by Mia Dolan
You have to trust them, mate, Alan wanted to say, but decided to save that pearl of wisdom for another day. It helped to have a few ready lines in the arsenal of useful platitudes.
Tony blinked. ‘Alan.’ He threw an expectant look past Alan’s shoulder. ‘Where’s our Marcie?’
Alan adopted the concerned expression he could do so well.
‘That’s the problem, mate. I don’t know. I didn’t tell you before but the other week there was a toe rag on a motorbike trying to pick her up. I scuppered his chances driving past when I did. But I saw him again tonight. He forced your Marcie to go with him. I followed as best I could but you know how it is with motorbikes; shot off down between two bollards along by the beach.’ He sighed a deep, meaningful sigh. ‘Sorry, old son. I lost the bastard.’
His expression a mix of alarm and anger, Tony pushed Alan aside and shot down the garden path like a greyhound from the trap.
‘Hold on, mate,’ Alan called out behind him. ‘What you going to do?’
‘Kill the bastard if he lays a finger on my Marcie! I’ll fucking kill ’im!’
‘Hold on there.’
Alan congratulated himself. He’d easily wound Tony Brooks up into a state. It wasn’t just his tall tale about the kid on the motorbike that had done it. Tony could see the same thing in Marcie that Alan saw: she looked like her mother – a lot like her mother.
A low rumble of violence sounded in Tony’s voice. His look was pure evil. ‘Are you taking me to look for her in that road burner of yours or what?’
Alan nodded and kept nodding, anything to calm the stupid git down. ‘Course I will. What are friends for?’
At the very moment when Alan turned the ignition key, a single headlight came into view at the end of the terrace.
‘Could be who we’re looking for,’ suggested Alan.
Tony was out of the car before Alan could tell him to calm down. He had no option but to follow. Not that he’d get too involved at first, not until getting involved was likely to work to his advantage.
The bike slowed then stopped.
Alan had been right. Hair tangled over her face, skirt way above her thighs, Marcie alighted from the pillion.
She looked terrified when she saw her father. There was pleading in her eyes when she turned to Alan.
She opened her mouth to explain. Her father grabbed her arm and swung her in a wide semi-circle towards the gate.
‘Get into the house. Now!’
It was Johnnie he was after.
‘You!’
His shout was enough to wake up the whole terrace.
Johnnie looked at him in disbelief. ‘What’s the score, mate? There’s no harm done. She’s home safe and sound.’
Alan managed to catch Tony’s raised fist before he had time to use it.
‘Steady on, Tony mate. Think of the consequences. Anyway, like the boy said, she’s home safe and sound. That’s all that matters. Get going, kid,’ he said to Johnnie.
‘See you tomorrow.’ The cheeky little sod blew Marcie a kiss.
Alan saw the kid’s grin and guessed it was done on purpose to wind Tony up.
Tony saw it too and was livid. ‘You stay away from my daughter! Hear me? Stay away or I’ll rip your fucking head from your body!’
‘Get going, get going,’ Alan repeated.
Bedroom lights were being switched on in some of the cottages. It was only a matter of time before the police were called. Tony couldn’t afford that to happen. He’d only just come out of nick. If he went on like this he was likely to end up back inside and Alan didn’t want that to happen. Too bloody right he didn’t!
As Tony lurched out of Alan’s grasp and towards him, Johnnie spun the bike in a half-circle, opened the throttle and roared away.
Marcie’s hair had tangled into long strands around her shoulders. It flew out behind her when, wild eyed, she headed for her father, still trying to explain.
‘Dad, he didn’t do anything wrong. I wanted to go with him. Honest I did. He just gave me a lift home. Rita phoned her dad and told him he was going to—’
‘She didn’t phone,’ explained Alan, not wanting Marcie to explain any further. He lied easily. Rita wouldn’t mind. ‘Head like a sieve that girl of mine. Still. No harm done.’
Tony didn’t notice what was being said. His attention was firmly fixed on his daughter.
‘You’re not going to meet that boy again and that’s that!’
‘Yes I am!’ she snapped, uncaring of how disrespectful she sounded. ‘What are you going to do? Keep me prisoner?’
His meaty paw lashed out and caught her cheek. ‘You’re just like your mother!’
Face smarting and eyes streaming with tears, Marcie stared at him.
‘I hate you!’ she shouted. Then she ran off, her feet slapping the broken pavement at the front of the cottages. She heard Alan shouting at Tony to knock it off but she didn’t stop running. Her sight was clouded with tears.
The darkness of the back lane felt cool and safe. No one could see her crying here. No one could hear her sobbing.
Squeezing her eyes shut she tried to reason what had gone wrong. She’d been so looking forward to having her father home, to being like everybody else. It was bad enough not to have a mother. Her father was supposed to have made up for that.
She thought of Babs and her cut lip. How long before she sported the same?
A cold breeze sent the weeds and rubbish rustling around her feet. Footsteps sounded from the end of the lane. They sounded quick and heavy. Her first thought was that her father had come to fetch her. He was likely still angry, still intent on having her do what he wanted, not what she wanted.
Her heart began to race. She flattened herself against an old stone wall. It wasn’t that cold an evening except when the breeze clocked in. All the same, she shivered.
‘Marcie?’
The sound of Alan’s voice calmed her. She sighed with relief and her whole body began to relax like a rag doll with too little stuffing.
‘Here,’ she said breathlessly.
It was dark and she could barely see his face, but she could smell him – a mix of expensive cologne, good clothes and cigars.
‘Never mind, sweetheart,’ he said gently as he pulled her against him. ‘Your Uncle Alan will kiss everything better.’
His voice was soothing. She sobbed against his chest as he stroked her hair and patted her head.
‘It’s going to take time for your old man to adjust to life outside. But don’t you worry. He won’t be doing stir again. Not if his mate Alan Taylor’s got anything to do with it. But remember this: your old man’s his own worst enemy. He can’t help what he is and deep down he loves you. Honestly he does.’
There was truth in Alan’s words. Her dad was flawed; far from perfect. She wished with all her heart that he could be more like Alan.
‘I wish I had a dad like you,’ she blurted.
He laughed, a low self-conscious laugh. He said it was nice that she thought so.
‘I mean it.’
Alan even smelled different: fresh, clean and expensive. Tony Brooks tried his best to emulate his better-off friend, but failed. His sand-coloured suit might look similar but it was cheap, a snip in the summer sale at the fifty-bob tailors. On top of that he smoked like a chimney and smelled like an old ashtray. But he was still her dad even though he’d changed. In an effort to rekindle old feelings, she reminded herself that he’d sent her presents each time he went away. Sometimes he’d been in prison. Sometimes he’d been in London working for people he knew. Being younger back then, all she’d cared about was him coming home.
‘He shouts at me more than he used to. Is it because I’m grown up? Is that why he’s like he is?’
Alan patted her back as he held her close against his fresh-smelling cashmere sweater.
‘There, there, now.’
She closed her eyes, felt herself drifting away and imagined him smiling as gently as he was speaking.
‘You being grown up now has got a lot to do with it, that and the fact that you remind him of your mother.’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘My mother.’
His comment surprised but also pleased her.
‘I can’t remember her. I can’t remember what she looked like and there are no photographs. They’re not allowed.’
She couldn’t see his face clearly; she merely guessed that he was taken aback.
‘Why is that?’ she asked in a forlorn voice.
He paused as though taking an extra breath before answering.
‘Your dad must have good reason.’
‘They said she ran away with another man. Would my mother do that? Would she?’
Again that hesitation.
‘I don’t know, Marcie. Honest. I don’t know.’
‘But I want to know,’ Marcie said forlornly. ‘I want to know where she is. I want to know whether I really do look like her.’
‘You do. Honest. No matter what she was or she wasn’t, you’re just as gorgeous as she was and I think you bring back a few aching memories,’ Alan added.
Mention of her mother suddenly made her less aware that her face was stinging. ‘I want to know what happened when she went away. Who did she go away with?’
‘I don’t know. Honest, Marcie, I don’t know. Now come on. I’ll take you home. I presume the back door’s locked so we’ll have to go round to the front.’
Marcie hesitated. She was thinking of her mother. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t visualise her features. Sometimes in the night she lay in bed trying so hard to remember. Some tiny things came back, but for the life of her she could not see her mother’s face.
‘I don’t remember her and I feel I should.’ Her voice teetered on the edge of a sob.
Alan attempted to reassure her.
‘Now, now. No need to worry. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve had words with your dad. If he ever lays a finger on you again then you tell me and I’ll sort him. Right?’
‘Right.’ She smiled at him through her tears. ‘If you think so, Mr Taylor.’
‘If anything really bad happens, you know you can live with me.’
She was so grateful for his kindness that she didn’t notice he’d used the singular; she could live with him.
He kept his arm around her all the way back. Every so often he squeezed her a little more tightly.
‘Just like your mother,’ he said softly. ‘And call me Alan. Just Alan.’
Marcie liked him saying that and liked the closeness and the fact that he stood up for her. She wished her father was the same, though it no longer seemed to matter quite so much. At least she had someone to run to, someone who cared.
In order to give her parents some privacy, Annie and her cot had been moved back into the room Marcie shared with her grandmother.
Assured that her grandmother was fast asleep, she knelt at the side of the baby’s cot, her fingers entwined around the bars.
The baby was fast asleep, her tiny hands clinging to a small brown teddy bear that one of the boys had won at the fairground. She looked so small, yet so peaceful. Suddenly Marcie found herself envying her for one thing above all others.
‘At least you know your mother – even though she’s not much cop.’
The bravado with which she’d voiced the comment swiftly died. She bit her lip and a tear squeezed out from the corner of one eye. She brushed it aside, but the thought that came with it wouldn’t go away. It needed to be said out loud if only in a whisper.
‘Know what, Annie? I’m going to find my mother. Yeah! That’s what I’m going to do.’
Annie made a snuffling sound in her sleep.
Marcie smiled. ‘God bless,’ she said softly, went to her bed, undressed and fell asleep.
Rosa Brooks, supposedly asleep, had heard Marcie’s heartfelt vow to find her mother.
Over my dead body!
She could not allow that to happen. Much as she loved her granddaughter there were other family members she loved just as much. Her son, Antonio, she loved above all others. She could not allow him to be hurt.
Chapter Fifteen
It was gone eight o’clock the next morning and Marcie was wiping dishes. As she wiped she watched her father follow her grandmother down the back garden to the chicken run. Her grandmother was carrying a small axe.
The axe was frequently waved to emphasise whatever it was her grandmother was saying. She wondered if they were discussing her.
By the time they came back to the house her father’s hands were buried deep in his pockets. His chin almost touched his collar bone – he was hanging it that deeply.
Her grandmother was carrying a dead chicken in her right hand, the bloodied axe in the other.
Marcie guessed that her grandmother had given him a tongue lashing. She wanted to smile at that. Perhaps unknowingly she did. Her father glared at her sidelong as he passed.
The atmosphere was electric. She guessed he didn’t want her to go swimming, but her grandmother had persuaded him to let her go.
The other thing that helped matters along was that clouds were totally absent from the sky. A summer day had dawned though the year was swiftly sliding into autumn.
Adding more joy to the day, Alan Taylor’s sleek green Jag pulled up outside. Rita got out and rushed through the front gate, leaving it thrashing around behind her. She was wearing a turquoise mini skirt with a crocodile leather belt and ankle-strap shoes. Another figure sat in the front passenger seat: Stephanie, Rita’s mother.
‘Come on, Marcie. Get your costume. We’re going to the beach. And the boys will be there,’ she added in a conspiratory whisper.
‘And last night?’ Marcie questioned.
Rita giggled. ‘I got in at three this morning.’
‘Did your dad go mad?’
‘No. He wasn’t home either. Steph was, but what the hell … it’s no business of hers.’
It continued to be a mystery to Marcie how Rita managed to get away with what she did. Her parents let her do anything. Marcie looked hesitantly at her own father, asking with her eyes before even daring to open her mouth.
His lips cracked into an insincere smile. ‘Go on. Enjoy yerself. You’re safe enough with Alan.’
And that was it. He was agreeing to this because Alan was here to look after her. Not that she was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Two minutes and she had costume and bath towel. She’d also managed to change from jeans into the suede pinafore dress and a pair of snow-white elastic knee-length boots. Neither the dress nor boots were exactly suited to the beach, but she didn’t care. Damn her father. She was going to wear her new outfit despite him. She ignored his grimace, sure she could get away with it.
Out in the car Stephanie Taylor looked at Marcie as though she had the smell of drains under her nose. ‘Look at that bloody skirt. And those boots. Tart’s boots. That’s what they are. Tart’s boots!’
‘You should know,’ said Alan. He threw her a warning look.
Stephanie swiftly changed the subject. ‘Wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t insisted we brought a packed lunch.’
‘A picnic!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘What could be better on a day like this?’
‘I hate picnics. I hate beaches. I hate sand. It gets everywhere.’
Alan leaned closer and whispered in her ear. ‘So why the fuck did you come?’
He hadn’t planned to bring her. His plan had been to have a day out with the girls. Rita would have done her own thing – he knew she had a boyfriend. That daughter of his was an open book and he’d have been more than happy if she went off with her bloke. Her going off meant he could have had Marcie to himself. As it was, Stephanie was the proverbial gooseberry – and just as prickly.
He watched Marcie, her long legs in those shocking white boots kicking ou
t behind her as she ran to the car. Just like her mother. What the hell had Mary Morse been thinking of marrying Tony Brooks, he’d never know.
Stephanie came out with what he was thinking. ‘She looks like Mary.’
He pretended to be offhand. ‘A bit, I suppose. Can’t say I noticed.’
The last thing he’d wanted was for her to notice that. It unnerved him only momentarily. Nothing could throw him off the course he’d planned. Nothing at all.
The two girls had laughed when they’d ran down the garden path to the car. The car was only two door, so Rita’s mum had to get out of the front seat to let them clamber into the back.
The leather was warm and filled the car with its own particular smell.
Marcie said hello to Alan Taylor, being careful to call him mister. She also said hello to Rita’s mum who she would never ever call anything except Mrs Taylor. Stephanie always looked so sour.
Alan Taylor responded with undisguised exuberance.
‘Glad you could come, Marcie. Lovely day for the beach.’
Rita’s mother was as icily polite as the inside of a fridge. Once she was sitting back down she folded her arms and stared at the road ahead.
‘Well! Let’s get going then,’ she snapped.
‘Temper, temper,’ Alan muttered.
Marcie wondered whether they’d had a row. None of your business, she thought to herself. Anyway, Rita’s mum was a funny cow at the best of times.
The beach was crowded, with everyone taking advantage of the fine weather, the last they were likely to get at this time of the year.
Babies in pushchairs were being trundled over the damp sand. Teenagers were everywhere accompanied by the tinny blast of pop music picked up from Radio Caroline. It was a well-known fact that the pirate radio station, so proud of the fact that they were cocking a snook at Government taxes, were rolling around on an old ex-dredger somewhere beyond the three-mile limit.
As they entered the water, shrieking at the sudden shock of coldness, Rita and Marcie waved at the Taylors, both of whom had opted not to enter the water. Alan was quite affable about it.
‘Count me out, darlings. I don’t mind floating on top of it or having a hot bath in it, but I don’t do swimming.’
