Anyone Who Had a Heart

by Mia Dolan

  He didn’t ask whether he could sit beside her on the park bench; Bully never asked to do anything. He just did it.

  He smelled of oil.

  ‘Left school now. Got meself a job in a garage. An apprenticeship, like.’

  ‘I guessed.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah. Great boots. Great overalls.’

  She didn’t look at him but sensed by the tone of his voice that he was beaming broadly.

  One of the boots kicked out when a pigeon came looking to retrieve a piece of bread. It fluttered off in a flurry of feathers.

  ‘Not doing too bad for money now. I don’t get much on the apprentice front, but the boss lets me do a bit of overtime and pays me full rate for that. He’s not supposed to really, but a bloke’s got to have a few shillings for nights out, know what I mean?’

  Suddenly she knew where this was going and was ready to laugh in his face at the thought of it.

  ‘So how’s the youngster?’

  The question took her off guard. This was not the one she’d been expecting.

  She decided to play ignorant. ‘Youngster?’

  ‘Your kid. I heard you had a kid. Heard the father got smashed up on the North Circular. That right?’

  Marcie exhaled a deep breath and said in a small voice, that yes, Johnnie had been killed in a road accident.

  She felt him glance down at her left hand.

  ‘Didn’t get round to marrying you then?’

  She curled her fingers into her palm wishing she’d brought the pretend wedding ring in her pocket for use in moments like these. Lying was not second nature to her but under the circumstances the lie was preferable to leaving Bully to make his own conclusion.

  ‘I don’t mind if a girl’s made a mistake. I’d still take her out.’

  There it was; the question she’d sensed was coming.

  ‘How about coming with me to the pictures? There’s a good one on at the minute. Bonnie and Clyde. There’s a lot of blood in it. How about it?’

  Marcie had heard about the film. There was a lot of controversy about the violence in it.

  ‘It’s an eighteen certificate,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yeah. I know it is. I only go to over eighteen or X-rated films. I don’t like soppy stuff.’

  Marcie was under no illusion that if she consented to go with him she’d spend most of the film fighting him off. In the darkness his hands would be everywhere. The thought of him trying to kiss her made her feel sick.

  She felt his arm sliding along the back of the bench, his hand heading for her shoulder.

  ‘You have to be an adult to watch X-rated films,’ she muttered, meaning to say that he was still a child.

  He bent his head, ducked beneath the umbrella and looked up into her face. ‘Now come on, Marcie. Do I look like a little kid?’

  He smirked at the thought of anyone thinking his overlarge frame was below eighteen years of age. He definitely had a point, but it altered nothing for Marcie. There was no way she wished to accompany Bully Price anywhere.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He looked surprised at her rejection, the smirk sliding into a sneer.

  ‘Washing your hair or something?’

  Marcie made an instant decision. She’d stood up to him in the past, and she’d damn well stand up to him now.

  She sprang to her feet, her half-eaten sandwiches falling to the ground. ‘No. I just don’t want to go out with you.’

  ‘Just because you’re older than me? That don’t make no difference. No difference at all.’

  The sun was coming out. She shook her head at the same time as shaking the rain from her umbrella. ‘That isn’t the reason, Billy. The fact is I don’t like you. I don’t like you at all.’

  To her great surprise he laughed at that. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? Fact is, Marcie Brooks, who else is going to bother with soiled goods? Granted you’re a tasty-looking bird, but you’ve been broken in.’

  ‘Broken in!’ Marcie recoiled with horror. ‘I am not a bloody horse, Billy Price! You’re disgusting … a disgusting little boy!’

  That sickly grin returned to his face. ‘No I’m not,’ he said, towering above her now and clutching his crotch. ‘I’m a big boy. I can show you if you like.’

  Marcie didn’t give him chance. Swinging the closed umbrella in a wide arc, she brought it smashing across the side of his head. Only the fact that his boots were heavy stopped him from falling over.

  Feeling elated, she stalked off with her head in the air. The fact that he was shouting after her made no difference to the lightness of her footsteps. She imagined that if she cared to look down her feet would be floating four inches off the ground.

  ‘You just wait, Marcie Brooks. I’ll bring you down a peg. You’ll come running then when no other man wants you. You just see if you don’t.’

  Chapter Seven

  LONDON WAS GREY and it was raining. So much for April.

  Tony Brooks was uncomfortable with what his new employer was asking him to do. I must have mellowed with age, he thought to himself.

  ‘I just want them to understand that I am not a fucking charity. They owe me nearly a fiver in back rent. Sort the dough out or chuck them out. That’s the terms of my contract.’

  Victor Camilleri leaned back in his leather swivel chair and placed his feet on the desk, crossing them at the ankles. His footwear was shiny and begged attention though Tony knew better than to stare at them. Victor wore a made-up boot on his right foot. Rumour had it that he’d suffered polio as a child. But nobody was so stupid as to ask why the built-up boot and the limp; nobody would dare.

  Tony knew that Victor did not give the tenants of his rotten properties the kind of written contracts like the sort he’d signed with the council. They were told verbally what the terms were: you pay the rent or piss off.

  Some of the punters who rented flats and bedsits from Victor deserved to get a bit of aggro. Most paid up pretty promptly once Tony and another bloke, Bernie, went calling round. The majority were immigrants and were having trouble finding jobs let along paying the rent. Colour prejudice meant what jobs there were – mainly with London Transport and British Rail – were fought over. The same prejudice also prevailed in the private renting sector. That’s why Victor could charge what he did for property in the East End of London, most of it earmarked for demolition and redevelopment. In the meantime people lived in buildings where the brickwork was mouldering as a result of age, neglect and bomb damage. One of Victor’s flats was better than no flat at all.

  ‘Right,’ said Victor at last. ‘Go to it, boys.’

  Bernie followed Tony out of Victor’s office, leaving their employer lighting up yet another King Edward, his expensive suede shoes resting on the desk.

  Bernie offered Tony a Woodbine.

  Tony eyed it ruefully. ‘Christ! How can you smoke that crap after getting a sniff of that cigar?’

  Bernie laughed. ‘Victor’s the business, and that’s a fact.’

  Tony opted to drive. That way he didn’t have to smoke. The fact was that sometimes this job turned his stomach. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the people he had to face; on the contrary, he felt sorry for some of them, hence the terrible taste in his mouth. A cigarette would have tasted pretty grim, hence refusing one.

  He’d been cock-a-hoop when he’d first got the job with Victor Camilleri. His reputation had been carried by word of mouth straight to the big Sicilian’s front door. There were no takers for the job besides him. He chose to believe that this was because everyone knew he was the best man for the job and nobody wanted to cross him. He chose to blot out the fact that the previous incumbent had got knifed in the guts by a West Indian pimp who hadn’t quite got the lay of the land just yet – the criminal land that is.

  The ‘tenant’ today lived on the ground floor of a Victorian tenement.

  Tony looked up at the dirty brickwork. ‘I bet you can see all the way to Battersea Bridge from the top of
this place.’

  Bernie giggled. ‘Yeah. The last view a punter’s likely to get before they spin down to the ground like a bleeding Sputnik.’

  He got no response from Tony, who liked to think he was hard but fair. He also liked to think he had more of a brain than Bernie. All Bernie had were big meaty hands and a temper that was the wrong side of normal.

  Six stone steps led up to a wide front door. The door had chipped paint and a huge knocker with a big black knob underneath. Not that they needed to knock. They had keys, not that they needed them; the door was already ajar.

  The hallway smelled of stale cabbage and chip fat. A pram was parked against the right wall, another a bit further along against the left. On glancing into the pram Tony saw a pair of small brown fists like blobs of chocolate against the pure white of a knitted blanket.

  Bernie got in front of Tony, fist already bunched to hammer on the door.

  Tony eased him out of the way. ‘My job I think.’

  He was right. It was his job to give out the official line – the demand for payment. A Mrs Ella Reynolds lived here. She owed three weeks rent at ten and six a week running to a total of one pound eleven shillings and sixpence. As far as Victor was concerned, it was a fair deal even though it did not include electricity and gas which was paid for by slot meters.

  He caught a glimpse of a door opening further along the passage and a pair of frightened eyes peering out. One glance at the visitors and the door closed again. Everyone knew who they were – or at least, the tenants of this place certainly did.

  A young and pretty black woman came to the door. She had a toddler clinging to her skirts and her dark eyes flickered nervously. For a moment Tony half expected her to shut the door in his face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘Well now, Mrs Reynolds. What appears to be the problem?’

  He heard Bernie giggling behind him. Bernie thought he handled matters too politely and sounded like a copper. He didn’t care. Bernie would give the woman a clumping without a second thought. He wouldn’t. That was the difference between him and Bernie. He knew when to go for it and when not to.

  Mrs Reynolds wrapped her hand around the small child’s head, clamping her to her skirt. It was as though there was strength in melding them both together. There wasn’t, but Mrs Reynolds was frightened.

  ‘My husband, Joe, he’s gone down the National Assistance,’ she said in a thick Jamaican accent. ‘Joe pay when he get back.’

  Her voice was stridently brave. Tony found himself admiring her and the gutsy way she was protecting her kid. He thought about Marcie. Unlike Mrs Reynolds she had no man to put the bread on the table. He knew how he would feel if anyone went around demanding money she couldn’t pay from his daughter. He’d fucking kill ’em!

  ‘Look, love,’ he said, lowering his face so they were eye to eye. ‘Mr Camilleri let you have this place out of the goodness of his heart when nobody else would give you house room being as you’re of a coloured persuasion. Know what I mean?’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘But he didn’t let you have it for free. That was not the intention,’ Tony went on. ‘He let you have this place out of the kindness of his heart and ten shillings and sixpence a week. Right?’

  Mrs Reynolds nodded her head very slowly, her eyes round with fear. Sensing her mother’s discomfort, the toddler began to cry.

  ‘Joe pay you,’ said Mrs Reynolds.

  ‘And when might that be?’

  ‘When he comes home. He pay you then.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible Mrs Reynolds. Either I get paid now or take goods to the value of – got it?’

  ‘Like this pram.’

  Tony turned round. Bernie was jiggling the pram so violently that the baby was rolling from side to side, bouncing off the inside padding.

  ‘Ain’t much of a pram though. Might improve it a bit if I push it down the steps and out in the road. Maybe a bus might run it down and make it look better. Bit squashed though.’

  Mrs Reynolds screamed, ‘No!’

  Tony grabbed the handle of the battered pram, which was worth practically nothing. The baby had started to cry.

  ‘Leave it out, Bernie.’

  He gave the big bruiser a warning look. Though Bernie was an ape in a suit, he had respect for the geezers who gave the orders. Tony was the man, so Bernie obeyed, though he did point at Mrs Reynolds and tell her the boss would not be pleased.

  No, thought Tony. The boss wouldn’t be pleased and even if he let Mrs Reynolds off, Bernie would spin a tale. The fact was that Tony was beginning to feel sorry for her. He kept thinking of his Marcie. He couldn’t shift the similarities from his mind.

  ‘Let’s go inside and discuss this further, shall we, Mrs Reynolds?’

  He picked the baby up and told Bernie to stay where he was.

  ‘Mrs Reynolds and I will go inside to discuss business. No point in upsetting the kids now is there.’

  Looking hesitantly up at him – no doubt worried she was letting someone in who was going to rough her and the kids up a bit – she let him in anyway.

  ‘Shut the door, Mrs Reynolds.’

  Tony handed over the baby.

  ‘I haven’t got any money. Not yet.’

  Tony’s eyes swept the cramped room the family lived in. The kitchen was in a small aperture behind a green chenille curtain.

  Mrs Reynolds was rocking the crying infant in her arms. The toddler was crying at her skirt.

  Tony looked deeply into her eyes. ‘You have to pay, Mrs Reynolds. You know that, don’t you?’

  She nodded, her big eyes seeming to fill her face.

  It was alien in this game, but he couldn’t help being sympathetic. Tony, my old son, you’re losing it, he thought to himself. You must be getting old.

  ‘Look. An old mate of mine works for the bus company. Get your old man to go along there. Ask for Jim Collins and tell him that Tony Brooks sent him along. Got that?’

  She stared at him a second then her bottom lip began to tremble. ‘I don’t know … I might forget … me memory …’

  ‘Got a pencil? A piece of paper?’

  She grabbed a child’s crayon from the table. Tony tore a scrap of paper from the back of her rent book and wrote the details down.

  ‘Get him to see Jim. He might be able to help.’

  The face that had been so taut with fear now relaxed a little. Mrs Reynolds gave a small smile.

  ‘My Joe! He bin trying to get a job on the buses.’

  Tony nodded. He was sticking his neck out and neither he nor Mrs Reynolds was out of the woods yet.

  ‘There’s still the matter of the outstanding rent,’ Tony said to her.

  She shrugged helplessly. ‘I do have a ten bob note in me purse. I was keeping it to buy my groceries. Milk for the baby … and Theresa. I don’t mind going without meself …’

  Tony held up his hand. ‘This time we skip it. Just make sure you pay the next time the collector comes round.’

  He knew it was foolish, but when he turned for the door he got a fiver out of his pocket and entered it in the record book. He also recorded it in her rent book.

  ‘You owe me now,’ he told her.

  She stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Just one thing,’ he added. ‘You tell no one. Right? Not even your old man. If anyone goes shooting off their mouth, we’re all up the Swanee. Right?’

  The rest of the rent collecting went as per normal. At the end of the day Tony went for a drink at his favourite East End pub. Around about eight o’clock he phoned the phone box at the end of Grafton Street where he, Babs and their three kids rented a council house. There were always kids playing out in the street so no problem it going on ringing indefinitely.

  A kid answered. ‘Yeah? Who’s that?’

  ‘Tony Brooks.’

  ‘Dad!’

  It was Arnold, one of his boys.

  ‘Arnold, mate. How the devil are you my son?’
>
  ‘I’m alright, Dad. We’ve chucked a rope over a lamppost and made it into a swing.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yeah. Our Archie’s on it at the minute. Do you want me to get him?’

  ‘No. I just want you to tell your mother and your grandmother that I’m home this weekend. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yeah. Mum’s down at the chippie at the minute. Our Annie’s round with Gran.’

  ‘Great. I’ll leave you to take care of it, son. OK?’

  ‘OK, Dad.’

  Tony was thoughtful as he replaced the phone. He loved his kids and of course he wanted to see them again. Even little Annie. He’d never been quite sure whether she was his or not. Babs had put it about a bit in her time. But even that didn’t matter now. The problem was Mrs Reynolds – Ella. He wanted to see her again too.

  Chapter Eight

  MARCIE TOLD NO one about her run in with Bully Price. The fact was that not only was she worried he might blab her circumstances where hospital staff hung around, she had been mortified by his terminology. He’d disgusted her with the words he’d used when applied to her, just a girl who’d got pregnant without being married. Would it always be like this? she wondered. Would she always be thought of as a girl who was easy, bestowing her favours on anyone who wanted them?

  The thought of it made her sick. Only the fact that she loved Joanna so much prevented her from regretting what she had done.

  Deep in thought over her sewing, she didn’t immediately hear her grandmother speaking.

  ‘Marcie! You are not listening to me?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She jerked her head up. Her cool blue eyes met the jet-black ones of her grandmother.

  ‘I said your father is coming home this weekend. The boys came round to tell me.’

  Marcie was pleased to hear it. ‘This dress will be finished by then,’ she said as she lovingly caressed the peacock-green material. ‘I’m hoping Angie will have sold the other two.’

  Her happiness was infectious. Her grandmother smiled at the same time as rubbing the heated iron over a pure linen sheet. ‘You will be like Coco Chanel in no time.’