An old lady, hair tied up in rags, neat silk scarf snug over her head, opened the door cautiously. “Oh, look at you, little one,” she exclaimed, pinching Cassie’s cheek. “It’s all right. Come in with me till he gets over it. He don’t mean it. He’s just angry. Oh, hello, Jem. What you want?”
“Let them in, Joan.” Footsteps sounded on the staircase behind them. “Show Jem the fire escape. Bye, then.” He squeezed Jem’s arm. “It’s the right thing, Aunt Jem, you know it is.”
His aunt pushed Cassie through the door, but she lingered on the threshold for a moment. “You’re a good boy, Davy. Come and see us, all right?”
His sister’s face appeared under Joan’s armpit. “Davy?” Tears ran down her cheeks. “Want Davy.”
David tried to keep calm. He swallowed. He could hear his father, boots tramping loudly on the cracked old boards. Swearing. “Where’s that little streak of shit, that fucking boy? Why the hell don’t he come when I tells him to? Some git trunna swindle his dad and he don’t even fucking give a toss. He don’t even wan hear it, I’m going to—I swear. . . .”
David crouched down. “Listen to me, Cassie,” he hissed. “You gotta go with Jem. You can come back here when you’re older, when Dad’s not here. But you’ll have a better life away from him. All right? If you ever need me, you just come back here, and you ask for me at the pub or down the market, someone’ll find me. I promise. I’ll always be there if you need me.”
He gripped her thin shoulders. “You understand that? Promise?” She nodded. “But that’s for when you’re older,” he said, and swallowed. “Anyway. You’d better fuck off now, I ain’t got time.”
The serious gray eyes fixed on him for a clear second, and he felt like his heart was being cut right in two. Then she nodded again. “Yes.” And she turned and disappeared, Flo clutched under her arm. The smell of Joan’s armpit flowered under David’s nose. He stood up.
“Bye, then,” he said. Aunt Jem kissed his cheek, squeezing his arm so hard it hurt.
“Bye, Davy. I’ll come and see you soon. Get out of there soon as you can, eh? Work hard, be good, all right?” The words caught in her throat. She turned, and then she shut the door in his face as the footsteps grew louder, and David turned round to face his father.
• • •
Tom Doolan was feared before the war, but things were different then. He’d fought in the Great War, after all. Got some shrapnel in his knee and it gave him pain. So he’d been a hero once, albeit with a violent streak. There were worse men than he—at least he had a job and a wife and some outside respect, even if he did knock his wife to the floor with the vase she’d bought at the Sainsbury’s grocers, or punch his boy in the face after one too many, and even if David heard screams and sobbing late at night when he should have been sleeping. At least there was a home, a roof.
Now Tom Doolan was a wreck. He’d always been a drunk—now he was drunk all the time. David was properly afraid of him, the three of them in the tiny one-bedroom apartment the council had found for them off the Essex Road. Sometimes he’d wake up and see his father watching him, or Cassie while she slept, in the corner of the room, rolling imaginary tobacco between his fingers, his black eyes glittering. Last week he’d woken Cassie up, dragged her by her thin arms and banged her head against the wall until she screamed, and that was why she couldn’t hear properly still. All for saying she was hungry that afternoon when there was no tea.
Course she was hungry. He didn’t work and he did nothing to provide. They lived on handouts from neighbors and Aunt Jem, and what the welfare could give them, and they were lucky to have this flat, David knew—thousands of families didn’t, were instead crammed into other people’s houses. David wished they were living with someone else, though, because then Dad wouldn’t be able to use his children as punching bags.
It was when their father called Cassie “Emily,” not once but a couple of times, that David realized the danger was real. If the bomb hadn’t killed their mother, he was sure their father would have done soon afterward. He’d murder one of them, David knew it.
“What are you doing, skulking round like a sneaking little thief ?”
His father grabbed his arm and yanked David against the wall, dragging him back along the corridor to their flat. A tearing, hot pain in his shoulder made David scream. His father threw him in through the open door, then slammed it shut behind them. He looked around, and David looked up at him.
He was blond and tall; before the war people had said he looked like a matinée idol. Now he was flabby and red-faced, his teeth nearly all gone, his wide mouth permanently set in an ugly grimace, and his bloodshot eyes always open, darting around, looking for trouble.
“Where’s Emily?”
“Cassie, Dad.” David crawled backward and then pulled himself up. His shoulder and neck felt as though they were on fire. The first thought that crossed his mind was, At least it’s not the arm I paint with. “Not Emily. Cassie. Your daughter.”
Tom Doolan took one step toward him and punched him hard in the face. David staggered back as his father kept walking, pushing him up against the wall.
“She’s gone. She ain’t coming back,” David said. “I got her out of here. The police took her away, and they said if you came looking for her, they’d have you arrested.”
And he spat in his father’s face. “They’re going to put her with a family that wants her and can look after her, like she deserves. She don’t deserve a father like you. Hitler don’t deserve a father like you.” He pushed him away, his heart thumping so loud in his chest he thought it might explode. I’m for it now, he thought. Bye, world.
“You little shit,” Tom Doolan said, and he grabbed his son by the neck, pushed him over toward the range in the corner, and held him down against the hot iron; and as David yelled and called for help, his father banged and banged his head on the surface, his fingers a vise around his neck where Jem’s had been, firm and loving, only minutes before.
“No one leaves me. No one walks out on me, you hear? You get that, you fucking pansy?”
David struggled, writhing like mad, flailing out his arms and legs, kicking at his father, and when the grip tightened and he couldn’t speak, he stared into Tommy Doolan’s face, his red eyes, and he spat at him again, and kept on kicking. He could not articulate any particular thought, but a deep, primeval sense told him to keep fighting until his father killed him; and even though he couldn’t see anymore, couldn’t think straight, with every last drop of strength he had he just kept on writhing, kicking, lashing out, doing everything he could, until at last his father simply let go and David sank to the floor, heavy as a chain. His father gave him a sharp, hard kick in the stomach, then dropped into the armchair.
“I’ll kill you one day soon,” he said. “You won’t get away with it. You hear me?”
David stayed still, just kept on breathing, and he focused on Cassie and Jem, the door shutting on them, where they’d be now. On the bus together, heading out northeast. Cassie’d get home with Aunt Jem, to that nice new house David always dreamed they had. He’d never been there, but he liked to picture it. Tiles on the path to the front door; stained glass in the window. A knocker in the shape of an owl—he’d seen that on one of those smart houses down the road; he liked it. Maybe even some honeysuckle, growing up the wall. Uncle Sid would open the door. He wouldn’t be cross, or look suspicious with that weaselly stare, like What are those brats doing here? which was his normal expression when he saw Emily’s kids. He’d say, with a smile, “Well, hello, Cassie! What you doing up this way, sunshine?”
“She’s coming to live with us,” Jem would say. “Come in, sweetheart, let’s get you something to eat.”
And they’d go in, hang their coats on the hooks, and go into the kitchen, which would have one of those tables with panels that slid out, to make room for visitors, like David. Maybe he’d spend Christmas wit
h them. He’d drawn a picture of a Christmas meal he’d seen the previous year through a window over on Thornhill Square, the house that had the owl door knocker on it. David liked owls. He liked drawing them from pictures in books.
He’d stood looking up into their front room, clutching the railings so tightly his palms were covered in rusted dust afterward. Paper chains in bright colors hung from the ceiling, and there on a chair was a little girl singing “Noel, Noel” over and over to herself. She was bouncing up and down on her chair with excitement, at the whole thing, the whole day, and David knew exactly how she must feel. That was what was strange. He knew how lovely it would be to be that girl.
As he stared in, a man appeared carrying a glistening brown Christmas pudding, electric blue flames shimmering round it, and the people at the table all clapped. None of them noticed him, face at the window.
Jem and Sid would have a Christmas pudding. And there’d be a lovely parlor with proper sofas and chairs to sit and read in all day long. A proper wireless—Cassie loved the radio.
All this for his sister, safe now in someone else’s house. David closed his eyes, playing dead and waiting for his father to fall asleep. Then he could go out again and draw some more. And hopefully not get killed, today at least.
Lucy
May 2013
“HAVE SOME GINGERBREAD.” Martha slid the plate toward Lucy, who took a piece, peering down as she always used to at the scene that opened up each time someone removed a biscuit. As she popped a square of gingerbread in her mouth, she squinted to make out the familiar image of three Chinese men crossing a tiny ornate bridge. Lucy sighed loudly. Martha’s gingerbread was like nothing in this world: crumbly, spicy, thick with juicy, sweet flavor. This batch was stale, but it was still delicious.
“Hungry, Luce?” her father said, a faint smile on his face.
“Mmm,” she replied, saying what she thought her grandmother would want to hear. “Lovely. It’s the best, Gran.”
Martha nodded. “Glad to hear it.” She gazed out of the window, fiddling with a piece of wire tag fastening.
The paraphernalia of the house, once charming, now threatened to overwhelm it. Bowls full of old pre-euro coinage, scraps of paper, leftover Christmas cracker toys, and wooden clothes pegs spilled onto the dresser. A mug with a broken handle sat forlornly on the table in front of them, covered in a light film of gray dust.
Summer hours had started again at work, and though Lucy had left early, the weekend traffic meant she hadn’t arrived until teatime. It was dark and drizzling when she arrived, rain spread out like a cloak covering the valley. Gran had said she was busy with something upstairs when Lucy arrived, and left her in the sitting room, unsure whether to touch anything, move the scarves away, clean up. She wished she were staying with Dad. She kept pushing herself at Gran, and Gran didn’t seem to notice whether she was there or not. Lucy didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t seem to fix on anything at the moment: work was making her miserable. She was eating too much, not sleeping; she was either at the Daily News and hating it, or at home dreading the next day. She worried about everything, kept making stupid mistakes, couldn’t seem to get anything right: change for a coffee, matching socks, remembering to charge her phone. She felt as though she was starting to lose experience, as though everything she’d learned was slipping away, and that she was slipping away too.
Lucy put the gingerbread down on the plate and stared sadly around the dark, messy room. Martha followed her gaze.
“As you can see, I’m not quite up to speed with everything. I haven’t had a chance to get your room ready. Cat slept in there. I didn’t realize you’d want to stay here. I thought you’d be at your father’s.”
“I can do it, it’s fine. I only wanted to see how you are.” Lucy knew her voice was too loud. “It’s wonderful news that they’re not prosecuting.”
“Yes,” Martha said blankly. “It’s simply wonderful, isn’t it?”
Lucy folded her arms uncomfortably. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Bill tapped the table. “Well, Ma, as I was saying to Lucy, at least we’re all set.”
Martha poured some more tea. “All set for what?”
Bill’s fingers drummed a steady, almost jaunty rhythm. “Just that—good news there’s nothing further to be done. You—you could have gone to prison, you know.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“We can talk about what you want to do now. About Daisy.” Martha didn’t seem to be listening. “Her funeral. They say we can rebury her now. Not here, but we should think . . . think about what you want to do. Ma?”
Martha folded her arms. She gave a brief smile. “I suppose so.”
Lucy watched her father, patiently wrestling with Gran. “It’s awfully dark in here, Ma. Mind if I turn the lights on?” Bill got up, flicking the switch. “Oh.”
“They’ve blown.” Martha poured herself some more tea. “One by one. I keep meaning to fix them, and somehow . . . I never get round to it.” She shrugged. “I’ve got this one here.” She flicked on an old bedside lamp she’d plugged in next to the Aga. “It’s fine.”
“I’ll pop to the hall and get some bulbs—”
“I said it’s fine.” Her voice was sharp. “You know, Bill, I’ve been thinking. I’ll probably sell Winterfold this summer anyway. Move out of here.”
Lucy looked up, and Bill twisted round in his chair awkwardly.
“Are you sure, Ma?” he said. “Isn’t that a bit soon?”
“Soon? What, leave it a year and I’ll be ready to move on then?” She laughed. “Listen, we can’t be sentimental about this house. Not anymore.”
Lucy swallowed, something hurting her throat. “I think that’s a good idea at some point, but, Gran—”
“At what point?” Martha said, accusatory, swiveling round to face her granddaughter. “I ask you, at what point?” She stared at Lucy as if she wanted an answer, and Lucy, tired, sad, didn’t know what to say. She simply shrugged.
“Well, let’s discuss it later. I can get an estate agent in to value it, if that’s what you’d like,” her father said. “Maybe it’s a good idea. Just let me know what you want to do.”
“I will,” said Martha, and Lucy saw the panic flitting across her face.
Her father changed the subject. “You know, I think Flo’s case must be over by next week. I read something about it in the paper today. I don’t think it’s going that well for her.”
“Oh, really?” Martha gave a weary smile. “I don’t know. She’s said nothing to me.”
“I think she didn’t want to bother you,” Bill said.
“Right. When do you suppose we’ll know?”
“When she calls, I guess. She’s so funny about mobiles. She’s staying with Jim and his wife in Islington, but I don’t have his number.”
“Islington,” Martha repeated blankly. “I see. I didn’t know she was there. That’s funny, isn’t it?”
Lucy didn’t understand what she meant. “He’s nice, Jim,” she said. “Met him the other day at lunch with her. He—”
“You had lunch with Flo?” Martha said, amazed.
“Yes, she asked me.”
“Why?”
Oh, she found out the night Southpaw died that she’s adopted, and I suppose she wanted to talk to someone about it, as no one seems to have mentioned it to her before. “Um. Well, she wanted me to do a puff piece. I wouldn’t. I said I didn’t think the Daily News would go for it.” Lucy shrugged. “She’s pretty . . . worried about everything at the moment.”
Martha began collecting the tea things smartly. “Florence has always been in her own world. It’s hard to get her to listen.”
“Gran, she needs your—” Lucy began, and then stopped. It wasn’t for her to tell Gran that Florence knew. She didn’t even know for certain it was true, anyway—these days,
she was barely certain of what was real and what wasn’t.
“Don’t make me feel guilty. I’m too hard on her, I know it.” Martha shook her head; it was as though she was talking to herself. “I can’t help it.”
Lucy twisted her skirt around her finger. She looked at her dad, but he said nothing. Outside, rain dripped into a bucket by the back door.
Suddenly her grandmother said, “We’ve gone wrong, you see. I’ve done it all wrong. I thought when all this was out in the open, it’d be better. He wanted a family home. A place we could all be safe, a unit. And we tried so hard, but it went wrong somewhere.”
“No, you didn’t, Ma.” “All families have problems.” Bill and Lucy spoke simultaneously.
“You would say that. You’re the only ones left.” There was spite in her voice, something Lucy had never heard before. “His wife ran off.” She jabbed a finger at Bill. “Both of his wives, in fact. Florence has run off. Daisy ran off. I raised her daughter and then she ran off.”
“Not both of my wives. Clare didn’t run off,” Bill said lightly, trying to make a joke of it. “We both decided it was for the best. And Karen . . . she hasn’t run off. She’s just moved out. We agreed she should.”
Dad, Lucy wanted to cry, stand up for yourself !
Her grandmother turned to him, her green eyes glinting. “Oh, Bill, you live in a dream world. You didn’t even notice your wife was having an affair under your nose for the best part of six months.”
Her father got up and took some plates over to the sink. “Actually, I did know. I knew all along.”
“What?”
“Susan Talbot. She told me. Saw them kissing once.” His face twisted. “But I’d already worked it out. I’m not stupid. I know her so well, you see. I’ve always known her, since . . . anyway, I—I thought she’d come to her senses. I thought we worked because of what we didn’t say to each other, not the other way round.”
“What an odd way to conduct a marriage,” Martha said. She blinked, too hard.
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