Kimberley Chambers 3-Book Butler Collection: The Trap, Payback, The Wronged. Kimberley Chambers

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 the name. They catch people in their trap, just like spiders do,’ she yelled, as Donald escorted her out of the café.

      ‘Oh my God! What have we done, Donald? And who the hell are the Butlers?’ Mary asked, when her husband had locked the door.

      Donald took his wife in his arms. At six foot, he towered over Mary’s five-foot frame. He was the man of the family and protect her he would. ‘Do not worry yourself, my darling. Freda is obviously the mad local scaremonger. And even if that Butler family do come in here, we won’t have any problems with them, I can absolutely assure you of that.’

      Nestling herself against Donald’s broad chest, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband’s instincts were never wrong.

      Five minutes later the jukebox was back on and Mary and Donald worked happily side by side. They sang in unison to the Beatles’ ‘Help’, but what they didn’t realize was that in the not-too-distant future, they would be needing help themselves. Every word that Freda Smart had spoken happened to be the truth. She wasn’t mad, nor was she a scaremonger. She was just a realist who had done her utmost to warn a decent family of the perils of moving to Whitechapel.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘There’s two people waiting outside, Daddy. Can we open the door now?’ asked young Nancy Walker.

      Urging his eleven-year-old daughter to come away from the window, Donald smiled as Nancy skipped towards him. Nancy was like a miniature version of her mother: petite, blonde, with blue eyes and a cute button nose.

      ‘How’re we doing for time, Donald?’ Mary shouted out.

      Holding his daughter’s hand, Donald led her into the kitchen. ‘We have twenty minutes until our business officially opens, my dear,’ he said, proudly. He had worked two jobs for many years to secure his and Mary’s aim of a better life for themselves and their family. He had even worked at weekends while Mary brought the children up nigh-on singlehandedly, but it had been worth it now they had achieved their dream.

      ‘Look, Dad. I buttered all that,’ Christopher said, pointing towards a stack of bread.

      Donald ruffled the hair of his eight-year-old son. Christopher looked nothing like his mother and sister. He took after his dad with his brown hair and his chocolate-coloured eyes.

      ‘Can you put that cake in the display cabinet for me, Donald? Oh, and turn the jukebox on as well,’ Mary ordered.

      Donald raised his eyebrows to the ceiling at the mention of the jukebox. He had been totally against purchasing such an object. He had finally relented when Mary explained her exact reasons for wanting one. ‘I don’t want ours to be like some grotty old transport café, Donald. I want it to be vibrant and modern. If we buy the jukebox outright, just think of the extra income we will earn with people putting all their pennies in. We don’t want a café full of old-age pensioners, do we? We want to attract a younger crowd that have money to spend, and music is the best attraction of all. That new band, the Rolling Stones, would liven up a graveyard,’ Mary insisted.

      Donald sat down on one of the posh plastic shiny red chairs that his wife had fallen in love with. She had an eye for décor, did his Mary, and Donald had to admit she had done a bloody good job. Red and white had been her colour theme and apart from the picture of James Dean that sat proudly on the wall opposite the jukebox, everything was a mixture of those two colours. Thinking how trendy and also how very American it all looked, Donald smiled, stood up, and walked into the kitchen. ‘I can’t wait any longer. Let’s open the door now, shall we?’

      ‘Can I open it?’ Christopher shouted, grabbing his father’s arm.

      ‘No, I want to do it,’ Nancy said obstinately, pushing her brother out of the way.

      ‘Behave yourselves, please. Seeing as your mother designed this and buying a café was all her idea in the first place, it will be her that opens the door to the public.’

      Eyes shining with excitement, Mary picked up the scissors. Donald had put a piece of red ribbon across the outside of the door this morning and once that was cut, their wonderful café was open for the whole wide world to see. ‘To happiness and success,’ Mary said.

      Queenie Butler stared at her mother’s grave and crouched down next to her sister. ‘We’ve tidied you up, Mum, and we’re off now. Love you. God bless,’ Queenie said, kissing her fingers and placing her right hand against her mother’s headstone.

      ‘Yep. God bless, sweetheart,’ Vivian added, solemnly.

      ‘Don’t our flowers look beautiful?’ Queenie commented, linking arms with her sister.

      Vivian nodded. ‘Best-looking grave over here by miles. At least we have respect for the dead, unlike some people,’ she said loudly, as Old Mother Taylor walked past.

      ‘Stop it, Viv,’ Queenie laughed.

      ‘Well, her old man’s grave is an eyesore. How the hell can she visit him regular and stare at those weeds? It ain’t bleedin’ normal. Lazy old cow,’ Vivian said, loudly.

      ‘Whatever is your Lenny doing?’ Queenie enquired.

      Marching over to her nine-year-old son, Vivian clipped him around the ear. ‘What have I told you about pissing over ’ere, eh? If you wanna do a wee-wee, you ask me and I’ll take you to a toilet. You don’t get your dingle-dangle out in public, understand? It’s naughty.’

      ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ Lenny said, grinning.

      As her nephew skipped on ahead of them, Queenie chuckled. ‘I’m sure he only does it to wind you up, Viv. He laughs every time you have a go at him. Sod all wrong with his brain. Smart as a button, he is.’

      Vivian batted her eyelids. Lenny was her only son, she adored him, but it wasn’t easy bringing up a child with disabilities. Lenny had nearly died when she’d given birth to him. She had gone into labour at home and when the doctor finally arrived, he hadn’t been able to get her son out at first. Lenny had been in the breech position and it seemed like an eternity before he finally entered the world. Queenie had been with her throughout, holding her hand while she screamed blue murder and both of them had thought little Lenny was a goner. He lay motionless on the bed for a good few minutes before the doctor managed to find signs of life. The relief she felt when she heard that first cry come from his lips, Vivian would remember till her dying day.

      Lenny’s dad was an East End Jack-the-lad called Bill Harris. Bill was working his way up the criminal ladder and had felt humiliated being associated with a son who wasn’t born perfect. It was common knowledge locally that Bill was knocking off the tarty barmaid in the Blind Beggar and when Vivian finally learned of his betrayal, she had packed his clothes in a couple of sacks, marched inside the pub with Queenie alongside her, chucked them at the barmaid, and told her she was welcome to her no-good husband. That was over three years ago now, and Vivian had never clapped eyes on Bill Harris since. Rumour had it that he’d moved to Barking and set up home with his new tart. Viv hoped this wasn’t true, as she would much prefer the bastard to be six feet under and covered by earth.

      ‘Your Lenny looks more and more like my Michael every day. Wouldn’t Mum have loved him now?’ Queenie said, wistfully.

      Vivian nodded. Their poor old mum had died last year and had adored young Lenny. She’d had a stroke and was found dead in her armchair with her knitting on her lap. She was only fifty-seven, no age at all.

      ‘Shall we pop