The Winter Rose (60 page)

"What I can't imagine," Fiona said, "is how you've taken the
opportunity I've given you, and all the money I've spent, and chucked
them into the rubbish bin. Do you have any idea how lucky you are? There
were boys who would have given their eyeteeth to have the education you
were getting. I want you to finish and graduate, Seamie. I want you to
go to university."

"What you want and what I want are two different things."

"Apparently so! I want what's best for you."

"But you don't know what's best for me, Fee. Only I know that."

"Oh, you do? At seventeen years of age, you know what's best?"

"Look, you didn't stay in school. You left when you were fourteen, but you want me to stay."

"Left? Left? I was taken out of school. I had no choice. I had to go work at Burton Tea to help feed the family."

"It doesn't change the facts," he said. "You were on your own at
seventeen. In charge of your own life. You had more adventures before
you were eighteen than most people have in a lifetime."

"Is that what you call them, adventures? I've news for you, they
weren't adventures, Seamie, they were tragedies," she said, beyond
furious now.

She saw that he at least had the good grace to look shamefaced.

They were both silent for a few seconds, then Fiona said, "I'm going
to telegraph the headmaster. I'll beg him to take you back. If I succeed
in fixing this disaster, you are getting on the first ship back to New
York."

"No, I'm not. I'm not going back."

"And what if you don't get on this expedition? What are you going to
do for money? There would have been a place for you at TasTea or
Montague's--a good place--after you'd graduated from university."

"I was hoping--"

"Well, don't! Don't hope for a handout, Seamie. Or for any special
treatment. You can work in the bloody warehouse if you want a job. I've
an opening at Oliver's. You can go see the foreman in the morning."

"I was hoping you'd let me have the money Nick left me."

Nicholas Soames, Fiona's first husband, had married Fiona when Seamie
was a child. Nick had adored Seamie and regarded him as his son. When
he died, he left Seamie a legacy. The money--two hundred thou-sand
dollars--had been placed in a trust for him until he turned twenty-one.
Fiona was its executor.

"You must be joking," she said.

"I'm not."

"Do you really think I'm going to hand over that kind of money to a seventeen-year-old truant?"

Seamie stood up. He picked up his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"To stay with friends," he said, wounded. "With the Aldens. It's clear I'm not welcome here."

"Seamie, don't be ridiculous. Of course you're welcome here," Fiona said.

"As long as I agree to what you say and do what you want. Well, I'm
not going to. I'm not a boy anymore. I'm a grown man. And I'm going to
Antarc-tica. I'll see you around."

"Seamie..." Fiona said, trying to get up out of her chair. Her belly
slowed her, though, and by the time she had gotten up he was already
downstairs. She hurried to the window and watched him walk out of the
house and down the street, a duffel bag in his hand.

She closed her eyes, trying to hold back her tears. My God, how had
this happened? How had she managed to chase Seamie from the house? He'd
arrived only a few minutes ago and now he was gone again.

Her elder brother wouldn't see her. She'd driven her husband from the
house. And now she'd driven her younger brother away, too. All the men
she loved had left. A tear rolled down her cheek, then another. Her
family was fracturing. Right before her eyes. They were coming apart
when all she wanted was to hold them together. To keep them near her. To
keep them safe.

She heard the door open. Foster was there again, a tea tray in one
hand, a handkerchief in the other. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry,
Mrs. Bristow, I don't mean to intrude, but I thought you might be in
need of a cup of tea."

Fiona realized he'd probably heard the row between herself and
Seamie. She watched him as he set the tea tray down on her desk, and the
handkerchief discreetly beside it, then made his way back to the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Foster," she said, grateful for his thoughtfulness and his tact.

"Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Bristow? May I be of any help to you at all?"

"Can you tell me how to make men stay put in one place?"

"Yes, madam, I can. It's quite simple."

"Really, Mr. Foster? How?"

"Turn them into women."

Frankie heard the voices from the street. He was surprised anyone was
in the Bark. It was half four, and Des closed the pub punctually now
from

three to five to avoid trouble with the rozzers. He listened for a
bit before going inside and realized he knew the voices--one was
Gemma's, angry and shrill. The other was Sid's. His was low and
contained. Barely.

Frankie grasped the door handle, then thought better of it. He went
around the side of the Bark instead, down the steps to the river, and
then up into the kitchen by way of the basement stairs. Desi was there,
washing glasses and stirring a pot of swill he called soup.

"All right, Des?"

"Aye, Frankie. Yourself?"

"Fine, thanks. What's up?"

"The guv's in the shit with Gem."

Frankie knew that Sid had finished with Gemma. He should've been surprised, but he wasn't. Nothing Sid did surprised him now.

He walked over to the door that separated the kitchen from the
taproom and looked through its small, grimy window. Sid was seated by
the windows, looking out at the river. Gemma was pacing back and forth.
Sid might have finished with her, but she hadn't finished with him. She
held a handkerchief. Her eyes were red.

"Why, Sid? Just tell me why."

"Gemma, please. We've been through all this."

"There's someone else, isn't there? Who is she?"

"There's no one else."

"You're a liar!" Gemma shouted. There was a loud crash.

"Bloody hell," Desi muttered. "Tell me that wasn't me gran's blue platter."

"I won't," Frankie said.

"Does she kiss you like I did, Sid? Does she fuck you like I did?"

"I think it's time we got you home, Gem."

"I'm not going anywhere. Not till you tell me the truth. You said
you'd never fallen in love. You said you never would. But you have,
haven't you?"

Sid made no reply.

"I thought so." It was quiet for a few seconds, then Gemma spoke again. "Hard thing of it is, it's not with me."

Desi shook his head. "Can't understand for the life of me why he
broke it off with her," he said, salting his soup. "I'd never kick a
woman like that out of my bed. Something's not right."

"Nothing's right, Des. Not anymore."

"You can say that again. What are you doing here anyway, Frankie? Come to eat, have you?"

Not bloody likely, Frankie thought, glancing at the soup pot. "Came to talk to the guv," he said.

"About what?"

"Fucking Madden. Fucking Ko. And the fucking Italians."

Des nodded. "Good. Madden's taking some diabolical liberties."

"Too right, he is."

Big Billy Madden was doing things he wouldn't have dared to do even a
month ago. Throwing his weight around in Whitechapel pubs and making
his presence felt along the waterfront. Someone had knocked off Butler's
Wharf, done a ship in St. Katherine's Dock, and robbed a chandler's on
Wap-ping High Street. It was Madden, Frankie's gut told him so. The man
was like a shark scenting blood in the water. Sid needed to deal with
him. Now.

Madden had sent a message to Frankie through Ding Dong just last week
that his offer was still open. Frankie had sent Del packing with a few
choice words and a toe up his arse. Billy Madden didn't understand. It
wasn't a job he wanted. If that was all he was after, he could work for
any bleeder who paid him. It wasn't about the money. Well, not entirely.
It was about the Stronghold. Planning it, doing it, and getting away
with it. It was about owning East London. Being a prince of the city. It
was about the life. The brotherhood. Love of a kind. And loyalty. It
was about Sid.

There was another loud outburst from Gemma.

Frankie saw Sid stand and put on his jacket. Gemma tried to stop him
leaving. Next thing, Frankie heard the front door open and close.

"Bloody great," he said. "The guv's legged it and stuck us with Gem."

"Poor lass. Go get her a drink, will you? I have to put the finishing touches on me soup."

Frankie wondered what those touches might be--a sprinkling of black
beetle? A handful of rat feet? Desi's soup looked like it belonged in a
caul-dron. Frankie pushed open the kitchen door and walked into the
taproom. He found Gemma standing by the bar.

"Here, Gem, what's all this, then?" he said. "Trouble with the guv?"

"You heard us?"

"Hard not to."

"I'd hoped we could talk. Hoped I could get him back..." Her words trailed away.

"How about a drink? Help take the pain away."

"Gin."

"I'm sure it'll blow over, whatever it is."

Gemma gave a bitter laugh. "It won't. He's found someone else."

"Aw, Gem. He's a bloke, ain't he? He'll come back. We always do."
Frankie reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle. He uncorked it,
filled a short glass, and pushed it toward her.

"Better pour yourself one, too, mate," she said, throwing hers back.

"Me? What for?"

She looked at him pityingly. "Crikey, Frankie, you aren't half stupid."

"Steady on! I know you're upset and all, but--"

"Can't you see what's happening? He's leaving."

"Looks like he's already left, luv."

"Not just me. Us. You. The lads. This place. East London. The life."

"Bollocks," Frankie said, but a sliver of fear needled at his heart.

Gemma picked up the bottle and poured herself another drink. She
swallowed a mouthful, then said, "You love him, too, don't you? More
than I ever did. Doesn't matter, though. He'll leave you as well."

"Shut it, Gem," Frankie growled.

Gemma laughed. "Actually, I'm wrong. He won't leave. He can't. He's already gone."

"I said, Shut it!" Frankie yelled, banging the gin bottle on the bar.

Gemma finished her drink, lifting the glass to her lips with a
shaking hand. Frankie was glad she'd stopped talking. He didn't want to
hear it, couldn't bear to hear it, because deep down he knew she was
right. Sid had always been a bit of a Robin Hood, giving the dosh in his
pocket to every sorry tosser who asked, but lately he'd become worse.
Ever since he'd met the lady doctor. First, he'd helped her get a box of
rubber johnnies and didn't even take any money off her for them. Then
he'd gone all soft over the old tart at the Taj who'd topped herself.
And then he'd given the doctor money to open some kind of poxy clinic--a
lot of money.

And who knew what he was doing now? Even if he'd found himself a new
doxie, as Gemma seemed to think, Frankie knew he'd never let any woman
interfere with business. But something was. Something was keeping him
away. He was letting the Firm go straight to hell. And letting all of
them go with it.

Frankie knew he had to do something, but what? He watched Gemma throw
her third glass of gin back, eyes closed, and had a vision of himself
sitting here doing the same after Sid walked out and left him to the
tender mercies of Big Billy Madden, Nicky Barrecca, and whoever else
wanted a piece of the East End.

Without warning, he snatched her glass away. "Come on," he said.

"Christ, Frankie, I was drinking that!"

"Get your things. We're leaving."

"Why? Where are we going?"

Frankie grabbed Gemma's coat, her bag, and her arm. "To find out where Sid Malone spends all his time."

"The boxes are here, Joe! Get up!"

Joe Bristow opened his bleary eyes. It was dark. And noisy. It
smelled odd. Of wood and books. For a moment he didn't know where he
was. Then he remembered--the schoolhouse on Brick Lane. It was being
used as a polling station. Today was polling day. He lifted his weary
head off a hard wooden desktop.

"Wake up, will you?"

His brother was standing in the doorway of the empty classroom where Joe had gone to collapse.

"What time is it, Jimmy?" he rasped.

"Half nine. The first ballot boxes have arrived! Get up, you lazy bollocks! They're counting!"

Joe put his head back down and closed his eyes. He'd never known such
deep exhaustion. He'd been out canvassing for the last two days--not
stop-ping to sleep, barely eating. He felt as if he'd been in every
public house, every union building, every wharf and factory in East
London. His throat was so raw, he could barely speak.

His supporters felt he was leading over his Liberal and Tory rivals
and they'd urged him to press his advantage. Joe had, but he felt far
from con?-dent about his chances. Lambert and Lytton were experienced
politicians; he was not. In addition, Lytton was an incumbent and those
were notori-ously hard to beat.

Freddie was downstairs in the schoolhouse's small assembly room right
now together with Dickie Lambert, the ballot counters, the Returning
Officer, supporters, and various members of the press. Joe knew he
should be downstairs, too.

Just a few more hours, he told himself. All he had to do was watch
and wait while the ballots were counted and then congratulate Freddie.
After that, he could go home and sleep.

No, not home, he thought, with a sudden ache. Home was 94 Grosvenor
Square, where Fiona and Katie lived. Where he didn't live. Not anymore.
It had been more than a month since he'd left Fiona but he still forgot.
Every morning he woke up in his bed at the Coburg thinking he was in
his real bed, his and Fiona's. And then he would open his eyes and see
the hotel's flocked wallpaper, the strange crimson curtains, his clothes
on the floor-- and he would remember that he had given her a choice
between himself and her brother, a choice she had refused to make.