Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Her mum pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Well, you’d better get this fiancé round pronto because we want a word with him. If he thinks he can have his bit of fun and then swan off into the night, he’s got another think coming.’

  Upstairs, Babs found a gorgeous lime green and bright yellow handbag on her bed. Her dad was always bringing her back goodies from his job, making sure that she was decked out in the latest fashions. He spoiled her something rotten, which made her guilt at not telling them the whole truth stab harder. She should stop bottling it and go downstairs and cough up the rest. That there was no fiancé, who the father really was and what colour her bundle of joy was going to be. Her dad was already coming round to the idea of a baby and her mum hadn’t completely blown her stack.

  Babs walked past her poster of gorgeous hunk George Best and out onto the landing, ready to take the plunge. She summoned up everything she had and went downstairs. As she neared the sitting room door she heard her parents talking, clearly worried, but not about her.

  ‘I’m going out of my mind. It’ll be us next,’ Rosie said.

  ‘We’re safe, pet. This house is owned by the council and they aren’t going to chuck us out. When the rent man comes calling his money’s always ready. We’ve never missed a payment in our lives.’

  ‘But paying their rent on the dot didn’t stop the landlord sending his bully boys around and kicking the Dempseys out in the middle of the night. And her with a baby and all. Plain greed, that’s what it is.’

  Her father tutted. ‘It’s a wicked world that puts out families in the dead of the night to make an extra bob or two. You mark my words, the council will never get away with behaving like that.’

  ‘Mum, Dad,’ Babs interrupted cautiously.

  Her dad gave her a half smile. Her mum looked pensive but there was no malice in her stare.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ Babs prepared to tell the truth but her tongue had other ideas. ‘I’m really sorry. So sorry.’

  Her dad got to his feet and pulled her into his arms. Babs sagged into him. It felt so good to be in his warm embrace.

  George Wilson soothed her hair and whispered, ‘It’s gonna be alright, luv. Don’t you worry about a thing. Me and your mum will see you right.’

  Eight

  ‘Open up! It’s the police!’

  Beryl Bradshaw crouched behind the front door of her house in Whitechapel. The clock in the hallway said midnight but it was always stopping and starting and she couldn’t be sure. It could be later. She’d put the kids to bed after Please Sir! – her brood were crazy about that show, which was strange since none of them had taken to school – and then she’d had a lovely steaming cup of Milo with a drop of gin before calling it a night. She’d been fast asleep when the hammering had started. She’d reached across to the other side of the bed to rouse her sleeping husband, but her hand had flopped back when she remembered. Pneumonia had taken her Phil unexpectedly the previous year. She’d taken his going hard. Still couldn’t get it into her head that he wasn’t blissfully snoring away next to her.

  Now she was wide awake, scared out of her wits, the kids crying upstairs. She waited. Hoping they’d got the wrong house or would get bored and sod off.

  ‘This is your final warning.’

  Beryl opened the letterbox. She could see two, possibly three men. Her voice shook. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Are you deaf? We’re the police. Now open up or we’ll kick the fucking door off its hinges.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  Her answer was the door shaking as it took a kick. Beryl knew it wouldn’t take much pressure, so she opened it a fraction. But that was enough for the men outside. She was thrown backwards like a paper bag as they crashed their way in. Beryl was too scared to scream. There were four of them. All dressed to scare the living daylights out of her, in leather jackets, black trousers and bovver boots. She watched two march into the living room while the other two stood sniggering in the hallway. One of them said, ‘Alright luv, get your things together. You’re moving.’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He handed her a badly folded sheet of paper. ‘It’s all official. Your house is being repossessed for non-payment. The details are all on there.’

  Beryl was outraged. ‘I pay my rent like clockwork every week.’

  They found her excuse highly comical. ‘Do ya? Oh dear. Must be a clerical error then, you’ll have to take it up with the landlord.’

  ‘You’re not the fucking coppers,’ she dared to argue.

  One of the two jokers swiped the other across the chest. ‘Did you say you were the police? You little fibber, you.’

  ‘Don’t blame me; my mum couldn’t afford to send me to Sunday school.’

  From the front room there was the sound of furniture being turned over and things crashing on the floor. Beryl got the picture – the pair in the hallway were the brains and the other two the brawn. She rushed into the room to find them throwing her possessions about like they meant nothing. She grabbed a vase that one of them was about to throw on the heap.

  ‘Get out!’

  The two jokers had followed her in. ‘Don’t interfere with the course of the law. We’ve got the right.’

  Beryl caught her breath and yelled, ‘The right? You’re well hard, ain’t ya? Attacking a defenceless woman and smashing up her things.’

  One of the jokers pretended to be wounded. ‘Oh that’s nice. The boys are just trying to help you move. If you don’t want their help, I suggest you get a suitcase and get a fucking move on!’

  Beryl, still clutching the paper they’d given her, looked at the four men staring at her in silence. ‘I’m not going nowhere until I’ve spoken to my solicitor.’

  ‘You ain’t got a brief, you silly moo. People like you never do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get everything out and then whatever’s left is going out the window. It’s your choice. And tell them kids to shut it. Think about the neighbours.’

  Beryl threw the vase at their feet where it crashed into pieces. She ran upstairs, got her howling kids and packed up what she could. When they were all downstairs again, dragging suitcases like a family of evacuees from the war, she got them dressed in hats and coats as the four intruders looked on.

  ‘And where am I supposed to go?’

  ‘We don’t know, do we?’ the brains of the outfit bit out, his patience clearly running thin. ‘We’re not fucking estate agents.’ He turned to his associates. ‘Alright boys, change the locks and fix the windows. We don’t want any reprobates coming in and squatting on the landlord’s property.’ He turned back to Beryl. ‘Pleasure doing business with you. Now piss off.’

  The evictors went back to a transit van parked down the street, near a wall where someone had scrawled in white paint:

  DECENT HOMES FOR LOCAL PEOPLE

  The two men took not a blind bit of notice. As they waited for the house to be secured the smaller one lit up a Manikin cigar and the other opened a small silver box and sucked menthol snuff up his nose. Outside, a bewildered Beryl and her children sat lost on the pavement in the frosty night.

  ‘You might almost feel sorry for them,’ the shorter one said and puffed out a smoke ring.

  The other one sniffed as the snuff made his eyes water. ‘Yeah, you might do, but you don’t. There’s two types of people in the world, the kickers and the kicked out, and I know which one I’d rather be. Do you wanna drink?’

  ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘I find it improves mine. You don’t worry so much about pedestrians when you’ve had a couple.’

  ‘Go on then. Just the one.’

  When they saw their boys emerge from the house and slam the front door, one said to the other, ‘Well, that’s another one ticked off. The boss will be well pleased.’

  They both nodded.

  ‘Anyway – nice work, Mr Horner.’

  ‘Nice work indeed, Mr Cricket.’

 
Nine

  Babs left the house early the first day of her new job and took the tube up West. She made very sure she didn’t bump into her parents on the way out. She hadn’t fancied more earache from her mum, plus her tummy had been playing up something chronic. She was still trying to come up with a good cover story about the colour thing. If she told them her fiancé was a black musician, rather than a general nogoodnik like Neville, that might sweeten the pill. Her dad had played the piano down his local, and she’d noticed they didn’t seem to mind coloureds when they were singing and dancing on the telly. She’d even seen her dad squint with appreciation at Mary Wilson when the Supremes were on. Her dad had a load of Motown and Stax records and her mum was a Nat King Cole fan. It was just in real life they didn’t like them very much.

  Babs thought she’d leave it for a few weeks and then tell them her fiancé had gone to America on tour and she wasn’t sure when he was coming back. She knew it was a bollocks plan but it was all she had and it might buy her some time.

  When she got to Chancery Row, she realised that there were a series of bells on the black door, one of which had ‘Go Go’ written by it. She pressed it and a cheerful Stan Miller threw the door open a minute later and escorted her upstairs. He wore an immaculate brown whistle, chunky navy tie and a matching hanky in his top pocket. Babs did like a fella who was nicely turned out.

  He gave her the grand tour of the tiny kitchen, his office and the main office. Babs was dead excited. Fancy her working up West. She sat down at the desk that Brawler Beehive had once called home. Stan perched on the side of the desk and explained her duties. He gave her a piece of A4 paper with a list of names written on it.

  ‘If someone asks to speak to me whose name’s on that list, put the call through. If it ain’t, tell them you’ve never heard of me and put the dog and bone down. If the doorbell goes, find out who it is and then report back to me. I’ll take care of things from there. OK?’

  Babs didn’t want to sound suspicious on her first day but she couldn’t help thinking this was a funny set-up. Her face had clearly given her away because Stan was chuckling. ‘Look – it’s like I was telling you in the Lilac Club. You get some dodgy types and time wasters in this line of work. I don’t want to be bothered by people like that and I don’t want you bothered by them either. See?’

  Babs nodded. It made sense. ‘And what do you want me to do if any girls ring up looking for modelling jobs?’

  Stan shook his head. ‘They won’t. This office is the admin side of the operation. There’s a studio where all the practical stuff goes on, the hiring and, unfortunately, sometimes the firing. And that’s about it.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘That’s it? Answering the blower and the door? You don’t want to me to do any typing or filing or anything?’

  Stan shook his head again. ‘Nah. I’ve got other staff on other sites to take care of that kind of thing. You just sit there and look pretty. Listen to the radio, file your nails, do the crossword. Have a nap . . . I told you this job was easy, didn’t I?’

  Babs said nothing. She wasn’t complaining; it wasn’t like she was working for the Bank of England. Stan walked over to his office but before he went in he asked, ‘How did you get on with your mum and dad?’

  Babs shivered when she remembered the scene. ‘I told them. They weren’t happy.’

  ‘And what did they say about the black and white thing?’ When Babs broke eye contact, he gave her a pointed stare. ‘They’re gonna notice something’s up when that kid’s born. All that curly hair for a start.’

  She didn’t answer; he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

  Stan drifted back towards her desk. ‘Oh yeah – there’s one other thing. You might notice some interesting characters coming in and out. The modelling world’s full of ’em. You might hear some things, a bit of verbal every now and again, see some things and think to yourself – I don’t like the look of that. But I have to deal with the world as it is, not as I’d like it to be. I’m running a legitimate outfit here but not all the people I work with are. That’s how it is. You get me? So whatever you see and whatever you hear – you ain’t seen or heard nuthin’, OK? And if you’ve got any concerns, bring them to me.’

  Babs nodded. She liked Stan. Trusted him.

  He took five new tenners out of his wallet. ‘Here, get yourself something nice on the way home.’

  Babs was alarmed. She might need the money but she was no charity case. ‘I can’t take that.’

  ‘Course you can.’ He picked up her bag and shoved the money inside. ‘Consider it an advance on your wages.’

  When Babs was alone, she took out the notes. It was more money than she’d ever handled in her life. She looked around, then rolled up the money and put it back.

  She made herself a cuppa and then returned to her desk. As the morning wore on, she did that a lot. There were no phone calls and no rings on the bell. At first she played the radio quietly, feeling guilty as she did so. But as time passed she turned it up. She’d brought a Harold Robbins novel from Whitechapel Library to read on the tube, so she took it out and read. Occasionally, she heard a phone ringing in Stan’s office and his voice as he answered it, but hers was silent. At one point she picked up the list of approved names in the hope that she might recognise someone from the papers but she was disappointed. There was no David Bailey or Twiggy – only a list of people who sounded like patrons of a boozer in the East End. There was Mickey and Mel, Jimmy, Freddie Q, C&H, Fast Jacky, Bertie Steptoe, and a lot of other nicknames. But she thought she recognised one name. Lord Tilgate. She was sure she’d heard the name on the telly. Wouldn’t it be something if he was related to the Queen?

  As she read, she heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. The door swung open and a man in his twenties stepped inside. How the hell had he got in? He hadn’t rung the bell. He wore trendy black cords that were way too tight and an orange shirt left halfway open to reveal a St Christopher’s medallion, a hairy chest and the top of a paunch. He was unshaven and had unkempt long hair. He looked very much like one of the interesting characters Stan had warned her about.

  He looked at Babs and mumbled, ‘Wotcha darlin’,’ before doing a double take and demanding, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Babs was alarmed. He looked like he wanted to do serious damage. ‘Babs Wilson.’

  ‘Right. And what are you doing here?’

  ‘I started work today. I’m the receptionist.’

  The corner of the man’s lip started to twitch in a very nasty way. ‘What happened to Bev?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘So Stan’s hiring and firing, is he? We’ll have to see about that. Don’t make yourself too comfy, sugar, you might be leaving pronto.’

  The man walked over to Stan’s office and went inside. Babs heard Stan shout, ‘Oi – have you ever heard of knocking?’

  ‘Why? You’re not having a wank, are ya?’

  Then the door was slammed shut. Babs shuddered.

  Stan was reading what he called his golden list when his vis-itor marched unannounced into his office. The golden list held the names of all the people Stan needed to turn his business into an empire. Councillor Joseph Carter was going to be easy, but Lord Tilgate was proving more problematic. Patience, son, patience, he told himself.

  He put his list down as his visitor helped himself to a large one and sat lolling around on the other side of his desk.

  ‘What do you want, mate? I’m busy.’

  ‘For a start, I want to know what happened to my cousin Bev and why that gormless kid outside is sitting in her chair.’

  Stan sighed and shuffled some papers. ‘I had to get rid of Bev. She was trouble; she attacked a pregnant woman in my office. I can’t have that, can I?’

  ‘I’d be the first to admit she’s a bit lively with her fists. I saw her knock a bloke out once in a pub in Poplar. Broke his jaw.’

  ‘There’s your answer then.’ />
  ‘Alright, fair enough. So who’s the new bird?’

  ‘That’s the pregnant girl your Bev knocked around.’

  His visitor almost snarled, obviously not happy. ‘You’re hiring a girl who’s up the stick? Have you banged your head? She’ll be gone in months. She looks as thick as a docker’s sandwich. I don’t get it.’

  Stan put his papers down and glared. ‘Of course you don’t. That’s the difference between you and me. I’m always one step ahead of the opposition, while you’re always one step behind. If life was a game of Monopoly, I’d be bagging hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane, while you’d be going directly to jail without passing go. Now what do you want?’

  ‘You reckon you’re ahead of the game, do ya? Well, here’s your chance to prove it. We’ve got a problem that needs sorting because if we don’t, everyone will be going to jail without two hundred quid – including you.’

  After Stan had escorted his lairy visitor off the premises, he asked Babs, with a smile, if she’d had a good morning.

  ‘Yeah. Apart from that bloke. He had a right cob on about me being here.’

  ‘Is that so? The little prick.’ He muttered the last under his breath. ‘Take no notice of him, Babs-babe.’ Babs blushed; she liked it when he called her that. Made her feel warm and special. ‘He’s all mouth and no trousers. If he gives you any more jip, tell me and I’ll sort him out. Unfortunately, he’s an investor in this business, so I have to humour him for the time being. But I’ll be buying him out shortly; I don’t like working with prats.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He comes from down your way actually. Goes by the name of Mickey Ingram.’

  Ten

  As soon as Babs saw her best mate Denny down the packed Drum and Whistle pub off Vallance Road, she knew something was up. Denise was a head turner, with such stunning cheekbones and hazel eyes that usually at least half the men would be eyeing her up, but tonight there was none of that. She looked plain worn out and sad.