I | STIRRING TROUBLE
1919
A small coat clad figure rushed down the Bordesley street, tightly clutching a leather bound ledger at her side. A girl of no more than twenty years offered tight lipped smiles to the metal factory workers passing by and in turn received a curt bob or a raised hat in a salute.
It was an expensive coat, for certain; pale grey tweed that flapped around her knees, exposing a skirt made of the same material underneath, wide lapels more similar to the men's uniforms than the fur trimmed extravagances most ladies fancied, and a narrow waist giving her a boyish figure.
One would consider her appearance out of place - black curls flying around her face, dainty little hands that had never seen a day of hard work and eyes with far too much life for a place like that - until they learned her name.
Caterina Cardinale rounded the corner to find herself in front of a Trattoria Tavolieri. Muttering a buongiorno to Antonio Tavolieri sitting up front, peeling some potatoes, cigarette lazily hanging from his mustached lip, she pushed past the staff through the bustling kitchen and pantry, finally opening the backdoor of what seemed to be another store room.
Throwing them open, a cloud of smoke and noise overcame her senses. Dozens of men rushed around the polished saloon of Cardinale Import Company - restaurant owners and fruit retailers for the eyes of the law - some sifting through the papers, others polishing their guns, or waiting for their audience with the capo.
What they actually sold was far from Sicilian lemons and oranges.
Much more men milled around the family office ever since father and Francis returned, she noted, though it was no surprise. A great many of them served in the war, too.
A great many of them never came back either.
Squinting at the smoke filled room she spotted her father listening to the reports of their informants, his greying brow furrowing in confusion and annoyance. As the two departed she quickly crossed the room and dropped the ledger onto his desk stopping his musing in the process.
He glanced first towards her and then proceeded to open the last written page. Caterina gnawed at her lower lip, waiting for the sign that everything was in order. She already knew it was, she made sure of it and counted the bottles twice on her own before sending them off to London, a routine trade she's been keeping since the men were away.
It annoyed her endlessly- the constant reporting back to her father, no more making deals on her own, the patronising smiles he offered her as if she was still a 18 year old girl they left behind.
"Right, well." sighed Roberto Cardinale, leaning into his leather armchair, glasses slipping down his thin nose. "If you'd be so kind to update me."
It was hard to remember the dark haired, olive skinned man that existed before the old man with sunken, wrinkled face and tufts of grey atop his head.
Once, he had been the most eligible bachelor in Northern England, having amassed a fortune by loan sharking and cigarette trafficking. Then his future wife, Caterina's mother, brought connections and men as her dowry. Her father had been a fierce gang leader in Palermo and a dotting father to his only daughter Vittorina, so when she decided to settle in England he sent a dozen Italian families with her to create a better life in Birmingham and protect her. They took up residence in what is today called Little Italy.
Exhaling through her nose she took back the book and casually leaned on the desk.
"First, 250 bottles of brown and 250 of white Irish for London, Portolloni said they'll be increasing the order next month for the races so we'll have to adapt. Then we've two late payments down in Aston, I reckon we send the Varri brothers and perhaps Angeli to shake 'em up a bit," she said, raising her head from the numbers for confirmation.
When he nodded approvingly she snapped the book shut. "Now you tell me what did those two," she pointedly looked in the direction of the two informants fixing their hats and exiting the room, "tell you that got you frowning, papà ?"
He leaned in slightly, motioning her to bend down a bit. "An Irish copper has been transferred from Belfast. Back there he'd been fighting the IRA and recruited some Protestant coppers to help him clean up Birmingham, they say. But I tell ya there's a bigger fish in the game."
His voice dropped so only she could hear him. "Our boys say a gun shipment has been stolen from the BSA. I reckon that's really why he's here, and I can bloody bet he'll turn the city upside down to find them."
At that he straightened up as best as he could. He found he could do little as good as he used to back then, but then again, losing both your legs up to the knee made even the most mundane things like sitting difficult.
Caterina tried, by the Good Lord she really did ; she had paid two nurses to clean him and dress him but they had quit by the end of the week.
He's ripe for Bedlam that one, one of them had said, and he threw things at them - frames and plates and whisky bottles - completely disillusioned at times.
He'd trash and turn, calling out names she didn't know, fallen comrades most likely, until collapsing from exhaustion.
Old Sue took over since then, a washerwoman Kat knew since she was a child. The woman was as strong as a bull and unyielding, deaf to the insults coming from the old Major.
"You think he'll mess with our business?" she inquired. The last thing they needed now was a copper meddling with their affairs. "Gli mostrerò dove è arrivato, sbirro cazz-"
He cut her tirade off, making an odd hand movement as he concluded.
"We'll have to keep low for a while. Francisco, come here!"
The said man's head shot up, crossing the saloon with quick strides and stopping behind Caterina, gently leaning over her shoulder.
The Cardinale patriarch gave his children a levelled stare. "I'll be going to Bath, I think. A bit of change of scenery might do me good," at that he chuckled mirthlessly, "And a few young nurses to keep me company. I trust the two of you'll keep the place going?"
The two of them nodded diligently. Content, he dismissed them with a flick of his hand and returned to his morning papers.
A day later, as she watched him leave, closely followed by two cars of his most loyal men, she wondered if there was a special place in Hell reserved for her for wishing he had died instead of Alessandro.
Alessio would have let her expand to importing silk that she could then trade with in the China Quarter. He wouldn't hang above her head like father did, controlling her every move, suffocating her.
They tip their hats at me, she knew. They fear me, respect me. I fed their wives and children while they served the Country.
"I say we just shot him out of his misery." she said offhandedly, busying herself with lightning the cigarette between her pale lips.
Practically hearing Francisco's glare she lifted her head up.
"What? He's gone soft, brother, and men can feel it. We have a chance of moving up, expanding and he's off to bloody fucking Bath to soak his ass," she exhaled slowly, smoke twisting around her head like a translucent serpent.
"I won't let some Billy fucking Kimber shoot us out of business because father apparently lost his balls in France, too. Think about it, yeah?"
Not even bothering to mask his disgust he turned away from her and made way to his car a few feet away, "He's our father goddammit Cat! Stop being so fucking selfish for once in your life."
Climbing into the car he sent another withering glare her way, throwing a "Don't do anything stupid!" out of the window as he passed her by.
Bleak morning fog rolled down the cobbled streets, entering every crevice, every crack in the walls, chilling the bones of the residents as they burrowed themselves deeper into the sheets, savouring the minutes before inevitably crawling from their beds into the chilling day, and going off to labour away, amidst the lethal gases and grime of the factories.
She dropped the remainder of her cigarette before it burned through her white glove and took a breath of moist morning air. Not making even ten steps, two unfamiliar police officers blocked her path.
"Madam, if you could please come with us," he stated politely, his Irish accent scraping at her ears.
"Chief Inspector would like a moment your time."
She held little love for the Irish: always rebelling, messing with her shipments. She lost three crates of fine whisky once, because those IRA bastards decided to blow up every bloody ship that sailed to England that day.
"Well, we best not keep our good Inspector waiting." She gave them a calculating smile and motioned for them to lead the way. They passed the Magistrates and the Courtroom, the officers not even bothering to make conversation.
Sighing she let her eyes wander over the familiar surroundings, until they stopped in front of the building that made her heart drop to her heel. Hesitantly, she moved forward and around the church of St. Michael to the little burial ground behind it.
The man that must have been Inspector stood in front of her mothers grave, turning as he heard them approach. A middle aged man, as she suspected, greying and well dressed as would befit his position. What unnerved her the most were his lifeless eyes that seemed to follow her every move.
"Miss Cardinale, my name is Inspector Chester Campbell," giving her what was supposed to be a charming smile, he bent down and kissed her gloved hand.
She felt the need to throw up. And she would most definitely buy a new pair of gloves.
"I thank you for taking time to meet with me." As if I had a bloody choice, she thought but opted not to say anything.
Instead she retorted; "It would be a dreadful world, Sir, if we didn't abide the law." she smiled, clasping her hands in front of her, "but I'm afraid if it's business you would like to talk about, I'm hardly a competent one to consult."
The inspector chuckled lowly, circling around her as if she were his prey. Flashing her a predatory grin he continued.
"People talk easily in this town madam, and most of them have your name in their mouth. Do you know why I choose this meeting place, Miss Cardinale?" he pressed on, "I was told good little girls do not lie on their mother's grave. Are you one of them?"
Bile rose in the back of her throat but she levelled him with an equally emotionless stare.
"I would never, Sir." words tasted bitter in her mouth.
"What do you know about the robbery?" he leaned towards her. "What robbery?" she countered, unyielding.
He studied her face carefully before lifting his digit to painstakingly slowly move a lock of her black tresses from her eyes. Her fingers itched for the revolver in her inner coat pocket.
"Ah but you do. You've meddled in gun trafficking before haven't you, Miss Cardinale? I could easily patch the entire affair on you and go home."
It had only been once or twice; they nicked a few semi automatic rifles and ammunition from a warehouse in Suffolk, and resold it to some London gang that offered the highest price. But the little business affair cost her three of her men, bludgeoned to death while leaving the capital.
He wanted her to crack, she knew. That's why he brought her go her mother's grave; he thought her to be a soft and bendable girl.
"You take your liberties too far, Inspector. Don't you know where you came? This is Birmingham, and you'll likely end up in the cut with that tongue of yours," she sneered threateningly.
"I know nothing of your guns, and that's how it shall stay. I don't want my men involved in matters of state - we know our place. And I'd like to keep the peace in Italian Quarter, I've worked hard enough to achieve it."
Smirking at her pale face he fixed his coat and signalled to the officers waiting for him.
"I'm most happy about our agreement," as he passed by her, he grabbed her right arm, pulling her down so he could hiss in her ear.
"But If I happen to hear your name in the same sentence as guns, I'll burn the entire Italian Quarter to the ground."
With that he straightened up and strolled out of the church yard.
As she heard their footsteps leaving she allowed her eyes to slowly close. Bloody coppers and their intimidating techniques ; it annoyed her more than it intimidated her.
Fumbling with her inner pocket she extracted a cigarette and placed it between her trembling lips. It took her at least ten times before she managed to light a match.
Inhaling- once, twice - until she could feel her racing heartbeat slowing down, she disregarded the mud and dirt that ruined her new dress, and sat by the tombstone of
Vittorina Greco Cardinale
She exhaled the wisps of smoke, gently tracing the letters carved into the marble.
There was trouble stirring in Birmingham, and she was in the dead centre of it.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello readers! I've already published this story over on my Wattpad account.
Review, favourite, follow!
Lots of love, Jana x
