Survivor

by Roberta Kray

  Stanley laughed. ‘Ted Heath? The prime minister?’

  Lolly kicked her heels against the metal of the drum and glared at him. ‘It’s not funny. It’s not her fault she was ill. People were always mean to her.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I apologise. It can’t have been easy for either of you.’

  ‘And now they’re saying that she killed herself. But she wouldn’t have done that. She wouldn’t. She’d never have left me on my own.’

  Stanley sighed, wondering how you could even begin to explain to a thirteen-year-old why adults ended up doing what they did. ‘No, of course not. So what do you think happened?’

  Lolly’s face grew pinched and tight. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it was an accident. She could have leaned too far over the edge and…’

  ‘Yes, it’s a possibility.’ Stanley left a short respectful silence before he continued. ‘I had a chat with Maeve earlier. She was friends with your mum, wasn’t she?’

  ‘She works in the caff,’ Lolly said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘They used to be friends, but then… Mum said she and Joe Quinn were in it together.’

  ‘In what?’

  Lolly shrugged.

  ‘Was she scared of Joe Quinn?’ Stanley asked.

  ‘Everyone’s scared of Joe Quinn.’

  Stanley couldn’t argue with that. And he certainly didn’t want to go poking around in the gangster’s business if he could avoid it. He went on to ask a few more questions, trying to unearth some childhood memories, but nothing useful came to light. ‘What about paperwork?’ he eventually asked. ‘Where did your mum keep important stuff – the rent book, bills, things like that?’

  ‘In the kitchen drawer,’ Lolly said.

  ‘And did you ever see anything else there?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Address book, driving licence, maybe something to do with where you used to live?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about personal effects: jewellery, keepsakes, mementoes, anything like that?’

  ‘She had beads,’ Lolly said. ‘She kept them in a box in the bedside table. It’s a tin box with flowers on the front. There’s a brooch and some pink ribbon in there too, and buttons, and cinema tickets and hair grips.’

  ‘Do you have the box?’

  Lolly shook her head. ‘It’s still at the flat.’ She looked over towards the kitchen window where Mrs Cecil was busying herself in the kitchen, one eye on the sink, the other on the yard. ‘Brenda’s got the hump. She doesn’t like it when she can’t hear what’s going on.’

  ‘Is that why you wanted to come out here?’

  Lolly didn’t answer. She transferred her gaze from the window to the wall and began kicking her heels against the drum again.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help,’ Stanley said. ‘I think that’s all for now unless —’ He was about to say, ‘Unless there’s anything else you can think of,’ but Lolly was already on her feet and walking towards the door.

  The two of them went back inside where Brenda, acting as if she hadn’t been watching them, was now setting the table. ‘All finished? Good. Go upstairs, Lolly, and wash your hands – and don’t take all day about it. Tea’s going to be ready in ten minutes.’ She waited until the girl had gone before turning to Stanley. ‘So?’

  ‘Lolly mentioned a box that belonged to her mother. A tin box with flowers on? She said it was still at the flat, in her bedside table.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the flat. I cleared it out weeks ago. Council wanted it back, didn’t they.’

  Stanley felt a stab of disappointment. ‘So what happened to it? To the box, I mean?’

  ‘What box? There wasn’t any box. If truth be told, there wasn’t much of anything: a few scraps of furniture, some kitchen stuff, an old TV, and that was about it. I brought Lolly’s clothes back here and gave Angela’s to the charity shop.’

  ‘And you definitely checked the bedside table?’

  ‘It was empty. There was nothing in there but a couple of old magazines.’ Brenda eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’s so important about this box, then?’

  ‘Probably nothing, but it’s a shame it’s gone missing.’

  Brenda’s expression changed from suspicious to indignant. ‘Before you start throwing accusations around, I can assure you there was no box in the flat, no box at all.’

  ‘No one’s accusing you of anything, Mrs Cecil. All I was saying was —’

  ‘Oh, I know what you were saying. You think I was born yesterday?’ Brenda wiped her hands on her apron and glared at him. ‘What do you take me for? You think I’d rob a dead woman?’

  Had Stanley been forced to give an answer to that question, it would have been ‘Yes’, but there was a time and a place for honesty and this wasn’t it. ‘No one was suggesting that. No, no, not at all. I don’t believe there was anything of value in the box, at least not in a monetary sense, but there may have been some clues to her past. For obvious reasons Mr Fury is keen to get some background, to trace the family history.’

  ‘I ain’t seen it, okay? And if I tell you it weren’t there, it weren’t there.’

  ‘Could it have been removed by someone else?’

  ‘Like who, for instance? There’s no one had a key apart from the girl and me.’

  Stanley gave a nod, all the time wondering if Brenda had taken the box because there was something inside that provided a clue as to who Angela really was. ‘Well, if it turns up at any point, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.’

  Brenda continued to glare at him. ‘So what’s going on with Mr Fury? We’ve done the blood test and you’ve got the results. They must have been okay or you wouldn’t be here now asking all your questions.’

  ‘All that the blood tests prove is that Lolita can’t be completely ruled out. Unfortunately, as I’m sure you understand, more definitive proof is needed before my client can proceed.’

  ‘What I understand is that it’s costing me a bleedin’ fortune. I’ve got enough mouths to feed as it is. Perhaps you could mention that to Mr Fury. I’m the one who’s paying out and I don’t see how that’s right, not if she turns out to be his.’

  Stanley, who was pretty sure she was receiving money from Social Services for the care of Lolly, took care to keep the disgust from his face. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on your concerns.’

  ‘You do that,’ she said.

  Stanley picked up his coat, put it over his arm, said goodbye and left by the back door. As he walked along the alley he pondered on why it was that some people drew the short straw in life. Poor Lolly Bruce, orphaned at the age of thirteen, was both unloved and unwanted. The chances of her being Mal’s daughter were negligible, and from what he’d just heard there appeared to be little hope of the Cecils offering any kind of permanent home. Once Lolly ceased to be the goose that laid the golden egg, her usefulness would be over. And what then? She’d be out on her ear, thrown into the system. He sighed into the still evening air. The future for the kid looked bleak and there was nothing he could do about it.

  12

  Lolly soon settled into her new job with Terry Street. On school days she would scoot round to the Hope and Anchor after the afternoon bell and wait in the yard until he came out. At first he had only given her short handwritten notes to take to this place or that, but now he knew she could be trusted, it was often three or four packages too. She would put the items into her school bag and set off, like the postman, to make her deliveries.

  Lolly had quickly learned how to do her job with speed and discretion. She would drop off the packages only when no one else was around and usually in one of the long shadowy passageways that linked the various parts of the Mansfield estate. It hadn’t taken long to get to know the regulars: Skinny Mick, Perks and a tall Jamaican called Joseph. They’d been suspicious of her at the beginning but now they were friendly enough, sometimes giving her a few pennies or a stick of gum for her trouble.

  Lolly enjoyed the intr
igue of it all. Sometimes she’d pretend she was a spy or Emma Peel from The Avengers. But what she liked best was feeling a part of something, of feeling needed. And even without the money, she’d have done it just for Terry’s praise.

  ‘You’re my best worker,’ he’d say. ‘You’re a star, Lolly Bruce.’

  For Lolly, who had never heard flattery before, the experience was a novel one.

  Her favourite drop was in Albert Road, at the old three-storey redbrick house where the women were always pleased to see her. Here there was usually a glass of Coke on offer and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She’d sit in the kitchen at the back while the women chatted and smoked, the smell of weed permeating the air. Stella was the one she liked best. She wasn’t the prettiest but she was the kindest. Stella always took an interest, asked how she was and interrupted the others, trying to protect her when the talk got too close to the knuckle.

  ‘Not in front of the kid,’ she’d say. ‘She don’t need to hear shit like that.’

  And then one of them, usually Jackie, would give a snort. ‘Best she finds out now rather than later. Life ain’t no fairy tale with handsome princes coming to the rescue. If she’s old enough to do Terry’s dirty business, she’s old enough to hear the truth.’

  Stella would shake her head. ‘There’s time enough for that.’

  Lolly didn’t always understand what they were talking about, but she got the gist: one way or another, men were trouble. And that was clear enough from the black eyes and bruises that the women frequently sported. But when she asked what had happened they just shrugged it off.

  ‘It comes with the job, love. No point whining about it.’

  Lolly pondered on this as she made her way home. Her job, she decided, was a better deal than theirs. She glanced up at the dark sky. It was November, Bonfire Night, and already the smell of sulphur hung in the air. Later, she’d be going to the green to see the fireworks with the Cecil boys. Looking over at the station clock, she saw that it was almost half past five and broke into a run, not wanting to be late. As an excuse for her frequent absences after school, she told Brenda she was doing homework at her friend Sandra’s. As it happened, Brenda didn’t seem to care much one way or another these days; so long as Lolly was back for her tea she rarely asked any questions.

  Lolly was still angry with Brenda after finding out about the clear-out of the flat. Listening on the stairs, she had overheard the revelation to Stanley Parrish. Why hadn’t she been told? It made her stomach turn over to think of Brenda going through her mother’s things, touching, feeling and discarding them. As she sprinted down the alley she hissed out breaths of anger and frustration. If only she’d thought to take the box when she had the opportunity; now it was gone for good.

  When she stepped inside she discovered the kitchen was empty, but could hear voices coming from the living room. On going through she found Brenda, FJ and Tony there along with a girl with long fair hair who she instantly recognised as Amy Wiltshire. Everyone fell silent for a moment, one of those awkward lulls, and Lolly was certain they’d been talking about her.

  ‘So you’re home,’ Brenda said eventually. ‘Go and get your hands washed. Tea’s almost ready.’

  As Lolly scooted through the room into the hall and up the stairs, she heard Amy say, ‘So that’s her, then. She’s kind of funny looking. Bit small for thirteen, isn’t she?’

  ‘Stunted growth,’ Tony said.

  FJ sniggered. ‘She ain’t right in the head, either. She’s nuts, a basket case. She ought to be locked up someplace, not living here. It ain’t safe; we could all be murdered in our beds.’

  No one contradicted him or came to Lolly’s defence, and she carried on upstairs with a red flush burning her cheeks. By the time she descended ten minutes later, everyone was sitting round the kitchen table. The only person missing was Freddy and he was probably down the pub.

  She sat down between Brenda and Tony and opposite Amy. While they ate she tried not to stare at the girl, although it wasn’t easy. Amy was so pretty it was hard not to look at her; she had smooth perfect skin, blue eyes and lips that were painted a pearly pink. She could see what Tony saw in Amy, but couldn’t figure out what the attraction was for her. He was an eighteen-year-old skinhead with the manners of a pig, and hated everyone and anything that was different to him.

  During the meal, roast beef with all the trimmings – the stops had been pulled out for Amy’s visit – the conversation turned to Jude Rule. Lolly’s body stiffened as soon as his name was mentioned. She still hadn’t got over losing his friendship and thought about him more often than she should.

  ‘I reckon Tracy’s going to dump him,’ Amy said. ‘I mean, he’s a weirdo, isn’t he? Everyone knows.’

  And FJ, of course, had plenty to say on the subject. ‘Yeah, he’s that all right. What sort of fella hangs out with little girls? Lolly knows all about that.’

  Lolly’s face burned red again as the whole table turned to stare at her. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Come on,’ FJ urged, ‘bet he used to do all sorts to you.’

  ‘He’d better not have,’ Brenda said, glaring at her.

  Lolly shook her head quickly from side to side. ‘He didn’t. He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I’ve told Tracy,’ Amy said. ‘I’ve told her he’s not right. What’s with all those old films? It ain’t normal watching that stuff all the time.’

  Lolly didn’t respond. She got Jude’s need for escapism, for a way of retreating from the real world. He had lost his mother just as she had lost hers and the pain was often too much to bear. But she wasn’t going to try and explain. How could she? None of them would understand.

  ‘He ain’t normal, full stop,’ Tony said. ‘He needs his fuckin’ head kicking in.’

  ‘Language,’ Brenda said. ‘We don’t need that kind of talk at the table.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘He’s good looking, though,’ Amy said provocatively. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Tony curled his lip and stared at her. ‘If you like bleedin’ weirdos. And why is he always sniffing around you when he’s got a girlfriend of his own?’

  Amy smiled smugly. ‘What’s the matter? You jealous?’

  ‘Of that freak? You’re having a laugh. Anyhow, you’re way too old for him. He likes his girlfriends young, don’t he, Lolly?’

  ‘He’s not weird,’ Lolly said. ‘He’s not like that.’

  ‘You don’t know what weird is,’ FJ sneered. ‘You think what that creep does is normal.’

  ‘He doesn’t do anything.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Like we all believe that.’

  Lolly bowed her head and carried on eating. Jude was nothing to do with her any more. Sometimes she saw him around, but they never spoke to each other. If she could avoid him, she did, dodging into shop doorways or veering down side roads. She didn’t want to come face to face with him, to see that look of embarrassment in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be back late tonight,’ Brenda said, changing the subject. ‘I want you home by ten at the latest. There’s school in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t have school,’ Tony said.

  ‘No, you’ve got work and I’ll be the one having to drag you out of your pit.’

  Tony worked for his uncle, Freddy’s brother, selling second-hand cars. Well, he claimed he sold them, but Lolly had walked past the place one day and seen him standing on the forecourt washing down a rusty Vauxhall Viva. More dogsbody than salesman, she reckoned, but knew better than to voice this opinion.