by Mia Dolan
‘I’ve missed you, Dad! Promise you won’t ever go away again.’
‘Promise, darlin’. I promise.’
He said it easily like he said everything easily and because he spoke so casually people thought he was a pushover. He was enjoying being in the bosom of his family where they didn’t know the half of what he did up in London.
Marcie certainly didn’t know. He was her dad. She loved him. And he was home.
All the kids got much the same treatment – hugs and reassurance that he was back for good. Later on he gave the boys money for fish and chips and five pounds – a whole five pounds to Marcie.
‘Buy yerself something nice. Then put yer glad rags on and go out and have a good time tonight.’
After she’d gone, Tony turned to his mother. His face was like thunder. He pointed at the door Marcie had just gone out of. ‘I don’t want her going out tonight looking like that.’
‘That is how all the girls dress,’ his mother responded.
‘I don’t care how the other girls dress. I’ll not have my daughter going out on a night wearing a dress that barely covers her arse. Is that clear? Short skirts make a woman look like a tart.’
Babs butted in. ‘Hey, steady on there, Tony …’
He spun round on her. ‘As for you. I’ve been hearing rumours while I was in prison. Is there something you want to tell me, Babs? Want to tell me how lonely you’ve been, or haven’t you been lonely at all? Want to tell me about that?’
Chapter Eleven
With five pounds in her hot little hand, Marcie didn’t need telling twice to go out, spend on clothes and then go out on the town tonight and enjoy herself.
Heels clattering on the broken pavement, she headed for the phone box on the corner. The door was heavy but her heart was light. The interior of the cramped phone box smelled of stale chips and other things she didn’t want to think about. Someone had stuck a blob of pink bubble gum over the slot where the pennies went in. She tore out a page of the telephone directory, wrapped it over the gum and pulled it off. After screwing it up and shoving it to the rear of the box where the directory was stored, she got out her pennies and rang Rita’s number.
Even a grotty phone box couldn’t dampen her excitement. Her dad was home and he’d given her a fiver. It was so rare she had money for new clothes. It made a change to buying material and getting out the old treadle sewing machine.
Rita was the only person she knew that had a phone. Mrs Taylor answered.
As usual Stephanie Taylor’s tone was offhand, bordering on downright rude. Marcie knew she thought girls from detached bungalows shouldn’t mix with girls from Endeavour Terrace, or anywhere else in Blue Town for that matter.
Blue Town was called that because most of the dockyard workers who’d lived there in times past and had painted their front doors blue. The paint was nicked from the old Royal Navy Dockyard. And that, as far as Stephanie Taylor was concerned, said it all.
Rita came to the phone.
‘My dad’s home,’ Marcie blurted excitedly.
‘Good for you.’
‘He’s given me some money to spend on new clothes.’
‘How much?’
‘A fiver. Isn’t that great?’
‘Great. I’ll get a tenner from my dad and meet you outside Woolworths. Give me twenty minutes.’
Typically for Rita, she would have more money to spend than she did. But Marcie didn’t care. She could do wonders with five pounds.
She began making her way into town right away. Excited beyond belief, she would still have started walking even if she hadn’t been meeting Rita for another hour. New clothes she could afford, and new clothes she was going to have.
She held her head high as she walked along. Nobody could point the finger and say her dad was in prison now. Not that he would admit to it himself.
‘I’ve been working away for your sakes,’ he’d said to the boys. ‘See? Look at the money I’ve earned.’
He’d pulled a bundle of cash from his pocket. The boys had been impressed. Their mother had almost glowed with pleasure. Her grandmother had remained silent and watchful.
At other times she’d seen her grandmother’s black eyes flash with the anger of a possessive mother who would hear no wickedness spoken about her son.
‘Who are these people who accuse my son? My Antonio is a good boy. He has done nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all.’
Rita looked smug when they met.
Marcie plumped for the obvious. ‘You’ve been eating cream cakes, Rita Taylor?’
‘No. What makes you say that?’
‘You’re grinning like a Cheshire Cat.’
Rita’s grin widened. ‘I’m seeing Pete tonight. There’s a party above the Crown in Leysdown. It’s Johnnie’s birthday. I wasn’t going to tell you seeing as you and him had a bit of a fallout.’
‘I’m not that easy,’ Marcie said hotly.
‘That fast?’
‘Too fast for me.’
‘You’re a bit of prude, Marcie Brooks. Get with it. This is the sixties.’
‘So people keep telling me,’ Marcie grumbled as they walked along. Why was it so difficult to be what she wanted to be at the same time as living up to the modern image?
Rita’s mind was already onto other things. She waved two five-pound notes in front of Marcie’s face. My dad told me to buy something nice.’
‘So let’s get spending,’ said Marcie. She flashed the fiver. It was difficult to stop herself grinning like a Cheshire Cat herself, so she let it spread unimpaired over her face.
Bouncing with enthusiasm, the pair of them headed for the shops. Sheerness was far from being Carnaby Street; in fact it didn’t have half of what a lot of high streets across the country had, but they managed to find new outfits.
Rita bought a purple mini dress with a zip down the front. Marcie thought it made her look like a large Victoria plum, but she didn’t say so. Rita felt good in it and that was all that counted. She bought a corduroy cap to match. Rita had a thing about caps.
Marcie bought a pinafore sheath fastened with laces at the front. It looked like suede but wasn’t really. She matched it with a yellow polo-necked sweater. The skirt was very short.
‘How do I look?’ Marcie asked Rita.
‘Nice,’ said Rita. ‘How do I look?’
Rita preened like a peacock, one hand behind her head, one on her hip just like she’d seen the skinny models do.
‘Just like Twiggy,’ said Marcie.
It was hardly the truth. OK, the pose was like Twiggy in a glossy magazine, but Rita was more branch than twig.
They made arrangements to meet at eight.
‘As long as the bus is on time, I’ll be there,’ said Marcie.
‘No need for a bus,’ said Rita. ‘My dad said he’ll pick you up and take us both there.’
‘Fab! And us in our new gear.’
‘I’m going to get my mum to trim my fringe,’ said Rita. Eyes outlined with black pencil blinked through a straggly fringe.
‘Mine stays as it is,’ said Marcie.
Like Cathy McGowan on television’s Oh Boy! Marcie’s hair was long and thick, though she was blonde rather than brunette. Her fringe was dead straight and easier to trim than Rita’s flyaway wisps.
She bought a Revlon eyeliner pencil and a block of mascara with some of the money. She had everything she needed. Now all she had to do was get ready and go out.
On her way home she bumped into Garth coming from the other direction. He was totally absorbed in eating something big and round. On seeing her, a wide toothy grin split his face in half.
‘Look at what I’ve got!’ He shoved what turned out to be a large home-made pie at her. She immediately recognised her grandmother’s cooking.
‘Auntie Rosa,’ he said before taking another bite.
The way he was eating and chewing and talking made her feel slightly sick. Crumbs scattered in all directions. Poor Garth. His mother had probabl
y left him to his own devices for the weekend. He’d got hungry and headed for her grandmother.
‘That’s nice,’ she said and prepared to rush on. She had no wish to linger. ‘The man was there too,’ Garth added in his slow, deliberate way.
Marcie turned round, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘That’s my dad, Garth. My dad’s home and he’s here to stay.
‘He’s always there,’ said Garth.
Marcie shook her head and smiled. Garth was daft. Plain daft.
Chapter Twelve
Marcie loved her new outfit. She turned this way and that in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.
The short pinafore dress made her legs look even longer. Yep! Cathy McGowan eat your heart out! She looked fabulous – or fab, as Rita kept insisting.
A small speck of mascara had fallen onto her cheek. Using her small finger she brushed it off. Leaning close gave her the opportunity to check her make-up once more before going downstairs. She wanted to show her father what she’d bought. She wanted him to be proud of her and say that she looked pretty. So far he’d seemed a bit distant, although he wasn’t like that with the boys. He played pretend boxing with them, and promised to take them to a cricket match, then down to the beach to flick pebbles across the water in a game of ducks and drakes.
He didn’t do the same with her. OK, she didn’t want to fight with him or play rough and tumble around the floor. But she did want him to warm to her, and for some reason he did not.
The smell of disinfectant and mould pervaded the kitchen. Marcie realised it was coming from the clothes that Babs was pummelling into the galvanised boiler in the corner. The steam was rising in smelly clouds. Her stepmother’s carefully lacquered bouffant hairdo sat deflated, like a bird’s nest on her head.
Apart from being smothered in steam, it wasn’t often Babs got stuck into housework.
Marcie couldn’t help commenting.
‘My. Things have changed since me dad came home.’
Babs turned round. ‘It bloody well has.’
Marcie’s smile froze on her face. Babs was not looking her best – one eye was partially closed, and her lip was split and smudged with blood.
Her father came in from the bathroom at the back of the house. The bathroom was downstairs and next to the outside privy. He’d shaved and had a big bath towel wrapped around his waist.
A wave of embarrassment swept over her. She felt too grown up to be seeing her father like that.
Marcie twirled. ‘Do you like it,’ she asked, her face bright with pleasure.
He stared at her.
She waited for his reaction, suddenly fearful that it might not be the one she expected.
Suddenly his face was flushed with anger. He pointed an accusing finger. ‘What do you think you look like? No daughter of mine is going out dressed like that!’
Marcie felt herself colouring up. She’d taken such care with her appearance.
‘This is what I bought with the money you gave me. I thought you’d like it. It’s really modern.’
Her voice trembled. Her legs shook.
‘Like it? It’s what tarts wear. Tarts like her,’ he said, pointing a finger at Babs.
Babs kept her head down.
‘There was no one,’ she muttered. ‘No one. It’s all lies.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ her father shouted. ‘I’m talking to my daughter. Now,’ he said, again wagging the warning finger. ‘You go back up them stairs and put on something that doesn’t show your knickers. Get it?’
She couldn’t remember her father ever speaking to her like this. She caught Babs looking at her, a sly smile on her torn lips.
But Marcie didn’t care what Babs might think. It was her father’s good opinion she wanted and needed.
She tried again. ‘It’s the fashion, Dad.’
‘I don’t bloody care what it is. You’re not going out dressed like that! Get back upstairs and put something else on.’
‘But Dad—’
‘You’re only a kid. And I want you back in this house by ten.’
‘Ten!’
She felt hot tears stinging the back of her eyes. By ten o’clock things would only just be getting interesting.
She turned on Babs, blaming her for souring her father’s mood and his opinion.
‘This is your fault, you bloody cow!’
Her father intervened. ‘Get back up them stairs, get that warpaint off your face and get into a decent length of frock!’
Frock! Who ever referred to their clobber as a frock nowadays?
She threw a last glower at Babs before going back upstairs. Once up there she looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. The dressing table had three mirrors, a big one in the middle and a smaller one at either side. Three Marcie’s from three different angles were reflected back at her. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Rita and her father were coming to pick her up, she would have flung herself down on the bed and cried. As it was she got out her black and white dress, the one she had made. It wasn’t as short as the one she had on, mainly because her grandmother had supervised the making of it. She wiped most of the heavy make-up off her face hoping it would be enough to pass her father’s inspection. Once it was all done, she sat on the bed, not daring to go back downstairs until the Taylors arrived.
Annie was now sleeping in the cot in the corner of her parents’ room. Marcie went in there – looking down at her half-sister helped her calm down.
The curtains were drawn against the last of the sunset. Annie looked so peaceful and without a care in the world. Perhaps it might be better to remain a child for ever, she thought to herself. Being sixteen was more difficult than she’d ever bargained for. She’d expected her father to be proud of her, to think she looked pretty. Only now on reflection did she remember seeing his look of surprise when he’d first come home. Oh yes, he’d sent her presents that any teenager would love. But he’d failed to face the truth. She was no longer the little girl he’d doted on. She was a young woman.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she went back into her own bedroom and closed the door.
The footsteps crossed the landing. Her grandmother entered the bedroom without knocking and went straight to the wardrobe. As a widow and true to Mediterranean tradition, she always wore black, though the black dress she wore during the day was a different one to the dress she wore in the evening. Whereas her day dress was plain, the one she wore in the evening was trimmed with black beads around the scooped neckline.
She began to speak as she brought her best black dress out of the wardrobe. ‘Marcie. Do not be angry with your father. He has not seen you in a while. Now he sees you and is very much afraid.’
Marcie slumped down on the bed. ‘He’s treating me like a child!’
‘He’s surprised. You are different than when he went away. You have left school. You have grown. He thinks only of what is best for you and you will do as he says.’
‘I am doing that,’ Marcie said sulkily, arms folded across the dress she had once loved. How things had changed. It now represented her father’s dictate, the suede mini-dress her own rebellion.
Her grandmother seemed to be thinking deeply. The sound of her voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts.
‘I presume your stepmother did not tell you she had received the offer of a council house?’
Marcie looked at her in surprise.
‘No,’ said her grandmother, shaking her head. ‘I did not think so.’
Marcie couldn’t help smiling. Was that why Babs was sporting the beginnings of a black eye and a split lip? She wondered if they’d always fought and she’d just forgotten how bad it could get. Perhaps she’d been too young to notice or regarded overheard arguments as merely that – arguments, not out-and-out fights.
‘Your father will not move from here,’ said her grandmother resolutely. ‘He will not leave me here alone. This is where he was born. This is where he will stay.’
‘So was I – I
mean I was born here,’ said Marcie. To her own ears her voice sounded far away. Thinking of her birth, she suddenly felt a great urge to ask her grandmother if her father had ever hit her natural mother. Was that why she’d run away? It occurred to her that her grandmother was not the right person to ask. Antonio – Tony Brooks – could do no wrong in her eyes.
‘No. You were born in hospital. He brought you here.’
‘With my mother?’
Rosa Brooks slammed the wardrobe door and turned the key. She had a tight smile on her face when she turned to face her granddaughter.
‘Come along, Marcie. No more questions. Out while I dress.’
Marcie frowned. Her grandmother had never before insisted she go outside while she changed from her day dress – except on those occasions when she asked questions about her mother – as she had now.
Alan Taylor’s sleek Jaguar slid to a stop outside the Brooks’s place. He kept the motor running while he checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror, combing and patting his hair to hide areas where it was thinning.
He smiled. ‘Not bad for your age, old son.’
Satisfied that he was still the ticket, he jumped out of the car, smoothed his hair back one more time and rapped on the door.
Babs answered. The state of her face threw him for a second – not that he was all that surprised. Tony was the sort of bloke who liked to think he was in charge of his family. He got pissed off when anyone tried to prove otherwise. He guessed Babs had been pushing her luck with someone, though she must have kept quiet about their own brief fling – he’d have heard from Tony before this if she hadn’t. Full marks to her for keeping her mouth shut. Maybe he should slip her a few quid for that.
‘Fell down the stairs, girl?’ he said blithely as he breezed into the tiny front room of Tony’s gaff.
Babs threw him a meaningful look that he chose to ignore. Now to test Tony’s frame of mind.
The bloke who’d helped him with a very profitable job down in Dover came in from the back somewhere.
‘Tony! You’re looking better, my old china! And smelling like violets,’ he said with a wink to denote that he was joking. ‘Your girl ready to go out and trip the light fantastic, is she? I’ve left our Rita waiting down at the Crown in Leysdown.’