The Mersey Daughter (Empire Street #3)(53)

Danny stiffened. If this was going to get nasty, he wouldn’t let Cyril face Alfie alone. Sarah crept forward, having heard it all and knowing what he was like. ‘Stay back, Danny. You can’t get involved. You can’t exert yourself if it comes to a fight,’ she whispered.

Danny bridled, knowing she was right but furious that his heart condition meant he couldn’t even defend his local publican. What Alfie had done was despicable. Sure, he himself had benefited from the occasional slightly dodgy deal down at the warehouses, but to take condemned pork and sell it as fresh was something only the lowest of the low would do. Everyone knew good meat was hard to come by round here nowadays, and he wouldn’t blame anyone for jumping at the chance to feed their families with it. It sounded as if they’d all paid the price. Then, someone else spoke.

It was one of the older men, husband to one of Dolly’s friends, still in his overalls. ‘He’s right,’ the man said, ‘you told us it was ideal for the Sunday roast and my missus was sick for days. I thought it was going to be the end of her. We don’t want your sort round here.’

Alfie laughed again, amazed that two middle-aged men would dare to stand up to him. ‘She probably got the flu or something. There’s all sorts going round.’

A figure from the other side of the bar stood and came over: Mr Mawdsley, in his clerk’s clothing. He allowed himself one half of stout every Friday, and no more. He was a mild-mannered man, usually happy to let his extrovert wife do the talking. Now he was precise and calm.

‘I’m afraid that’s not true, Mr Delaney. Some of my wife’s friends were in the same position and they’d all eaten your contaminated meat.’ He regarded the young man steadily. ‘Of course I can always report this to the authorities if you’d prefer. It’s up to you. But my word carries some weight in those circles. I doubt you’d be willing to take the risk.’

Alfie was at heart a coward, and he began to falter. Despite the fact that each of the men before him was over twice his age, he didn’t fancy taking the three of them on – and now the rest of the customers were watching him carefully, too. None was under forty, but they were for the most part dock workers – still fit and strong, able to handle themselves. Cyril was making as if to come out from behind the bar. Alfie glanced behind him and made his decision.

‘This isn’t the last you’ll hear of this,’ he growled as he backed away towards the leaded glass door. ‘You know who I’m going to tell. He won’t be frightened off by a load of old men.’

Yes, but you are, Danny thought, holding his breath and standing still.

‘Tell who you like, son,’ Cyril said confidently. He had known Alfie Delaney since he was a boy and was certain he’d be too embarrassed to tell Harry Calendar, his gangland boss, what had happened. ‘Just get out and keep it that way, then we can all be happy. The door’s right there behind you.’

With a final sneer, Alfie was gone. Cyril went back to polishing the pumps as if nothing had happened.

‘Blimey,’ Danny said, turning to face Sarah in the sunny back yard. ‘Never thought I’d see the day. Well, I can’t say I’m sorry. He won’t be able to bother me now.’

Sarah looked at him over the rim of her lemonade, her face concerned. ‘Bother you, Danny? What’s he been doing?’

Danny could have slapped himself. He’d never breathed a word of Alfie’s threats, and here was the last person he wanted to burden with the knowledge.

‘Oh, just his daft schemes down the warehouse,’ he said vaguely, hoping she wouldn’t press him.

Sarah looked at him keenly. She was getting used to telling when he was holding something back. But it was Friday evening, the sun was out, and they both deserved a quiet drink in peace. So she would say nothing more about it unless she had to. But it was one more reason that she resolved to keep an eye on Danny; after all, there was no one left nearby from his own family to do so. She wouldn’t mind doing that at all.





CHAPTER TWENTY


Violet put down the trug of tomatoes on the kitchen table. ‘There you are! Aren’t they beauties?’

Dolly beamed. She’d been impressed with her daughter-in-law’s skill at gardening and this was the best crop yet. ‘What a lovely smell they have as well. We’ll have to bottle some of them to make them last through the winter. Make sure we have our vitamins, like the government says.’ She picked one up to admire it. ‘Is this the last of them? Surely they won’t go on for much longer.’

Violet wiped her hands on her pinafore, which bore traces of the victory garden all over it. ‘Well, we deliberately chose some late-cropping varieties. Old Mr James from the allotments told me how to do that. So they should keep going a bit longer yet, as long as we have enough sun to ripen them. I’ll make sure Rita has some to sell in the shop.’

‘What’s that?’ The door opened and Rita came in, catching her own name as she did so. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Sell some of these,’ Dolly said, automatically reaching for the kettle so that her hard-working eldest daughter could have a welcome cup of tea. ‘You sit yourself down, love. Let me fetch you something to eat, you look as if you need feeding up.’ She regarded Rita critically, aware of how much weight she’d lost over the past few months. ‘You’ll be wasting away to nothing and we can’t have that.’