Charlie put his hand in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief, which he placed on the counter. He flipped it open to reveal a ladies' timepiece. 'Put that in your display, will you, Franny? We'll go fifty-fifty on it.'
Franny picked it up. It was a Cartier gold bracelet watch, probably from just after the war judging by the patina on it. It caught the light beautifully as she draped it over her wrist.
'Where'd you get this?' she asked.
'I know and you don't have to. Looks good on you, Fran.'
She smiled at him. There were plenty of people frightened of Chas Wilson and those steely blue eyes of his. Bruce had taught her not to be. Charlie, he explained, had watched his father squander any money the family had, then had suffered the belt when the last of it had gone and his dad couldn't afford the pub. Charlie's aims in life were simple: never to be poor and scrabbling like his father, and never to let anyone get the upper hand, at least physically, ever again. Charlie had worked hard to earn his reputation, Bruce said, and now that rep did most of the work for him.
'It's pretty,' she said. 'Classy, too.'
Charlie gave an exaggerated sigh, as if he had just been browbeaten into a decision against his will. 'Oh go on, you can have it.'
Her jaw dropped and she gave a little squeak. 'Charlie, I couldn't.'
'I only got it in payment for a debt.' This was true. Although the man would be in deep shit once his wife found out how he had settled the loan. 'You must have a birthday coming up.'
'Not for months.'
'Early present, then.'
'No. Bruce'll-'
'I'll square it with Bruce. I'll tap him for twenty sovs, so he'll know it was business.' She had already fastened the catch. 'Although seeing it on you gives me a certain amount of pleasure.'
She looked flustered, not sure if he was flirting or not. It made her momentarily uncomfortable. 'Charlie…'
'Rather than the fat cow who owned it, I mean. You couldn't see it in the folds of her flesh at all.'
'What about Pat? Wouldn't she like it?'
Charlie smiled. 'Pat's got enough tom to start her own shop.'
Franny unclipped the bracelet and laid it down on the white cotton square once more. She admired it for a few moments. 'I'll ask Bruce before I wear it. Just in case.'
'Very wise,' he said, with studied solemnity.
Franny sighed. 'This all right, is it – this work he's doing with you? Whatever it is.'
Charlie shrugged. 'Be fine.'
'But you're worried about something, aren't you? Is that why you came to see him?'
Very perceptive, he thought. She wasn't just a pretty, well- scrubbed face. 'Nothing serious. Just a little problem with one of the boys, is all. Tell Bruce I'll be at the Lambeth later.'
'I will.' She scribbled a note to remind herself. 'And thanks for this.'
'You're welcome. I like things to go to a good home.'
He turned to leave and Franny asked: 'Charlie, how bad is the problem?'
He smiled and his ice-blue eyes seemed to darken. Franny remembered some of the stories she had heard about Chas from his younger days and suppressed a shudder.
'Nothing I can't take care of,' he said.
They drove up the Ml in the Rover, with the lanky form of Gordon Goody behind the wheel. Bruce Reynolds had turned up dressed in flat-fronted checked trousers and a Lanvin sweater over a pastel Dare & Dolphin shirt, managing to make both Tony – in his Dunn's sheepskin, and Goody, in his trademark long black coat – look dowdy.
The Rover's V8 happily pulled them to 90mph, effortlessly passing the Hillmans, A30s and Morris Minors plodding up the middle lane. The Rover had a Smith's Radiomobile that was audible even over the tyre noise the big car generated at close to the ton. Saturday Club was on, with Eden Kane, but Bruce switched to the Home Service.
'"Forget Me Not", indeed,' he said, naming the singer's signature tune. 'Chance'd be a fine thing.' He swivelled round in the front seat. 'You seen that film Too Late Blues?'
Tony said he hadn't.
'Good movie. About a jazz man. Bobby Darin's in it and… that little fella, you know who I mean. Played Johnny Staccato on the box.'
'John Cassavetes,' grunted Gordy.
'Blimey,' said Bruce, looking across at the big man with a puzzled expression. 'When did you turn into Dilys Powell?'
Gordy just grinned.
'Anyway, that's who Roy reminds me of. He's not a big bloke, but intense. Committed. Know what I mean?'
'Yeah.' Although Tony had no real idea what he was talking about.
The Ml, touted as the Highway to Birmingham, actually fell short of the city, ending in Northamptonshire. Their speed dropped as they came off the motorway and hit the A road, and Tony settled down in the leather of the rear seat and nodded off, just as Bruce retuned to Eamonn Andrews and Sports Parade and began to fret about Chelsea's new season in the second division, hoping they could bounce back up. As an Arsenal fan, Tony was used to disappointing Saturdays, although it hadn't yet come down to the ignominy of relegation. But the Gunners had never been the same since Tom Whittaker died in 1956. Now there was a manager…
'Oi, Tony – Sleepy Bollocks. We're here.'
He pushed himself up the seat, unmussed his hair and rubbed his eyes clear. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Out for almost an hour. They were on a B road now, in a short queue behind an MGA, a Morris Oxford and one of the brand new Ford Cortinas, which Tony hadn't had a chance to drive yet.
At the head of this line, a young lad in a duffel coat was collecting the five shillings entry and parking fee. Next to him was a large sign telling them they were about to enter War Department property. Then a board proclaiming that this was RAF Hemswell, home to No 97 (SM) Squadron. Someone had scrawled the letters CND across the sign and underneath Yanks Go Home. There was, indeed, a US flag fluttering over the gate, indicating that USAAF personnel were deployed on the base. Tony had done his miserable National Service in the RAF. He knew what all this meant.
'I thought we were going to see a race?' he said.
'We are,' Bruce replied.
'What, an arms race?'
Gordy edged forward in the line as the Cortina drove into the site and then turned to look at Tony. 'What you mean?'
'Don't you two ever read the front of the papers? This is a bloody nuclear missile base.'
Two
Holland 's Gym, Elephant and Castle, South London, September 1962
Charlie Wilson counted the repetitions as he crunched his biceps with the twenty-pound dumbbells. He'd been doing the same routine for six months now, and although he wasn't yet Steve Reeves, he could see the difference in his physique. It was harder, leaner. Old Man Levy had been forced to let out the chest of his latest suit jacket, and allow more material in the sleeves so Charlie could flex his arms. Now, when he walked into the Mayflower or Donovan's, he could feel the dip in the volume of the conversation as the mugs looked him over. He'd always had a reputation, usually backed up with blades or a revolver. Now he didn't feel he needed anything other than his bare hands to make his point. He was even fitter than when he'd fought bare-knuckle with the pikeys in Barnet, and he'd been bloody hard to put down then.
Lately, he had built a fitness room in the shed at home in Clapham. His wife Pat joked he must be training for the
Tokyo Olympics. He was training, that was true, but not for any athletics. With a new house, three kids and a wife, never mind the cars, clubs and the clothes to support, he needed more money than ever. That's what he was in training for.
Although he had the home gym, it did him good to get out from under Pat's feet during the day and he liked Danny Holland's place. Danny had the best equipment, some of it Jack LaLanne from the States, as well as the standard punchbags and speedballs of boxing. Charlie relished the satisfying smack of leather on leather when they were used by a pro, loved the smell of liniment and sweat that was missing from his domestic set-up. But when he put down the dumbbells and wiped his face, all was quiet. There were no grunts, groans or thrown punches because there were no other clients. Danny had booked him an hour clear, all to himself.