The Family

by Martina Cole

  Veronica had met her husband at the Shandon Bells Irish club in Ilford when she was fourteen years old; he had been eighteen and working on the buildings. Fresh over from Dublin Phillip Murphy had danced with her, seduced her, and married her three years later. Her father had not been thrilled but he had come round eventually, especially once her belly started to grow, and her mother had hastily arranged the wedding to save everyone embarrassment. The priest who had married them had christened their child four months later. Her father grew to love her husband Phillip and she had been blessed with a very happy marriage and a lovely family with her three boys and Breda.

  These days it was different: girls were looking older, acting older than their years, but were still treated like children in their homes. In her day, a fifteen year old was out working and looking for the man of her dreams; a father for her children. At fifteen, she was assumed to be on the brink of womanhood.

  This Booth girl worried Veronica. She was from a good family, well-to-do in comparison with her lot - Catholic too, so that was a bonus as far as Veronica was concerned. But she also knew that Christine's mother was a hard-faced harridan who thought she was better than everybody else. To be fair, though, the father seemed nice enough. Veronica had been to his shop many times, and he had always been very pleasant to her.

  Now her son was talking engagement rings and lifetime commitment. Veronica smiled; the way young people talked about their lives today was laughable. Not like in her day. Then, you married in the eyes of God and you took what came your way: the good, the bad and the indifferent. What else could you do? There was no divorce, not for Catholics anyway, not real ones.

  Veronica Murphy surveyed her home; it was gorgeous. They had bought their council house and built an extension, so now the kitchen was huge. All melamine units and shiny work surfaces. The floor was her pride and joy, black and white tiles that looked like marble. She was proud of her home, and rightly so. In comparison to the houses around her, it was like a palace. And she had made a good dinner for them all that night. A big roast, with Irish pork and honeyed parsnips. She'd also made roast tatties like the boys loved, along with colcannon and buttered peas. The aroma coming from the oven was mouthwatering. The gravy was all she had left to do, and she knew just how her tribe liked it - thick and dark. A bit like her youngest son, God love him and keep him.

  As Phillip Junior began singing along to the radio, Veronica smiled to herself again. He was smitten all right.

  Chapter Two

  Christine Booth was sick of her mother's voice, it was like a constant stream of irritating nothingness. The woman talked just for the sheer hell of it. She dreamed of the day she could leave home, the day she could finally shut the front door on her mother's constant nagging. Eileen never stopped, her topics of conversation ranged from what Christine was wearing, to how she sat, to what she ate. Or more to the point what she didn't eat. Her schoolwork, her future, her lack of decorum were constant causes of criticism. It was as if Eileen hated her only daughter, was already disappointed in her at just fifteen. Every day of her life, Christine Booth had never felt she was good enough, had always felt she had failed somehow.

  Even as a little kid she had been aware of her mother's determination to better herself and, in the process, better the life of her daughter, whether she wanted it or not. Christine had never felt comfortable in her own home, always had to make sure she was what her mother wanted her to be. Needed her to be. Which was polite, intelligent, hard-working and, above all, respectable. Her mother made the word 'respectable' sound so important it frightened Christine at times. All her friends wore make-up, went out with their mates and had a good time, but not her - she was monitored constantly. It was like living with a huge burden, the burden being that she must never make her mother feel ashamed of having her. But from the way Eileen talked, the way she acted, it was obvious Christine already had.

  She felt that she had already let her mother down, so she always felt as though she was having to make amends, even though she had never intentionally done anything to make her mother feel like she did. As her friend Joanie said, it was her mother who had the problem, not her. It was Eileen who read filth into the most innocent of conversations, Eileen who was so convinced her daughter was already gone to the bad, as she so succinctly put it. Was it any wonder Christine lied and cheated to get away from her? All she wanted was to be a normal teenager.

  Christine looked at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table; she knew she was pretty, knew she was sexy even, desirable. Phillip Murphy made her feel like she was the only girl on earth, like a woman. He was the only person to ever make her feel she was worth something, other than her dad, of course, but he didn't count. He was her dad. He had to love her. But, like her, Dad was also under her mother's thumb, he couldn't have an opinion in his own home, it was more than he dared. Her mother would see that as tantamount to mutiny: it was her way or no way How many times had Christine heard that over the course of her young life?

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  Chapter Three

  Eileen Booth was angry. She was always angry. As she pushed her daughter's bedroom door open, she said in her usual demanding way, 'Are you deliberately ignoring me or have you suddenly been struck stone deaf?'

  Christine sighed audibly. She wasn't going to take the bait, wouldn't bite back. That was what Eileen wanted, she always wanted a full-on row, a reason to ground her daughter. Well, Christine wasn't going to play into her hands.

  'I'm sorry, Mum, I was miles away.' She was smiling at her, trying to look innocent, trying to make her leave her alone.

  Eileen Booth narrowed her eyes in suspicion - was this a piss- take? She knew better than anyone that her daughter would need to be at least fifty miles away to block her voice out when she was at full throttle. 'Where are you off to again?'

  'Round Joanie's, we're doing our history homework. The Elizabethan era, I told you last night.' She saw her mother looking her over, determined as always to find fault. But there was none. She made sure of that.

  Christine had on the minimum of make-up, she wore a plain black dress that ended below the knee and American Tan tights. She also wore her school shoes - black, clumpy school shoes from Clarks. She looked awful in comparison to her contemporaries, and she knew it. She saw her mother battling inside herself to find fault.

  'For crying out loud, I'm only going to Joanie's! When have you ever had cause to doubt me, Mum? When have I ever let you down?' She had the hurt and misunderstood look down to a T.

  'Well, make sure you're home by nine, and I'm ringing Joanie's mum so don't think you can pull the wool over my eyes, all right?'

  'Why would I bother, Mum? Answer me that one, eh?' Picking up her schoolbag off the floor, Christine kissed her mother on the cheek dutifully and walked sedately from the room.

  Eileen Booth listened to her daughter's retreating footsteps and sat down on the bed. Why couldn't her daughter see the danger her looks and friendly nature put her in? She was a nice girl, Eileen knew that better than anyone, but it was the nice girls who got caught out. She didn't want her daughter to have a life like hers, making do. Christine was worth so much more than that, but she was too young to see it.

  One day, Eileen was convinced her daughter would thank her for her love and the interest she took in her life. Until then she consoled herself with the knowledge that not only was her girl too shrewd to be caught out, but that Eileen herself was far too vigilant to let her daughter get into any position that could ruin her future. Her Christine was going to have every advantage, every chance to make something of herself. Whether the ungrateful little mare wanted it or not.

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  Chapter Four

  Breda Murphy opened the front door wide with a smile that was even wider and eyes that were merry. Christine liked her at once.

  'You must be Miss Booth.'

  Christine smiled shyly, she had got this far so she was determined to make a good impression. 'And you must be Mis
s Breda.'

  Breda laughed, but it was a derogatory laugh. 'Oh Jesus, he'll eat you for breakfast. Come on in anyway. You're expected.'

  Christine followed her, disconcerted by Breda's greeting.

  Phillip's street, she hadn't been able to help but notice, was very run down. It was part of a typical council estate and it was alien to her. Her home was a large semi in a nice neighbourhood. It was quiet, and people kept themselves very much to themselves. Here though, there were kids hanging around in the street and curtains were left wide open so anyone could look in and see what was going on. See their lives as they really were without any kind of pretence.

  Even Phillip's home, which she knew he was proud of, and was nicer than all the others in the street with its double glazing and obvious extension, would only fit into the ground floor of her own home. She saw the house as her mother would see it, and that annoyed her. These were nice people, friendly people, and they had invited her into their lives without hesitation. She knew her mother would have a full-on coronary if she knew where her daughter was, and she didn't care. For the moment, she didn't give a monkey's.

  Christine had to admit, though, that walking up the road had been like walking a gauntlet. She was new, she was suspect, and the people there had made her aware of that. When she had walked in the gate that was the entrance to the Murphy home, she had seen the young lads hesitate, watch her closely. She knew they were wondering what she was there for.

  But now she was inside, she was amazed at the warmth, the size and the sheer goodwill that seemed to emanate from everyone and everything around her. This was a home alive with people and sounds. There was noise coming from every room and, as she saw Phillip in the kitchen doorway, his handsome face smiling and his obvious nervousness at her visit, she felt herself relax. She knew then that he was as scared as she was, and that made it suddenly all right.

  Breda pushed her gently from behind and, laughing, she walked through to the enormous kitchen that was so obviously the pride and joy of Phillip's mother. Smiling shyly, Christine looked around the table at his whole family but before she could utter a word his mother bustled towards her shouting, 'Jasus, Phillip, she's gorgeous and far too good for the likes of you.'

  It broke the ice, and Christine Booth, for the first time in her whole life, felt like she had finally come home.

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  Chapter Five

  'It's only twenty past nine, are you sure you have to get going, child?'

  Christine smiled nervously, embarrassed at her predicament. 'To be honest, I'm already late, Mrs Murphy.'

  Veronica grinned, her round face thrilled at the girl's obvious decency. Her Phillip had chosen a good girl and, in this day and age, they were few and far between. She only had to look at her Breda to know that. And if not her Breda, then the papers. Young girls were like men these days, sex was everywhere, and girls were bombarded with so-called choices. The world had gone shagging mad, as her mother would have said.

  'My mum is a bit of a tartar about me being home on time. She worries about me.'

  Veronica laughed easily. 'And who could blame her? Sure, you're a dote, that's what you are, Christine, a dote.'

  Veronica glanced at her husband for support and he winked at the girl, as thrilled as his wife with his son's choice of mate. Like his wife he knew that his son was serious. Phillip had been attracting girls, and women, since he was a lad, and he'd got away with a lot over the years. Seeing him with this little one and knowing that if he had brought her to his parents' house he had to be serious about her, pleased Phillip Senior as much as it did his wife. He knew better than anyone what the wrong mate could cause in a man. His younger brother had married a whore of the first water, and he was doing life for his mistake. She had escaped his wrath - you didn't hit women - but her fancy man had met a knife in the ribs, and none of them thought his brother had done the wrong thing. The whore had produced a child and the parentage had been very suspect. It had been blonder than a Swedish au pair, with nonexistent eyebrows and a harelip. As the old saying went, it was a wise child that knew its own mother, but it was a very wise child that knew its own father.

  Who would take the chance on something like that? Why would you put yourself through it? If you chose wisely from the off, got them young and innocent, and never shat on your own doorstep, then you were guaranteed a happy marriage and peace of mind. Women were like horses, you stabled them and gave them a stud. If you did it right the first time and kept them close, you had a marriage that could only bring you children and lasting happiness. He had told his three sons that from the off, and it seemed his words had struck a chord. With this one anyway. His daughter, on the other hand, lay down for any man she liked the look of. His words of wisdom had seemed to send her in the opposite direction altogether; sure, she delighted in her loose ways. But she was his only daughter so he overlooked a lot in that respect. In any case, he saw it as his wife's job to keep Breda on the straight and narrow. And he wished Veronica good luck with that. Breda was like his own mother: strong, capable and able to have more fights than John Wayne in the course of the average day. Plus, if he was really honest, he felt a small iota of respect. Breda's voracious appetite for men, sex and adventure came from his side of the family. Strong women the lot of them and proud of it.

  Phillip admired his daughter's sense of self. She was eighteen, full-blooded and full-figured - a real beauty, and every man knew that beauty and brains were a lethal combination. His Breda was as savvy as any man he had ever known, and therefore he wanted her to have the same chances as his sons. He knew what was in store for his Breda if she wasn't careful, and though he was quite happy to see the likes of Christine get trapped by love, he still wanted a bit more for his own wayward daughter. She had already had one child, at fifteen no less. Who the father was no one knew - she refused to tell. He suspected she didn't know, but he didn't allow himself to dwell too much on that. Young Porrick was a handsome, strong boy and she loved him.

  However she chose to love, Breda was his daughter, and that was enough for him. After all, if he didn't look out for his own who would?

  The hammering on his front door broke Phillip Senior out of his reverie and, like his three sons and his wife, he expected the worst. It was what was termed in their street 'an Old Bill knock'.

  As the Murphys crowded into the small hallway, Christine hung back in the kitchen, fearful of the way everyone had assumed it was trouble coming. In her home, a knock on the door was considered normal, no one would be worried about it or assume it was something dangerous. She was really scared. She wished suddenly that she was at home, and safely tucked up in her own bed.

  This banging was sinister, and Phillip and his family's reaction made her fears seem valid. All the things she had heard about his family were crowding her mind: that they were dangerous, that they were Faces. That no one messed with them, they were a law unto themselves.

  That they were capable of all sorts.

  Veronica opened the door while the rest of the family stood together like a human wall; the Murphys knew instinctively to stand close to each other, and make sure that nothing or no one could get past them. Each was determined to protect the others around them no matter what.

  But it was only Joanie, Christine's friend, and her presence on the doorstep gave rise to a general sigh of relief. She peered around the Murphys to see Christine.

  'Your mum's looking for you round ours, Chris, you better get a move on.'

  Everyone turned to look at her then, all amazed that this little girl could have been the cause of so much fear.

  Grabbing her coat and bag, Christine slunk from the house with a muttered 'thank you' and a heartfelt goodbye to Phillip, aware of the tension her friend's presence had inadvertently caused them all. She hated her mother anew for making this night such a bloody abortion. She had been really enjoying herself but, as always, her mother had managed to ruin it. Christine was more determined than ever to get away from her.
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  Chapter Six

  'Fucking hell, Phil, did you break into a nursery? She's jailbait.'

  Phillip Junior, who was normally very good natured with his sister, turned on her then, and everyone in the hallway was shocked at his words. 'Shut your fucking trap, Breda, just because she ain't a dog like you. She's only fifteen, of course her mother is looking for her. We all looked for you at the same age if you remember. Not that it did us much good.'

  Breda being Breda was not about to let that go. 'What do you mean by that, Phil? Are you having a pop at me then? I was making a joke…'

  Phillip turned to her and, poking a finger in her face, said quietly, 'Well, I ain't in the mood for jokes. So take my advice, and keep them to yourself.'

  They were interrupted by the sound of crying coming from upstairs. Phillip looked at his sister and said sarcastically, 'You better get up there, Bred, sort your boy out. Let's face it, it ain't like his father's gonna turn up and help out, is it?'

  'You nasty bastard, how dare you talk to me like that! Just 'cos your little girlfriend done a runner with her mate. Don't take it out on me.'

  James, the youngest of the Murphy boys, stepped in then, seeing the hurt that Phillip's words had caused not just his sister but also his mother.

  The father of Breda's child was what was commonly known as a wonderer - everyone wondered who he might have been.

  Breda had never let on, and now at two years old, young Porrick was the darling of the household.

  'He don't mean it, Breda, he's on a love job.'