by Mia Dolan
The roof of the chicken hutch had soaked up the warmth of the sun. Marcie lay back against the single slope, her arms folded behind her head. She closed her eyes and pretended that her surroundings had melted away. That she was lying on a tropical beach and surrounded by blue sky and fluffy clouds. At least that bit’s true, she thought, squinting up at the sky with one eye.
‘There used to be a tree ’ere,’ Garth said suddenly.
With that same, single eye, she saw the top half of his face regarding her from above the ridge of the roof.
‘Well, that’s hardly earth-shattering news,’ she muttered. The stump was testament to that.
Garth went on talking in his slow way as though he hadn’t heard her.
‘And grass was here. And a little seat was here. And a flower bed full of flowers. And a bird bath …’
‘Chickens, Garth. There’s only ever been chickens.’
‘And people used to sit here.’
She blew out a gasp of frustration. ‘Shut up, Garth.’
The world blurred. Her mind drifted.
Garth gabbled on.
‘That was back when you were small. You and your mother used to come out here to sit under the tree. And she wore a red dress.’
Yes. A red dress with tiny brass buttons …
Her eyes blinked open. Perhaps it was the sun, or perhaps it was that he’d snapped her out of the edge of sleep, but she could see – actually see – the scene he was describing. Not physically of course, but in her mind’s eye as though it had really happened.
Bolt upright she looked down at this slow-speaking excuse for a man. He was clucking again, folding his arms against his side like chicken wings and going around in a circle, legs bent, head dipping backwards and forwards.
‘What was that you said, Garth?’
‘Cluck, cluck, cluck—’
‘Garth!’
His limbs jerked to stillness. Round eyed he looked up at her, his lower lip sagging.
‘You told me I was sitting here with a woman in a red dress.’ She couldn’t help the trembling in her voice. ‘Did I?’
Swinging her legs to the edge of the roof she got down onto the tree stump and from there to the ground. The grass was springy beneath her feet, as though the earth was made of sponge.
‘You said I used to sit here with my mother and that she was wearing a red dress. How do you know that, Garth? Did you see her sitting here? Do you remember seeing me sitting on her lap?’
He stared at her with pale, ill-focused eyes. A sliver of saliva trickled from his drooping lower lip. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
It was hard to control her anger – or perhaps it wasn’t anger – just a kind of craziness because she wanted to know the truth – a truth – about her mother. She’d had no picture in her mind until now. There was no photograph in a silver frame sitting on the mantelpiece. What had her mother looked like? Had she really worn a red dress with small brass buttons?
He shook his head like the fool he was, drooling, eyeballs popping, neck hanging forward at an awkward angle. How ugly he was. He looked like a tortoise warily emerging from its shell.
Questions buzzed like wasps around Marcie’s head. They blinded her to her calmer self. They brought about a temper and strength that she didn’t know she had.
She grabbed the shoulders of his greasy shirt, the cotton feeling gritty in her hands. Her eyes blazed and her hands had balled into tight fists.
‘Did you meet my mother, Garth? Think! Did you really see her? REALLY see her?’
She was aware of how tense she’d become – and how loud.
Her shout had unsettled Garth. She wasn’t aware of that either or how terrifying a picture she presented. Neither did she see the alarm in his eyes or the quivering of his jowls. It wasn’t until he began to shake like a man on the verge of a fit; only then did she realise.
‘Garth! I’m sorry.’
She let go of his shirt. She wiped her hands down her skirt.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated.
Garth’s shaking lessened into an all-over shiver. He blinked as though he’d just woken up. His shoulders slumped and his spine seemed to curve as though in minutes he’d aged years.
‘I’d better get home for my tea. Beans on toast,’ he said thickly. ‘Beans on toast.’
Once the old gate had creaked shut behind him, she went back up on the roof. It didn’t matter that the midges were biting her arms or that the sun was still hot enough to burn her face. There was a lot of thinking she needed to do. Most of all there were questions she needed to ask.
It wasn’t until teatime that she had the chance to ask the only person who would know whether what he’d said was true.
Her grandmother was sitting outside the back door knitting when she finally climbed down from the roof. Annie was playing with some water at the bottom of a galvanised bucket and chuckling as though it were the best game in the world.
The clicking and clacking of the knitting needles slowed or sped up in response to Rosa Brooks’s swiftly moving fingers, the sound echoing between the rank of houses and the factory wall on the other side of the back lane.
Mouth dry and mind confused, Marcie settled herself on the back step. She stared silently at the chicken run where the young cockerels were pacing up and down in anticipation of food.
Finally turning away from them she looked at Annie. Annie was only a baby. How much would she remember of being a baby?
Her grandmother’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You are thinking something?’
It came as no surprise that her grandmother was reading her mind and knew she was having deep thoughts. That’s the way she was. People said she had the gift to look into people’s lives, their problems and their futures, and give them sound advice. There was also the small matter of being able to communicate with her deceased husband, Marcie’s grandfather.
‘I was wondering,’ Marcie began hesitantly. She took hold of the chubby fingers Annie offered her. ‘I was wondering if Annie will remember being a baby or even a small child.’
The needles stopped clicking. She felt her grandmother’s dark eyes scrutinising her.
‘She will remember little.’
The eyes continued to scrutinise. Marcie chose not to meet her grandmother’s steadfast gaze, but turned away when she felt a prickling sensation run down her spine.
‘How did Garth enjoy the chickens?’ asked her grandmother.
It seemed an odd thing to say seeing as they’d been discussing Annie.
‘He said he remembered the garden being different, something about a tree and a seat …’
Marcie’s voice trailed away. Her intention had been to ask about her mother and whether they had sat beneath that tree. Surely it was a very innocent question?
But was it?
A flock of seagulls flew screaming and wheeling overhead. Marcie watched one as it dived from a great height and attacked one of its own. The attacked bird fell to earth, quickly revived, then flew off again.
A plucky bird, thought Marcie. Go on. Be plucky yourself.
She dived in.
‘Do you have any photographs of my mother?’
There was silence. No wise response, no nothing. And still the knitting needles were silent.
‘I want to remember her,’ Marcie said.
She looked up at her grandmother. What she saw in the tanned face and jet-black eyes alarmed her.
Her grandmother looked away. ‘We will go in now,’ she said, rubbing at the small of her back as she got up from her chair. ‘Bring in the baby.’
Before bending down to do as ordered, Marcie took a deep breath. Her gaze strayed to the chicken house and the tree stump; all that remained of the pleasant scene that Garth had described. But was it real, or was it imagined? And what about her grandmother when she’d asked for a photograph? She had seen something unreadable in those Mediterranean eyes. It could have been fear, it mig
ht just as easily have been intense sadness. No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember ever seeing such a look before.
Chapter Nine
The prison officer grinned wryly as Tony Brooks stepped out of the gate and into his first bout of freedom for eighteen months.
‘Goodbye for now, Brooks. See you again some time?’ His tone was sarcastic.
Tony threw him a scowl. ‘Of course, Mr Carter, sir. I’ll stand you a pint sometime. Always willing to do that for screws, I am.’ Tony could do sarcasm too.
He knew very well that the screw thought he’d be back in the nick before too long. Stuff him! He’d taken a fall this time, but was damned if he would again. Alan Taylor owed him and he’d hold him to it.
His eyes searched the road running along the front of Wandsworth Prison. He saw the pale-green Jaguar parked tight against the kerb, smiled to himself and shook his head.
Alan Taylor never failed to amaze him. He was the prince of Jack the Lad types and lived the life of Riley; an out-and-out ducker and diver who always managed to keep his head above water.
A bit further along he saw the two-tone Ford Consul of the Cazuna boys. The choice was his: back to working the clubs and whorehouses for the Maltese Mafia, or doing a bit more for Alan.
Working for Alan Taylor meant going back to the Isle of Sheppey and the questionable bosom of his family. He’d miss London of course, the buzz, the good money and the tarts who’d give him a blow job for nothing. But even in stir he’d heard the word that things weren’t going so well for the Maltese. Trouble was brewing big time and he’d considered things carefully. And there was the money to consider. He got a ‘finder’s’ fee for nightclub owners who were ripe for a touch. He’d introduced Alan – though Alan wouldn’t exactly know that. They were mates, but this was business. Anyway, he’d done enough of a favour for Alan Taylor, not mentioning his involvement in a little wage snatch at a factory in Dover.
Working for the Cazuna boys in future meant getting involved in something he didn’t want to get involved with. Collecting protection due from pubs and clubs for them had been a worthwhile career up until now, but a turf war was brewing. Two East End brothers, the Kray twins, were muscling in on Maltese territory. Things were about to get violent and if there was one thing Tony was not it was violent. At least, not when faced with geezers with guns.
He hot-footed it to the Jaguar.
‘Tony! Me old mate!’ Alan gunned the engine the moment Tony was in. ‘See you’ve got other friends waiting for you.’ He nodded at the two-tone Ford as they passed.
‘There’s no place like home, mate,’ said Tony. ‘Especially when it looks as though there’s a bit of trouble coming off with the Krays. I ain’t getting my knuckles cracked for nobody.’
‘Don’t blame you, old son. Don’t blame you at all. Word is they’re a pretty nasty pair. You’re best out of it.’
Tony didn’t offer that the Maltese were pretty nasty too. Of course, his mother didn’t see things that way. They were all family and she believed that they were all legit – the landlords of business premises. The truth was they collected protection money not rent; that was besides running tarts. The prostitution had been a natural progression for the Maltese in London, seeing as they’d catered for the Royal Navy in Malta. The boys had done well, but he’d made his choice. He knew which side his bread was buttered.
They drove the streets of London heading for the roads that would take them east and along the south side of the Thames estuary.
Tony enjoyed the scenery, even seeing the shops again and men out of uniform. The women were best though. He’d missed seeing women.
‘Bloody hell! Would you look at those skirts!’
‘Legs are everywhere,’ said Alan with a laugh.
Tony asked if Alan minded him opening a window. ‘I stink. I’ve brought the stink of prison with me. Can’t you smell it?’
Alan shook his head. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’
‘I can smell it,’ growled Tony. ‘It’s a stink I’ve lived with for nearly eighteen months. Bloody hard to stop smelling it even when you’ve left it behind.’
‘That might help,’ said Alan, nodding at the glove compartment.
Tony’s eyes lit up. He’d been expecting this, in fact he’d dreamed of this moment every night when sharing a cell with a poof called Roderick. Roderick had learned early on to keep his feelings to himself. Tony had chucked him out of the top bunk and claimed it as his own. He held the view that the top bunk was easier to defend should Roderick decide to get friendly in his sleep.
With fingertips worn smooth from sewing mailbags, he unlocked the glove compartment and brought out a bulging brown envelope, opened it and flicked at the wedge of money.
‘Five hundred quid,’ said Alan. ‘Never let it be said that I don’t appreciate what people do for me.’
Tony stuffed the money into the inside pocket of his brown suede jacket. The jacket was shiny in places. He’d had it years. He could now afford a new one.
‘Thanks.’
‘No need to thank me. You earned it.’
Tony settled back into the warm leather seat. ‘My old lady’s going to be surprised.’
‘You told her you were out, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ Tony stroked his chin and a wide grin split the prison pallor. ‘I wrote to her and me mum and gave them the train time. My mum will make sure that Babs will be there, waiting for me at the station.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll take you round there and run you both home. You two must have a lot of catching up to do.’
Tony’s black brows frowned. ‘Too bloody right we have. I’ll be wanting some answers. Rumours get round in prison.’
‘Is that right?’
Tony failed to notice that Alan’s expression had turned wary.
‘Yeah.’ Tony’s gaze fixed on the road ahead. ‘I’ve been hearing she’s been messing around. Better not have or I’ll have to set her straight – her and the geezer she’s been messing with.’
As they got closer to the Medway and the River Swale, the fertile fields of Kent gave way to acres of flat marshland. Once they’d crossed onto Sheppey a forest of metal pylons sprouted like giant pines. In the distance dockyard buildings loomed between the low-lying land and where the Thames and the Swale met the sea.
‘Breathe that air,’ said Alan. ‘Nothing like it. Good to be home, eh?’
‘Good! Real good,’ Tony responded.
His mind was beginning to wander. He wasn’t just thinking of Babs and coming home. He was thinking of the last time he’d been in prison before this one. It had been for a longer stretch back then and yet the time had passed more quickly. He’d been brooding back then, brooding about a dark night and his first wife Mary, with her clothes disturbed and the scent of sex about her.
He was still brooding on that time when Alan slapped him on the shoulder. He blinked, surprised to see that they were parked outside the railway station.
Tony breathed deeply. He’d missed the tangy air, fresher he reckoned than anywhere else. He took another gulp and another. At last he sighed with satisfaction.
‘It’s good to be home.’
He suddenly spotted his wife. Babs was crossing the road on her way to the station entrance, unaware that they were watching her.
She was done up to the nines in a black blouse and a check skirt that barely reached halfway down her thighs. OK, she was carrying a bit of extra weight since he’d gone inside – too much for a mini skirt and a button-up blouse. Still attractive, though, and he had been inside for a year and a half – a lifetime as far as the lack of sex was concerned.
‘Look at the sight of my missus,’ he said out loud. ‘You know, Alan, I’d have her right here and now if I could.’
Alan laughed. ‘Easy, mate. There’s no big rush.’
Alan was right, thought Tony. Tonight was soon enough. Tonight she’d have the full benefit of his bottled-up lust. Tomorrow he’d ask her the name of the b
loke she’d been messing around with and after he’d given her a good hiding, he’d go round to give him one as well.
Chapter Ten
It was a Friday night and Rosa Brooks dropped a pan when her son walked through the door.
‘You did not tell me,’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes I did!’
The penny dropped and she threw an accusing look at Babs.
Tony decided to lie. ‘A last-minute thing, Mum. Time off for good behaviour, and you know what a good boy I can be when I try.’
Tears in her eyes, Rosa patted her son’s face. ‘My, my, Antonio, you look so thin. See? Your cheekbones are so prominent.’
Tony Brooks still wore his hair Teddy Boy style. The deep quiff quivered when he laughed. His sideburns were still coal black and without a trace of grey. The room always smelled of cigarettes and Bryl-creem when Tony was in the room.
His sons stared at him, until the eldest, Arnold, threw his arms around his father’s waist.
‘Dad. Don’t go away again. Promise.’
‘Bet your life, son.’
Archie hung back. Eighteen months was a long time in his young life, but he came round, adding his hug to that of his brother.
Marcie was up in her bedroom when she heard his voice. Her father was home! She had to look her best.
She fetched out her favourite black and white dress, brushed her hair till it gleamed, put on her make-up and then her black patent shoes. A quick glance in the mirror and she was ready to show herself.
Not quite satisfied with leaving her hair long, she pulled it back into a pony tail, then added a pink gingham bow that she’d found up in the attic on the day the boys had moved their beds up there.
She flung open the door to the kitchen.
‘Dad?’
Wearing a happy expression, he turned round to face her, the boys still clinging to his waist.
For a moment the happy expression seemed to freeze on his face.
Rosa Brooks saw his eyes and understood. Marcie Brooks looked like her mother.
The look passed. ‘Come here!’
Tony Brooks hugged his daughter.
She buried her face in his chest, wrinkling her nose against the strange smell of mould and disinfectant.