Christmas to Come: a heartbreaking coming of age saga set in London's East End by Carol Rivers (best motivational novels txt) 📗

'Nothing, big ears.' Dolly looked impatient. 'We was just talking about Bella's birthday, that's all.'

'When's the occasion?'

'The last day of January,' Bella said with a flourish of the towel.

'You celebrating, then?'

'Why?' Bella furrowed her brow. 'What's it to you?'

'I was only wondering.'

'About what?'

He stepped from foot to the other. 'I'd have bought you something if I'd known.'

'Well you know now, don't you?' said Dolly. 'And this is a private conversation by the way.'

He turned, his shoulders drooping. 'All right, all right. I can see I'm not wanted round here.'

Dolly glanced at Bella and rolled her eyes.

Bella knew they'd hurt his feelings, but he was such an easy target. 'We are going out, but if you want to come you'll have to ask your sister,' she relented.

His face brightened. 'Can I, Dol?'

Dolly looked shocked but pleased at the same time. 'Actually if Ray was there you wouldn't have to worry about your Terry being the odd man out.'

Bella didn't much fancy the prospect of Raymond tagging along but it was a celebration after all and she supposed, the more the merrier.

Micky slapped the glue on the label engraved with the name of a leading distillers and pressed it firmly into place on the bottle. Passing it to Lenny he lifted another from the shelf. It was just one of the two dozen that Lenny had earmarked for delivery that afternoon. Chewing the end of his cigarette as the smoke streamed into his eyes, Micky grinned at his friend.

'At two quid a bottle, this scotch is a gift.'

'It should be. I was up half the night, nursing it. One awkward sodding batch this lot was.'

'You'd never know. Looks perfect.'

'Which is more than I can say for me sex-life at the moment.'

Micky knew by the tone of Lenny's voice he was in one of his black moods. He'd probably rowed with Gina, and Gina being Gina, Lenny had no doubt lost the argument. Gina ran a cafe in Limehouse and claimed to be of Spanish extraction despite the name of Smith. She had a paddy to match her big black eyes and fierce cockney tongue. Micky had quite fancied her himself. Until the day she opened her mouth a bit too much and he'd witnessed her slating Lenny until his big friend had walked out of the house and slammed the door behind him.

'Who've we got on the van?' Micky enquired solicitously, hoping to change the subject.

'Sean and Ashley,' Lenny barked. 'That is, if those two fairies can leave each other alone long enough to drive the thing.'

'South of the river or up West?' Micky asked aware Lenny's mood wasn't improving.

' 'Struth Micky, what am I? A bloody encyclopaedia?'

'I was just asking, that's all.'

Lenny was dressed in shirtsleeves and a dirty apron. He wiped his sticky hands irritably down his backside. 'They're dropping in the City first. St James's Street, Dover Street and Piccadilly, all bottle parties.'

'And none of it can be traced back to us, right?' Micky ventured. 'I mean, we're just delivering orders, yeah?'

'You tell me, you're the gaffer.' Lenny shrugged his massive shoulders. As friends they had run the distillery together since '44, but when he met Gina, Micky had seen a change in Lenny. Namely that he was less inclined to put in the hours and spend them in the comfort of Gina's bed. Exercising discipline was something that Micky had trouble with himself, he admitted that. But after all, as Lenny said, Micky was the gaffer and as such, had certain perks.

Lenny lifted a chaser glass to the light and examined it closely. The amber nectar inside glittered. He threw it to the back of his throat, causing his eyes to water. 'Not bad. Not bad at all.'

Micky grinned. 'You've got guts of steel, Len.'

'Fancy a slug?'

'No thanks.'

Lenny gave a wounded growl, like a bear, Micky thought, a big brown bear with buckshot in his arse. 'My plonk not good enough for you now?'

'Course it is,' Micky lied, having sworn himself off the poison since his last little "taster" which had resulted in him losing his memory for a week.

'Belly ache don't bother me,' Lenny bragged. 'This is good stuff. You going soft or something?'

Micky smiled broadly and tapped his stomach. 'It's only eleven o'clock in the morning, mate. I've not had me breakfast yet. I'm going down the cafe in a minute for a fry-up.' Micky dusted invisible dust from the lapels of his close fitting jacket. He wore a dark suit that enhanced his smouldering looks. He'd read books about the Mafia and seen all the films. He liked to look dangerous as well as handsome, his aim in life to attract female attention wherever and whenever possible.

Lenny shrugged once more then bent to lift the huge glass tank filled with liquid to one side. Carefully he inserted a tube and threaded the end into a large opaque jar. A sound of bubbling and boiling could be heard from the far side of the still. The air was filled with foul smelling fumes and the stone walls began to shine with steam.

'You just make sure Ronnie don't rumble we're still in business,' Lenny warned as he worked amongst the apparatus. 'I'll make you thirty six bottles of fine Scotch malt from nothing more than a bag of prunes and raisins, a dollop of water and a pinch of me own special brew. But the thought of Ronnie turning up here does me head in.'

Micky ascended the stack of crates piled neatly by the door. He sat down on top of one of them, examining the tips of his polished black shoes. 'You leave Ron to me, Lenny old son. He's too busy with his new love interest Joyce and that poxy club they just bought. He's not bothered with Dad's old lock up now. And anyway, even if he was, what would he find? A filthy old room under the railway arches with nothing in it. We've moved location. We're