before. He said the rides were run by gypsies and they preyed on innocent young girls like herself. It had been her mum who had come up trumps for her in the end. She had argued that now Nancy was sixteen and in full-time employment, she was old enough to make her own decisions.
‘I just love the smell of fairgrounds, don’t you?’ Nancy said to her best friend, Rhonda Gibbs. Nancy had met Rhonda soon after her family had moved to Ilford from Whitechapel. They had been in the same class at school, and were rarely seen out and about without one another now. They even had jobs working side by side in their local Woolworth’s store.
‘Yep. I love the smell too. Shall we get some candy floss? Or a toffee apple?’ Rhonda suggested.
Nancy giggled. ‘We have come over here to see if we can find the men of our dreams, Rhon. Candy floss and toffee apples are hardly man magnets. If we are munching on them, we are gonna look like kids.’
‘But you’ve already found the man of your dreams. You’ve got Roger,’ Rhonda joked.
Nancy punched her pal playfully on the arm. Roger Robins was the son of her parents’ friends, Margaret and Derrick. At twenty-one, Roger worked for a branch of Barclays Bank in London. On numerous occasions, he had invited Nancy to go dancing or to the pictures, but much to her parents’ dismay, Nancy had politely declined.
With her size-eight figure, ample breasts, and long blonde hair, Nancy wanted a bit more out of life than boring Roger. The pop star Marc Bolan was Nancy’s perfect vision of a man. Marc was wild, cool and handsome, everything that Roger wasn’t. Nancy liked excitement and she would rather entertain a bad boy any day of the week than date some complete and utter bore.
‘Wow! He’s nice,’ Rhonda exclaimed.
‘Which one?’
‘He’s got shoulder-length dark hair and is standing by the coconut shy with a group of lads.’
Nancy surreptitiously glanced around. ‘All of them have shoulder-length dark hair. What’s he wearing?’
‘A cream flowery-patterned shirt and brown flared trousers.’
Fashion had changed immensely since the sixties when drainpipe trousers and button-collared shirts had been all the rage for young men. The Mod era had also now come to an end and the hippy look had taken over as the new trend. Spotting the guy who Rhonda had referred to, Nancy screwed her face up. ‘Nah. His nose is too big for his face, Rhon. You know I have a thing about little button noses.’
Hearing the current song by Middle of the Road being blasted out of the speakers on a nearby ride, both girls linked arms. Giggling, because they were aware that the group of boys were now watching them, Nancy and Rhonda began wiggling their hips and singing the words to ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’.
Vinny and Queenie Butler smiled proudly at one another as Little Vinny put on his boxing gloves and started to spar with his Uncle Roy. Roy was kneeling on the carpet and when his nephew caught him on the chin, Roy fell backwards to pretend he had been knocked out cold.
‘He’s a real natural, ain’t he, Mum? I knew he would be,’ Vinny gushed.
‘He’s a little bruiser. A proper Butler boy, just like his daddy was at his age,’ Queenie chuckled.
Buying his son off Karen had been one of the best decisions that Vinny had ever made. It had cost him three grand, but had been worth every penny. Being a stripper, Karen wouldn’t exactly have been his first choice of woman to bear his child, but she was a stunning bird, and with his own dark smouldering looks, his son was always destined to be a handsome kid.
Karen hadn’t wanted to part with her baby at first. She’d had delusions of Vinny marrying her and the three of them becoming one big happy family. It took the wad of cash, plus a few threats, to finally make Karen see sense and flee the area. Vinny had never heard from her since and had no wish to. His son had all the family he needed. He had told Little Vinny that his mother was dead, and if Karen ever caused him any trouble, he knew he could quite easily turn his little white lie into the truth.
‘Answer the door then, Nan,’ Little Vinny ordered, pummelling his nan on the arm with his boxing gloves to get her to move off the sofa.
‘Don’t hit your nan. You must never punch girls or women with them gloves, boy,’ Roy said sharply.
‘Chill out, bruv,’ Vinny ordered, glaring at Roy as his mum stood up.
‘I am chilled out and stop getting on my case all the time. Ever since you’ve been knocking about with the poxy Turk, all you seem to do is give it the large,’ Roy said, referring to Vinny’s pal, Ahmed. Truth be known, Roy was a bit miffed about his brother’s close friendship with the man. Once upon a time, it had been just the two of them. Back then it was him who Vinny had been as thick as thieves with, not some bloody foreigner.
Vinny had always vowed when they were younger that they would never let an outsider into their lives. He reckoned that you could only really trust family, yet over the past ten months or so, Ahmed was hanging around with Vinny more and more. This worried Roy greatly, as he’d heard through the rumour mill that Ahmed was a drug kingpin. He’d even once asked Vinny if the word on the street was true, but his brother had just laughed in his face. He had sworn to him that Ahmed was a legal businessman, but Roy still wasn’t sure if he believed Vinny. Ahmed was a wrong ’un, Roy could see it in his cold dark eyes.
Threatening her boys if they argued any more they would have her to deal with, Queenie ran into the hallway to hand over her football bets to the Pools man. She was then relieved for once to see her sons and grandson making a move. It was Little Vinny’s fifth birthday tomorrow, and seeing as it had been her idea to throw him his very first proper party, she intended to make it as special as possible. ‘That’s it, get out of my way so I can crack on,’ Queenie said, kissing both her sons, then cuddling her grandson.
‘Well, I’ll keep little ’un all day and bring him back about seven before I open the club,’ Vinny informed her.
‘Where you taking him?’ Queenie asked.
‘The fair at Barking Park.’
Mary Walker served old Mr Sams his two weekly packs of Old Holborn, then ordered Donald to take over at the till while she stocked the shelves. Mary sometimes still dreamt about her fabulous café with its smart red and white décor and fashionable jukebox, but she had learned to deal with what had happened.
Doing a Christmas Day flit to Ilford had proved to be a good move. Donald and Mary’s café in Whitechapel had sold for more than they had expected, which had enabled them to buy a newsagent’s instead. Their shop was situated on the corner of a road near Ilford town centre, and over the years they had made it into far more than just a newsagent’s. It was more like a general store now which sold virtually everything. From toilet paper to ham, from greetings cards to daily delivered bread and cakes, there wasn’t much Mary and Donald didn’t sell and they were very proud of the service they provided to the public.
‘Hi, Mum. Do you need me to help with that? Have you and Dad been busy today?’ Christopher asked, as he walked into the shop.
Mary smiled. Christopher looked so smart in his Boy Scout uniform, and he was such a sensible lad. He had turned fourteen a couple of months ago, and was a real credit to her and Donald. Christopher was still determined to follow his dream and become a policeman, and Donald was in full favour of his son’s choice of career. Mary wasn’t though. After the terrible experience they’d endured in Whitechapel, Mary was frightened of Christopher dealing with the likes of the Vinny Butlers of this world, day in day out, and was concerned for her son’s safety.
‘Are you in a daze, Mum? I asked you if you wanted any help and you haven’t answered me yet.’
‘Sorry, son. You can help me stack that tinned stuff, if you like,’ Mary said.
Christopher picked up the tray of corned beef. ‘Where’s Nancy?’ he asked.
‘She’s gone to the fair with Rhonda.’