’s belly, which had begun earlier that night when he’d realized what he’d let his sons in for, mounted. He had spent his entire life bringing them up as
decent law-abiding citizens, and one night had wiped it away because – again as the lad had told them – once you were working for Tom Crawford you didn’t walk away. Donald had
laughed when he’d heard that and the lad had rounded on him, proceeding to tell a couple of stories to illustrate his point, which had made their hair curl.

Tom Crawford was more than a racketeer. Walter’s face was as grim as his thoughts as he followed the other three onto the boat again and down into the crammed hold. Tom was a gangster,
like that bloke in America who’d been in the papers recently. Al Capone. He stumbled, exhaustion making him clumsy.

‘Da, why don’t you go and keep watch on the dock?’

Ernie tried to keep the concern and pity out of his voice, but some must have got through because Walter glared at him. ‘I thought he’ – Walter jerked his head towards Maurice
Banks, who was standing with Donald – ‘said the night watchman that Tom’s got on the payroll is doing that?’

‘Aye, he is, but two pairs of eyes are always better than one, and I thought . . .’ Ernie’s voice trailed away. If looks could kill, his father’s would have him six feet
under. ‘Let’s get on with it then,’ he said, nodding to the other two to get the opposite side of the crate as he and Walter positioned themselves. The container was the top one
of three and shoulder-height. They began to lever it so that all four men could support the weight – like coffin-bearers, as Donald had joked earlier with dark humour.

It happened in a moment. As Walter took his full share of the weight his trembling knees buckled and he staggered. The container tipped and then toppled at an angle, smashing down on his head
with sickening force. Ernie was sent flying backwards, but not far enough to save his lower torso and legs.

Donald froze for a second and then sprang forward. It was immediately clear his father was dead. Walter’s crushed skull, from which his brains were protruding, caused the bile to rise in
his son’s throat. Ernie was panting high-pitched, animal-like whimpers, his lips drawn back from his teeth.

‘We’ve got to get this off him.’ Donald clawed and heaved at the crate along with Maurice, who was swearing profusely, but they couldn’t move it. After a few fruitless
moments, Donald knelt down and cradled his brother’s head in his hands. ‘Go and get someone,’ he panted to Maurice. ‘An’ quick. We can’t lift it by
ourselves.’

‘Tom’ll go mad.’ Maurice was as white as a sheet as he gazed at Donald with terrified eyes. ‘He don’t like no mistakes. It was your da’s fault, he
weren’t up to it. You an’ your brother should never have brought him along.’ Now it was Donald who swore, causing Maurice to back away as he muttered, ‘All right, all right,
I’m goin’.’

‘Don?’ An ever-spreading pool of red was seeping out from beneath Ernie’s broken body. ‘D-Da?’

‘Da’ll be all right, an’ so will you.’ Donald couldn’t believe how much blood there was. ‘Maurice has gone to get help. Just lie still.’

‘I’m d-dying, man.’ Ernie reached out blindly to his brother. ‘Oh God – God, help me.’

‘You’re not dying, I won’t let you. Just hang on and we’ll get this off you. Ernie, man, can you hear me? Don’t give up.’ As Ernie gave a long, choked cry,
straining upwards, the sinews in his neck bulging, Donald glanced about him desperately. And then his brother went limp in his arms, his head lolling, and there was nothing but a deathly
silence.

At eleven o’clock when her father and brothers still hadn’t returned, Lucy sent Jacob home. She told him she was tired and wanted to go to bed.

Once he had gone, she tidied the kitchen and put a pan of porridge to soak for breakfast. She banked down the fire with damp slack and tea leaves and then settled herself at the table with a
pile of mending. She’d lied to Jacob. She had no intention of going upstairs until the menfolk were home, but her father would throw a blue fit if he came back to find Jacob keeping her
company after a respectable hour. And she didn’t want her da to spoil what had been a magical evening.

She sat darning socks, which were more holes than wool, her mind going over every word she and Jacob had exchanged. Every look, every touch, every kiss. When they’d come in from the yard,
he’d been very proper. She smiled, hugging the memory. They had sat drinking tea and chatting. Jacob had told her funny stories about the smithy and the things that went on among the
customers. He could always make her laugh. She didn’t know if half of the stories were true – especially the one about a farmer’s wife who was a little queer in the head and had a
pony called Buttercup, which she insisted was a reincarnation of her late mother – but that didn’t matter. She just loved being with Jacob. She smiled again, her thick darning needle
flying in and out as she pictured his face and the look in his dark eyes when he smiled at her.

By three o’clock in the morning, however, the last remnants of enchantment had long since melted away. Lucy paced the floor, beside herself with worry. Surely they should be home by now?
Then again, how could she tell? It had been stupid and cruel for her da to keep her in the dark about the night’s happenings the way he had, and she would tell him so when he got back. Never
mind the ruckus that would cause. She wasn’t a little bairn who couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut. She’d been doing the work of a woman for years and should be treated
accordingly.

The minutes ticked by. When the wooden clock on the kitchen mantelpiece chimed four o’clock the anger Lucy had drummed up to combat the fear was gone. She was sitting with her arms crossed
at her waist as she swayed back and forth, when she heard the latch on the back door. Relief made her feel faint. She had to hold onto the back of the chair as she stood up.

The scullery door opened and Donald stood there. She stared at him. His clothes were covered in blood and she froze. His hands hung slack at his sides and his face was chalk-white, but it was
the look in his eyes that terrified her. She moved her head from side to side several times before she could say, ‘Da and Ernie? Where are they?’

He didn’t speak and she was conscious of the ticking of the clock on the kitchen mantelpiece, although she hadn’t been aware of the sound earlier. Again she said, ‘Da and
Ernie, where are they?’

‘There was an accident.’

It was a whisper, so faint she could barely hear him. For the third time she said, ‘Where are they? In the hospital, is that it? What kind of accident, Don? Are they badly hurt? Are you
hurt?’

Her voice had risen and Donald reached out to her, holding her against him. ‘I’m all right, but it – it’s bad, Lucy.’

Her legs felt weak and she clutched him. She could smell the blood. ‘How bad?’

‘They’re gone, lass. There was nothing I could do.’

‘
No
.’ She tried to free herself, but he wouldn’t let her pull away. ‘No, no, it’s not true. They were all right when they left here. You’re
lying.’

‘I wish I was. I wish this night had never happened.’ His voice broke. ‘We were unloading some crates when it happened. I think it was too heavy for Da, and he fell and it got
Ernie too.’

She fought him in earnest then, but he held her tight until the storm broke and she collapsed against him, her strength gone.

A long time later, when they were both cried out, they sat together at the kitchen table and she said dully, ‘Tell me. Tell me everything.
Everything,
mind. I want to
know.’

Donald bowed his head and began to speak. His voice was quivering and every so often a sob would break through and he had to pause before he could go on.

‘I want to see them.’ The silence had stretched for some minutes after Donald had finished. ‘Now, Don. I must.’

He took in a deep breath before he answered, ‘No – remember them as they were, Lucy. It’s what Da would have wanted.’

‘I don’t care. This is my fault. If I hadn’t pawned the bread knife none of this would have happened. I have to see them. To – to say I’m sorry.’ She gasped
against the pain. ‘I won’t make a scene, I promise, but I have to see them one last time.’

He turned his gaze from her, his head drooping. ‘You can’t, lass.’

‘I can. Please, I must.’

‘No, I mean – I mean—’

‘What do you mean?’ They stared at each other and now she said softly, ‘It’s all right, don’t look like that. What do you mean?’, thinking he was losing his
mind, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by.

‘We – we couldn’t leave them there, in the hold. They got Tom, and he said everything had to look normal, so no one would know anything had been taken. He – he had some
of his lackeys with him and there was no arguing the toss, he was spitting bricks as it was. There couldn’t be any trace of anything, that’s what he said.’

She sat as still as stone.

‘Bodies are found in the water all the time,’ Donald murmured wretchedly. ‘There’s always fights down at the docks after closing time. It – it was for the best,
lass.’

‘That’s what Tom said, is it?’ Her voice rose. ‘How could you let him do that to Da and Ernie?’

‘I didn’t want to.’

There was no defensiveness in his tone, merely misery, and it was this that made her say quickly, ‘I know, I know, I’m not blaming you. It’s me. Oh, Don, I can’t bear
it.’ The tears were streaming down her face again. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Nothing. Tom said we do nothing. He’s got a couple of blokes who’ll swear blind they saw Da and Ernie drinking in one of the riverside pubs, and a landlord who’ll back
’em up and say Da and Ernie were the worse for wear when they left. The coppers will make a few enquiries, but they’re not going to be bothered about a couple of men on the dole who had
one too many and either got into a fight or fell into the dock in the dark. The working class is expendable.’

The bitterness was palpable, and it struck Lucy that her brother seemed a different person from the young man who’d left the house just a few hours earlier, joking and laughing with Ernie.
Staring at him, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and tried to think. She’d remembered that Jacob knew her da and the lads had been out together. ‘Jacob was here.’

‘Jacob? You didn’t tell him anything?’

‘Just – just that you were out together on some kind of job.’

Donald groaned. ‘You shouldn’t have. Is that all you said, nothing more?’

‘I didn’t
know
anything more.’

‘Listen to me, Lucy.’ Donald licked his lips, his face ashen. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this job, and especially not about Tom. Do you understand? He’d kill me
if word got out. I mean it.’

‘But Jacob—’

‘
No one.
I’ll go and see Jacob. I’ll say Da had heard about some work and we had to meet a bloke in a pub, but he never turned up. I’ll make out I left Da and
Ernie drinking and I came home cos of a gippy tummy. What time did Jacob leave here?’

‘Eleven.’ In response to his frown, she added, ‘I was worried, and he was telling me stories about the smithy and his work to take my mind off things.’ A sob caught in
her throat. ‘I
knew
something was wrong.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll say I got in about ten past, and Lucy’ – he leaned across the table and gripped her forearms – ‘you have to say the same, even to
Jacob. You can’t mention Tom or anything about tonight.’

‘Let me go, you’re hurting me.’ She shook off his hands, frightened by the look on his face.

Donald leaned back in his chair, his voice grim. ‘That’s nothing to what Tom’ll do to me, if any word of this gets out. Believe me.’

Jacob stood silent and still in the misty cold drizzle of the April night. His gaze was focused on the substantial square-windowed house in front of him on the north side of
The Green in Southwick. A four-foot-high stone wall and small front garden separated the house from the wide pavement, and the general air of this part of Southwick was one of prosperity. He had
watched the churchgoers who had attended a Rechabite meeting in the hall at the back of the Wesleyan church further along The Green disperse a short while ago and now all was quiet, as befitted a
rainy Sunday night. He had been standing for over an hour in the rain, which had slowly penetrated his jacket through to his shirt and vest, but he wasn’t conscious of the cold. His whole
being was tied up with the coming confrontation with Tom.

A motor car came trundling along the street and he tensed, every muscle alert, but it continued on its way without stopping and soon the quiet was absolute once again.

It had been the housekeeper who had answered his knock at the door an hour before. Tom’s housekeeper. Jacob’s lip curled. They’d heard of nothing else for weeks when Tom had
first told their mam he’d got a housekeeper. His mother had seemed to think it was the height of success and she’d rammed the fact down their throats, until even his da had had enough
and told her to put a sock in it. But the woman who’d told him Tom was out and wouldn’t be home for an hour or two had seemed a nice enough soul, with her rosy-red cheeks and tightly
curled grey hair and wide smile. Not what he’d expected somehow. He’d imagined a shrewd, hard-faced worldly type, but thinking about it, he should have known Tom would choose someone to
support his stance of respectability.