by Martina Cole
What Wendy Dalston wanted, Wendy Dalston got. Whether it was cuddles, food, attention or even a fag, if the child wanted it, she got it.
Susan was making a rod for her own back as far as he was concerned, but the fright was still in him and taking the child from her mother he rocked her in his arms. Wendy for once was docile, as if the shock and the noise had knocked the stuffing from her. Staring up at her father she smiled again, a big gummy baby smile that defied anyone not to love her.
Barry jiggled her up and down for a few minutes, marvelling at the feeling her little body created nestled in his arms. He loved her then. When she wanted him, when she was close to him, he adored her.
Susan watched them, feeling the blood clot above her eye and telling herself it didn’t matter. Babies put a strain on most relationships. And a relationship already strained was bound to split at the seams.
Walking from the room, now she was sure Barry could cope, she went to the bathroom and wiped her face. There was blood everywhere but she was too tired to care. The wound looked worse than it was, a split over the eyebrow. She wondered briefly if she should get herself down the London, have a couple of stitches, but she was bone weary.
Instead she placed a plaster over it and cleaned herself up. It would do until the morning, then she would have to explain it away to Barry’s mother.
What she would have done without Kate she didn’t know. The woman had become her staunchest ally. Since Jason’s death Kate had been like a mother to Susan. So far as Barry went, she was less convinced. She had not spoken to him for over a year until Wendy was born. Then Susan persuaded her to bury the hatchet. But she knew her marked face would only make matters worse again between mother and son.
Kate, it turned out, had a mouth that was worse than June’s in some ways. Although she didn’t swear and holler, she spoke with such conviction that her every word carried the full weight of her disgust behind it. Barry was the recipient of this opprobrium so often that in some ways Susan wished his mother would stay away from them. It would certainly make life easier.
Clearing away the medical kit, she went back into the bedroom. Barry was asleep in bed with Wendy cradled on his chest. She was sleeping too. Smiling slightly at this picture of father and daughter, Susan settled herself in a white-painted wicker chair. She would doze until Wendy woke then take her and give her a feed.
She was tired, so tired.
Doreen walked into the kitchen carrying a large apple pie. It was eight-thirty in the morning and she was already in full make up with her hair newly styled. She would not bother to change out of her housecoat, though, unless she was going somewhere.
‘How’s my little angel then?’
Her voice was jocular until Susan turned from the sink and faced her.
‘What’s he done now?’ hissed her friend. ‘I heard him ranting and raving, Sue. I never heard him clump you one or else I would have been in. I’d phone Old Bill, mate, if I thought he’d touched you or that child.’
Susan sighed.
‘He lost it, couldn’t help it. Wendy was kicking up, we were both tired, I mouthed off to him . . .’
Doreen’s eyes widened to their utmost.
‘What did you say?’
She blushed.
‘Never you mind, but it was enough to get me this.’ She pointed at the swollen eye and its plaster.
‘Anyway he was sorry as fuck this morning. You’ll never guess what, Dor? He actually slept with Wendy on his chest all night. You should have seen the two of them. Then this morning, when he woke up and saw her there, he smiled, really smiled at her for the first time. She was so comfy she didn’t even wake up for her night feed.’
Doreen smiled grimly.
‘So he’s finally realised that she’s his responsibility an’ all? A real person, not a doll.’
They both heard Barry coming down the stairs then.
‘He’s just given her a feed.’ Susan put a finger to her lips and smiled.
Barry walked into the kitchen with Wendy in his arms. He looked at Doreen as he might a cockroach he had just found in his salad and exclaimed, ‘She took five ounces, bless her. That’s because I fed her and she didn’t have to labour her poor little gob round your big fat tits. In future express the milk and bottle feed her.’
It was a command.
Susan nodded absently. ‘She takes enough from the breast, it’s just you can’t actually see how much because they ain’t got measures on.’
She was deliberately sunny, trying her hardest to make light of everything.
‘With the stretch marks you’ve fucking got, if there was bloody measures you wouldn’t see them anyway. Do what I told you and I’ll feed the little fucker of a night, keep her sweet. You spoil her.’
He placed the child carefully into the Moses basket in the kitchen. Wendy kicked up her feet with pleasure and smiled again. Barry smiled down at her and felt again the sensation of power she gave him. To make her love him seemed like the most exciting thing in the world, better than a love affair.
She would prefer him to her mother, he was certain of that. He walked from the house without another word. Doreen felt the tension ease as soon as he closed the back gate.
‘He’s a wanker, Sue, I wish you’d see it like everyone else.’
She laughed and poured them both some tea.
‘I do, Doreen, I just know how to handle him.’
The words made her sound much more confident than she actually was. But Barry was gone for the day, and hopefully the night, and she had Wendy all to herself now which was exactly how she liked it.
Barry was regaling everyone in the pub with his story of the ‘night feed’. As the men listened to him pontificating on the best way to bring up children he felt all powerful. Susan was under the impression she was the only one in the house who could make the child happy. Well, he had proved her wrong, very wrong. Barry was in his element as he told everyone they should all have babies to make them more aware of the easy life their wives led.
Most of the men laughed and agreed with him, a couple laughed without conviction, and one man, a hard docker called Freddie McPherson, did not find it in the least amusing.
‘You’re wrong, Barry, women have it hard. My Jeanette had nine of them and it killed her. Forty-one when she had a fucking heart attack. You’re talking out of your arse, boy. Just because you fed the child once you think you’re fucking Doctor Spock. I had the nine of them to care for until my Lee-Anne was old enough to take over from me. Don’t denigrate the women, boy, they do a good job.’
Barry was annoyed but he had to take the flak because everyone knew that Freddie was a marvel, undisputed king of the kids.
Feeling foolish now, he made light of it.
‘It must have been hard with nine. But as they say, Freddie, you never fired a blank in your life. Probably shagged the old woman to death!’
Everyone laughed now, even Freddie who had found out the hard way just what a job bringing up nine children on no money really was.
‘I shagged her all right. Miss it in fact. A bit of strange don’t make up for the comfort a real woman can give you, one who knows all your secrets and loves you anyway. From your smelly plates to your sweaty armpits.’
His voice was filled with longing for his wife and the comfort she’d given him. Then Joey came into the pub and as soon as Barry saw him he knew they were in for trouble.
Nodding at everyone he ordered a large Scotch and pulled Barry into a quiet corner, forcing two men from their seats so they could have total privacy.
‘What’s the matter, Joey?’
He shook his head in anger.
‘It’s that fucking ponce Derby. He really is asking for a fucking clump and I’m just the man to give it to him.’
Barry ran a hand through his hair in agitated fashion.
‘What’s he done now?’
Joey swallowed his drink down and sighed.
‘He won’t pay, tipped me bollocks. Told
me he wasn’t frightened of me or Davey or Bannerman. Apparently he now works for a little firm over the water in Bermondsey. You’ll never guess whose?’
Barry felt ice in the pit of his stomach.
‘Not the Winter brothers?’
‘The very same. He’s employed by them as a debt collector so all of a sudden he thinks he’s the main man.’ Joey spoke through his teeth, the words almost forced out of him so great was his anger.
They were in a quandary now.
The Winter brothers were well known and had formed an uneasy alliance with Bannerman. This was common knowledge and no one wanted another war. Since the Krays had departed for their thirty-year sojourn courtesy of Her Majesty firms all over London had carved out their own turfs and defended them in any way they could. The guns were put away for now but an event of this magnitude could set them blazing again.
‘I’ll have to talk to Bannerman, see what he says.’
Barry nodded absently. Then, leaning forward in his chair, he grinned.
‘Why don’t we teach him a right fucking lesson and see what happens? I bet the Winter brothers wouldn’t say a dickey bird if they thought he owed wedge. After all, they’d probably do the same, or expect him to at least.’
Joey shook his head.
‘This is too big, Bal, we don’t want to start any wars. Not without Bannerman’s say-so anyway.’
He seemed uneasy and this bothered Barry. It was unusual to see Joey worried like this.
‘Come on, have a few drinks and forget it, eh? Think about it tomorrow.’
Joey picked up his empty glass, his expression angry and defeated.
‘I hate that cunt for putting me in this position. If you’d seen him, Bal, a great big gorilla standing beside him, another one in his car - I felt a right fucking greebo. But I’ll have me day with him, you see if I don’t.’
Barry knew he had to say something to bring Joey back down.
‘As I was standing there, right, he was laughing at me, really laughing, and there was nothing I could do. I tell you, Bal, it’s a good job I weren’t tooled up. I’d have shot the ponce right through the fucking head.’
Barry could see his point. Being mugged off in their chosen profession was like the Queen being asked if she could provide a quick blow-job.
It was especially galling from someone like Georgie Derby, a big aggressive man with a mouth that could cut through steel and a vindictive manner to match. He was a hard man to press for money at the best of times, but a job in the debts game would make him even more of an arsehole than he already was.
Getting up, Joey picked up his empty glass and sighed heavily.
‘Let’s have another drink. Christ knows, I could do with one.’
As they walked towards the bar Barry was trying to think of something to say that would make Joey feel better.
‘By the way, Bal, how’s the baby? Still screaming the fucking place down?’
Everyone laughed and Freddie shouted out, ‘Ain’t you heard? He’s got healing fucking hands.’
Everyone cracked up laughing. Glad as Barry was for the light relief he still felt an urge to give Freddie a dig. After all, he was taking the piss. But he let it go. He started to tell Joey all about Wendy and how she’d stopped screaming as soon as he held her. How he had told Susan not to spoil the child with constant picking up.
‘At the end of the day, Joey, kids are like women. They have to know who’s in charge, same as birds do. It makes them feel safe like. I mean, you can’t have the old woman doing what she wants, can you?’
Joey laughed wearily and turned to his cronies at the bar before answering.
‘You tell that to June. The last time she did as she was told was by the clap doctor up the Old London.’
Everyone laughed right on cue and Barry, realising he had made a faux-pas, laughed sheepishly.
‘Well, June’s in a league of her own, ain’t she?’
Joey nodded sagely.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Let’s order some food and get some serious drinking in, eh? It’s still only half-one and we have the whole day ahead of us.’
Joey nodded but was still preoccupied and everyone noticed. He was belligerent by three o’clock and in a murderous rage by four-thirty. Georgie Derby had upset him more than he’d realised, but Barry knew the score and wound Joey up accordingly. As far as he was concerned, if they wiped Derby out they would publicly prove a point.
The point being that anyone mad enough to take them on would be obliterated, no matter who they were or worked for.
Susan’s eye was sore and she knew it should have been stitched. Looking at herself in the mirror, she felt depressed. In the nude she looked awful. Her face, never her best point, looked grotesque, her swollen eye and brow almost comical. The bruising coming out all over made her look even plainer than she was.
‘Sod you, Barry Dalston,’ she said into the empty room.
The bedroom was lovely. Susan had spent a lot of time on it, imagining Barry and herself wrapped in each other’s arms loving one another in the bed or playing with the kids in there on Sunday mornings.
‘You read too many books and didn’t think things through.’
She had taken to talking to herself. It eased the unhappiness inside. Wendy was lying on the bed gurgling away happily.
‘You talking to yourself and all, girl?’
She peered down at the child and received an answering gurgle of pleasure. Susan adored the baby, absolutely adored her.
As usual when she approached Wendy she felt the rush of milk. Barry and his bottle-feeding . . . she smiled as she thought about it.
Lifting Wendy, she placed her gently on the breast, feeling the softness of her lips as she sought her food, then the clamping down of her gums on the sore nipple. Susan held her gently, letting her feed in her own time, giving her downy head caresses, kissing the little fingers and feet.
Satisfied with her treatment, Wendy relaxed into her mother’s billowing softness, reassured by the familiar smells and tastes, the enveloping love that accompanied her feeds all part of the process.
Susan sang to her softly, crooning gently as the child drank and gradually relaxed against her mother’s body.
As Susan was kissing her and debating whether to change her nappy or leave her to sleep, she heard Barry come rolling in. He slammed the kitchen door, stamped up the stairs and was in the doorway before she could move.
He stared at them both for a few seconds. His eyes were like slits in his face so great was his anger.
‘I waited for you, Bal, but I had to give her her feed, she was hungry.’
He stared once more, not saying a word.
Getting up, Susan placed the baby in the Moses basket by the bed. Straightening up, she turned to face her husband.
‘You do it deliberately, don’t you? I tell you to do something and you never fucking listen.’
His voice was angry but resigned, as if he’d known exactly what he would find when he came home.
‘I left work to come and feed my daughter, but you had to fucking do it, didn’t you? You couldn’t wait a second . . .’
‘Barry, for fuck’s sake, it’s two in the morning. You’ve been out since eight-thirty yesterday. What was I supposed to do - let her starve?’
The words were out but they were said in an apologetic tone.
He looked her over.
‘Look at you, Sue, you’re like a fucking great cow, all udders and stretch marks. You think I want to come home to that, do you? A big, fat, smelly, fucking hag like you. You think I look forward to coming home here? Well, I don’t. The thought of you makes me puke.’
Susan closed her eyes in distress. Wendy was crying again, building up to her big crescendo. Susan automatically began to bend down towards the basket on the floor.
‘Leave the baby alone. She’s fucking spoiled enough as it is.’
Susan straightened and beseeched him with her eyes.
<
br /> ‘Don’t start, Bal, please. Not tonight, mate.’
He looked her over, his gaze staying on her belly and breasts. The breasts he had loved so much. She felt the milk trickling from being close to the child once more, felt it rushing in again, the heat and the uncomfortable sensation of knowing she was in for more trouble because of it.
‘Christ, Sue, but you’re an ugly bitch and no mistake.’
She looked down at the screaming baby and Barry slapped her hard across the face, an open-palmed slap that was even noisier than the baby’s screaming. Walking over to her, he forced her face down on the bed. Shoving a pillow underneath her belly, he knelt behind her.
‘I can’t look at your boatrace or I’d lose the fucking horn.’ He pulled out his penis, already swollen and rigid. Thrusting it inside her, he heard her grunt.
‘Go on then, you fucking fat pig. Grunt away, you cunt.’
He was riding her hard now. She could feel his fingers digging into her buttocks and felt the thrusts as if they were knife wounds. Turning her face to the side she saw their reflection in the mirror of the dressing table, Barry with his trousers and shirt still on, his face a red ball of concentration as he pumped away. Her breasts were hanging down by the pillow, still heavy with milk. She could feel it leaking out.
Barry was talking, his words ragged now as he neared his climax. She felt the rhythm change and sighed with relief. The child was reaching a screaming pitch so loud as to be deafening. Susan wanted to kill him so she could comfort her baby in peace.
Barry was shouting above the noise as he rode her, voice deep with emotion and hatred.
‘You’re a fat, ugly whore and you should think yourself lucky I married you, girl. Who else would have you, eh? Who else would give you children?’
He was pulling on her hair now, dragging her head backwards and hurting her even more.
