‘I don’t know what the hold-up is if they’ve got the lads who attacked Auntie Viv. Do you want me to go down to the station and make some noise?’ Michael offered.
‘I’ll tell you what the hold-up is, shall I? Our name is Butler. Always hated you boys since you made something of yourselves. Jealous bastards, because you earn far more money than they can even dream of,’ Queenie said bitterly.
‘Nah. Leave it, Michael – I’ll sort it. And don’t worry, Mum. Auntie Viv’ll have the best send-off the East End’s seen in a long, long time,’ Vinny vowed.
Turning away so her sons couldn’t see her misery, Queenie sniffed then put on her bravest voice. ‘I should bloody well think so an’ all.’
‘Harry, we’re in a restaurant now. Use your knife and fork, love,’ Frankie Mitchell urged.
‘Harry don’t know how to use a knife and fork,’ joked Georgie O’Hara.
‘Shut up, you tart,’ Harry said, grinning at his sister.
‘Please, Harry,’ Frankie pleaded.
Unlike Georgie, who had nice straight teeth and dark hair like their father, plus a cute button slightly turned-up nose like their mum’s, Harry O’Hara looked menacing. His mop of strawberry blonde hair rarely came into contact with a comb or brush, his nose was squashed like a boxer’s thanks to fighting, and he had a missing tooth at the front. He glared at his mother. He could not stand her; the way he saw it, she had ruined his once idyllic life. ‘Nah, prefer eating like this, Frankie,’ he told her. He never called her ‘Mum’ and knew that made her sad.
‘Do as your mother says, boy,’ Stuart Howells ordered. Stuart had been in love with Frankie long before they had got together, but she’d been so scarred by her relationship with Jed O’Hara, it had taken her ages to trust him.
‘Nah. You ain’t my dad, you can’t tell me what to do,’ Harry spat, his voice raised. In a lower voice, he added, ‘Dinlo.’
Realizing her fiancé was about to argue the point, Frankie squeezed his arm. People were already staring at them, like they usually did when they went out as a family. Frankie knew this was because of her children’s unruly behaviour and unusual accents. She’d often seen couples move tables, mumbling the word ‘gypsies’.
‘He’s been home nearly six months now, Frankie. You can’t keep allowing him to get away with the way he treats you,’ Stuart hissed, looking daggers at the child he loathed so much. Stuart had come to rue the day Georgie and Harry had been snatched from the gypsies and returned to Frankie. Their arrival had turned everybody’s lives upside down.
‘Leave my brother alone. Harry’s right. You ain’t our dad and you never will be,’ said thirteen-year-old Georgie. She was fiercely loyal when it came to Harry.
‘Now, let’s stop all this. I don’t want any arguing today of all days. This is Harry’s special day, and I want it to be perfect,’ Frankie said, smiling at her son, who was currently gnawing a lamb chop like a starving animal.
‘Special day. Silly old rabbit’s crotch,’ Harry whispered in his sister’s ear.
When Georgie whispered something back and both children burst out laughing, not wanting them to see she was upset, Frankie excused herself to go to the toilet. Once inside a cubicle, she pulled down the toilet seat, sat on it and allowed the tears to flow. How the hell had it come to this?
Harry had been a loveable four-year-old when Jed O’Hara and his family had disappeared into the night taking Frankie’s children with them. At the time, Frankie was residing in Holloway Prison due to stabbing Jed, and he had custody of the kids. Jed was an English gypsy who originated from Cambridgeshire, and his community stuck together like glue, so finding Georgie and Harry was never going to be easy, even for someone with Eddie Mitchell’s resources. Seven long, excruciating years it had taken until a tip-off from a traveller Frankie had met in prison reunited her with her children. It was one of the best days of her life, but also the worst. Georgie and Harry loathed her on sight and made it clear they didn’t remember her. Frankie had cherished every memory of her precious children and it broke her heart that to them she was no more than a stranger.
As Frankie dabbed her eyes and stared at her unhappy face in the compact mirror, she couldn’t help but think about the last birthday she’d spent with Harry. He’d been such a good little boy as a toddler. Gentle and sweet-natured. Now he was an uncouth, unrecognizable piece of work. But Frankie could not give up on him, or Georgie. It was her duty as a mother to love her children no matter what.
‘Mummy, where are you?’
Her youngest son’s voice snapped Frankie out of her depressive thoughts. Brett was Jed’s child also, had been born while she was in prison. But thankfully, unlike her other two, had been spared ever meeting his arsehole of a father, or sharing his surname.
Plastering a smile on her face, Frankie unlocked the cubicle and held Brett close. Georgie and Harry’s homecoming had turned his little world upside down as well. So much so, that lately Brett preferred staying with her dad and stepmother, Gina, who lived nearby. ‘How’s my favourite boy?’
‘Can I go to Granddad’s now please, Mum?’
‘We haven’t had our dessert yet, darling. Granddad is picking you up from our house later.’
‘I don’t want no dessert. I don’t like Georgie and Harry. They’re nasty and they scare me,’ Brett said, his lip wobbling.
Frankie crouched down. ‘Your brother and sister can’t help the way they are, love. Unlike you, who was brought up in the correct manner, poor Georgie and Harry were dragged up by not-so-nice people. It isn’t their fault, and even though I know this is difficult for you, we must all try to be patient with them and get along. Can you do that for Mummy?’
Knowing it would upset his mother greatly if he told her Harry regularly punched him in the ribs and broke his toys, Brett Mitchell simply nodded sadly.
Vinny Butler sauntered back from the bar. After a hard day’s graft with their mother ordering them about like a pair of skivvies, both he and Michael felt they deserved a drink.
‘Cheers, bruv. I reckon Mum’ll be happy there ya know, in time. Such a nice area, compared to Whitechapel. And with her arthritis, being in a bungalow’ll make life so much easier for her,’ Michael said.
‘Early days yet, but fingers crossed. Any more news on the boys or Roxanne?’
‘There is actually, but I don’t think we should tell Mum until after the funeral. I got a letter in the post from Lee this morning. He’s gone abroad to start afresh with Daniel. Reckons he won’t be coming back to England. He must’ve posted it on the way to the airport or something.’
‘Whereabouts are they?’
Michael shrugged. ‘Didn’t say. Gutted, I am. It’s not quite sunk in yet, but it looks like I’ve lost my sons for good.’
Vinny sighed. He’d been really close to Daniel, and hoped his nephew would stay in contact. It was all such a mess, it really was. Daniel had thought Roxanne was the girl of his dreams; he was so in love with her that when she told him she was pregnant, he’d asked her to marry him. He’d been about to slip the ring on her finger when Michael’s ex, Nancy – who everybody thought had committed suicide years earlier – ran into the registry office screaming, ‘He’s your brother!’ It turned out Roxanne was fifteen, not eighteen as she’d told Daniel, and nobody bar her deceitful mother had known she was Michael’s daughter – and Daniel’s little sister. Vinny shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Even a zonked-out soap writer could not make it up. You spoken to Nancy since it happened?’
‘A couple of days ago. There’s still no word from Roxanne, and Nancy’s worried sick. Nancy mentioned involving the Old Bill again, but I managed to talk