by Mia Dolan
She hadn’t let the rest of the family know that her knees were playing her up and she didn’t go to the doctor. Instead she relied on prayer to see her through. It would clear up in time – she was sure of it.
Edith Davies showed her the picture that Garth had only just finished.
‘He gets tired out after one of his sessions,’ said Edith. ‘He’s not like it all the time with his drawing. Just now and again he’ll go hell for leather at something and come out cream crackered.’
Rosa nodded in understanding. Garth was sitting quietly in a tatty old armchair, his chin lolling on his chest, his eyes flickering as though he were about to fall asleep.
‘Garth. Get to bed,’ ordered his mother.
At first he didn’t seem to hear her. She repeated herself, this time accompanying her brusque words with a slap at his head.
He responded to this, getting up slowly and without a murmur shuffling off to his tiny room.
Rosa picked up the crumpled piece of paper he’d been drawing on. It smelled of haddock. She reached the obvious conclusion – on this occasion Garth’s drawing paper had come from the fishmonger.
She frowned at the drawing. It seemed to be mostly black. There was a female figure in the middle wearing something pink spotted. She was surrounded by blackness. A figure resembling a man lurked at the edge of the blackness. The figure in pink did not seem aware of the second figure. The second figure, definitely a man, appeared to be watching.
‘He’s got a very vivid imagination,’ said his mother.
Rosa let the paper fall back onto the drop-down ledge.
‘I must go. I have left Marcie by herself.’
She hurried out as though the devil himself was on her tail. She’d left Marcie by herself many times before. Despite recent events, Marcie was usually sensible and reliable, but Garth’s drawing had unnerved her. She prayed as she hurried along; prayed that she’d be in time.
There was no doubt in her mind. The girl in pink was Marcie. She could only guess at the identity of the man in the shadows. All she knew was that she had to get home. Fast!
Chapter Thirty-six
Marcie was sitting at the old treadle sewing machine at the kitchen table, dressed in a pale-pink maternity dress. Her grandmother had persuaded her that there was no need for her to stay on at the record shop.
‘We can do without charity,’ she’d exclaimed.
It cut no ice telling her that the Maternity Allowance was not charity. Marcie did as ordered, though she hadn’t told her boss the real reason why. At her side were piled the leftover pieces plus a scrap of broderie anglaise. She smiled as she fondled the silky material.
‘Pink for a girl,’ she mused. Her fingers went to the blue cotton scraps she’d found. ‘And blue for a boy.’
Annie’s cast-offs were stored in a box in the attic, but Marcie was determined that her baby would have a few new things even though they were only home made.
She didn’t realise how badly she was squinting until her head began to ache. The nights were drawing in. The small windows of the old cottage let in little light which meant there were always dark corners where daylight never reached. Once the sun went down it seemed as though the darkness crept out from those corners to cover the whole room.
There was no electric light above the sewing machine, the only recourse being to bring over the old oil lamp that usually sat in the middle of the ‘best table’ in the centre of the living room.
Once a match had been held to the wick, the flame came to life, its rosy glow falling over the tiny garments.
Just two more seams and the last of the baby clothes would be finished. She was pleased with her efforts, holding each one up and imagining the tiny person that was presently only a bump in her belly.
She quite often studied the lump, trying to deduce by its size and shape whether she was expecting a boy or a girl.
‘I don’t care what you are,’ she said as she cuddled her bulge. ‘Boy or girl. It doesn’t matter.’
Being under twenty-one, her father had agreed to sign the necessary forms that would enable her to get married. Now all she had to do was get hold of Johnnie and tell him to go ahead and tell his parents. She’d gone up to Leysdown the week before to see if he was there. She’d planned telling him that he could now pick her up from the house – her grandmother had decreed that as they were getting married, she had no objection.
But he hadn’t been there. There were many reasons why he wasn’t there that particular weekend. That’s what she told herself. He’ll be here next week, she told herself, and kept telling herself that all week.
One reason above all others that he wasn’t there lurked in her mind: he’d told his parents and they had forbidden him to see her again. It was the stuff of nightmares and wouldn’t go away. She had no way of contacting him. All she could hope was that he’d be there the following week.
He’ll be there, she assured herself. Tomorrow he’d come down from London with the rest of the gang.
Once she’d finished, she folded the baby clothes and put them in a pile beside the machine.
She was immersed in thought when suddenly the flame on the oil lamp flickered. Taken unawares, she sucked in her breath and looked over her shoulder.
Just a draught, she told herself. Gran was back.
She got up and went to fill the kettle. Her grandmother would appreciate a cup of tea.
‘Do you want a digestive with your cup of tea,’ she called out?
There was no reply.
The door between the kitchen and the passage leading to the front door made a creaking sound as it opened. Everything in the cottage creaked, especially at night – the doors, the windows, the roof trusses; but mostly the floorboards. And nothing fitted very well; certainly not the doors and windows, everything warped with age.
‘Marcie.’
At the sound of his voice, she almost dropped the kettle.
A smiling Alan Taylor was standing in the middle of the kitchen.
His eyes dropped to her belly.
‘I thought as much when I saw you the other day. You’re in the family way.’
She didn’t answer. The hand that held the kettle was shaking badly. She made a great effort to place it on the draining board before she dropped it.
What was he doing here?
‘I guessed you were here,’ he said, his smile broadening, his eyes shining. ‘I saw your gran go out so thought I might pop in. We’ve got a lot to talk about, you and me, Marcie Brooks. We’ve got plans to make, especially now.’
Inside she was alarmed. Outside she frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What plans?’
‘Marcie, baby,’ he said, stretching out his arms as though expecting her to run into them. ‘You know what plans I’m talking about, Marcie. Plans for you, me and the baby. We’ll go away from here. We’ll be a family.’
Marcie was horrified. Her face must have shown it.
Alan looked quite put out. ‘What are you looking at me like that for? It’s my baby. Right?’
There it was – confirmed; the thing she’d been dreading.
She’d avoided him since that fateful night when she’d passed out at his place. A part of her hadn’t wanted to believe that he’d done what he’d done. She’d convinced herself that it couldn’t be true, that the evidence was too flimsy. But here it was. He was standing here practically admitting that he’d raped her. The thought of it made her sick – and much more besides.
Raised hopes about her and Johnnie getting married and living happily ever after were dashed by his confession. What should she do?
It was difficult to confront the problem with her emotions in such disarray, yet confront them she must. He had to be told. He had to understand.
‘No!’ she said, shaking her head frantically. ‘No. I’m marrying Johnnie. I WANT to marry Johnnie! It’s his baby.’ She folded a protective arm across her belly. ‘It’s OUR baby. Mine and Johnnie’s. Now get out. Get out of here. You
disgust me! You really disgust me!’
There was a bitter taste on her tongue. Her last words were laced with hate.
Alan’s eyes glittered like a slot machine sorting out the numbers when it’s deciding whether you’ve won or not. But in Alan’s case there was only one winner – there must always be only one winner – himself.
He shook his head. ‘You sound just like your mother. She didn’t know which side her bread was buttered either, turning me down in favour of a two-bit crook like your dad.’
Marcie felt her legs go weak. This man had actually tried to seduce her mother? Her thoughts reeling, she reached back with both hands, gripping the draining board for support.
‘Get out! I hate you.’
He stood regarding her for a moment, and then he shook his head slowly, reached out a hand and touched her face.
‘No you don’t,’ he said. ‘You’re young. You don’t know what’s best for you. Not yet. But you’ll come round to it. You have to.’
She trembled. How could she have possibly considered him a substitute father?
‘No!’ She shook her head vehemently and clung to the draining board even more tightly. ‘You can’t make me.’
His grin was wide and, it seemed to her, full of teeth – or perhaps it was just a trick of the light. His face was a dull yellow thanks to the muted glow of the oil lamp.
‘Oh yes I can.’
He didn’t shout. He didn’t reach out and grab her or any of the melodramatic things she’d seen at the pictures. His tone was low and chilled her to the bone.
‘Think how upset your family will be. Your dad will probably give you a good hiding. Am I right, or what?’
‘No. He’ll give YOU a good hiding! I’ll tell my dad the truth – that you raped me.’
He laughed. ‘I’ll tell him that you were a right little Lolita. You’ve heard of her, I bet. Couldn’t get enough of older men. Threw herself at them, she did, just like you did me. That’s what I’d tell your dad, though not only him. I’d spread the gossip around. And then of course your family’s name would stink more than it already does. Your dad’s an old lag; your stepmother’s the village bike – everybody’s had a ride. Think how the kids would be treated then.’
She didn’t know where the courage came from, but Marcie was suddenly overwhelmed with the determination to stand up to him. She would not be intimidated. She would not allow her family to be the target for every gossip-hungry individual around.
‘Then I’m going to the police. I’m going to tell them what you did.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘And what about the boyfriend? Will he want to marry you when he hears the kid might not be his? Well, will he?’
He turned sideways on, smiling like the winner he always strove to be.
‘I’ll give you overnight and tomorrow to think about it, then I’ll be round for you Saturday morning.’
‘What about Stephanie? What about Rita?’
He shrugged. ‘They’re both big enough to look after themselves. They’ve been scrounging off me for years. Now they can get off their fat asses and make their own way in the big bad world.’
People turned to salt in the Bible, but after he’d left Marcie felt as though she’d turned to ice. She couldn’t move. Even when he caressed her cheek she didn’t move. It was only after some minutes that she realised he was gone and that her grandmother was home and seemed very agitated.
‘What is wrong?’ Her face was stiff with alarm.
Marcie shook herself out of her trance.
‘Nothing!’
It was obvious from the look on her grandmother’s face that she didn’t believe her. There was no knowing what the old dear had seen in the tea leaves round at Edith Davies’s house. But she couldn’t admit that Alan had been here. The man she’d thought so warm and friendly had issued her with a dreadful ultimatum. In her young mind there was only one thing she could do about it. She had to get away from Alan Taylor. She had to leave Sheppey for her family’s sake, for Johnnie’s sake, for her own sake, and for the baby’s sake.
‘Gran? I’m going away with Johnnie. His parents have offered us rooms. They’ve got a big house in London. I’m not saying I won’t come back. I will. Of course I will.’
The look on her grandmother’s face was unexpectedly forthright. ‘I know,’ she said quietly.
‘You do?’
Although she told herself that she shouldn’t be surprised, her grandmother’s calm response took her totally by surprise.
‘I saw it coming,’ said Rosa Brooks.
‘In the tea leaves?’
Rosa patted her chest. ‘In my heart.’
Marcie’s breath caught in her throat. Oh God, she didn’t want to leave. But she must; for the sake of her family, she must.
Her voice trembled when she spoke. ‘Will you say goodbye to everybody for me? Tell Dad I’ll send him the consent forms. Will that be alright? And I’ll write to you, Gran. I promise I’ll write to you.’
Rosa Brooks had a reputation for being curt, even cold. Rarely did she reveal her emotions or wear her heart on her sleeve as some would have it. Tonight her eyes sparkled.
‘Write to me with your new address and I will take care of everything,’ said her grandmother.
The loving smile that crossed her grandmother’s lips was for her and her alone. Things will be fine, Marcie told herself. You’re doing the right thing and things are bound to be fine!
On Friday night she was waiting at the bus stop when Johnnie came by. She was so relieved to see him that she didn’t question why he hadn’t come to see her the previous week. He pulled over and waited for her to get on, then suddenly caught sight of the old suitcase she was carrying.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve left home. My gran wouldn’t let me stay there once she found out about the baby.’ It was a lie but she didn’t want to mention Alan Taylor and for Johnnie to question whether the baby was his.
‘What about your dad? Will he sign the consent forms?’
‘We’ll write to him from your place. Writing is best when you need someone to think calmly,’ she said, taking leaf out of her grandmother’s book.
She could see the look in his eyes, though his silk scarf still covered half his face and his voice was muffled. He hesitated in answering, eyeing her as though he were thinking things over. Her heart lurched in her chest.
‘I have to warn you. I haven’t told them about the baby. But we’ll be welcome. I’m sure we’ll be welcome.’
She wasn’t sure he sounded very confident. A few days ago everything had been going to plan. Now everything seemed to be unravelling.
Johnnie drove carefully all the way to London in consideration of Marcie’s condition.
She couldn’t help feeling apprehensive. He’d told her very little about his parents. She felt nervous about meeting them, afraid she wouldn’t meet their standards, and afraid they wouldn’t meet hers.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Johnnie parked the bike in a gravel driveway while Marcie stood with her mouth open looking up at the house he lived in.
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ he said after he’d taken off his helmet and his white silk scarf. ‘My name’s not Johnnie Hawke. Well, it is Johnnie, but it’s Haskins: John Edward Haskins. I thought Hawke sounded more impressive.’
Marcie nodded mutely. She had a feeling that she was going to find a lot more surprises in Johnnie’s life.
To begin with, she had never suspected that Johnnie’s family were well off and never ever had Johnnie confessed that his father was a vicar! Maurice Haskins’s hair was collar length and coal black. Unlike his son his eyes were dark and he had a large nose. Marcie couldn’t help thinking that he suited the name Hawke more than Haskins.
‘He’s right trendy for a man of the cloth,’ Johnnie told her, looking amused by her surprise. ‘Mum’s OK too.’
‘Call me Jane,’ said Johnnie’s mother. She had a refined but friendly face and
pale-blonde hair held back by a black velvet Alice band. A box-pleated skirt matched a pale-blue twin set. Pearl earrings matched a double string around her neck and she wore sensible shoes. Her smile was quick and ready as though well rehearsed.
‘I’ll get the box room ready for you.’
Marcie thanked her. The feeling that she was imposing on them wouldn’t go away.
‘Up here,’ said Jane Haskins, taking charge of the battered brown case.
Marcie glanced nervously at Johnnie. He’d taken off his leather jacket and boots at the front door. A row of tartan slippers sat on the lower shelf of an old-fashioned hall stand. She’d almost laughed out loud to see him slip his feet into a pair.
The room was up at the top of the house. The vicarage was three storey plus cellars, and was built in a mock-Tudor fashion. To Marcie’s eyes it was the most impressive house she’d ever been in.
‘This is lovely,’ said Marcie once her suitcase was lying on the bed. ‘Dead posh. Poshest house I’ve ever been in. The view’s lovely too.’
It wasn’t exactly true. Dormer windows and tree-lined avenues gave way to red roofs and chimney pots. The air smelled different around here – smutty and dusty – and she found herself missing the smell of the sea.
Jane Haskins spoke first. ‘It’s Johnnie’s I take it.’
Marcie nodded dumbly. Of course it was. Weren’t they going to believe her?
Johnnie’s mother seemed to sense her nervousness. ‘Never mind. We’ll talk about it later.’ She sounded kind, but perhaps showing kindness was just part of the stock in trade of a vicar’s wife. It was almost imperceptible, but Marcie noticed the tightness of Jane Haskins’s smile.
The door closed. The tension and travelling had worn her out so she slumped down on the bed, too tired to even take her coat off.
Her eyes alighted on a small wooden crucifix hanging on the wall above her head, the only adornment in the whole room. She said a little prayer. ‘Please God. Make them like me.’
Her eyes closed and she slept. In her dreams an odd observation came to her: Johnnie looked nothing like either of his parents.
