by Mia Dolan
Heat was emanating from the old kitchen range. Rosa Brooks nodded herself asleep.
Joanna was sitting on her mother’s lap. Marcie hadn’t had the heart to put her to bed just yet. She’d missed her so and couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go.
She was playing with the white bow at the front of her mother’s navy-blue dress, chuckling and talking baby talk to herself.
The knock at the cottage door was muffled as though whoever was knocking was in two minds whether they really needed to or not.
Marcie glanced at her grandmother who was peacefully sleeping.
‘We’ll answer the door, shall we?’
Her daughter’s eyes sparkled at the whispered suggestion. Even if she couldn’t understand what was being said, her mother’s secretive tone sounded fun.
The last person she’d expected to see on the doorstep was Michael.
‘I got lost,’ he explained and looked sheepish. He was wearing his glasses.
Marcie stared. Joanna cooed.
‘I won’t say anything. I thought I should come back and say that.’
Marcie felt as though her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. It was hard to swallow.
‘I take it she is yours,’ he added in response to her silence. ‘Yes. She must be,’ he said when she didn’t answer. ‘I heard her say “mummy”.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. Roberto didn’t hear. Do you want me to tell him for you?’
She stared more blindly and shook her head.
‘No,’ he said, also shaking his head. ‘I figured that.’
The way he looked at her was very worrying. She saw concern in his eyes and knew it was for her. She explained how to get to Rita’s house so he could drop off her car and find Roberto. A few moments passed in silence.
‘Marcie, you need to tread carefully.’ His voice was husky, even guarded.
‘He’ll understand,’ she blurted.
For a moment neither of them said anything. Then Michael managed a weak smile. ‘Of course he will.’
Chapter Twenty-four
ROBERTO HAD SAT Rita in the passenger seat with her head lolling backwards and her eyes rolling in her head. By the time they were nearing the place he’d been told she lived, her head was resting heavily on his shoulder and she was snoring.
He lost Michael at some traffic lights. Easy to do seeing as he was driving a Maserti and Michael was driving a Mini Cooper ‘S’.
Bringing the car to a halt, he nudged at Rita’s head with his shoulder.
‘Hey! Wake up.’
Groggily she opened her bleary eyes then groaned and touched her jaw.
Roberto could see that she still wasn’t quite with it. My, but Marcie had landed her one hell of a punch. Marcie wasn’t to know but the sight of her lashing out like that was strangely arousing. He loved fiery women, women who would fight back if a bloke gave her a bit of a slap. Oh yeah, he liked that alright. A virgin at first, then a firebrand; yes, Marcie Brooks could suit him fine. He’d marry her of course. She’d belong to him. He’d still indulge his huge passion here and there with one of the girls he came across in his business. That was the name of the game so to speak; make them feel as though they were the only girl in the world. Reel them in like a fish until they were well and truly hooked. Then have them working on their backs. Not streetwalkers of course, but high-class girls with clean bodies and bright minds. Give them a bank account and a clothes allowance, and they would do anything he wanted. But not Marcie. Marcie was a virgin. His virgin and the girl he would make his wife. He hadn’t asked her officially yet, but in time he would.
He clasped the nape of Rita’s neck so that she could at least keep her head still. If she kept her head still she should be able to focus better.
‘Hey! Is this your place?’
He swivelled her head to face the bungalow he’d been told she lived in.
Rita groaned. It sounded like yes, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Did you say, yes?’
Her head lolled back and her eyes rolled again.
Roberto swore. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Her head whipped from side to side as he slapped one cheek then the other.
‘Come on, you stupid bitch! Talk to me.’
The slapping he’d given her seemed to work. Her eyes fluttered open then narrowed as her sight began to clear.
‘Who are you?’ She winced, gingerly touching her jaw. ‘Ouch.’
‘I’m the mug who gave you a lift home. Is this where you live?’
He jerked his chin at the bungalow. The place was in darkness. He decided that even when it was lit up it was an ugly place, flash but tasteless, the sort of place where the Rita Taylors of this world would live.
‘Come on. Let’s get you indoors. You got a key?’
She nodded and the pain from her jaw kicked in. ‘Ouch! I think I’ve got a loose tooth.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Roberto as he helped her out of the car. ‘You took a big one right on the chin.’
She stood on the pavement and frowned at him. ‘Marcie Brooks?’
‘Marcie Brooks. Come on. Let’s get you indoors.’
The thought of Marcie landing that ace of a punch made him ache with desire for her. He’d ached with desire for her from the first moment he’d seen her; who wouldn’t? She was a stunner with her blonde hair and peaches and cream complexion. As for her figure – well – she certainly had curves in all the right places, thank God! One thing he could admit to for sure and that was that he wasn’t a Twiggy man. No straight up and down girls for him. He liked a girl with hips and a bosom. At least with a bosom you could tell the front from the back. Not like Twiggy. Skinny cow!
The interior of the bungalow was exactly as he’d expected it to be. Flash carpet, flash furniture and even a padded cocktail bar in one corner. How crap was that?
It stunk of neglect and there was litter everywhere. He could see that Rita wasn’t one for housework. Slummy cow!
Rita slumped down onto a stack of orange cushions jammed at one end of a brown settee.
Pinning her elbows to her knees, she leaned forwards, head in hands and moaned.
‘That cow! She used to be my best friend.’
Roberto paused by the door. He had been meaning to go once he’d made sure she was OK. He’d half considered trying it on with her, but her curves had long since turned into layers of fat and were now too much even for him to handle.
He’d had no idea that Rita and Marcie used to be best friends, but the idea intrigued him. They were best friends who’d fallen out. When Roberto Camilleri fell for a girl, she had to be his and his alone. To that end he wished to know everything there was about her. Like his father he was of the old school that believed a woman’s place was in the home and that she should live for her husband and her children alone, never for herself. Even his mother’s dress shop had been at his father’s instigation. Victor Camilleri knew his wife well enough to see when she was restless and might be tempted to kick over the traces and even upset his life if she were given half a chance. And so he’d ordained that she design and make dresses to sell in a shop, her shop, or rather his father’s, because everything in women’s lives was owned by men. Women were not capable of owning and should not be encouraged to do so.
And so because Rita had told him that Marcie and she had been best friends, he’d decided to stay at least until Michael caught up with him. That way he could find out about Marcie’s past in order to design her future.
‘Have you got any brandy?’ he asked the dumb girl with the heavy thighs.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want any.’
‘It wasn’t you I was thinking of.’
The cocktail cabinet was the obvious place and she didn’t tell him otherwise when he went there.
He pulled out two glasses, held one up and looked enquiringly at her.
Rita nodded. ‘OK.’
She didn’t usually drink brandy. The half-bottle of Martell was
part of her father’s old stash. He’d drunk anything come the last so it came as something of a surprise that there was that much left.
She peered through bleary eyes at the bloke who’d brought her home. Even though she was still the worse for wear, he seemed like a dish.
‘My bedroom’s upstairs.’
‘Is that so.’
‘You can take me up there if you like. You can stay if you like.’
‘Sorry, love. I’ll have to pass on that. Perhaps another time.’
Roberto added a splash of soda to each glass, sure of the fact that another time would never come for him and her. He passed her one of the drinks and pulled up a chair so he was sitting opposite her.
She took a sip and grimaced.
‘Work it around your jaw. It’ll help with the pain.’
Rita’s face was crumpled like a piece of squashed dough just before the baker got at it. The anger was still there; he could see it smouldering beneath the surface.
She took his advice and swilled the brandy around in her mouth.
Roberto took a sip from his own glass and chose his moment. ‘So. You and Marcie used to be friends. What went wrong?’
Rita screwed her face up even more. ‘I’ll tell you what went wrong. I’ll tell you everything. Then you’ll see what a slut she is!’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Roberto, and waited.
Chapter Twenty-five
THE WEEKEND AT Endeavour Terrace came to an end all too quickly. Joanna had been perfect and to Marcie that was all that mattered. Marcie tried not to dwell on Roberto finding out about her status as an unmarried mother. Even if he did, if he loved her it wouldn’t matter. That’s what she told herself and although it calmed her at first, the fears came back, flowing over her with as much force as a North Sea wave.
Babs had visited with the kids in tow, bumping Annie down the path in her pushchair.
‘That bloody bus conductor was downright ignorant,’ she declared before turning her bad temper on Marcie. ‘Well? Where is he?’
Marcie knew she was referring to her father. ‘He said to tell you he had some business to deal with. Nightclubs get busy on weekends.’
Babs had smoked, drank and pursued men and affairs for most of her life. Her face and figure were beginning to show the ravages of time and the pubs and chip shops she’d often frequented. The dark crescents beneath her eyes looked as though they’d been drawn on with an eye pencil. There were wrinkles around her lips from constantly drawing in and puffing on cigarettes. Her dark roots were showing in her hair and her tight skirt was straining over her belly.
‘You tell that bastard that I’ll cut his fucking balls off if I find out he’s knocking around with a London tart! You just tell him that!’
Bundling Annie back into the pushchair, Babs left in a flurry of stale sweat and unwashed clothes. She was hardly the blonde bombshell she’d always tried to be and now that she didn’t go out to work any longer, she didn’t seem to give a damn about her appearance.
A disapproving Rosa Brooks shook her head. ‘Such language.’
The two boys loitered. Their grandmother gave half a crown to each of them. ‘Your father told me to give this to you.’
Marcie knew it wasn’t true. Her father was lingering in London and not even his own mother had heard much from him in the past few weeks.
Archie pulled on Marcie’s sleeve. ‘When you see me dad, will you ask him why he doesn’t love us any more?’
Marcie felt her heart lurch in her chest at the sight of the big doleful eyes, eyes as brown as his father. ‘Of course he still loves you, he’s just … busy.’
‘Can you ask him to come see us?’
What could she say except yes, of course she would ask him.
‘Promise?’
‘Archie, you can depend on it!’
She watched the two brothers dash after their mother, leaving the garden gate slamming back against the hedge. Her father had put himself out for her of late, but he was doing nothing much for his other children. OK, she could almost – almost – forgive him for not wanting to be with his wife. The woman was going swiftly to the dogs. But his children? She looked at it from her own point of view as a parent. Never, ever could she miss a weekend home with Joanna.
‘I’m sorry that Rita and I fell out,’ Marcie said to her grandmother when they were discussing things after Joanna had gone to bed.
‘Cheap meat.’
Marcie almost choked on her tea. Rosa Brooks certainly had a way with words when it came to describing people.
‘That girl was not your friend. She was her own friend. Always her own friend.’
A silence fell between them. There were two subjects Marcie was trying to avoid. One of them was Garth, the other was Babs. She was scared to ask about Garth and still didn’t believe he’d had anything to do with the fire that had destroyed the only boutique on the Isle of Sheppey.
‘Garth is well,’ her grandmother said suddenly as though she’d read her thoughts. ‘The staff there treat him very well.’
She sounded surprised that anyone beside herself could treat him anything but very badly. All the same her face was drawn and anxious. She’d always had a hand in caring for Garth.
‘I don’t believe he set fire to Angie’s place,’ said Marcie.
‘No.’ Her grandmother’s face clouded. ‘The man who lives in the flat next door said he saw him sleeping there. Yet Garth says he enjoyed the smell of the shop. I think he meant the fish and chip shop. Garth would like the smell of that.’
A wan smile played around Marcie’s lips. Her grandmother had a point. Garth’s belly followed his nose. A clothes shop would have no attraction for him at all. He dressed like a scarecrow. A fish and chip shop on the other hand …
‘What if Rita knew that man …?’
Her grandmother’s eyes met hers. Neither woman spoke until Marcie shook her head.
‘I don’t know where that came from,’ she said, clutching her teacup with both hands. She shook her head. ‘I was just thinking aloud …’
‘The thought popped into your head.’
Her grandmother’s eyes held hers, yet it seemed in that moment that Marcie was seeing features in the wrinkled face that she’d never seen before.
She licked her lips and shook her head, tucking a stray tress behind her ear.
‘Where did the thought come from?’
‘Someone put the thought in there. Someone who crossed over. Either that or you see it yourself. Adding two and two, or just knowing … just knowing runs in our family.’
‘My mother or Johnnie?’
‘Johnnie loved you.’
Marcie was startled. ‘And my mother did not?’
Whereas before her grandmother’s expression had seemed open and all her thoughts easily accessible, it now seemed that a door had closed.
‘I did not say that. But I know Johnnie loved you.’
She got up and took the empty teacup from Marcie’s hand, leaving her granddaughter with her mouth hanging open and a questioning look in her eyes.
Her grandmother took both cups to the sink where she proceeded to run them beneath the cold water tap. Marcie followed her. ‘Have you spoken to Johnnie?’
Her grandmother stopped swilling the cups and looked at her. ‘Sometimes it’s the living that tell us things.’
‘Is my mother still alive?’
Her grandmother’s wrinkled hand wrenched the old brass tap shut as though it needed that extra strength. The truth was that it shut off easily, the washers worn with the years.
‘I cannot say.’ She turned suddenly and looked into her granddaughter’s face. ‘You will be well off without her.’
The need to know prodded at Marcie’s heart. ‘Why did you disapprove of her?’
Rosa Brooks looked startled. ‘Disapprove? I never disapproved! Not until she ran off leaving her child crying in the night.’
Her words brought back faint memories of not understanding why her mothe
r did not come when she called. As a child she would have been heartbroken. She instantly recognised it as the reason her grandmother could not forgive.
‘So she’s still alive,’ said Marcie.
Rosa Brooks said nothing. Her silence said it all.
Marcie turned over and nuzzled into the pillow. She closed her eyes and thought about her mother. If she was alive she had to be living in London. She was sure of that. And in time she might meet up with her – if she knew where to look. Perhaps her newfound instinct might lead her to that elusive woman. She sincerely hoped so.
Chapter Twenty-six
THE PUSSY CAT Club was not exactly one of Tony Brooks’ favourite haunts, but nobody he knew of any consequence went there so he judged it was just the place to take Ella.
He didn’t know how it had happened, this attraction between them, though he had to concede the blame lay heavily with him. Her old man was a waster, she had no money to pay the rent Victor demanded for the crummy rooms she lived in, and he’d felt sorry for her.
He’d paid one of Ella’s neighbours to look after her kids and given her some dosh for a new dress. Victor paid him well. He had no quibbles about that!
‘How do you like this, honey?’ she said in that fruity voice of hers. She did him a kind of half-twirl to one side then the other. The dress was red and covered in sequins and clung in all the right places. Someone else might have looked a right tart in it. Against Ella’s conker-brown skin it looked a treat. Unlike a lot of the West Indian women that rented rooms with their families in the grim tenements Victor owned, she wasn’t overblown. Her breasts were pert and he was pushed to cover each buttock with his hand – not that he was complaining.
Gold hoops jangled in her ears each time she moved her head – and she was moving her head a lot.
‘Do they play music?’ she asked excitedly as they squeezed themselves beside a small round table.
‘Sometimes.’
He hadn’t told her this was a strip club and the only dancing of note would be done by the ‘exotic dancers’ getting their kit off on the brightly lit stage.
