Last Rights by Barbara Nadel Read Free Book Online Page A

fightinglife. There’s dignity about Hannah. Seeing me looking at her, she smiled. ‘I don’t mind if you want . . .’ she said. ‘I’m
     not too tired for you.’
    Our conversation about Kevin, spiking and death was obviously at an end.
    ‘No, you’re all right,’ I said. ‘Although I could do with a cuddle.’
    Hannah put her fag down and lay back on her bed. I went and lay beside her and she wrapped her arms round me. ‘You’re a good
     man, Francis Hancock,’ she said.
    ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
    And then we both laughed. We laugh whenever we can. It wouldn’t do to get too serious. Things are as they are. I’m as I am
     and she does what she has to. And, besides, even if things were different, she’s still a Jew so we could never be more than
     we already are to each other.
    I tried to see the Canning Town undertaker, Albert Cox, on my way back from Rathbone Street, but he was out. His wife said
     he was working. I told her to ask him to ring me if the telephones were working or come over and see me when he got back.
     Whatever had or hadn’t happened to Kevin Dooley, and I was still far from certain at that time, I’d have to get him moved
     or I’d have his dragon of a mum on my back.
    Walking back towards Plaistow along the Barking Road, I found myself thinking about Dooley’s wife. Like Hannah, young Mrs
     Dooley had had great big eyes. Dark, though, black eyes and blonde hair. Hannah, as she is naturally, in reverse. If Kevin
     had been going to Rathbonegirls with her at home, he must have wanted his head tested. But, then, who could know what was going on behind closed street
     doors? Maybe the old girl had poisoned her son’s mind against his wife. Maybe the younger woman had chucked herself down the
     stairs on purpose when she found out she was in the family way again. It’s not unheard-of, not in big families like that,
     and especially not now. Feeding the nippers you’ve got gives most women a headache. Poor young Mrs Dooley, if she’d done it,
     she had to have been desperate. But possibly not as desperate as she was now. I wondered if her mother-inlaw had made good
     her threat and chucked her out already. If the old girl was paying for the funeral she probably had. I lit a fag and began
     to consider whether I shouldn’t just forget about what might have happened to Kevin and think about more straightforward things,
     like replacing some of the wood the horses had kicked out during the last raid.
    ‘Mr ’ancock?’
    No grief in her voice, just stroppiness.
    ‘Yes, Mrs Dooley.’ I raised my hat to her.
    ‘My son ain’t at Cox’s, is he?’ Vi Dooley folded her arms under her bosom and clicked her false gnashers in irritation.
    ‘No, Mrs Dooley,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Cox has been busy . . .’
    ‘I’ve chucked her out, you know,’ she said, ‘that tart!’
    ‘Mrs Dooley!’
    ‘Oh, you can think what you like, Mr ’ancock!’ she said. ‘But she was a wrong ’un. Told him, my son, I did. Orphanshe was, then she gets herself married to some old bloke, that’s the basket’s father, and he dies. Tipped her cap at Kevin
     she did and that was him under her thumb! I don’t want to see her mug or that basket’s round here again!’
    ‘But there’s nine other kiddies . . .’
    ‘What are my Kevin’s, yes,’ she said. ‘Me and mine’ll look after them much better than she ever could. Bring them up proper
     we will. Her and her girl can go on the streets where they belong.’
    ‘I think that your daughter-in-law has a right to come to her husband’s funeral,’ I said.
    ‘Oh, do you?’ Vi Dooley’s downturned mouth sucked on its teeth as she looked at me with great distaste. ‘What? Even if she’s
     a fallen woman?’ As she leaned in towards me I could see that she had on a stained apron underneath her coat. ‘That one was
     on the game for years as a nipper,’ she whispered. ‘Up West, afore she married the old geezer. Don’t s’pose