Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      ‘Long time no see, mate.’

      John Gardiner almost dropped the mug of tea he’d been cradling in his palm. He’d opened the front door while carrying it, expecting to see his daughter on the step. He’d been about to say, ‘What, forgot your key again, dear?’ because Rosie had earlier in the week knocked him up when he’d been snoozing on the settee.

      Instead his welcoming smile vanished and he half closed the door in the wonky-eyed fellow’s face. It’d been a year since he’d caught sight of Frank Purves, and then they’d only nodded at one another from opposite pavements. On that occasion John had been tempted to hare across the road to throttle the man for having spawned a fiend. But, of course, he hadn’t because that would have given the game away. And John would sooner die than cause his daughter any more trouble. He kept his welcome to a snarled, ‘What the hell d’you want?’

      ‘Well, that ain’t a very nice greeting, is it?’ Frank stuck his boot over the threshold to prevent John shutting him out. He stared at his old business partner although just one of his eyes was on the man’s face and the other appeared to be studying the doorjamb. Popeye, as Frank was nicknamed, had never let his severe squint hold him back. ‘Just come to see how you’re doing, and tell you about a bit of easy money heading your way, John.’

      ‘I told you years back that I ain’t in that game no more, and I haven’t changed me mind,’ John craned his neck to spit, ‘I’ve got a wife and family, and I don’t want no trouble.’

      ‘Yeah, heard you got married to Doris Bellamy. Remember her. All used to hang about together as kids, didn’t we?’ Frank cocked his head. ‘Gonna ask me in fer a cuppa, then?’ He nodded at the tea in John’s unsteady hand. ‘Any left in the pot, is there, mate? I’m spitting feathers ’ere …’

      ‘No, there ain’t.’ John glanced to left and right as though fearing somebody might have spotted his visitor. ‘Look … I’m straight now and all settled down. Don’t need no work.’ As a last resort he waggled his bad leg at Frank. ‘See … got a gammy leg since we got bombed out up the other end of the road.’

      ‘Yeah, heard about that, too.’ Frank gave the injury a cursory glance. ‘Thing is, John, that bad leg ain’t gonna hold you back in your line of work, is it?’ He shifted his weight forward. ‘You owe me, as I recall, and I’m here to collect that favour.’

      ‘Owe you?’ John frowned, the colour fleeing from his complexion. Even so, he was confident that what he was thinking wasn’t what Frank Purves was hinting at. John reckoned that Popeye couldn’t know anything about that, ’cos if he did the vengeful bastard wouldn’t be talking to him, he’d be sticking a knife in his guts. Lenny’s actions had started a feud between the Gardiners and the Purveses that Popeye knew nothing about. But one day he would and when that day came John wanted to get in first.

      ‘When you chucked it all in you left me high ’n’ dry with a pile of labels I’d run off. Never paid me for ’em, did yer? Plus I had a fair few irate customers waiting on that batch of gin.’

      John’s sigh of relief whistled through his teeth. He ferreted in a pocket and drew out some banknotes, thrusting them at Frank. ‘There! Go on, piss off!’

      Frank looked contemptuously at the two pounds before pocketing them. ‘I’m in with some different people now. They’re interested in you, John. I been singing your praises and telling ’em you’re the best distiller in London. They ain’t gonna like your attitude when they’ve stumped up handsomely to sample your wares.’

      John’s jaw dropped and he suddenly reddened in fury. ‘You had no right to tell a fucking soul about me. I don’t go blabbing me mouth off about you doing a bit of counterfeiting.’

      ‘Yeah, well, needs must when the devil drives, eh?’ Frank leaned in again. ‘Lost me son, lost me little bomb lark business ’cos me employees crippled themselves. A one-armed short-arse and a fat bloke wot got nobbled in France. Ain’t saying they aren’t keen but, bleedin’ hell, they’re a fuckin’ liability.’ Frank finished his complaint on a tobacco-stained smile. ‘Got nuthin’ but me printing press to fall back on.’ He glanced over a shoulder. ‘Need a few extra clothing coupons, do you, mate?’ He gave John a friendly dig in the ribs. ‘That’ll put you in the missus’s good books. Get herself a new frock, can’t she? Get herself two if she likes.’

      ‘You forging coupons now?’ John whispered, aghast.

      ‘I’m forging all right, just like I was when I run off all them dodgy spirit labels for your hooch.’ Frank’s lips thinned over his brown teeth. ‘We need to talk, mate … seriously …’

      John knew he’d never get rid of Popeye until he’d let him have his say. And he didn’t want the neighbours seeing too much. СКАЧАТЬ