Family Betrayal (2 page)

Dan's lips tightened. He wasn't going to stand for this. Joan did all right; she had a large housekeeping allowance, giving her little to complain about. He treated her right, saw that the kids showed her respect, but he was the boss, the man of the house and she'd better remember that. ‘If I want to treat my daughter now and again I will. Now for fuck's sake, shut up about it.’

Joan paled, but did as she was told, whilst Dan picked up the daily paper. He turned to the racing page, studying form before picking out a couple of bets. Nowadays he could afford to lay on a good few bob, and a satisfied expression crossed his features. Since they'd got into this new game, things had looked up big time. The money was still rolling in, and though at first he'd had reservations about getting into this line of work, he was glad that his sons had talked him round.

Yes, his dream was closer, but as he glanced at Joan he wondered how she'd fit into his planned new lifestyle. In the near future he was determined to retire – to hand the reins over to Danny junior, his eldest son. A nice house in Surrey beckoned, one with stables for the horses he intended to buy. Instead of a punter, he'd be an owner, mixing with the élite, looked up to and respected. Petula would love it and instead of hiding his wealth he would be able to dress
her like a princess. She'd be away from this area and the riffraff, mixing instead with the upper echelons of the racing fraternity.

Joan went through to the kitchen and Dan heard the tap running, the clatter of plates as she washed up the breakfast dishes. Housework. All his wife thought about was housework. How the hell was she going to adapt to living in a big house, with cleaners paid to take over her role? Huh, Joan would probably insist on doing it herself, making a fool of them when they entertained. The trouble was, she had no class. Joan was a born-and-bred Battersea girl, and, unlike him, she had no interest in rising socially. He heaved a sigh. At least Petula would fit in. He'd made sure his daughter spoke well, paying for her to take elocution lessons from an old biddy in Chelsea. Yes, Petula could mix with the best so he'd just have to keep Joan and her working-class attitude in the background.

Dan rose to his feet, passing his wife to go through to the bathroom where he locked the door behind him. Involuntarily, as always, his eyes went straight to the hiding place. Joan cleaned in here every day, but had never discovered its secret. If she didn't twig it, then the police never would. Only the boys knew and he trusted them to keep their mouths shut, his married sons knowing better than to blab to their wives.

He washed and shaved before taking the money
he needed from the secret cache, returning to the living room with it tucked into his back pocket. ‘Right, Queen, I'm off. I'm going down to the yard.’

Joan was busy as usual, and just nodded an acknowledgement when he left. As Dan stepped outside, he paused to look up and down Drapers Alley. It felt like his – his kingdom, and in some ways he'd regret leaving it. He patted the money in his back pocket and did a mental calculation. The cash was for stock, more bricks and cement, enough to keep the yard ticking over, but there'd be enough left to place a few bets. The other business was thriving and maybe they'd have to increase productivity to keep up with the demand. It was lucrative, but with five sons and Ivy's husband wanting their share, they needed to push harder.

Dan passed through the narrow entrance, deciding to buy some cigarettes before going to the lockup where he kept his car. He walked the length of Aspen Street, and as he went into the corner shop, two customers moved swiftly to one side. He smiled tightly, taking their obvious fear and respect as his right.

‘Morning, Bill. Twenty Senior Service, please.’

Bill Tweedy was showing his age nowadays, his hairline receding whilst his waistline widened. ‘Morning, Dan, coming up,’ he said, taking the cigarettes from a shelf behind him and laying them on the counter. ‘I suppose you've heard that the
off-licence was done over last night? I hope I'm not next.’

‘No, it's news to me,’ Dan said, frowning with annoyance. The off-licence was just round the corner, in his territory. If he found out who the toerags were he'd have their guts for garters. ‘Any word on who did it?’

‘Nah, but if I get wind of anything I'll let you know.’

‘Yeah, do that, and don't worry, I'll sort them out,' he said, paying for the cigarettes.

Dan was still seething as he walked out of the shop. Over the years he had made sure that the area surrounding Drapers Alley was out of bounds to petty criminals. Local businesses, along with the residents, feared him, but were glad of his protection, and if the police asked questions they knew it was wise to keep their mouths shut. Now it seemed that someone was trying it on and would need sorting out. He'd put his boys on to it, but for now, as Dan climbed into his Daimler, he dismissed it from his mind.

There was a powwow today as his eldest son, Danny, had come up with a way to increase the coffers. Dan grimaced, thinking about the rough plan his son had outlined. He felt it too risky, but would wait to gauge his other sons' reactions before vetoing the idea.

For a moment Dan smiled, knowing that if he
voted against Danny's plans, his other sons would follow suit, all bending to his will. If Joan knew what they were up to she'd have a fit, but there was no chance of her finding out. How the daft cow thought the builders’ merchants made enough money to support them all was beyond him, but as long as she carried on living in a world of illusions, that was fine by him.

Chapter Two

 

Next door, in number two Drapers Alley, the eldest son, Danny junior, emerged from the bedroom. His dark hair was tousled and his mouth open in a wide yawn, but even this couldn't detract from his looks. Danny was handsome, a six-foot-two charmer with large, sultry dark eyes and full lips. A long, thin scar on his cheek, the relic of a knife fight, didn't scare off women. If anything the scar added a hint of danger that complemented his rakish charms.

‘Why didn't you wake me?’ he moaned as he walked into the kitchen.

His wife, Yvonne, pouring him a cup of tea, said shortly, ‘I didn't know you had to get up for work today.’

His eyes darkened with anger – he was certain he'd told her there was going to be a business meeting that morning. ‘Shit, I'm sure I mentioned it. If I don't get a move on the old man will arrive before me.’

Yvonne pushed the cup of tea towards him, her hazel eyes avoiding his. She was tall, her height emphasised by the pencil skirt she was wearing with a crisp, white blouse tucked in at the waist. Her shoulder-length brown hair was immaculate as usual, and her make-up freshly applied. When Danny first met Yvonne she had reminded him of Wallis Simpson, with the same elegant manner and style of dress. However, unlike the sophisticated woman who had captured a king, Yvonne showed her true class as soon as she opened her mouth. Like his mother, she was Battersea born and bred, her diction letting her down and sometimes grating on his nerves. Even so, he'd been instantly smitten. But as the years passed she'd grown so thin that the woman he'd once been attracted to now resembled a stick insect. Yvonne's jumpiness was generally put down to her suffering with her nerves, but he knew the real problem. The skinny cow wanted a kid, but even though they'd been trying for seven years, it seemed she was barren. Not that it bothered him. As far as he was concerned his life was fine without brats cramping his style. Of course, Yvonne didn't know that; the daft mare thought he was as keen on the idea of a family as she was.

Danny gulped the tea before hurrying through to the bathroom. He had to get a move on or his father might talk to the others before he arrived, putting the kibosh on his ideas. After running water into
the sink he cupped some in his hands to splash on his face, decided to forgo a shave, but still smacked some Brut aftershave onto his cheeks. It was a big day today. He hoped his brothers would back his plans but maybe he should have approached them individually first. Danny cursed his lack of fore-thought. Yet surely his brothers would see the sense of it, and if the old man wasn't keen, maybe they'd go against him for once. Yes, there'd be risks, big ones, but the rewards could be vast – a way out of Drapers Alley for all of them.

He returned to the kitchen, drank a ready-poured second cup of tea, and held a slice of toast between his teeth as he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

‘See you later,’ he called as he left the room without a backward glance.

Yvonne's eyes followed Danny. There was no kiss goodbye, no quick hug of affection, and as the street door slammed behind him, desolately she went upstairs.

In the bedroom she picked up the shirt that Danny had discarded when he rolled home after midnight, and lifted it to her nose. It reeked of cheap perfume, confirming her suspicions that Danny was playing away again. Tears stung her eyes. How many affairs had she put up with? Yvonne had lost count, but each time he'd assured her it would be the last. She was a fool, a mug, an idiot for believing him,
but she loved Danny so deeply and couldn't bear to leave him.

Oh, if only they'd had children. She knew Danny resented it, knew that he envied his married brothers with small families, whilst they remained childless. He blamed her, of course, said she was barren and he was right. Maybe that was why he kept having affairs. Maybe if he got another woman pregnant, he'd leave her! Yvonne slumped onto the side of the bed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Ten minutes passed before Yvonne was able to pull herself together. She then rose to her feet, throwing the shirt into the laundry basket. She had to get a move on – had to make sure everything was clean and tidy in case her mother-in-law popped round. Joan had high standards, ones that Yvonne, always looking for her mother-in-law's approval, fought to match.

She made the bed, and though it was unlikely that Joan would see it, Yvonne ensured the sheets were tucked in with tight hospital corners, plumped the pillows and shook out the pale blue quilt. She then dusted the furniture and aligned the brush set on her dressing table in perfect symmetry.

A glance in the mirror showed her red, puffy eyes. Fearful that Joan would see them, Yvonne ran downstairs to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water. Danny had left a mess, which she quickly tidied up, folding the discarded towel before placing
it neatly on the rail. Like Joan's, this bathroom was an extension, added shortly after she married Danny, and Yvonne was proud of it. After her parents' outside toilet and tin bath in front of the fire every Friday night, having a proper bathroom was sheer luxury. Her eyes saddened. She still missed her mother, mourned her death after a long fight with cancer, and couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her father. He had disapproved of Danny, and had forced her to choose between them. It had nearly broken her heart but she couldn't give Danny up – yet as an only child, she had found losing her father hard to bear.

Half an hour later, the kitchen and living room were looking immaculate when there was a rap on the letter box. The door opened and Joan poked her head inside to call, ‘It's only me.’

‘Come in, Mum. I'm in the kitchen,’ Yvonne called back as she arranged her best porcelain cups and saucers. No thick cheap pot for Joan. Carefully pouring the boiling water into the matching teapot, Yvonne plastered a smile on her face as her mother-in-law walked in.

But there was no fooling Joan Draper. ‘Have you been crying?’

‘No, of course not,’ Yvonne quickly protested, knowing that Danny would go mad if she complained to his mother. Quickly finding an excuse
she stammered, ‘I … I've got a bit of a cold, that's all.’

‘You want to look after it or it could turn into bronchitis.’

Why anyone would want to look after a cold was beyond Yvonne, but then a lot of the things that Joan came out with sounded daft to her. They weren't religious, but Joan insisted on eating fish on Fridays, and the routine of housework was the same: washing on Monday, rain or shine; ironing on Tuesday; in fact every day had its own designated task. The woman was like a little beaver, always busy doing something, so it was a wonder she took time out every day to come round for a cup of tea. Yvonne found her mother-in-law a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde character: meek when her husband was around, but made of sterner stuff when he wasn't.

‘Do you fancy digestive or Garibaldi biscuits?’ she asked.

‘Digestive, please,’ Joan said, but then her lips tightened. ‘Chris has taken Pet to Clapham Junction. Dan gave her the money to buy a record, but I wish he'd stop spoiling the girl.’

Yvonne knew that her mother-in-law was wishing for the moon. Dan Draper was a hard man, and despite the fact that his sons were adults, he still ruled them all. Only Petula saw his soft side, and it was true, the girl
was
spoiled. Thankfully, it hadn't ruined her character so far, but she'd be ill prepared
if she ever had to face the real world. Petula had been cosseted and sheltered since the day she was born, wanting for nothing. Mind, it wasn't only her father who treated her like a little princess. Her brothers were just as bad, all of them over-protective when it came to their little sister.

Joan's eyes flicked around the small kitchen but it didn't worry Yvonne. Every surface was shiny and clean, everything in its rightful place, and her mother-in-law would be unable to find fault. Yvonne picked up the prettily laid tray, carrying it through to the sitting room where they sat at the table.

Joan hated tea leaves in her drink, so Yvonne poured carefully, holding a strainer over the cups. She then added milk from a matching jug, a spoonful of sugar from a matching bowl, and handed it to her mother-in-law.

‘Thanks,’ Joan said, then added abruptly, ‘Linda's pregnant.’

Yvonne stiffened. Linda had married Danny's brother, George, less than a year ago and they now lived in number five. He was her least favourite brother-in-law, quick to violence, but she couldn't help a surge of envy. They'd been married for such a short time but already had a baby on the way. Oh God, it just wasn't fair. She struggled to pull herself together, forcing a smile. ‘That's nice, but is it definite? She hasn't said anything to me.’

There was a pause as Joan lifted the cup to drink
her tea. She then said, ‘Linda knows it's a sensitive subject so maybe she doesn't want to hurt your feelings.’

‘Once she starts showing, she can hardly hide it.’

‘Yeah, that's true. Oh, well, I suppose I'll have to get my knitting needles out again. This will be my fourth grandchild, but it's been a while since I've had to make any matinée jackets.’

Yvonne felt a wave of desolation. It was as though her mother-in-law enjoyed rubbing salt into the wound – but why? She tried to be a good wife, kept the house spotless, and though she and Danny remained childless, Joan had other grandchildren to love. Huh, love – that was a joke. When did Joan ever show any of her grandchildren an ounce of affection?

Yvonne shook her head, unable to help herself from saying sadly, ‘I envy Linda. I want a baby more than anything in the world.’

Joan leaned forward to pat the back of Yvonne's hand, saying softly, ‘I know you do, love. Don't worry, it might still happen.’

Yvonne blinked wildly to stave off the tears welling in her eyes, but Joan rose to her feet, saying hurriedly, ‘I'd best be off. Thanks for the tea.’

Before Yvonne could respond, Joan had gone, and she was left sitting at the table, amazed that her usually cold, undemonstrative mother-in-law had actually shown her a little sympathy.

* * *

 

Joan almost ran into her front door, closing it quickly behind her. Gawd, she had almost brought Yvonne to tears and that was the last thing she wanted. Of all her daughters-in-law, Yvonne was the only one she had any time for, and she could guess the sort of life Danny led the poor girl.

Joan wasn't a fool, she knew Danny's faults and it was a wonder he'd managed to hold on to Yvonne for seven years. He was a womaniser, but if his father found out he'd go mad. Joan also knew that Yvonne longed for children, but was tempted to tell her what a thankless task motherhood was. She had hoped that after five sons, things would be different with Petula, but like the boys, she favoured her father. Maybe things would have been different if she could have shown them affection, but Joan found it impossible. Her own mother had been a cold, unloving woman, bitter at being a single parent with the stigma it carried.

With a sigh, Joan picked up a duster, absent-mindedly flicking it over furniture she'd already polished. Her mother had been a dirty woman, their home a tip, and they'd been looked down on by their neighbours. During her infrequent attendance at school, Joan had been called a smelly cow and at first she hadn't understood why. It was only as she grew older that she learned about hygiene – learned that her mother's method of rubbing a damp flannel across her face every day, leaving her body untouched, wasn't enough. Her first bath had been
a revelation – the water almost black – but from then on she had gone to the public baths once a week, relishing the feel of being clean from top to toe.

She'd known that Dan was a bit of a rogue when she met him but, as he always had a few bob in his pocket, she chose to ignore the gossip. He would buy her presents, make her laugh and she found herself falling in love. When he proposed she had quickly said yes, eager to get away from the dour life she had lived with her mother.

When they moved into their first tiny flat, Joan had been determined to be different, to make sure that her home was always immaculate. At first it had been easy, but as the babies came along it took every minute of her day to keep up. Then, just when she thought her child-bearing days were over, Petula had been born. Though she hated to admit it, Joan had been filled with resentment. She'd had enough of babies, dirty nappies, broken sleep – but she'd hidden her feelings and left most of Petula's welfare to her father and older brothers. That had been a mistake. Petula was fawned on, indulged, but it was too late to change things now. If Joan so much as opened her mouth in criticism, Danny shot her down in flames. His precious daughter was able to do no wrong.

‘We're back,’ Chris said, flinging open the door. ‘I can't stop. Dad wants me down the yard.’

‘I thought it was your Saturday off,’ Joan said.

Chris looked surprised at her interest. ‘Yeah, but there's some sort of business meeting and Dad wants me there.’

‘It's the first I've heard of it.’

‘He mentioned it earlier. You obviously weren't listening.’

‘What's this meeting about?’

Chris's eyes became veiled and Joan knew she was wasting her time. She was always kept in the dark when it came to the business. In truth, she preferred it that way, and berated herself now for asking questions.

‘I'm not sure what it's about, Mum, but no doubt Dad will put you in the picture.’

‘Yeah, and pigs might fly,’ Joan told him.

He grinned, turning to leave. ‘See you later, Mum. Bye, Petula.’

‘Don't call me Petula. You know I hate it.’

‘It was Mum who named you after Petula Clark, who was a child star before you were born, so don't blame me.’ On that note, Chris closed the street door behind him.

‘It's a daft name,’ Petula complained.

Joan ignored her daughter and went through to the kitchen to boil a kettle of water. She would scrub the doorstep before getting the Brasso out to polish the letter box and door knocker. With any luck it might inspire her daughters-in-law to follow suit. Yvonne was the only one who had good
standards. The rest were slovenly, and it was about time they pulled their socks up.