by Mia Dolan
‘Pass me a drop of water would you, love? I got a bit of a frog in me throat.’ Babs had sneaky ways of getting her own way.
Lazy cow!
Marcie was intentionally slow, turning on the tap and pouring herself a cup of water before she did anything. Babs would hate the fact that she didn’t jump to it. She could feel her stepmother’s eyes boring into the back of her head. Babs liked to boss her around. She never even tried to mother her but had treated her as little more than a skivvy since she’d moved in years before. ‘She’s a right cow,’ Marcie had said to Rita. ‘She’s not my real mother, so why should I do as she says?’
‘Did you hear what I said, our Marcie?’
At the sound of her stepmother’s voice, Marcie’s fingers tightened around the cup.
‘What did your last servant die of?’ she muttered, loud enough to be overheard.
Babs looked up from her reading. Her hard look – thick eye make-up, clotted pores above thick pink lips – hardened further. She pointed a threatening finger. ‘Less of your bleeding cheek, young lady!’
‘Barbara! I do not tolerate swearing in my house.’
Rosa Brooks had black button eyes that glittered when they fixed on you. Babs wilted under her mother-in-law’s gaze.
‘Sorry, Mum, but I’ve been at work all day, I have, and I am her stepmother. I do have a right to tell her what to do until she’s of an age. Isn’t that right, Mum?’
Despite her appearance, Babs was no fool. There was an art to buttering up and Babs was skilled at it. Her problem was that using bad language came naturally. She’d been brought up that way.
Eyes glowing with triumph she turned back to Marcie. ‘Now get yer ass out in that yard and tell our Archie his tea’s ready!’
Rosa Brooks rolled her eyes. Marcie’s mother had had some class. Babs was common.
Marcie’s gaze dropped to Babs’s finger.
‘Crikey, Babs. Your finger’s gone all yellow. Disgusting!’
Caught off balance, Babs looked at her fingers. All the red nail polish in the world wouldn’t deflect attention from the yellow staining following years of smoking.
The freckled face of Arnold, the youngest of her half-brothers, appeared from under the table. Remains of dried jam encrusted his face and his mouse-brown hair was dirty and dishevelled. His smile revealed a broken front tooth. Arnold was always scrapping. ‘It’s in the blood. Your grandfather was the same,’ Rosa Brooks had declared.
Unfortunately for young Arnold it was not a milk tooth – he would always have a toothy smile and that mischievous look. He was also bright and curious, always asking questions.
‘Mr Ellis’s digging a hole. Why’s he doin’ that, Marcie?’
Marcie couldn’t help smiling and was about to tell him the reason, but Babs interrupted.
‘Because he’s bleeding stupid. That’s why! Like that stupid nephew of his – daft buggers the lot of ’em.’
‘You shouldn’t say that,’ Marcie snapped. ‘Garth Davies can’t help it!’ She turned to her grandmother for support. ‘He can’t help it, can he, Gran. It was God’s will, wasn’t it?’
Her grandmother, Rosa Brooks, was small but mighty; if she said something was God’s will then that was it.
The fierce glower returned. She pointed a warning finger.
‘Barbara, you will not say such things. What God has made is good. And you will not use that language in my house. I have told you this before. I will not have it!’
‘She riles me,’ said Babs, her thick lips pursed into a sulk. Her eyes fell back to the lurid pictures and over-large print of her magazine.
Marcie’s surge of triumph was short lived.
‘Marcie. Get your brother.’ Her grandmother’s tone was ripe with authority. Her keen eyes, dark as black beads, missed nothing. Her look said it all. I’ll have no disobedience in this house.
They were frequently reminded that they lived under her roof. Rosa Brooks made it clear to them all that this was her house bought with her money. Anyone who didn’t respect her and her ways could get out. The choice was theirs. But she’d keep the children. She frequently reminded them of that particular fact. ‘My blood is my blood, and I have the money.’
No one knew for sure whether she really did have money in the bank or even stuffed under her mattress. But they took it that she did. Gran wouldn’t have no prying into her business just as she would have no arguing. The one thing they did know was that the house, a small terraced cottage dating from Nelson’s time and within sight of the sea in Blue Town, was hers. She’d bought it with the sum of money she’d brought as a dowry to her marriage. Her husband, Cyril, Marcie’s grandfather, had been a sailor in the Royal Navy in the 1920s. He’d met Rosa in Malta, the headquarters of the Royal Navy Mediterranean Fleet and hinted to her that he had estates in Kent where hops were produced for the finest brewery in London. It was an outright lie, of course. All he’d had was a room in a downmarket hotel around the corner from where they lived now. He hadn’t even owned an aspidistra in a pot, let alone fields of Kentish hops.
Clinging on to her inheritance, Rosa had had no intention of living in a hotel room for the rest of her days. She had used her money to purchase the little cottage from the landlord. He’d been reluctant to sell at first as the whole terrace had once belonged to his wife’s family, but for some reason he’d changed his mind. Nobody quite knew why except that it had something to do with a favour being done by Rosa Brooks.
It was pleasant to be out of the house, away from the smell of home cooking and the liberal stink of nicotine.
The sun bathed the back yard in a rosy glow that made the dusty vegetation look greener, the powdery earth darker. Even the tough marsh grass that hadn’t quite been obliterated from its place along the fence looked as though someone had painted it with copper and brass.
A slight hum came from the direction of the cranes and derricks that serviced the docks. So did the smell of metal, marshland and burning oil. It only happened when the wind was blowing in a certain direction. Sometimes all Marcie could smell was the sea. She liked that. ‘That’s how your grandfather smelled,’ her grandmother had told her when she’d mentioned it. ‘Black tobacco, strong rum and the North Sea.’
‘Archie?’
Archie was peeing into the chicken run. The chickens looked curious, not sure whether to keep away from the perfect arc of urine or investigate the wormlike spout from which it was streaming.
‘They’ll think it’s a worm and peck it off,’ Marcie shouted and couldn’t help laughing.
The lean-to lavatory was just outside the back door. She asked him why he hadn’t used it.
‘Cos Gran’s put Chlorus down it. Can’t stand the smell of that.’
Marcie sympathised. Gran was a stickler for having things clean and germ free, but was a bit heavy handed on the bleach, and a demon with the scrubbing brush.
Rosa Brooks had standards. The net curtains hanging at the shiny windows were the whitest in the terrace. Her door knocker gleamed and flashed like gold in the sunlight, her path was the best swept and although she admitted to not being a skilled gardener, the tiny square that she called the front garden was tidy.
Except for the pot of growing herbs, the back garden was a different matter, a place of dusty vegetables growing in rows. The chicken run occupied the far end close against the fence and the back lane.
Grandma had kept chickens – mostly cockerels destined for Christmas dinner – for years. The chicks arrived in spring and were slaughtered two weeks before Christmas. Grandma did the slaughtering.
There were also two rabbits in a cage. These belonged to the boys.
‘I’ve got a load of dandelions for Twinkle and Bobby,’ Archie said.
He picked up the bundle he’d gathered from down by the railway line. Marcie gave him a hand.
‘Here. Let me.’
As they pushed dandelion leaves through the wire mesh of the rabbits’ cage, Marcie spotted Mr Ellis from two doo
rs down. He was mopping his very red and sweaty face with a large handkerchief.
‘Alright, Mr Ellis?’ Marcie shouted by way of greeting.
He shouted back, his loud voice easily carrying over the other gardens.
‘Yes, love. Thanks for asking. It’s a bit warm for digging, but it has to be done. Sneaky devils, them Russians. You never knows when they’re going to invade us, you know. So I’m one that’s going to be ready for them.’
Marcie nodded and said, ‘I see.’ In fact she didn’t see at all. She knew the Russians were frightening, but didn’t really understand what this Cold War business was all about. More general things were important to her, things closer to home – like sneaking off to the café tonight, saving up for a new pair of shoes or listening to Pick of the Pops at Sunday teatime.
Anyway, how could a war be called cold or hot? What did it mean?
The sound of a radio and a news bulletin sounded from two doors up in the other direction, just beyond a row of runner-bean canes. Something similar came from the television set that the old couple next door had on too loud.
Marcie ignored both sets of news, concentrating instead on the song running round inside her head, her current favourite. ‘Things We Said Today’ by The Beatles. Paul was her favourite.
Humming a snatch of the song she watched Archie’s rabbits feeding their faces. Her grandmother interrupted, calling for both of them to come in and eat.
As she walked back to the house Marcie looked up at the back bedroom window. The curtains were closed. Her little half-sister, Annie, was already put to bed.
Annie was the youngest and thus the most demanding. It was obvious to Marcie that Babs had no patience with babies and toddlers. She didn’t have much patience with older kids either, but at least they could look after themselves.
Annie got put to bed early whether sleepy or not. It had occurred to her that Babs wasn’t as keen on baby girls as she was on boys.
Her thoughts went back to the newspaper article. Would Babs have had an abortion if she’d had the choice? Without the boys and Annie she would have had a bedroom to herself. All the same, while she might have wished them not here more times than she could count, the boys were funny and the baby was sweet. Marcie couldn’t help loving them.
Mealtimes in the Brooks household were silent except for the sound of scraping plates and clattering cutlery. Everyone ate at breakneck speed.
‘Finished,’ exclaimed Archie.
His grandmother caught him in the act of pushing his chair away from the table.
‘Stay right where you are, Archie. I have an announcement to make.’
All eyes looked furtively up from their plates.
Rosa Brooks had tried on various occasions to have them say grace at mealtimes – hence the hurry to eat and leave the table. Wary eyes flashed from one sibling to another.
The nut-brown face creased into a wrinkled smile. The dark eyes, as black as the clothes she wore, danced from one family member to another.
‘Your grandfather and I have spoken.’
Unseen by her grandmother, Marcie rolled her eyes. That old thing again! Grandfather coming back and telling her grandmother things!
Marcie was at an age when her grandmother’s eccentricities embarrassed her. It was bad enough to be Maltese and foreign. But imagine a woman who claimed she received visits and talked to her dead husband? It was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Drawing herself up to her full five feet two inches, Rosa Brooks clasped her hands in front of her and pronounced, ‘Your grandfather assures me that your father – your husband,’ she said with a sideways glance at Babs, ‘will be home shortly.’
Babs looked down at her plate so it was impossible to read her reaction.
The boys, however, were over the moon.
‘When? When’s he coming home, Gran? When?’
Archie’s face was bright with excitement. All thoughts about leaving the table before his grandmother could inflict a prayer on him were totally forgotten. His eyes were round as saucers at the news. He missed his dad the most – more than his mother did, that was for sure.
Adopting an attentive expression, though her mind was elsewhere, Marcie fixed her gaze on her grandmother’s face. She glanced swiftly at the clock when she thought she could get away with it.
‘Soon, Archie,’ said Rosa Brooks. ‘Sit down and listen.’
Archie sat. So did everyone else, their eyes locked on this diminutive woman dressed in black, her black hair slicked tightly back into a firm bun.
‘My son, Antonio, will be home shortly. Your grandfather assures me of this.’
She paused. Nobody said a word. Nobody moved.
Marcie gritted her teeth and hid her clenched fists beneath the table. Like the rest of the family, she’d got used to these pronouncements from her dead grandfather. They were usually about how well or how badly they’d been behaving, or to watch out for a windfall, a dip in fortune or the threat of imminent temptation; the latter pronouncement was usually aimed at Babs who had the reputation of being a bit free and easy with her charms, given half the chance.
But this was different. This was one pronouncement Marcie wanted to believe, that her father was coming home.
The last visit had been seventeen months before and that was only fleeting: Marcie had only seen him for a matter of minutes. The police had been right behind him. Before that he’d been away for five years.
She wanted her father to come home and see her as the young woman she’d become, not the child he’d glimpsed on the run. She told herself that things would be different. He’d say nice things and bring her more presents.
‘Just like your mother,’ he’d say, while smoothing her naturally blonde hair back from her face. Her blue eyes would look up at him adoringly.
Oh yes. Everything would be wonderful and he’d call her his little princess again. She vaguely remembered him calling her that when she’d been a lot younger. Then he’d gone away too. She’d put on a brave face and although she proclaimed that he was away working, she knew the truth. Sheerness was a small place and rumours travelled quickly. She’d chosen not to acknowledge them. The lie protected her against being hurt.
Her grandmother had her own views. ‘It was all a mistake. He is innocent. Your grandfather told me this.’
The Marcie that believed and the one that did not fought in her mind. She gritted her teeth. When she’d been Arnold’s age she’d believed it with the same innocence as he was showing. But she was older now and times were changing. It was 1965 and she wasn’t a child. She didn’t believe in that stuff any more, and yet …
She was sorely tempted to ask if this was true and if her father was innocent of inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone, then who had done it? Did her grandfather know that?
The modern, grown-up Marcie argued that this was not going to happen, that her grandmother was an old woman who only thought she could hear or see her dead husband. All the same …
Her half-brother did the job for her.
Arnold’s hand shot up into the air.
Rosa Brooks looked at him and shook her head.
‘Arnold. You are not in school. You do not need to put your hand up in order to ask me a question.’
His brother Archie grinned and slapped him on the head. ‘Stupid.’
His mother fetched Archie a clout around the ear. ‘Knock it off, you little sod.’
‘Barbara!’ Calling her daughter-in-law by her full name was a sign that Rosa Brooks meant business. ‘When will you learn to curb your language?’
Looking suitably chastised, Babs lit another cigarette, even though the ash from the old one had only just disintegrated into the lid of a pickled onion jar that served as an ashtray.
Marcie’s gaze alternated between the clock and her grandmother. Could she get out tonight without having to climb out of the window and shin down the drainpipe?
Rosa Brooks was looking at Arnold.
‘What did you w
ant to ask me, Arnold?’
Arnold sat on his hands. ‘Tommy Smith’s granddad died last week. I told ’im he’d come back and visit his gran. He said I was a liar. That when people is dead, they’re dead and buried in the ground and ain’t never comin’ back. But I said I wasn’t lying and that my granddad comes back to see you. Ain’t that right, Gran?’
His grandmother’s expression was unchanged. ‘Only if she has eyes to see. Not everyone can see those that have passed over. Only people like me can do that.’
Marcie took it all in, but said nothing. The clock ticked on. Could she get out tonight without getting lumbered with babysitting young Annie? She loved the baby best of all her half-siblings, but Johnnie had promised her and she was sure he wouldn’t break his promise.
Johnnie came down most Friday nights with the rest of a motorcycle gang from London. He’d made eyes at her a few times but it was only on the last occasion he’d finally spoken to her. He’d promised to buy her a bottle of Pepsi the next time he saw her. She wanted to hold him to that and had already decided what to wear.
The only thing curbing her impatience was that she wanted her grandmother’s pronouncement to be true. She wanted to see her father again. It had been so long and although her father had sent her presents – like the transistor radio – she missed him. She wanted at least one parent – one real parent in her life.
‘We will have to make ready,’ Rosa Brooks said to Babs. ‘The boys will move into the attic room. The baby in with you and my son, Antonio. I will share with Marcie until I can get a bed for the box room. Marcie needs a room to herself.’
Although the box room wasn’t very big, Marcie was grateful. The boys had been in there for a while so a lick of paint wouldn’t come amiss.
‘We can start sorting things out tonight,’ said her grandmother. She was looking at Babs when she said it.
Babs looked startled. ‘Tomorrow would be better. There’s a ladies’ darts team match …’
‘That is not important. Your husband is coming home. We need to make ready for his return.’