by Martina Cole
'We're getting married, Mum, but I need your consent to do that. We love each other and we're going to make something of ourselves, whatever you might think to the contrary. Now, I have come round here to ask you to sign the papers. If you don't sign them, then my Phillip will be forced to come round here himself and, believe me, Mum, he won't be as amenable as I am, do you get my drift?'
Christine could see the fear that her words had caused, could feel her mother's discomfort and, despite herself, she found herself actually enjoying it. The two-faced old bitch was finally getting her comeuppance.
'Are you threatening me, Christine, your own mother?' Eileen's voice was low, almost inaudible, as she realised that her daughter now held all the cards, was the stronger of the two, and all through her liaison with Phillip Murphy.
'I'm not threatening you, Mum, I'm just stating a fact.'
'Well.' Eileen shrugged, resigned to her daughter's fate. 'You know what they say don't you, Christine? Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it.'
Christine grinned then, and for the first time she felt superior to this woman. Placing the papers that would allow her to get married on the kitchen table, she said happily, 'I've got exactly what I asked for, Mum - I got away from you, didn't I?'
Eileen sighed. Seeing her husband's signature already there she swallowed back the urge to cry, and said brightly, 'Well, whatever you might think of me, Christine, I only ever wanted what was best for you. One day you will understand that. When that baby you're carrying comes into the world, you'll finally understand why I was like I was. You always want better for your kids, better than you had. It's called being a mother.'
She turned away from her daughter, and busied herself making a pot of tea. Christine watched her quietly, saw the drooping of her shoulders, heard the defeat in her voice, and wished with all her heart that things could have been different. Her mother was an avaricious, demanding and deeply unhappy woman; this, coupled with her snobbery and her unwavering belief that she was better than everyone around her, had guaranteed that she would always be incapable of ever experiencing any real happiness. Consequently, those within her orbit were also denied the chance of any real happiness as well. If Christine had any doubts left about marrying into the Murphys, this woman had just removed them. She would rather die than become like her mother. Her discontentment with her lot, and with her family, had eventually bled into every aspect of all their lives until none of them knew how to be happy. The Murphys had welcomed her with open arms and she saw that, no matter what, they were there for one another. They loved each other, and it showed.
Thinking of the life inside her, she put her hand on her still- flat belly, and for the first time since she had found out she was pregnant, she actually welcomed the child. She was young and healthy, she had a man who loved her, and a new family who had taken her into their lives and made her feel welcome and wanted.
Just ten minutes in the house she had grown up in had made her realise how lucky she was.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-One
The pub was packed, and the heat was overwhelming. It was noisy and it was scruffy, and Christine loved everything about it. The pub was their local, this was Phillip's domain now. People came here to pay him money owed, or to ask favours from him, and it was where he showed the world he lived in how much his reputation had grown and how his name was becoming synonymous with Billy Bantry's and Keith Kenton's. In this world he moved in, reputation was everything, as was the female beside you.
As Christine saw Keith and Phillip talking together across the other side of the room, she felt a surge of pride. People were deferential to them, to her as well. It was a whole new world. Joanie was smiling at her happily - Christine could tell she'd had a few drinks; she made a point of having them frequently. But Christine couldn't begrudge her that; if she wasn't pregnant, she'd be doing the same. Unlike her friend though, she wouldn't have drunk so much so quickly - Phillip would have made sure of that. He wasn't a drinker, not really. He didn't like the feeling of being out of control, he had told her that on more than one occasion. He believed that alcohol, like drugs, was for mugs. He said that when people were drunk they opened themselves up for stupidity. He only drank with her, and that was because he trusted her enough to let himself go. He didn't like to see a woman in drink, and his arguments with his sister Breda over her drinking were frequent and passionate. Breda was the antithesis of Phillip; she drank, drugged and fucked with a passion that was almost unbearable to witness. She was like a man in that respect, she did what she wanted without any thought for the consequences. She didn't even attempt to try and get herself a steady bloke, she went out, she got drunk, and she got laid. End of story. Christine knew that it bothered Phillip. Even though it was what Breda wanted, was what she enjoyed. She made no secret of her lifestyle, and even though it wasn't unusual in this day and age for a girl to live her own life in her own way, Christine knew that Phillip saw his sister's antics as a reflection on him personally. Breda was an exemplary mother to her son, and she adored him, but her attitude was that when she went out, she went all out, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Tonight Breda was hanging all over a heavily built Greek- looking man, with cheap shoes and thick curly hair. Christine was aware that her Phillip was keeping an eye on his sister, only he was watching her antics surreptitiously. Breda was pretty, but she was already hard faced, her delicate features obscured by her heavy make-up and her constant frown. She talked too much and too loudly. Her conversation was peppered with profanities and innuendo. As Phillip had screamed at her one night, she was one step away from charging for it. And Christine understood his fears. Breda was self-destructive once she had a few Bacardis, she seemed to almost enjoy the reaction she got from her brothers and the people around her. The worse she behaved, the happier she seemed to be. It was like a game she played, as if she was just seeing how far she could push them. But tonight Christine sensed a new undercurrent to Breda's behaviour, this man she was all over was a stranger, he was not her usual type of conquest. Breda had a few blokes on the go, and she made a point of seeing them on the quiet. She didn't usually pull total strangers in full view of her brothers and their assorted friends and acquaintances. That was a definite no-no in anyone's books.
The man in question was with two other Greeks, and all three were happily hitting on Breda. Breda, for her part, was loving the attention she was getting from them. Like a lot of the Greek men in East London, they were only in England to get out of their national service. They came over and worked as waiters, or attended college, until such time as they could go back home. Their families paid for them to come over, and that money guaranteed that they could swerve the army, and at the same time learn a trade. These men were obviously so new to the area they didn't realise the girl they were all so enamoured of was far more dangerous than anything the Greek army might have thrown at them. All they saw was an available English girl and, in their limited experience, most of the English girls they had met were not only available, but happy to oblige in any way they could. For Greek men from small villages, this was heady stuff indeed.
Christine, young though she was, knew all of this instinctively and she could feel the animosity coming off Phillip in waves. She saw the nervousness of the people around him. How they were waiting to see his reaction to his sister's outrageous behaviour. She looked around for Declan and James, but they were nowhere to be seen. Declan was one of the only people capable of talking Phillip round, one of the only people Phillip would listen to. She moved closer to Phillip, pushing her way through the throng of people until she was by his side. He looked at her and smiled happily. She knew that whatever people might say about him and his temper, he was not a lecher, she knew deep inside that she was all he wanted or needed. He was so staid in that respect. His sister's antics were all the more unsettling to him because he had no understanding of why she could be like she was. Christine knew that Phillip would never
betray her, as well as she knew he would kill her before he would let another man into her bed.
Breda was so drunk she was unaware that her dress was slipping off her shoulders and that, consequently, she was showing a lot of breast, and her loud raucous laughter was even drowning out the jukebox. The three men seemed mesmerised by her abundance of naked flesh, and the promise in her eyes for all of them.
Perry Croft, the landlord - a short stocky man with a bald head - had the unenviable task of having to serve the men he knew were aggravating the life out of his most important customer. As Breda demanded another drink, he looked over at Phillip, and Christine saw him nod almost imperceptibly in response, his handsome face dark with barely suppressed anger, but unless you knew him as well as she did, the true extent of his annoyance would not be evident at all. The landlord served the drinks without a word, and Christine sipped at her orange juice, worried for Breda and what she was doing.
'How you doing, Chris?'
She smiled at Phillip, at the genuine concern in his voice. 'Fine, Phil. You OK?'
He shrugged nonchalantly. Then, taking her elbow, he steered her through the throng of people and behind the bar itself. She walked through to the back room with him happily, glad of the quiet once the door was shut behind them. It was a heavy oak door, specially designed to keep the noise of the pub out, and any noise made inside the room inaudible to the pub's clientele. It was a very expensive but very necessary fixture. It also had some serious brass work: two mortice locks, two heavy-duty bolts and a steel bar that slipped easily into the wall cavity. It would take a battering ram to open it should the need ever arise - for example, if the police came sniffing around or a rival of some description took it into their heads to come visiting mob- handed. Neither of these scenarios was unheard of in Phillip's world, and he was ready for them.
'Are you sure you're all right, Phillip?'
He sat her down on the black leather sofa and, placing himself gently beside her, he said honestly, 'No, no, Christine, I'm not all right. Breda's gone too far this time.'
His voice was flat, there was no emotion in it whatsoever. Christine searched his face for some kind of clue, for something to tell her what he was feeling inside. He had placed his arm around her shoulders and, though the gesture was a loving one, she knew that as far as he was concerned, she didn't exist for him at this particular moment in time. She turned into him, forcing him to look into her eyes. 'She doesn't mean it, Phil, you know that as well as I do. She just likes to have a laugh, likes to get out and be a young girl again. Please don't fight with her, not tonight. I'm having such a lovely time.'
He looked at her, and she knew it was no good, he would only humour her. His eyes were hard and his handsome face was expressionless. She knew the signs now, knew his moods. When he was like this he scared her, even though she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never hurt her.
'I can't swallow this, Chris, she's undermining my credibility by the day. If I can't fucking control my little sister, how can I be expected to control the people who work for me? It's not about her, mate, it's about how her actions affect the people around her. She's out there, out of her fucking nut, with three fucking chancers. This ain't about her any more, it's about me.'
Christine knew he really believed that. In a strange way, she even understood where he was coming from. She understood that his world was a dangerous and unpredictable one. That he was only as good as his reputation. He was young and on his way up, and, for the moment, he had the backing of some serious names. She had learned an awful lot, things she had never thought she would have to know about. But she was with him now, for better or for worse. He would be the father of her child, her children, and she had accepted his way of life because she had no other choice. She guessed that he shielded her from a lot of it but seeing him like this was something she wasn't used to. This was the Phillip Murphy people talked about, not the Phillip Murphy who she was going to marry in one week's time, who treated her like a queen, and smothered her with his love.
'Please, Phil, don't start. Leave her alone, she doesn't mean any harm.'
Before he could answer her, the door opened and Perry Croft popped his head inside. 'Breda just got in a cab, Phil, I thought she needed to get off home.'
Phillip smiled. 'Thanks, mate. We'll be out in a minute.'
Perry was gone without another word. Christine felt her body relaxing, felt the tension leaving her and the lightness of the relief as it washed over her.
Phillip hugged her to him, kissing the top of her head. 'See? You were worried over nothing.'
'I'm sorry, Phil, I overreacted. I just didn't want you to start a row with Breda, she thinks the world of you. And those blokes she was with, they didn't know she was your sister, they didn't know the score. They couldn't believe their luck that she was giving them the time of day!'
Phillip laughed with her then, and she instinctively rubbed her hand across her belly; she was just starting to round out a bit, as Phil's mother so succinctly put it. Her normally flat belly was beginning to grow outwards, and she caressed it happily. She was inordinately pleased that Phillip had listened to her, had taken her feelings into consideration. She knew that Breda's performance had made him angry, angry and ashamed. Her behaviour was anathema to him. But the fact he had put her feelings first really meant a lot to her.
Christine was becoming more comfortable with her situation by the day, she was growing up fast, and that was not a bad thing considering she would be a married woman in one week's time, and a mother in six months' time. Instead of fearing the change a baby would bring to her, she now welcomed the child. It was already the love of her life after Phillip; now she had accepted its existence she felt a deep and abiding connection to it. She hoped it was a boy, because Phillip wanted a son so badly. He didn't actually say that, but she just knew that was the case.
As she settled once more into his arms, she wondered at how she could ever have questioned her feelings for him. She was lucky, a very lucky young woman. Who would soon be a bride and a mother, and who was not yet seventeen. But as Phillip had said to her on more than one occasion, they were young all right, but they were still old enough to have kids and they would enjoy them. Give them a good life, and love them with a vengeance.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
Breda walked into the kitchen to her father shouting merrily, 'The dead arose and appeared to many.'
They all laughed at his words, especially Christine.
'Jesus, Breda, you look like you've just been exhumed,' quipped Declan.
Breda didn't say a word, but she looked at Declan and her expression told him everything he needed to know. She poured herself a cup of tea and, sipping the hot liquid noisily, she sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Her son was sitting on his grandmother's lap, and he grinned saucily at his mummy as she put out her hand and caressed his hair.
Christine looked around her. She had never experienced anything like this in her life. Breakfast in her house had always been a solemn affair - no chat, no camaraderie, no radio blaring in the background. She loved the mornings now, looked forward to them.
'How's the morning sickness, Chris? Shall I get you a couple of cream crackers?' Veronica's voice was filled with concern for her. She had been great about the baby, about the wedding, about everything in fact.
'I'm fine. Really, I feel great.'
Veronica lifted her grandson from her lap and placed him on her chair. Going to the cooker, she put the frying pan on to the hob, saying cheerily, 'How about a bit of sausage and egg? Could you manage that?'
Christine shook her head, pleased at the attention she got from this kind and caring woman. 'Honesty, I couldn't eat a thing yet. I still feel a bit queasy. I'll have some toast later.'
Veronica frowned, her eyes almost disappearing inside the sockets as she surveyed the young girl with mock severity. 'Mind that you do, that child you're carrying needs fuel. Food is fuel for humans. It's
what keeps us going. I reckon you've a boy there. Morning, noon and night sickness usually means a son. Girls are easier to carry. No trouble at all really.'
Breda laughed then, a scornful, hateful laugh. Christine saw that whatever ailed Breda, it was much more than a hangover. 'Is that so? Your boys have never caused you any trouble of course, have they, Mother?'
Christine looked at her soon-to-be-sister-in-law's bloated face, and saw the way she looked around the table at her brothers. She watched as Phillip stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, his back ramrod straight and his hands clenched into fists. Sometimes she hated Breda for the way she casually lashed out at her family, her cryptic sarcasm delivered with such venom it made everyone around her as unhappy as she was. Christine picked up her mug of tea and sipped it anxiously; the atmosphere was heavy with dread now. Breda's son was looking at his mother intently, even he was aware that something was suddenly amiss.
It was Declan who spoke first, playing the peacekeeper. He rounded on Breda, not allowing for her son's presence as they usually did. Pushing his face almost into his sister's, he spat at her, 'You're a bitter pill, Breda. You are a vicious, bitter bitch of a woman, and one of these days you'll go too fucking far.'
Veronica walked quickly to where her son sat and, slapping him heavily across his shoulders, she said in a low voice, 'That's enough, Declan. I won't have another word said.'
Declan stood up then and, looking down at his mother, who at just five feet tall was over a foot shorter than him, he answered her, with a loud and angry sneer, 'That's right, Mum, you keep defending her. But she needs to know that all any of us are guilty of is looking out for her. Whore that she is.'
Christine was shocked at the turn the morning had suddenly taken, but this kind of confrontation was par for the course in this house. The rows were as easily forgotten as they were easily started. These people said what was on their minds and, as much as it could be upsetting, like it was now, it was also their way of getting things off their chests and out into the open. After all the years in her own home, where nothing was ever really resolved, she loved that the Murphys felt comfortable enough to say what they needed to without fear or favour. They cleared the air and then forgot about it.