2

Dora was dazzled by Dickie Cole. She’d heard things being said about him, bad things. That he’d been a spiv during the war and dodged the draft, and that he’d flog his own granny for tuppence. But Dad was pleased enough to buy the cooked meats for the wedding off Dickie at a knock-down price. Of course it had all been nicked from down Smithfield, everyone knew that, but it was cheap and good quality, what else mattered?

Dora was a very pretty girl and boys chatted her up all the time. But they were boys. Dickie Cole was a man. He had to be at least thirty, but she liked that. He had an air about him, of confidence, almost arrogance. He sat a little apart, neatly turned out, sipping whisky, smoking cigarettes and listening to the speeches, then later watching the dancers.

Dora, seated across the room after the wedding breakfast had been consumed and then all the tables and chairs pushed back to allow for the dancing to start, stared and stared at Dickie Cole. She wasn’t the type to be a wallflower. She sat there in her bridesmaid’s gown of cheap turquoise blue cotton, but every few seconds one boy or another would come up and ask her to dance. Then she’d twirl around the room with them to ‘Young at Heart’ or ‘Secret Love’, played by a crappy little four-piece band hired for the occasion.

As ‘Secret Love’ came to a finish, June hobbled over and plonked herself down beside her younger sister.

‘Christ, it’s hot in here,’ she complained, waving gaily to her boyfriend Joe, who was propping up the bar with his mates. He blushed and turned away. The turquoise bridesmaid’s gown suited June, brought her muted colouring back to life. Dora thought that June looked almost pretty tonight, her limp barely noticeable.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Dora, indicating the intriguing man who was seated across the other side of the room.

‘Who, him? That’s Dickie Cole. He was a spiv when the war was on. Didn’t fight. Dodged the draft. He’d fleece anyone for a tanner.’

Dora took this information in, her eyes glued to Dickie. The thing was, Dickie Cole was much better dressed than any other man in the room, including Alec the groom – who never looked good in anything, poor slope-shouldered bastard – and his best man Joe. Dickie’s suit was double-breasted, beautifully cut to show off a fine pair of shoulders, with a silk paisley kerchief at the breast pocket. He wore a flashy gold snake ring on the little finger of his right hand. His hair was dark, slicked back with Brylcreem, and he had a thin pencil moustache, like Clark Gable. His eyes were dark blue and very deep-set, giving him a hawkish look. And . . . he was looking over at Dora, while stubbing out his cigar on a cake plate.

‘He’s so handsome,’ said Dora, her heart thumping in her chest.

‘Yeah, but he’s no good,’ said June, primly, and she stood up and went over to the bar, leaving Dora on her own.