by Mia Dolan
Marcie remarked that she’d thought April had enjoyed her job. ‘She didn’t seem stressed,’ she added.
‘Nevertheless …’ said Mrs Camilleri, with a casual wave of her beautiful hands. ‘It was for the best.’
It was difficult to read the look on Gabriella’s face, but Marcie detected a worried frown.
‘Is everything alright, Mrs Camilleri?’
Gabriella Camilleri was fiddling with bits of pattern, shuffling the pieces over a length of dark-purple material. She wasn’t actually achieving anything by the process, leading Marcie to believe that her thoughts were elsewhere.
‘None of your business,’ snapped Mrs Camilleri.
Carol had also left. She’d confided in Marcie that she wanted a job in a nightclub. ‘Roberto pulled strings,’ she told Marcie with undisguised glee. ‘I’m going to be a showgirl.’
So now she had nobody of her own age around. Her weekly leisure time was spent with Roberto; her weekends at home with Joanna and her grandmother. The loneliness lingered and Roberto was questioning why she insisted on going home at the weekends. Surely her grandmother didn’t need that many visits …?
She’d brought a few precious things from home, most notably a walnut jewellery box in which she kept objects that were precious to her: a knitted bootee, worn by Joanna when she was only a month or so old; a pressed flower she’d put between the pages of a book. There was also an earring she’d found buried close to where the old chicken coop used to be. She liked to think it had once belonged to her mother. She didn’t ask anyone if they recognised it. She didn’t want to be disappointed.
This was also where she kept precious letters. One of them was from Allegra, one of the two girls she’d met at the home for unmarried mothers. Enclosed with that letter was the address of Sally, the other girl who she’d shared a room with. She couldn’t be certain that they would answer her letter, but she lived in hope that they would.
There was a new addition to her treasure box; Roberto had bought her a ring. ‘For you,’ he’d said, kissing her on the forehead while sliding the ring onto her middle finger.
She’d stared at it in wonder, knowing it was gold and that the red stone had to be a ruby.
‘Is it real?’
He’d told her that it was.
‘But not an engagement ring,’ he’d added and smiled. ‘Not yet.’
Normally it was her father who came home with her or failing that she’d catch the train. It was on a Friday morning and she’d arranged to meet him for a coffee when he told her he couldn’t make it.
‘I’ve got business to attend to,’ he said in his boyish, shifty manner.
‘Dad, you’ve never played poker have you?’
Tony Brooks looked at his daughter as though she’d sworn on the Sabbath.
‘I don’t like cards. Not even Snap. You should know that, Marcie. As a kid you used to ask me to –’
‘Shut up, Dad.’
At one time she would never have dreamed of telling him to shut up. That was when she was just his daughter. Now she was the mother of his grandchild his attitude had changed. More often now he looked at her for a lead – as though she knew more than him. With a pang of regret she wondered whether he’d looked at her mother in the same way.
It was becoming noticeable that her father’s visits home were becoming less frequent. Each time Marcie arrived home without him Babs’ would be waiting at Endeavour Terrace, sometimes with the kids, just as often without. She’d never been one for dragging the kids around behind her; never been that much of a one for kids at all for that matter.
She recalled her last weekend home. Babs had been there and the obvious had been stated.
‘He’s got another woman! That’s it! Well? Is it?’
Babs screeched the accusation and even Rosa Brooks assuring her that his family would always come first to her darling Antonio began to pale.
The truth was that Marcie didn’t know whether her father was having a fling or not. Nobody had seen him with another woman. There were no rumours that he was seeing another woman. But on the third week in a row of not wanting to go home to Sheppey, Marcie had to admit to herself that there was no smoke without fire. He had someone, though who the hell it was, she didn’t have a bloody clue!
So here he was sitting across the table from her in a run-of-the-mill Wimpy Bar where the wet weather outside and the warmth within caused condensation to mist the windows.
Marcie went straight for the jugular. ‘Have you got another woman?’
He stared at her at first, almost as though she’d just stepped on his toe with a spike-heeled shoe.
He recovered quickly and was suitably indignant. ‘Course not!’
‘I don’t believe you.’
He raised his voice. ‘Now steady on …!’
‘Babs misses you. So do the kids.’
Mention of the kids brought a more positive response, though not enough to make him promise to come home.
It occurred to her that her father was involved in something shady that he couldn’t talk about. What did he actually do for Victor Camilleri? How beholden was he to the Sicilian, who had a way with words and eyes as sharp as a fish eagle? She asked him outright.
‘What kind of hold has Mr Camilleri got over you?’
For a moment he looked at her with his mouth open. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Judging by his expression, he was telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Still, it was a well-known fact that Tony Brooks could lie to the devil and be believed if he had to. And it could very well be the truth. Perhaps it’s just me, she decided.
The fact of the matter was that Mrs Camilleri was indeed a very good judge of fashion and loved almost everything Marcie designed. But that was the moot point as far as Marcie was concerned. Her coming to live at the delectable flat in Chelsea had been Victor’s idea, not that of his wife.
Victor was not likely to elaborate on the matter. For the moment she had to take everything at face value. Mrs Camilleri valued her creativity and for now that would have to suffice.
‘You don’t need to get the train.’
Marcie tuned in to what her father was saying.
‘I can’t borrow the car, Dad. I don’t have a driving licence.’
Her father guffawed with laughter. ‘Neither do I.’
‘That’s hardly the point.’
‘No need to worry,’ he said chirpily while patting her hand. ‘I persuaded Roberto to give you a lift.’
Marcie’s blood drained from her face.
‘Bloody hell!’
Her father looked surprised at her exclamation. ‘You ungrateful little cow.’
Marcie fixed him with a hard stare, her teeth grating with the effort of keeping calm – just a little calm.
‘Dad! Remember he doesn’t know about Joanna. In fact, he thinks I’m the next best thing to the Virgin Mary. All the family does. Do you get what I’m saying, Dad? These are Sicilians. Wives are expected to be untouched virgins on their wedding night. That’s what he thinks I am.’
‘Shit!’ Tony Brooks buried his head in his hands. ‘I didn’t think. I only did what I thought was best for you.’
Marcie shook her head. ‘Have you any idea of what you’ve done? Roberto has set me up on a bloody high pedestal and when I fall, which surely I will, there’s going to be some explaining to do – thanks to you! Trust my dad to muck up my life.’
His eyes flashed. ‘Marcie! How did I ever do that?’
‘My mother for a start,’ she said grimly, not caring now where this conversation might be heading. ‘I would have liked to know her. I would have liked to have had some contact with her. But you would never discuss her. You blanked me out every time I mentioned her. So where is she, Dad? Where can I find my mother?’
He got up. ‘Sod it! Do you know what? You’re becoming a right little cow. Hard as nails. You’ll end up just like her. Just like your mother!’
‘Dad! What
do you mean by that?’
He was angry and she’d overstepped the mark. That’s what she put that comment down to. He was just trying to hurt her.
She watched him go, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the rain.
Roberto refused to listen to her reasons why he shouldn’t give her a lift home that weekend. Even when she said she wouldn’t bother to go, he insisted that she did.
‘Your grandmother will wish to see you. And there is no need to concern yourself with regard to my behaviour. Michael is coming along as chaperone.’
‘Michael?’
He laughed. Chaperones were usually women. ‘My mother hates driving fast. Michael offered to come. He is in love with you. Did you know that?’
She shook her head dumbly.
Roberto laughed. ‘He’ll hate doing the job, but I thought it would be fun.’
Yes. You would, she thought.
Michael did nothing except hand her a single flower. A carnation.
‘I think somebody dropped it,’ he said, then looked away.
Michael coming along upset her plan to tell Roberto that she was an unmarried mother, yet purely on instinct, she found his presence reassuring.
‘Did you like the flowers I sent you?’
Roberto’s question jolted her from thinking of Michael.
She beamed at him. ‘I don’t know how you sneak into the sewing room without me seeing you. And it looks as though you picked them yourself.’
She saw his eyelids flicker. ‘Darling, I bought them in that posh flower shop at the end of the King’s Road. Roses and stuff. That’s what I asked her for. I thought that was them my mother was taking to the tap in the kitchen.’
Marcie suddenly realised her mistake. Roberto was referring to the bouquet she’d initially placed in her bedroom.
So who was responsible for the sweet peas, carnations and other common garden flowers placed on her work table each day?
She sniffed the carnation. Michael. It had to be Michael. Roberto was right. Michael was in love with her.
Eventually Roberto’s shiny Maserati turned into Endeavour Terrace on Friday evening. The street lights were just coming on and a bank of grey cloud was rolling in from the sea.
‘Just here. Number ten.’
He rolled to a stop where she told him too. She glanced through the narrow gate and the equally narrow path leading to the front door of number ten.
She felt a great urge to apologise. ‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you both to stay, but it’s only a tiny cottage.’
Roberto shrugged. ‘You want to see your family alone. It’s understandable. You want to explain me to them before they meet me.’ He spread his arms. His sunglasses had pinkish lenses so it was hard to read whatever was in his eyes. ‘The clothes too – you’ll sure as hell want to explain the duds, won’t you?’
His reference to the yellow shirt and black velvet jacket brought a smile to her face. He was wearing an oversized tartan cap – the sort favoured by street urchins a century ago, though his wasn’t ragged, of course, merely stylish.
She thought again how much he resembled his father in that he sometimes made statements as though they were questions. That was fine in itself, though she was beginning to suspect that there was really only one answer she could give – the one he wanted to hear.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow – once you’ve explained that you’ve fallen in love with a flash bloke with a good wedge in his pocket and a matching flash car.’
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Who said I’d fallen in love with him?’
He ran his fingers down the side of her face, cupped her chin and shook his head. ‘I did. I’m irresistible. Didn’t you know that?’
Before she had chance to get out of the car, there was a banging on the window.
‘Marcie Brooks! You fucking cow!’
The last person she’d expected to see was Rita Taylor bashing the car window with her fist.
Roberto too was taken by surprise. ‘Who the hell’s that?’
Marcie gave no answer. Her insides were turning to marshmallow.
Roberto got out of the car and went round to the passenger door. Michael got out from the back.
‘Hey. Hey. Easy now.’
Michael grabbed hold of the flailing fists, pulling Rita away from the car. Marcie seized the opportunity to open the car door.
The girl who had once been her closest friend – a fact that Marcie had lived to regret – struggled against the strong arms that held her.
‘Now, now,’ Michael was saying while effortlessly holding Rita’s arms to her chest.
Rita would not be calmed. Her face was contorted with rage. She looked so much bigger than Marcie remembered. The girl that had been prettily chubby was now obese.
An oblong of light fell out of the cottage and onto the garden path.
‘What is going on here?’
Rosa Brooks was standing in the cottage doorway with Joanna in her arms. Marcie was filled with alarm. She hadn’t told Roberto yet. It would be such a shock.
Rita’s rage was firmly directed at Marcie. She was calling her all the bad names under the sun and mostly referring to her morals. Between rants she turned her angry face upwards to Roberto.
‘I shouldn’t have nothing to do with her if I was you, mate. She’s a tramp that one. Led my dad on she did, then done him in. They say she didn’t, that he got into a fight. But I don’t believe that. She killed him. That fucking tramp killed him.’
Other doors were opening and other lights were turning on in bedroom windows.
‘Marcie Brooks is a fucking slut,’ Rita shouted to those who’d chanced putting their head out of the window.
‘Let her go,’ Marcie said to Michael.
‘Are you sure?’
Marcie nodded. ‘She lost her dad. He used to take the two of us around together. She’s gone a bit loopy since he died.’
In her mind she could see Alan Taylor lying on the beach. She’d been very good at keeping the vision at bay, continually telling herself it was an accident. That’s how she coped.
Rita lunged again. This time Roberto caught her and kept a firm grip on Rita’s arms. His cheek was pressed against hers and he was trying to calm her down.
‘Come on now. You’ve had a bit to drink, girl. Calm it down. Right?’ He looked over at Marcie. ‘She smells as though she’s supped a brewery.’
‘The stupid cow!’
Suddenly Marcie didn’t care what came out. She was ready for whatever Rita had in mind and if she mentioned her dad again, she’d tell it as it was. That he was a rapist. That he liked young girls. Goodness knows what Roberto might think, but it couldn’t be helped.
She braced herself for whatever happened.
‘Go on then, Rita. Hit me. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Hit me. If you dare.’
Roberto let go of Rita’s arms. She charged again, shrieking like a banshee as she lumbered forwards.
Marcie sidestepped, grabbed Rita’s hair as she went by and swung her off balance.
Rita howled and came for her again.
Marcie clenched then raised her fist. This time when Rita charged she held her podgy hands out in front of her, her sharp nails gleaming with red varnish.
As the clawed hands raked into Marcie’s shoulders she brought her fist up. There was a sickening crunch as her knuckles made contact with Rita’s chin. Rita’s bottom teeth crashed against her top ones and her head went back. She tottered to one side, grabbing the hedge before crumpling to her knees.
The people of Endeavour Terrace weren’t the sort to go calling the police for every little problem. To their minds it looked as though the matter had been settled to everybody’s satisfaction. Rita had come huffing and puffing with vengeful intent and had been soundly despatched.
Marcie met Roberto’s eyes. He looked surprised.
‘She’s mad.’ It was all she could think of to say. ‘I’m sorry though. I’m not violent. I’m not l
ike that.’
At first he beheld her silently. Then he smiled. ‘You could have fooled me, babe.’
‘That’s her car,’ someone said, pointing to a Mini Cooper ‘S’.
Roberto took charge of the situation. ‘Michael. Deal with the car. If someone points me in the right direction, I’ll take her home; you follow on behind.’
Marcie heard Michael mutter, ‘As always.’
Two or three neighbours were helping Rita to her feet. She was quiet now, her head wobbling on her shoulders.
Michael put his arm around her and guided her into the front seat of the Maserati.
Roberto looked on, hands resting on slim hips. ‘She’ll revive enough to show me where she lives.’
He kissed Marcie on the cheek. ‘Take care, darling, and have a nice weekend. Perhaps it’s better if I see you back in London on Monday.’
A sudden panic made her look towards the cottage gate. Her grandmother was still standing there with Joanna. The little girl was holding out her arms.
‘Mummy!’
Roberto didn’t notice. But Michael did. She saw the look of surprise on his face, his quick glance at her, another at his half-brother.
The last thing she wanted was for Roberto to find out about Joanna – before she had time to explain it to him herself.
Michael was looking at her. It was barely susceptible, but he shook his head before looking away.
It was a joy to be home. ‘This is so wonderful,’ she crooned between kissing her daughter’s head and hearing the new words the toddler had learned in the small space of a week. ‘I’m glad you kept her up for me.’
Her grandmother was watching her with quick, quizzical eyes.
‘Even if I hadn’t, she would have been woken up by all the noise.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘The young man – he is Sicilian?’
Marcie wondered how she could possibly know that, but countered that there wasn’t much her grandmother didn’t know. One look at a person and she had them categorised so she might as well explain.
‘Victor Camilleri’s son. His parents came originally from Sicily I believe, though they’ve lived in this country for some time. The other boy is his half-brother.’
‘Do they go to church?’
‘Mrs Camilleri goes to confession and mass three times a week. More sometimes I think.’
