Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

'We'll start as we mean to go on,' Ronnie said without hesitation. 'Ask yourself this question, Sean. What would Dad have done if we had a sister and some lairy sod lifted a hand against her?' His face was set hard, its handsome proportions chiselled out in the broad daylight. 'This is our patch and we need the respect.' He paused, assessing his brothers' reactions. When no argument was forthcoming he continued. 'Now, are we all done?'

Ronnie looked at them again. Then he stood up and felt the smooth material of his trousers fall over his long legs. He liked that feeling. He liked the fact that he now had his brothers' undivided attention and made a vow to keep it that way.

Before leaving the room he picked up the newspaper. The polish of the table sparkled. He could remember his mum polishing it and the joy she took in doing so. It was a big, solid table, like the family he intended to cultivate. This was the first meeting he had called, but it wouldn't be the last. There would be many more to come.

Now he instructed Sean to change his clothes and put on his working clobber. Ronnie had already convinced himself that the action he was about to take to remedy a bad situation, would achieve a result that his Dad, if not his Mum, would sanction.

Chapter 4

Jack Router was in dire need of a drink. He was also chastened by the nights he had spent squeezed in those bloody shelters with the stink of every Tom, Dick and Harry up his nose. The confinement had made him appreciate Bow Street even if it was little more than a ruin. At least there was only him and Mary and her two brats. Mind, he'd rather cut his tongue out than admit as much to Mary Doyle. He hoped by now she had learned her lesson. No woman gave him the elbow, especially a brass. And what would the bitch do without his protection, for pity's sake? With her spiteful tongue it was on the cards to fall foul of some bolshie punter refusing to cough up the price of a shag. Jack smiled to himself. She needed muscle at her side and he was her man. If she was still alive and kicking after nine days fending for herself, she would welcome him back on her knees.

Damn the Luftwaffe, though! With landlords buggering off the instant the siren went it was hard to find a good drink these days. Not that he'd even set foot inside a pub today.

Jack marched on, his thirst increasing. He first noticed the woman trailing him as he walked up to West India docks. She was on the game, no doubt. Sizing him up at a distance, he guessed. Calculating his worth and wondering how much he kept in his pocket.

At first he ignored her. With that cow Rita Moult on the lookout, he had to be careful. He wasn't about to push his luck. Not in broad daylight anyway and not on the island. But a mile or two more and they'd be into Poplar.

'Fancy a drink, love?' A waft of cheap perfume washed over him as he turned into Poplar High Street.

'Clear off.' His tone was scathing as he glanced furtively over his shoulder.

'Come on, ducks. You look like you need cheering up.'

'I said clear off.'

She grabbed his arm. 'That's not a nice way to speak to a lady.'

'Show me the lady and I'm the pope.'

She smiled brazenly. 'You're a laugh a minute, you are, sonny boy.' Her fingers slid over him and her touch aroused him. Well, why shouldn't it, he thought lustily? He was only human after all. And wasn't a man entitled to look elsewhere if his woman spurned him? He was sick to death of Mary's nagging. He didn't know where her two bastards were and didn't care. Good riddance to bad rubbish if you asked him. If she blamed him for their disappearance, so be it. He'd find another bed easy enough.

'Come on, you could do with a quick one, I'll bet.' She linked her arm through his. 'Where you off to then?'

Good question. Where exactly was he going to drown his sorrows? With Mary working the Rose, he'd lost his watering hole.

'I'm on me way to Limehouse.' He didn't care for the walk, but it was the safest option. No one knew him round there.

Her thin eyebrows raised. 'Despite the fact me feet are killing me, I know a cosy spot up the Commercial Road. Nice friendly landlord an' all.'

'Yeah, I'll bet you do.'

She lowered the neckline of her blouse with dirty fingers. 'What's it worth then, love? A drink or two surely? Come on, let's give ourselves a real laugh, shall we?'

Jack soon forgot about his worries as they walked on. He could feel the angle of her hip touching him as he inhaled her scent. A stink that would normally have him gagging. But now it was a promise, a reminder of the man he was, and the desires he'd had to curb for too long. By seven o'clock they were installed on the back benches of the Fur and Feathers listening to the thud of the bombs in the distance. By eight they'd moved down the road to the George where the publican was game enough to still serve ale and curse the Luftwaffe at the same time. By ten, in the middle of a lull, they were staggering into the dim and musty light of some godforsaken alley, his pocket empty.

Blearily he looked for a spot, somewhere dark and sheltered. Seeing a recess in the wall where rubbish spread across their path, he told himself he wouldn't get much better.

'Come on, get your drawers down,' he growled as he pushed her against the stone.

'Not here, it's too bloody dangerous.' She knew what was expected of her, but had the gall to push him away.