Tara

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Book: Read Tara for Free Online
Authors: Lesley Pearse
Tags: 1960s London
another reminder that MacDonald wasn't just a drunken bully, but a devious and dangerous man.
    Right from the night he had taken Amy to the Middlesex hospital and asked them to treat her under a false name, he'd been careful. And when Bill didn't come hammering on his door, he thought he had cracked it. His friend and fellow stallholder Queenie was the only person he had taken into his confidence and she was as trustworthy as the Pope. It was Queenie who had bought the children's clothes, the extra food, books and toys. She had kept her ear to the ground and alerted him to Bill's movements, the rumour and speculation.
    But though he'd expected Bill to catch him one night in a dark alley, to have his stall smashed up, or his van trashed, tonight's events proved MacDonald had lost none of his cunning, the ability to plan; his hatred of George blazed as strongly as the warehouse fire he'd started.
    George didn't drive straight home, he had too much thinking to do before he could face the children. As he passed Sid's fish and chip shop, and the MacDonalds' home above, he noticed the window upstairs was smashed and the front door boarded up.
    It was no surprise. Two snooker halls, a drinking club and a pub had been on the receiving end of MacDonald's explosive temper already. No doubt the damage here was due to Sid giving him notice to quit.
    'Amy won't be able to cope with this,' he muttered to himself as he motored on past Bethnal Green.
    She had come within an inch of death. Progress was very slow, feeding her through a tube because of her broken jaw, pumping her full of iron, vitamins and antibiotics. If she were to read about the fire in the paper she'd be terrified that Bill might torch the house next.
    'It's no good, mate.' He stopped cruising and turned the car around to go home. 'Either you get out there and finish MacDonald off or you find some safer place to send the kids.'
    As he drove into Paradise Row he looked up at his house reflectively. He loved the fancy brickwork round the door and windows, the black railings and the wide steps. Once there had been many terraces like this in Bethnal Green, but between Hitler and half-witted do-gooders, most of them were gone now.
    It was a whim that had made him buy it, prompted by the words of the song his wife used to sing.
    'On Mother Kelly's doorstep, down Paradise Row.' He hummed the tune softly. He'd got it for a song, too, because it was almost derelict and he'd had more pleasure doing it up with Harry than from anything else he'd ever done. So maybe the neighbouring houses were neglected, but two had changed hands recently for a great deal more money than he'd paid for his. Other people would be charmed by the old gas lantern, the cobbled street and the graceful lines of a gentler period, just as he had been. One day it might prove to have been his best investment yet.
    'That is if you can get Mac Donald off your back,' he said softly to himself.
    'Put that away.' George pointed to the gun lying across the settee the moment he got in. 'If the kids see that it'll spook them.'
    Harry ran upstairs to hide it and came back seconds later pulling on a sweater over a checked wool shirt.
    'How bad is it?' he asked as the pair of them went through to the kitchen and closed the door behind them.
    'Wiped out,' George said curtly, putting on the kettle. 'Everything gone. It was Mac Donald's doing, though whether there's enough evidence to put him away for it is debatable. But I don't want you running off half-cocked, 'Any. We've gotta think things through.'
    George eased himself down on to a chair. He was exhausted, filthy and he stank of smoke. Harry glanced round at his father as he made the tea and he was shocked by the sudden change in him. He looked his fifty-five years now; his face had lost its ruddy glow, his shoulders were hunched in despair.
    'It don't matter, Dad.' He laid his hands on his father's shoulders and massaged them comfortingly. He had a pang of guilt that he

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