Prologue

      Autumn 1965

      Unable to make himself heard above Sandie Shaw belting out ‘Long Live Love’, Donald Walker made his way over to the Wurlitzer jukebox and turned down the volume.

      ‘Don’t do that! You know I like Sandie,’ Mary Walker said, as though she knew the singer personally.

      ‘There’s somebody knocking at the door,’ Donald informed his wife.

      Mary walked over to the door and unbolted it. She was greeted by a sturdy-looking woman standing there in a dark-grey overcoat. At a guess, Mary thought she was probably in her mid fifties, but it was hard to be sure because of the curlers and hairnet on her head. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ Mary asked, politely.

      ‘No, but I can help you,’ the woman replied, barging her way past Mary and into the premises.

      Donald and Mary knew very little about the East End or its natives. They were North Londoners, having lived in Stoke Newington for many years, but this café in Whitechapel had been far too cheap to turn down, which is why they had decided to up sticks and move.

      ‘Hello, I’m Donald and this is my wife, Mary. As you have probably already realized, we are the new owners of the café. We officially open for business tomorrow but would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ Donald asked.

      Shaking her head, the woman held out her right hand. ‘I’m Freda. Freda Smart. I live just around the corner.’

      ‘And how can you help us?’ Mary enquired. She had a feeling that Freda was about to ask for a job, but there was no chance of that as she and Donald had spent every penny they had refurbishing the rundown café and were in no position to employ staff just yet.

      ‘I can help you by telling you why this café has been empty for eighteen long months before you bought it and why you probably got it for peanuts,’ Freda spat.

      Mary gave her husband a worried glance. This café had been half the cost of any others they had looked at and the only one in their meagre price-range. But this woman seemed unhinged somehow and Mary wondered if she perhaps held a grudge against the previous owner.

      ‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Donald asked. He had noticed that the woman’s forehead had beads of sweat forming which had now started to drip onto one of his brand-new melamine tables.

      ‘No, don’t want nuffink. Just come to let you know the score. No-one else round ’ere will tell you. They’re all too bleedin’ well frightened of ’em, but I ain’t.’

      ‘Frightened of who?’ Mary asked, perplexed.

      ‘Frightened of the Butlers. They own that snooker club just around the corner. Old Jack who used to own this café, they killed his son, Peter. Broke his wife Ethel’s heart it did and if you don’t abide by their rules, they’ll rip the heart out of your family too. I saw you move in. You got two little kids, ain’t ya? Well, if you just do as I say, you’ll be OK. Albie’s the dad. He’s a piss-head, a proper waster. The mother is the brains of the family. Hard-looking old cow called Queenie. Her sister is Vivvy, she has a mongol son, and Queenie’s kids are Vinny, who is the worst out the bunch, Roy, Michael, and young Brenda. When they come in here, look after ’em. Serve ’em before any other customers and don’t charge ’em for food or drinks, you get me?’

      Seeing the distressed look on his wife’s face, Donald was extremely annoyed. Opening their café tomorrow was meant to be one of the best moments of their lives and yet this madwoman was here, upsetting his Mary and threatening to spoil the joyous occasion. ‘I can assure you, Freda, that Mary and I will not be giving free drinks or food to anybody and our customers will also be served in the order they arrive in. Now, if you don’t mind, could I please ask you to leave? Mary and I still have lots of work to do before we open tomorrow and we have very little time left to accomplish that task.’

      Absolutely furious that her sound advice hadn’t been listened to, Freda stood up, stomped towards Donald and poked him in the chest. ‘Dig your own grave, what do I care? But, don’t say I didn’t warn you. The Butlers, remember