by Mia Dolan
It would hurt her pride but there was only one thing she could do. She had to get him to take her to the bus stop.
Hugging her shoulder bag to her chest like some medieval breastplate, she turned to face him. Her mouth was dry but she was prepared to beg – or at least almost beg.
He was winding the white scarf around his face followed by the rest of the gear. He started the bike.
Her heart thudded. Surely he wasn’t going to leave her here?
‘Johnnie! I need to get to the bus stop!’
Pleading didn’t come into it. Neither had please.
Worried she might not get home on time, and angry at him, she did the only thing left to her. Clutching his arm with both hands, she shook him.
He looked surprised. ‘No need to get violent. Hop on.’
Without bothering with the scarf or securing her shoulder bag strap, she got onto the bike, her arms around his waist, her head lying against his back.
The night air was turning damp and clouds were now hiding the moon. A light drizzle began to fall, stinging her face as they sped towards the main road. Without a moon Sheppey took on an eerie loneliness that had something to do with its flatness that was basically on the same level as the sea. Prone to flooding, it was as though the sea was merely waiting to reclaim the land it had begrudgingly given up. On nights such as this, without moon or stars and a drizzle-misting distance, it was easy to imagine the sea swallowing the whole island in one easy gulp.
Wind and rain sent her hair in tangled strands across her face making her wish she’d worn her scarf. Her knuckles were chaffed and cold from hanging on to her bag at the same time as hanging on to her escort. Burning up was not all that it was cracked up to be; she was cold, wet and would be glad to get home.
Ahead of them was the bus stop standing solitary on a small patch of pavement, an island amongst stunted shrubbery and rough grass.
The bike slid to a stop, gravel flying up from the front tyre and hitting her in the face.
She got off and looked down at her wet, dirt-spattered clothes. ‘Look at the state of me. I look like something the bloody cat’s dragged in.’
Johnnie glowered and said nothing, not even good night. Bracing one leg to one side, he turned the bike towards Leysdown where his mates would still be gathered.
She waited, half expecting him to look in her direction, perhaps even say goodbye. He did neither. The bike roared off, the engine’s sound gurgling through the exhaust bafflers.
‘Pig,’ muttered Marcie under her breath, staring after him, willing him to come back for her. She shouted it, louder and louder.
‘Pig! PIG!’
The rear light on his bike swiftly became a lonely spot in the distance. All alone now, she shivered. By itself the darkness was intense; coupled with the mist and the rain the night lay like a wet blanket in a damp, steamy room.
Suddenly she found herself craving a light – any light. Her thoughts turned to Rita. At least Rita would get home. She was probably already there. Rita would do whatever a boy wanted to do. She didn’t have the best of figures, so made the best of what fate threw her way.
Forgetting that her watch had run down, she pulled back her cuff and attempted to check the time. It was too dark and the dial wasn’t luminous. There was a good possibility that the bus was already gone. What would she do if it didn’t show up?
She answered her own question.
There’s only one thing you can do, Marcie. You walk.
She turned her face towards home. Land and sky had merged into one black sheet. What with the rain as well, it would be difficult to see her way. There was no light at the bus stop but at least she was on firm ground. She had no choice but to wait and hope that the bus would turn up. Otherwise she would have to wait until it got lighter and that would mean dawn. It would also mean trouble when she got home.
Chapter Five
The rain that had started as a fine drizzle came down in stinging stair-rods. Wet and miserable, Marcie peered into the darkness in the direction the bus should come from. Her hair was soon plastered to her head like a swimming cap and her short dress clung to her thighs, revealing her legs from there down. Thank goodness for the darkness, she thought. The clinging fabric left nothing to the imagination.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and blinked into the driving rain. Something glimmered. Something shone.
Pushing her wet hair back onto her head she narrowed her eyes. Her spirits rose. Coming out from behind her hand she saw – headlights!
Not sure she was seeing things, and unable to judge whether it was a bus, she blinked again. Another light had appeared just beyond the first then seemed to overtake.
At the same time she heard the throaty roar of a motorcycle. It could only be one of the London boys. None of the local boys had big bikes, though they wished they did.
A single headlight bore down on her. The bike slowed and began to do a ‘U’ turn across the road.
The headlight lit up the road in front of her and the ground at her feet. By its light she recognised the painted flames on the front of the crash helmet and knew it was Johnnie.
‘Hop on.’ He jerked his head at the space behind him.
No apology. No explanation that he couldn’t possibly leave her here all alone. And was his intention to take her home directly, or would there be a price to pay?
She asked him outright. ‘How do I know you’ll take me straight home?’
He shook his head. ‘Aw, come on. Get on or get lost!’
‘What did you say?’
Her bile was up! Oh boy! Did he have a nerve!
She was about to cross her arms and tell him to sod off, but could see other headlights. If that wasn’t the bus coming along the road she’d have to walk home. She’d be late. She’d be in trouble and wouldn’t be allowed out for a week.
It had to be the bus! If it wasn’t then she’d thumb for a lift anyway.
Waving her arms and shouting, she ran out into the road.
‘Stop! Oh please stop!’
She didn’t hear what Johnnie was shouting at her and didn’t care. Besides, she could guess at the words. He was angry, just as angry as she was now.
The headlights of the other vehicle lit up her face. It was a car not a bus. Obviously the driver had seen her frantic waving and was slowing down.
The long bonnet and chromium wheel spokes were instantly familiar. No one, absolutely no one on Sheppey had such a super Jaguar car except for Alan Taylor, Rita’s dad.
The passenger window was wound down. He poked out his head and even though it was raining, still managed to smile.
‘Is that you, Marcie Brooks? What are you doing out at this time of night, girl?’
‘I missed the bus.’
‘Thought as much. Best get you home, I think. Do you want a lift?’
She didn’t hesitate, opened the door and got in.
A headlight flashed over them like a wartime searchlight. Johnnie and his motorbike swept past.
Mr Taylor noticed.
‘Was he bothering you?’
He was referring to Johnnie Hawke; Johnnie who had had second thoughts about taking her home.
‘Just offering me a lift.’
‘Was he now?’ Mr Taylor sounded sceptical. ‘You need to be careful of young chaps offering you lifts, my girl. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. I’m not a child.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
On the short drive home he asked her how come she and Rita were not together.
‘She got the bus,’ Marcie blurted. ‘I got talking to some friends and missed it.’
‘Boyfriends?’
‘Just friends from school.’
Marcie was sensitive to him glancing at her in an intermittent fashion, as though he wanted to ask her something, or was merely surmising what she and his daughter had been up to.
She waited for him to press her further on where Rita was, but he didn’t
. She reminded herself that he wasn’t the old-fashioned type of father. Rita had said that he had a very modern outlook.
They stopped at the main set of traffic lights in Sheerness. The lights took a while to change. While they waited she caught him staring at her.
‘How old are you, Marcie?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘My God. Where have the years gone?’ Do you know what? You’ve grown into the spitting image of your mother.’
‘Have I?’
The statement embarrassed her. Should she be flattered? Or should she be as close mouthed about her mother as her family was? Her mother had run off with another man. That’s what they all said.
Alan Taylor had soft blue eyes, light-brown hair and strong features. When younger he’d probably looked older than his years, the boy who got in the pub when he was fourteen. Now well into his forties, there was a lack of loose jowls, his jaw-line was still firm, his eyes had not yet sunk into folds of surplus eyelids. Middle age was slow coming to strong features.
Alan Taylor was well respected. People locally strived to get into his good books. Old codgers toasted his health with the drinks he bought them. Alan liked to flash his money around. He had plenty of it.
Marcie pushed her hair back from her face. ‘I’m soaked. Like a drowned rat.’
‘You’ll do,’ said Alan. He patted her knee. ‘A bit of rain never hurt anyone. Anyway, didn’t I hear somewhere that it’s good to wash your hair in rainwater? Softer so I hear say.’
Marcie played with the ends of her hair. ‘I did hear that. But people say a lot of things. They say young girls shouldn’t wear short skirts and show off their legs.’
‘Take my word for it, Marcie,’ said Alan, raising one hand from the steering wheel and shaking a finger to make his point. ‘Never take too much notice of what people tell you. Suit yourself. Promise me you’ll always do that. Right?’
His smile was infectious. She smiled too. ‘Right! I’ll always suit myself.’
‘Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.’
He pulled up outside the front door of number ten, Endeavour Terrace. Marcie thanked him.
‘Here you are, fair damsel. Your knight in shining armour has brought you straight to your own front door. Courtesy of his fiery steed.’
Marcie laughed. The evening had had its ups and downs but had ended on a high thanks to Rita’s father.
‘I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.’
Johnnie returning didn’t count and she didn’t mention it.
Alan’s smile was warm and made her feel good.
‘Any time,’ he said laying his hand on her shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze. Just make an old man happy and promise me one thing when you get indoors.’
‘What like?’
‘Promise me you’ll get out of those wet clothes and wipe yourself down with a dry towel. Will you do that?’
She smiled at his consideration. This was what it was like to have a father around. Rita was so lucky.
‘Of course I will.’ She flicked her fingers at her hair. ‘I need a towel for my hair too. I look such a mess.’
When he smiled deep creases appeared at the outer corners of his eyes. She couldn’t help smiling back at him and wondered what he would say if he knew what she was thinking. Alan Taylor looked quite attractive, quite good looking for an old man of at least forty.
‘You look good even wet, but take my tip for the state of your health. Strip everything off and dry off.’
‘I will.’
She ran off down the garden path thinking what a kind man he was. She told herself that her father was kind too but tended to buy her things rather than show affection.
‘Gran! I’m home,’ she shouted up the stairs.
There was no reply. There never was, but the ritual was adhered to and Marcie knew that the first time she didn’t call up those stairs her grandmother would be down looking for her.
Alan Taylor watched Marcie running up the garden path, her long legs kicking out behind her.
His eyes fixed on the soaking wet mini dress clinging to her young body. And what a body it was! He’d admired Marcie’s legs when she’d called round to see his daughter. Up until this evening he’d never had the opportunity to touch them. Tonight he’d also taken in the swelling of her breasts. The wet dress had been the icing on the cake.
Tonight was not the first time that he’d mused on the idea of seducing his daughter’s best friend. But tonight the idea had firmed up in his mind. She was ripe for the plucking and he had every intention of being the first in line.
‘Take it slowly,’ he said as he checked his reflection in his rear-view mirror. ‘Some things are worth waiting for.’
Chapter Six
At last the days of incessant rain had cleared and the sun came out, making the wet pavements breathe steam. Holidaymakers down from London for their annual jamboree were queuing for popcorn and sticky rock shaped like bacon and eggs.
It was lunchtime when they were allowed to shut for half an hour before Marcie could ask Rita about the weekend.
‘So how was Pete?’
Rita swallowed a mouthful of pasty and grinned from ear to ear. ‘Snogged each other to a standstill.’
‘Just snogged?’ Marcie eyed her sidelong at the same time as biting into her cheese and pickle sandwich.
Rita managed a snigger even though her gob was filled with pasty. ‘One thing led to another. Yes, of course I let him have a feel of my tits. In fact I wanted him to have a feel. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘It was that good?’
‘Good for him and good for me. He’s coming down again next weekend from Friday to Sunday night. This time he’s bringing a tent!’
She said it with a sparkle in her eyes. Marcie could read where this was going. When a boy took an interest in her, Rita was putty in his hands.
‘Rita, you’re not going to camp out with him, are you? You’re not going to – you know – go all the way?’
Rita sniffed and tossed her head. Her tongue smacked the crumbs from her lips before she laid it bare – that is, as truthfully as she knew how.
‘He fancies me. I fancy him. So why not do it? What about you and Johnnie. How far did you let him go?’
Marcie had been feeling superior and downright smug, but mention of Johnnie made her uncomfortable.
‘Rita, I hardly know the bloke!’
Rita knew her father had given Marcie a lift home, but that was all he’d told her. He didn’t seem to have mentioned Johnnie lurking around at the bus stop. Marcie was grateful for that.
Rita’s pink cheeks bunched like apples when she grinned. She leaned close as though about to impart a secret. ‘Bet he wanted to, though, didn’t he. Bet he was up for it.’
Marcie was indignant. ‘But he didn’t get it. I’m not a five-bar gate, you know!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Rita, all indignant, even though her mouth was full of flaky pastry.
‘My legs don’t easily swing wide open.’
‘Christ, Marcie! You are such a bleeding prude!’
Marcie threw a piece of crust at a seagull. ‘No I’m not. It’s you being too quick off the mark. One night and you’re in love and willing to give him everything.’
Rita sprang to her feet, pasty crumbs scattering around her.
‘Are you calling me a tart, Marcie Brooks?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Rita pouted, rosebud mouth in a plump oval face. ‘That’s what you meant, though, but it’s a bleeding cheek. You were tempted yerself, so don’t give me that whiter than white stuff. You’re no saint yerself, Marcie Brooks. And neither is that family of yours. Your dad’s spent more time in clink than a cuckoo in a clock! As for your mother …’
Marcie leapt at her. ‘Shut your big fat face, Rita Taylor, and leave my mother out of this.’
‘She went off with another bloke! Must have been a bit of a tart herself!’
Marcie swung a clenched fist. Rita ducked.
They might have tussled, but a scrawny mongrel chose that moment to swipe the remains of Rita’s pasty.
‘Oi!’
Marcie fell back down to where she’d been sitting and rolled with laughter. Rita was livid. Boys were pretty important in Rita Taylor’s life, but came a poor second to food.
The dog had intervened just in the nick of time. There was no scratching and pulling of hair, not this time anyway.
Rita’s attention was diverted to the remains of Marcie’s sandwich. She’d left it to one side, sitting on the paper bag she’d brought it in.
‘Are you going to eat that?’
She didn’t wait for an answer but picked it up and wolfed it down.
‘Hope you choke on it,’ muttered Marcie.
Once the sandwich was demolished, Rita sucked each finger in turn.
‘I love Branston pickle.’
Marcie picked up her bag and transistor radio. The Beatles were singing ‘Hard Day’s Night’. Normally she and Rita would have jigged around and sang along together, but not now. Rita’s remark about her family had touched a raw nerve. Was it true that everybody knew about her father? That in itself had dented her pride, but mention of her mother had hurt in a different way. Her father was all she had because she could barely remember her mother; except for her smell: violets. She remembered her softness and the smell of violets. Funny, she didn’t recall remembering that before. In fact, she remembered little – so very little.
She’d tried asking her grandmother about her mother. But Rosa Brooks’s thin lips had set into a straight line.
‘She is gone. Life goes on. Do not trouble yourself about her.’
Marcie realised early on that she’d get no straight answers from her family so never asked anything again. On the surface she appeared to have taken her grandmother’s advice not to trouble herself, but inside was a different story.