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  'No, son.' George's watery blue eyes flashed with fire. 'I know how you feel but violence ain't the answer.'

  What Harry was suggesting was the way in their manor. They could round up a few men, lie in wait for Bill and take him off to one of the old warehouses down by the river. George had never taken part in such a thing, but he knew all about nailing a man's hands to the floorboards, burning him with a blow torch, breaking his bones one by one until the victim screamed for mercy.

  But Bill wasn't an average man and, unless they actually killed him, he'd come back fighting and someone innocent was bound to get caught in the crossfire. 'It would start gang warfare,' he said firmly. 'Bill still has mates, remember, just a spark could trigger it off. We've got to think of Amy and the children.'

  The door opened suddenly, startling both men.

  'What happened, Uncle George?'

  Anne was still wearing her long white wincyette nightdress, with her feet bare, hair tangled, and sleep in her eyes.

  'It was a fire, darlin'.' George felt sickened by the anxiety in her eyes. 'I should 'ave got the place rewired. One of the plugs was overloaded.'

  She knew he was lying. She could sense the tense atmosphere, she saw a nerve twitching in George's cheek. Harry was looking the other way.

  'How bad is it?' she asked. The smell of smoke on his clothes was overpowering and she could see the same kind of defeat in his eyes she'd seen a thousand times in her mother's.

  'Gutted,' he laughed jovially. 'But every cloud 'as a silver linin', darlin'. I'll cop the insurance and sell the land, most of the stuff was dead stock anyways.'

  She knew she wouldn't get the truth, but his lies were meant kindly.

  'I'm so sorry, Uncle George.' She ran to him and put her arms around him. 'I'll go and run you a bath.'

  'You ain't fooled her one little bit,' Harry said gloomily as she ran back upstairs. "That kid can look right through you like an X-ray!'

  'Hullo, darlin'! 'Ow you doin'?' George bent over Amy's bed and planted a kiss on her forehead. 'I was coming by to get some stock so I thought I'd just pop in to see you. 'Arry's coming later wiv the kids.'

  He plonked down a huge bunch of flowers and a bag of fruit. He looked his old self again after a bath and shave. His bulbous nose glowed bright red, and he wore his favourite black and white checked suit.

  Amy put her good arm up to hide her missing teeth as she smiled. George looked a real wide-boy today and she knew he'd dressed up because he thought it would fool her.

  She was feeling so much better. With a plastered arm, stitches above her right eye, no upper front teeth and her skin yellow with fading bruises she wouldn't win any beauty contests. But her cracked jaw and broken ribs were mending, and the infection in her chest was almost gone. She had even begun to relish the thought of proper food instead of the soft minced-up things they brought her.

  'Where are you going to put this new stock with no warehouse?' she chided hum gently, taking his hand and squeezing it.

  George gulped.

  He glanced round the ward and waved to the other seven women while he gave himself time to think. He had intended to tell her the same story he'd told Anne, but clearly she'd seen a newspaper already.

  'I'll bung it all in the 'ouse.' He flashed a brilliant smile. 'Like I said to Anne, it's a Godsend really. It was all dead stuff and I'll cop the insurance.'

  The morning paper had bemoaned the loss of the old mission hall rather than his stock. He had checked it carefully and there had been no mention of arson.

  'Don't even attempt to tell me any fibs.' Amy shook her head, a knowing look in her blue eyes. 'I know you want to spare my feelings and I'm sure you've told the children a good story. But I know it was Bill's doing.'

  George shrugged non-committally and deftly changed the subject.

  'Listen. A thought crossed my mind on the way here, about your mum. What happened to her?'

  Once the stern-faced, black-coated figure handing out religious tracts by the Black Bull had been part of everyday life in the market. She'd moved into Dur-wood Street with her husband way back in 1929. As a young man George had often flirted with the curvaceous, beautiful redhead, before Arthur's death had changed her into a mean-faced old woman. Her disappearance had gone uncommented on for some time; but it must have been around six or seven years ago.

  'I don't know where she went.' Amy sighed, a cloud passing over her face. 'You know she never spoke to me after I went off with Bill?'

  George nodded.

  'I used to walk up and down Durwood Street with Anne in the pram, hoping I'd run into her. I wrote to her so many times, but she never weakened. She must have heard how things were between Bill and me, I was surprised she never came round to gloat. I asked her neighbour where she'd gone when she disappeared but all she could tell me was that Mum went to work for a priest, as a housekeeper.'

  'Suppose we could find her?' George asked, squeezing Amy's hand. 'Would you be prepared to make the peace?'

  Amy closed her eyes for a moment. If she projected herself back to the time before the news of her father's death had unhinged her mother she had golden memories, but the more recent ones were all tinged with bitterness.

  'I don't know,' she said softly. 'I can't forget the hell she put me through during the Blitz, or the misery of later. I'd like to think I was big enough to put that aside, but I don't know that I am.'

  George saw a need in her eyes, whatever she was saying with her lips, but he changed the subject and moved on to market gossip to make her smile.

  'You and Queenie ought to get together,' Amy teased him as he told her a hilarious story about Queenie catching a woman with a stolen cabbage stuck up her jumper. 'She's been a widow for ten years now and you get on so well.'

  Queenie had been in to see Amy the night before. She was as powerful a character as George with her blonde bouffant hair, red talons and sparkling jewellery. Although she was fifty and overweight, she was still an attractive lady and she was lonely, too.

  'I'll think on that one,' George said as he got up to leave. 'Trouble is, love, me and 'er 'ave always bin mates. She'd think I'd gone daft if I tried to court 'er now.'

  'Well, I might just stir things up.' Amy smiled, offering her cheek for a kiss. 'It's about the only useful thing I can do from this bed!'

  'You can hurry up and get well.' George enveloped her in an awkward hug. 'And don't forget it was faulty wiring that started the fire! We stick to that story for the kids.'

  Chapter 3

  It was pure impulse that led George to the vicarage of the Church of St John's. He hadn't been near the place since his wife Irene died but he remembered the kindness and understanding Father Glynn had shown him then.

  The old Gothic house hadn't changed much. It was as spooky as ever with its narrow windows, dark red brick and studded oak door set in an ornate porch. But council flats overshadowed it now, creating the impression it had only been left behind on sufferance.

  Weeds grew up through the broken-tiled path, the benches in the porch where he'd sat as a small boy were broken, but the windows sparkled and he could see a bowl of bright pink hyacinths on the sill.

  'Well, well, well.' Father Glynn beamed with pleasure and surprise as he opened the door. 'There's a surprise and no mistake. How is it with you?'

  The wizened little Irishman had left his native Cork at eighteen and hadn't been back in fifty years, but his Irish brogue was as strong as if he'd just stepped off the boat at Holyhead. He had embraced the East End from the day he was sent there as a young curate. He kept his finger on the very pulse of life in Bethnal Green and made it his business to know everyone in his parish.

  George dwarfed the little priest, the hand held out was as small as Anne's, yet his firm grip and piercing blue eyes belied the bent body and wrinkled face.

  'Not too bad.' George grinned. 'That is, if I don't think about the burned warehouse.'

  'Sure and I read about it in the paper this morning.' Father Glynn b
eckoned George in. 'That's a fearful piece of bad luck, my friend.'

  The house smelled of age and there was a dull film over the handsome black and white tiled hall floor. Father Glynn led George into his study and poured him a large Irish whiskey. This room too was shabbier than George remembered, but just as cosy, with two winged armchairs covered in rugs to conceal the splitting upholstery, walls full of leather-bound books and a threadbare rug in front of a coal fire.

  George had sat in one of these chairs some twenty-three years earlier and Irene had sat on a small stool, a girl of twenty with long black hair and eyes as bright as Harry's, while Father Glynn talked to them about marriage vows. They had been so happy, unaware that, even then, tuberculosis was creeping into her lungs. Father Glynn had baptised Harry, too, and just a couple of years later conducted Irene's funeral.

  They drank their whiskey and talked about mutual friends, Harry and boxing as if it was quite natural for George to pop in.

  'I heard you bought a house in Paradise Row.' The old man gave him a sharp look as if to remind him his church was just across the road. 'I expect you know the Jewish boxer, Daniel Mendoza, used to live at number three?'

  'Is that right?' George was impressed that a man of the cloth knew so much about the sport and its heroes.

  'But you didn't come for a chat about boxing.' Father Glynn smiled, small dark eyes studying George closely. 'And I can see trouble sitting on your shoulder, so why don't you tell me about it?'

  'You promise you won't tell anyone?'

  The old man shot a reproachful look at George.

  'Need you ask that?' he said gently.

  Shamed, George quickly told him all about Amy and the children, and Bill.

  'I see.' The priest nodded. 'And you think he may do something more to his family?'

  'That's it' George shrugged his shoulders. 'I've got to get Amy somewhere safe. You knew Mabel Randall; have you got any idea where she went when she left Durwood Street?'

  'It was here she came!'

  George blinked in surprise. Mabel's religion had been fired by some unorthodox church. The last thing he would have expected was to find her sheltering here.

  'Here!'

  'Well she's gone now.' Father Glynn smiled at George's surprise. 'She was a very troubled woman, she stayed for a while, but then she went off to Somerset.'

  'How, why?' George stammered. He hardly knew what to say.

  'She saw an advertisement in the personal column of the Telegraph from her mother, living in Somerset, asking her to get in touch. Apparently Mabel's father threw her out when she took up with Arthur Randall and Mabel had vowed never to return to the farm she'd grown up on as a child until he was dead.'

  'So Mabel was booted out of home, too!' George chuckled at the irony. 'They say history repeats itself!'

  'Mabel told me a great deal about her life while she was with me,' Father Glynn said pensively. 'Of course I can't repeat it, but let's just say that her experiences with Arthur taught her to be wary of handsome charmers like Bill MacDonald.'

  'D'you think she might help her daughter now?' George asked.

  Father Glynn didn't answer immediately; he was remembering the night Mabel had left him, some six years earlier.

  Her suitcase was packed in the hall and, despite her usual abstinence from drink, she took a glass of whiskey with Father Glynn as they sat in his study.

  He had known of Mabel when she first arrived in Whitechapel with Arthur, but then she had been the sort of woman no-one overlooked.

  Back in 1929 Mabel was beautiful, her red-gold hair, tawny eyes and a body like a goddess had been enough to get her noticed. But people soon discovered she was gently bred and very talented both at music and painting. They didn't know much about Mabel, though her husband was a local lad. The couple had been on their uppers, Durwood Street then was only one step away from the workhouse. The street ran behind Whitechapel Road, one of many grim, narrow streets into which sunshine never found its way. Why such a handsome couple came there had remained a mystery, the fact they stayed was even more strange.

  The Mabel sitting opposite him twenty-five years on showed no resemblance to that vivacious beauty. Her hair was iron grey, dragged back from a face that had forgotten how to smile; her body was concealed in a shapeless black dress.

  'So how d' you feel about going home?' the priest had asked her. She was a stubborn, proud woman, but nonetheless he was sorry to lose such an efficient house- keeper.

  'Frightened!'

  'Not you, surely?' He laughed as he said it, knowing she induced terror in half his visitors. 'You're going home to see your mother who is anxious to see you!'

  'Not of Mother.' She dropped her eyes to her lap. 'Of the emotions I buried so long ago. Of my failure.'

  'Failure?'

  'Yes.' She lifted her eyes defiantly and he saw a flash of the younger Mabel. 'I had intended to go home in triumph one day, on the arm of my Arthur, with beautiful clothes.'

  'Your mother will be happy just to see you,' he had assured her.

  'But I've got nothing to take to her,' she had whispered in reply. 'I'm nothing but an empty shell.'

  'I think she might be persuaded to help Amy,' Father Glynn said thoughtfully, coming back to the present. 'I heard from her when her mother died four years ago and the letter was that of a lonely, unhappy woman. I could try to mediate between them.'

  George's sunny face clouded.

  'I don't want 'er taking Amy and the kids on sufferance. Tell me what's worse, Father, a barmy, cold mother or a vicious husband?'

  The priest reached out and put one small bony hand on George's great paw. 'You care for Amy and you feel powerless now to protect her and the children. But don't be tempted to condemn Mabel out of hand, and resist the temptation to strike back at MacDonald.' Father Glynn raised one eyebrow and smiled. 'Continue for now to look after the children and meanwhile I'll write to Mabel.'

  It was only as George drove home that he realised Father Glynn hadn't suggested calling the police in or using the courts to keep Bill at bay.

  ' 'E knows 'is flock.' George smiled to himself, despite the heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

  Few men in the East End would be bound by a restraining order and the police were loath to intervene in family matters. They might try to pin the fire on MacDonald, they probably even despised him as much as George did. But at the end of the day they wouldn't put even one bobby outside his house to protect Amy and the kids.

  Chapter 4

  'Come on, girl, don't sit there gawping.' George opened the car door with a flourish.

  'I didn't expect –' Amy broke off abruptly. Perhaps it was rude to say 'anything so nice'?

  Her recollections of Paradise Row were coloured by the Bethnal Green disaster in 1943 when scores of people were crushed to death in the panic of an air raid. Someone in Paradise Row had set up an appeal for bereaved relatives and her mother had sent her there with two shillings. All she remembered clearly were masses of grieving people congregating on the cobbled street, wilting bunches of flowers laid on the grass, and going into a gloomy room in one of the houses that had stunk of unwashed bodies.

  'What did you expect? A doss house?' George retorted as he helped her out. Her arm was still in plaster, but the sling had been abandoned.

  Now she saw that Paradise Row was in fact a Georgian terrace built for the middle classes when Bethnal Green was on the outskirts of London. The big trees on the green outside were just coming into bud and it had an air of genteel tranquillity.

  'Oh, George, you can't know how good it feels to be out of hospital at last.' She noticed the snowy white net curtains, sparkling windows and scrubbed front steps and guessed that spring cleaning had been done in her honour.

  'And you can't know 'ow chuffed we are to get you 'ome,' he replied, taking out his key.

  The door burst open before he could get the key anywhere near it and Anne leaped out to envelop her mother in a fierce hug.
/>   Paul stood uncertainly on the doormat. A red crepe paper hat rested on his sticking-out ears, one finger preventing it from falling over his eyes. He was self-conscious about his first pair of long trousers, even more so of the red and blue striped tie. Sheer delight at seeing his mother showed in his chocolate brown eyes.

  'Paul!' Amy glanced past Anne's shoulder at her son, her eyes brimming with tears. 'Is that hat in honour of me?'

  'He's had it on since first thing.' Anne disengaged herself to let Paul get closer.

  'My big boy!' Amy exclaimed, taking her son's hand and looking him up and down. 'Don't you look splendid?'

  Paul took a step closer, his arms slipping round his mother's waist, head buried in her chest.

  'I'm so glad you're home,' he whispered.

  'Wait till you see the other stuff we've done!' Anne said gleefully.

  Amy understood now why the children had been so impressed by George's house; the hall alone looked sumptuous by her standards. But it was the heat she noticed most, and the delicious smell of roast beef.

  'Isn't it wonderful?' Anne gabbled. 'I can't wait to show you the bathroom and your room. It's hot like this all the time. We've never been cold once.'

  'One fing at a time,' George said from behind her. 'Remember Mum ain't quite the ticket yet.'

  Seeing her children in an ordinary setting brought home to Amy just how much George had done for them. Anne was wearing yet another new outfit. Her hair was up in a pony tail, and her face was flushed pink with excitement. Paul's dark hair had been cut beautifully, not shaved remorselessly the way Bill used to insist on, and his little features looked less sharp.

  Harry came up the hall as George finally managed to shut the front door behind them.

  'Welcome home!' He couldn't quite meet her eyes and he blushed with unexpected shyness. 'How do you feel today?'

  'Wonderful.' Amy beamed, but once again hid her mouth with her hand. 'I know I saw the children every day but it isn't the same as living with them, is it?'

  'Certainly ain't.' Harry made a play of cuffing Paul's ear. 'Never stops talking, this one, wears you out!'