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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Babs,’ Rosie said, looking very pleased with proceedings, ‘let’s clear the table and bring in afters.’

  After the Angel Delight had been served, Stan produced two Havana cigars, one for him and one for George. He took a pair of solid silver cutters from his waistcoat and expertly cut the ends off.

  ‘My word, you do like the finer things in life, don’t you?’

  ‘Only the best for me – that’s why I wanted to marry your daughter.’ He squeezed Babs’ hand again and she blushed. She’d been hoping Stan would do a rush job, convince her parents and then clear off before they tumbled. Now she was wishing this Sunday would last forever.

  George puffed blissfully on his cigar. ‘I’ll be honest with you, me and the wife weren’t very happy that you jumped the gun, but you seem like a very nice young man.’

  Before Stan could answer, there was a bang at the front door.

  George got to his feet. ‘I don’t know who that can be,’ he muttered. ‘As far as I know we’re not expecting any company.’

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ a high female voice screeched from the passage after George answered the door.

  ‘Oh no,’ Babs and Rosie chimed together, one with an expression of dread and the other rolling her eyes.

  A very glum George reappeared, followed by his cousin Valerie from Shadwell. Valerie had turned twenty in 1942 and it looked like that had been the last time she’d bought any clothes. Her whole look had a make-do-and-mend vibe about it. Her suit had clearly been black at one stage but the colour now varied like sun-bleached curtains. She wore a matching pillbox hat with a half-veil. For most people, the veil wasn’t pulled down far enough. She always looked like she was on the way to a cheap funeral.

  Since her Cliff had passed five years back she made a habit of dropping in unexpectedly on a Sunday. Babs knew she should feel sorry for the old girl – she was obviously lonely – but the woman was the definition of earache and careless talk rolled into one.

  Cousin Val took in the scene and sniffed the air. ‘Sunday spread. Well, I don’t mind if I do.’

  She had her hat and coat off in five seconds flat and pulled up a chair. She gave Stan the eye. ‘This your fella then, Babs?’

  Babs popped on a cheerful smile. ‘He’s my fiancé.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I was starting to wonder if that baby of yours actually had a father.’ She let out a piercing laugh that had Rosie’s special glasses shaking in the cabinet. Babs and her parents winced but Stan wore a gentle grin like he was having the time of his life.

  Then Val wiped the grin from her face and she peered at him closely, her eye twitching. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  Babs’ heart dropped. She glanced over at her wannabe fiancé, who remained as cool as you like. ‘I would remember a beautiful woman like you, Cousin Valerie,’ Stan informed her. ‘I never forget a pretty face.’

  Loving that, Val let out another glass-shattering laugh. She shifted her gaze to Babs. ‘You’ve got a right one there, dearie. You want to hang on to him.’ She helped herself to a slice of beef, talking away. ‘It’s nice to see a young man with such good manners. Back in my day . . .’

  And she was off like the Grand National. Ten minutes straight she talked, without coming up for air. Babs was surprisingly grateful: it took the heat away from her and Stan.

  But then Val stopped abruptly, halfway through a story about the Hackney Empire back in her day. Her gaze fell on the floor. ‘What’s that?’ She leaned down and picked something off the floor. A small card.

  Stan coughed. It was the first time Babs had seen him nervous. Bloody hell. ‘I think that’s one of my business cards. It must’ve fallen out when I got those cigars.’

  He held out his hand, but Val lurched back. ‘Ooh! A business card, not many folk have one of them. You must be doing alright for yourself.’

  Babs face grew tight. ‘Yes he is. He was telling Mum and Dad all about it before you dropped by.’ She held out her hand. ‘Now why don’t you give me that?’

  Instead her cousin held it close to her face and read it aloud. ‘Stanley Miller Esquire. Pro . . . Pro . . . Pro-pri-e-tor. Go Go Girls Modelling Agency. Soho. London.’ She was so wrapped up in her own world she never noticed the deathly silence around the table. ‘When I was young everyone said I should’ve been a model. Said I looked like Rita Hayworth . . .’

  Babs watched her dad’s lips go thin. ‘Soho?’ he said.

  With a smile laced with retribution, Rosie said, ‘Stanley, Barbara, help me clear the dishes away.’

  Stan sighed. As they dutifully trailed after her mum, he whispered, ‘I should leave.’

  ‘Please Stan—’

  ‘There’s a lesson I’ve learned Babs-babe – when the curtain falls, you should leave the stage.’

  A minute later Rosie had Babs and Stan cornered against the Formica counter. ‘Alright sonny, what’s your game?’

  Babs looked at Stan with pleading eyes. He faked good cheer. ‘Sorry, Mum, I’m not with you?’

  Rosie’s lip curled. ‘Don’t you Mum me – what’s a so-called respectable businessman like you doing with a modelling agency in Soho?’

  Knowing the game was well and truly up, and not wanting to make Stan fib any more, Babs confessed. ‘Stanley’s not really my fiancé. He’s a mate doing me a favour. He really is a businessman, though. And the modelling agency is a decent one, nothing funny. The truth is, the baby’s dad did a bunk.’ She hung her head in shame.

  Rosie blew her top. ‘Fine kettle of fish this is. Not only is our daughter no better than a Soho whore—’

  Stan pulled himself tall. ‘I have the utmost respect for you, Mrs Wilson, but don’t be calling Babs that.’ He clenched his teeth. ‘I won’t stand for it.’

  Rosie was clearly surprised by his defence of her daughter, but she wasn’t finished with Babs by a long shot. ‘You think you can make fools of us in our own home? I taught you better than that, Barbara Patricia Wilson. Come on, out with it, who’s the bastard who knocked you up?’

  ‘Alright, dear, that’s enough. We’ll talk about it later,’ George said quietly from the doorway.

  She turned on him in fury. ‘You’re as much to blame for this as she is. If you were any kind of man, you’d have tracked the father down by now and shown him what for.’

  Babs felt so humiliated. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  George came around and hugged her tight. ‘Don’t be daft. Plenty of girls have been taken advantage of by some worthless cunt.’

  ‘George Wilson,’ Rosie shrieked, scandalised by his unusually ripe language.

  But he wasn’t sorry. ‘It’s true. Men like that are the lowest of the low.’ He eased Babs slightly away, to look in her face. ‘What’s done is done. One day you’ll meet the man of your dreams, and in the meantime we’ll always be there for you. There is nothing on this earth you can do that will ever make us turn our backs on you.’

  A few minutes later, a washed-out Babs saw Stan to the door. What a right old muck-up Sunday roast had turned into.

  ‘Maybe this is for the best,’ Stan said. ‘They were always going to find out that I wasn’t your fiancé.’

  Babs knew he was right, but she still hadn’t been ready for the full force of her mum’s displeasure. ‘You’re a stand-up fella for doing this, Stan.’

  ‘Which leads me to that favour I wanted in return.’

  Babs groaned inwardly. She’d forgotten all about his side of the bargain. Even though she felt like her legs weren’t going to hold her up much longer, a deal was a deal. ‘What do you want me to do? Clean the office from top to bottom? Wash your suits? Work every Sunday for the rest of the year?’

  Stan laughed out loud. ‘You can do all three if that’s what you want, but that ain’t my favour.’ He pulled a small envelope from his pocket. ‘Remember what I said, you have to do it.’

  As soon as he handed it to a puzzled Babs, he was out of the door. She tore it open and pulled out a white card. Her jaw dr
opped.

  She rushed after Stan and caught him on the street near a group of boys playing footie. She waved the card at him. ‘Stan, it’s from the council offering me a flat. I don’t get it.’

  Stan smiled with satisfaction. ‘I had a little word with a mate on the council who sorted you out a nice spot on a new development down Mile End way. It won’t be ready for a couple of months, mind.’

  ‘I can’t take this.’

  He caught her hand. ‘Remember our bargain. You have to do it. As much as I liked your parents, the one thing that stood out today was that you and the baby need a place to call home.’

  Babs almost jumped on him, crushing him joyfully to her as the boys wolf-whistled.

  ‘I was right,’ Rosie said triumphantly as she and her husband watched their daughter and the young man she’d brought home in each other’s arms. ‘He fancies her.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, luv.’ But George was grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘He looked like he was going to clobber me when I called her a tart. He’s protective of her and the baby. And she needs a fella—’

  ‘Rosie—’

  ‘I’m just saying.’ Babs’ mother smiled.

  Sixteen

  ‘So what are you running from, Denny?’ Mel asked the other woman, as they sat in a café in Soho a couple of weeks later. It was their third time out together since meeting that Sunday two months ago. Mel needed Denny to trust her, so that when she and Mickey went in for the kill the girl would come like a gormless little lamb to the slaughter.

  ‘You what?’ Denny said, her hazel eyes wide with anxiety.

  Mel carefully placed her cup in its saucer. ‘If you’ll pardon me saying so, a bird with your looks doesn’t come down Soho way unless she’s trying to leave something behind.’

  Denny’s cheeks reddened. ‘I ain’t running from nuthin’. My mum and stepdad think the world of me. It’s just time for me to find my own place.’

  Mel would have bet her pay packet – if she worked – that the girl wasn’t even aware of the dread in her voice when she mentioned her stepfather.

  She reached across and tipped Denny’s chin up with a gentle finger so she could look her in the eye. ‘I’m going to tell you a story which you can take or leave – it’s up to you – but I’m going to tell it to you anyway.’ Mel shook back her hair. ‘When I was thirteen my mum married a bloke who seemed like God’s gift. He’d buy us kids pressies, my mum flowers. He even had a car.’ Her eyes bore deep into Denny’s. ‘I don’t need to tell you what happened when he took me for drives to Epping Forest.’

  Denny’s breath shuddered in her chest, reverberating across the table. Mel carried on. ‘I wish I could’ve stopped him, but that’s foolish talk. He was bigger and stronger than me. That’s why I became an independent woman; so no man ever had control over me again.’

  Denny’s face crumpled. Her voice shook when she finally spoke. ‘The bastard’s been after me for the last six months or so. Trying to put his disgusting paws on me any chance he gets.’ She shook her head. ‘If I stay in that house he’s going to get me—’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ Mel snapped. ‘You know why? Because if he comes near you all you’ve got to do is scream your head off.’

  ‘But my mum doesn’t believe me. She said I’m a wicked girl for suggesting Darren would do any such thing.’ Her head jerked up, her gaze fierce. ‘But I ain’t lying.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’ But I am. Filling your brainless head with my bollocks sob story. Mel had never had a stepfather and if she’d had one who tried to play kiddie fiddler with her she’d have chopped his dick off.

  Mel got on with the job. Now she knew Denny’s secret it was going to be oh-so-very-easy to reel the desperate girl into her and Mickey’s net. She was desperate for some kindness, a bit of safety, and Mel was up for playing Fairy Godmother with the magic wand of a modelling career.

  Mel gripped Denny’s hand. She leaned across the table and whispered, ‘I’m going to make all your dreams come true. My husband, Mickey, who owns the agency, wants to meet you. Women like me and you, with the same experiences, need to stick together.’

  Seven months pregnant, Babs got off the number 25 bus with her mum and Denny to see the flat in Mile End that Stan had wangled off the council. She would be forever grateful to him for getting her a spanking new two-bed on the Essex Lane Estate. They were becoming a real team. But neither of them had taken it further, though there was definitely something between them. Babs wanted to, but how could she, with another man’s kid in her belly?

  ‘I had a so-called friend who lived around here,’ her mum sniffed. ‘Turned out she was making a play for your dad behind my back.’

  Rosie Wilson was not best pleased that her only child was finally flying the nest. She was desperate to play mother hen to both Babs and her baby, but her daughter couldn’t seem to get out from under her roof quick enough.

  ‘Come on, Mum.’ Babs linked her arm into her mother’s as if sensing her sad thoughts. ‘Feel happy for me. I’m about to start my new life.’ She almost laughed out loud. She still couldn’t believe that she was going to have her own front door.

  ‘I think this is the wrong way,’ Denny said. Although her best friend had been chuffed that Babs was getting her own place, she’d also worn a ‘wish it were me’ expression. Something was up with Denny, Babs just knew it, but she wouldn’t say what. Babs’ gut told her it had something to do with that rancid stepdad of hers.

  ‘You’re right,’ Babs said, realising that she’d directed them into a run-down square. The small garden in the middle must’ve once been something to behold, but now it was dried up, the grass a strange shade of green. But it wasn’t the garden that caught Babs’ attention, it was the larger-than-life Jag positioned outside one of the houses and the two teenagers who seemed to be guarding it. It was all a bit odd; the motor didn’t fit into a place like Mile End.

  ‘Let’s get a move on,’ her mum urged, steering them away from Bancroft Square.

  A few minutes later, they were on the other side of Mile End Road and Babs had her first glimpse of the Essex Lane Housing Estate under a dull, cloudy sky. ‘I like the look of this.’ Even the baby kicked in approval.

  Babs knew she was dead lucky to get a home here. When the estate went up there was a gold rush to get places. Everyone for miles around could see the frames of the new towers and smaller blocks slotting into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Everyone had heard about the trees and open spaces where the kids could play, instead of kicking balls on the street. When the locals peered over the fences, they could imagine these new buildings were like the country houses on Upstairs Downstairs. Word was they had the works: central heating throughout, fitted bathrooms, a community centre and even one or two boozers were to be provided. Terraced houses were yesterday’s news.

  They passed a group of girls playing two balls up the wall and singing:

  ‘Oh, you never get to heaven, oh, you never get to heaven,

  As newlyweds, as newlyweds,

  Because the Lord ain’t got, because the Lord ain’t got,

  No double beds, no double beds.’

  The kids looked happy, making Babs even surer that this was a good place to bring up her child. Her elation only grew when they got inside her new flat. It was all mod cons, two good-sized bedrooms and a sitting room. The kitchen and bathroom were a bit pokey, but all in all it suited her to a T. Rosie went from room to room on her own, muttering things like, ‘You couldn’t swing a cat in here,’ ‘The walls are paper thin,’ while Babs and Denny plotted how to turn the place into a real home, giggling like two schoolgirls.

  ‘When I’m a bit more flush,’ Babs said, eyes sparkling, ‘I’m going to put in a bar over there. And get Mrs Phillips – she’s one of my dad’s machinists – to run up some lovely curtains.’ She placed her hand at the small of her back as it started to ache.

  Denise leaned in close. ‘Have you told your parents about you know what?�
�

  Babs looked baffled. ‘What?’

  ‘You know – that the kid’s going to be black?’

  ‘Black?’ Rosie yelled behind them.

  Babs and Denny jumped apart. I’m done for now, Babs thought as she turned anxiously.

  Denny did her best to rescue the situation. ‘Err . . . black . . . yeah, I saw this programme where this couple had black carpets. It looked really cool.’

  ‘Cool?’ Rosie looked at her as if she’d totally lost the plot. ‘My grandkid isn’t growing up in a home with black carpets like something out of The Munsters.’ She headed for the kitchen, muttering about ‘young kids and their fancy-fool ideas.’

  Babs grabbed her friend. ‘Thanks a bunch, Denny, what did you go and say that for with my mum two steps away?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was that close.’ A dreamy expression suddenly broke over Denny’s face. ‘I’m going to have a place like this soon.’

  Babs’ eyebrows furrowed. ‘I didn’t know that you’d put in to the council.’

  ‘I didn’t. Screw the council. I’ll be getting my own private drum, probably up West somewhere.’

  Babs gazed at Denny as if she’d grown three heads. Private flats cost the type of money you didn’t get from working in a chicken factory in Bethnal Green like her best mate did. She was worried about Denny. She’d hardly seen her over the last couple of months. Denny was usually out when she called around for their weekly trip to the local. Even her mum didn’t know where she was or who she was with and when Babs pressed her, Denny clammed up.

  The time for beating about the bush was over. ‘Denny, what’s going on?’

  Denny flattened her mouth like she was going to remain schtum, but then leaned into Babs, her dreamy expression getting stronger. ‘I’m not meant to say a peep, but I’m seeing that photographer who owns the modelling agency you work at.’

  Babs frowned. ‘What photographer?’ Stan had never said anything about being a snapper as well.