by Mia Dolan
Rosa’s lips tightened at the thought of her daughter-in-law. She’d thought over the years about asking Cyril whether Marcie’s mother was in spirit, but didn’t have the courage. She preferred to believe that she had run away with someone rather than face the possibility that her son’s temper might have got the better of him. In the meantime she found herself wishing that she hadn’t got rid of the chickens. It occurred to her that killing them had masked other blood that stained the ground. Blood was life and a life taken violently echoed through the years. Of course she could be mistaken; in fact she wanted to be mistaken – for the sake of her family – and especially for the sake of her son.
*
It was Friday night. Marcie knocked at the door of the Taylor bungalow. Rita opened the door swiftly and dragged her in.
‘Quick,’ she whispered. ‘Steph’s in the bath and Dad’s not home yet. Pete’s promised to phone and Johnnie’s going to be there with him.’
Just recently Marcie had noticed that Rita was calling her stepmother by her first name more and more.
Whatever Rita wanted to do, that was up to her. Marcie was here for Johnnie. She was trembling with excitement. Johnnie had been in her thoughts all week. New sensations that were all part of growing up made her think differently than she had done. It seemed her thoughts and reactions were changing from week to week, as though her body had a mind of its own. Thinking of Johnnie filled her with a strange tingling that made her legs turn to jelly.
Rita was asking her whether she’d brought her overnight bag and suitable clothes for camping.
Marcie held up her brother’s navy blue duffle bag. It looked out of place in the palatial bungalow with its thick square of carpet, black leather furniture with stick-like legs and room dividers glowing with orange, green and dark-red glass ornaments. They even had pelmets above their windows. Pelmets were something only posh people had. At home in Endeavour Terrace the curtains were threaded onto cheap wires Babs had ‘acquired’ from Woolworths.
Rita pointed at a square-shaped plastic bag decorated with pink flowers. ‘That’s mine.’
Marcie relegated her hands and the grubby duffle bag behind her back.
Rita was grinning. ‘Your dad was OK then. Told you he would be if my dad told him you were sleeping here with me. My dad’s all right, don’t you think?’
Marcie couldn’t help agreeing.
‘He’s great. You are so lucky. My old man’s a right misery. I’m frightened to ask him anything. He only says no or shouts at me as though I’ve done something really terrible – he never used to be so mean.’ Marcie had been amazed when her father had agreed to her request so easily. She’d been getting her courage up all week to ask him, worried that he’d slap her again merely for asking. But he hadn’t. Rita had got her dad to ask and them being old mates … it was easy.
‘Alan Taylor’s a good mate of mine so I’m not worried about you staying at his gaff. But listen here, girl, and listen good: don’t you go bringing any trouble home to my door. Hear me? No buns in no ovens or I’ll knock you to kingdom come. Right?’
She truly believed he would. It seemed such a short time ago when he’d sent her presents like the pink transistor radio. Back then she’d missed him and wanted him home. Not now though. The father who’d gone away was different to the father who’d come home – though deep down she knew she’d changed too. Alan Taylor was no doubt right. The coltish girl was gone to be replaced by a woman who very closely resembled her mother.
Rita’s face was pink with excitement as she checked her watch. ‘Pete promised he’d ring at seven. One minute … thirty seconds … fifteen seconds …’
The phone rang just once. Rita pounced on it.
‘Pete?’
Of course it was Pete. Rita spoke to him in an enthusiastic whisper.
Marcie waited. Rita’s conversation was sparse and low – a series of monosyllabic whispers continued.
At last she swiftly and quietly placed the receiver back in its cradle.
‘They’re coming here. They won’t be long. Pete said they’ve got a tent each.’
Marcie headed for the door. Rita shouted a hasty goodbye to her stepmother.
‘Doubt whether she heard. But never mind. She thinks I’m going to an all-night party. So does my dad.’ She giggled. ‘And I’m all set.’
She took an oblong of foil-wrapped pills from her pocket. ‘My dad got them for me. Reckons I’m going to do it anyway so might as well be prepared.’
Marcie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Birth control pills?’
Smiling broadly, Rita nodded. ‘Correct.’
Marcie could hardly believe it. Rita’s dad was as far from being an old square as it was likely to be.
‘I wish he was my dad,’ she said wistfully. ‘My dad wouldn’t allow me to take them. Besides, my gran would kill me. She’d kill my dad too.’
Rosa Brooks was an ardent Catholic. Babs had mentioned the birth pill within her grandmother’s hearing and said how it would change everything for women.
Her grandmother’s face had stiffened to the consistency of cold marble. ‘Not in this house!’
So her father resorted to quick visits to the local chemist for a packet of Durex or Babs herself got some during her lunch break.
Marcie knew because she’d bumped into her on the landing. Babs had dropped the evidence. ‘I don’t want any more bloody kids,’ she’d hissed when they’d fallen out of her folded headscarf.
Giggling and talking about the boys and how things would be, they made their way to the corner of the street where the boys had arranged to pick them up.
Waiting made Marcie nervous. She kept pulling at the hem of her skirt – as if by some miracle it might lengthen and cover a bit more thigh. Fat chance! When that didn’t work she began biting her lip. It had seemed a great idea and she’d bubbled with excitement. Now she wasn’t quite so sure.
‘Rita, I don’t know that I can go through with this.’
Rita looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Staying out all night. Sleeping in a tent with Johnnie.’
‘Course you can.’
‘It’s all right for you. You’ve got the pill.’
Marcie herself thought she might give in if she knew for sure that she couldn’t get pregnant. She couldn’t help being curious. Only natural, wasn’t it?
‘I can’t give you any,’ said Rita. ‘It’s a twenty-eight-day course. It’s too late to go to the chemist. Get him to jump off at Sittingbourne instead of going all the way to Victoria.’
Marcie looked at her not comprehending. ‘What?’
Rita’s plump face wobbled as she giggled. ‘Get him to withdraw before he comes.’
Marcie winced. Talking about the sexual act so casually was downright off-putting. Where was the romance in all this? Where were the sweet words of love and the affectionate kisses that could take her to heaven?
‘It all sounds so … I don’t know … like a shopping list. Not exactly True Romance, is it.’
Rita let out a loud guffaw. ‘They’re just stories. They’re not real.’
Of course they weren’t. They were stories, but Marcie had believed in them. True love always won in the end. She tensed. Should she go or should she stay?
Two black dots appeared in the distance, fast speeding towards them. The sound of powerful engines and the smell of Castrol ‘R’ filled the air.
The two motorcycles were silhouetted against a salmon-pink sunset. It was as though the London the boys had left behind had shot showers of alabaster up into the air to herald their approach. Just a little romance left, thought Marcie.
Johnnie pulled his goggles up onto his helmet and the white silk scarf down from his face. The smile in his eyes made her heart leap.
‘Hi, beautiful. Hop on.’
What a smile! She couldn’t possibly let down a boy who could smile like that. Slinging her duffle bag over her shoulder, she got on.
‘Chip shop first,’ he said b
efore readjusting his goggles and scarf.
‘Oooow! Lovely,’ said Rita.
Marcie noted that Pete had not greeted Rita as warmly as Johnnie had greeted her. Rita, she decided, was treading on dangerous ground.
Chapter Twenty
The grey sky merged with the slate-grey sea. The brightly coloured buckets and spades, beach balls and rubber rings hanging from shop fronts stirred in the breeze. The air was warm and the breeze would likely keep the rain off. September was giving way to October.
Alan Taylor was feeling pleased with himself. Steph had gone off to visit her mother – the old cow had fallen and twisted her ankle. Shame it hadn’t been her neck but at least the phone call had come in time to get Steph onto the next train to Sitting-bourne. Shame he hadn’t known earlier then he might not have smoothed things over with Tony for Marcie and the all-night party.
He decided to drive over to Endeavour Terrace and perhaps stir the waters a bit; say that Rita had told him she was sleeping over with Marcie, not the other way round. Now that would put the cat among the pigeons. Tony would go mad, but never mind, his old mate Alan Taylor would be there to pour oil on troubled waters. Marcie would be grateful for that.
He leered at some girls down from London, their bottoms pert and thrusting inside yellow and pink shorts.
‘Don’t get many of them to the pound,’ he muttered, started the car and headed towards Tony’s place.
It could have been a street scene any place, any place at all in any town in the country, but this was happening in Sheppey. A gang of kids, most of them no older than ten, were baiting the limp-looking lad – Garth, was that his name? – who’d accompanied Marcie to the pictures. They were hitting him around the legs with sticks; not big sticks, just whippy saplings they’d snapped from over somebody’s garden wall.
The big loon was trying to fend them off, holding his arms across his head as he hopped from one leg to another.
Alan Taylor slowed the gleaming Jaguar. An upright citizen would interfere and stop the kids from baiting the poor chap. Even though he wasn’t that upright he might have done so except for one thing: he didn’t want to remind Garth that he’d gone to the pictures with him and Marcie. Five to one he might not remember him being there at all. Evens favourite he might. Alan couldn’t risk that; not at this stage.
His own fault, of course; thinking below the waist. He was going to have Marcie Brooks. She was a cock tease if ever he saw one and he’d tell her so when the time was ripe. Her mother had been much the same, enticing him with those big blue eyes of hers, that supple body. What the bloody hell had she seen in Tony Brooks? He looked what he was, a bit of a spaghetti, his dark looks inherited from his Maltese mother. He bragged about being related to the Maltese Mafia that was presently having a run-in with the Kray twins. Yes, old Tony certainly looked what he was.
‘A downmarket Tony Curtis,’ he said out loud and laughed at his own joke. He’d decided of late that his own looks were more like Steve McQueen: dark blond, blue eyed and laconic rather than fiery Latin in temperament.
He drove on finally coming to a stop outside number ten Endeavour Terrace. Tony was mowing the front lawn of the old cottage he shared with his family. Alan grinned and stuck his head out the window.
‘Never thought I’d see Tony Brooks doing a Percy Thrower. Where’d you get the mower?’
On seeing him Tony let the mower handle slam to the ground. Wiping his hands with a piece of old rag he came out onto the pavement.
He brought his face level with Alan. ‘A mate got it for me,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I asked him for one with a motor, but he couldn’t get one. Got me this bloody thing instead. It’s doing my back in something rotten.’
Alan’s ultra-white teeth flashed as he choked back his laughter. ‘I s’pose you didn’t keep the receipt.’
‘Are you kidding?’
They exchanged a swift grin. Both knew there was no chance of it being legit.
‘Someone’s bound to be missing it,’ said Alan.
‘They could have it back if I knew who it was,’ said Tony, his grin echoing that of his boss.
‘That’s alright then. Your Marcie’s staying at our place tonight. That OK with you?’
‘Course it is. Fancy coming in for a cup of tea?’
Alan’s eyes flickered for a moment. He liked having a chinwag with Tony because Tony had respect for him and Alan enjoyed being looked up to. The poor bloke made him feel good. He might have stayed and stirred the mud just as he’d planned but he’d seen the front door open. A pram complete with swaying canopy emerged from the doorway. Babs was bumping the pram down the two steps and into the garden.
He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, old son. I’ve got work to do. How about we meet down the pub later? Just you and me?’
Tony grimaced. ‘Can’t do that, mate. We’re going out in a foursome. There’s a bit of a sing-song down the Britannia. Can’t put it off. Saturday night is music night for my old woman. Got to keep her sweet.’ He winked. ‘You know how it is – do them a favour and they might do you one.’
Alan winked back. ‘Absolutely, old son. See you, mate.’
His wheels squealed a bit when he sped off, but needs must. Tony’s wife was number one when it came to doing men favours – though not it seemed too often in Tony’s case. Funny that Tony couldn’t see that, but then Babs didn’t hold a candle to his first wife, Mary. No wonder Tony had been so possessive. He’d have been the same. And now there was her daughter. Marcie had grown up and perhaps he was in with a second chance.
Chapter Twenty-one
Pete and Rita had favoured pitching their tent close to the beach. Johnnie protested that the breeze was too strong coming as it was from off the sea.
‘What about up by that old church?’ he suggested. ‘I drove past there a few times. Looks alright. There’s trees to give us a bit of shelter from this poxy wind and the grass looks greener. And there’ll be no one to trouble us …’
He meant Minster Abbey.
‘I vote for that,’ said Marcie. She knew it was illegal but the churchyard would be less exposed. She tried not to think about the fact that the churchyard was also the cemetery.
The wind was whipping her hair across her face despite the fact that she was wearing a helmet Johnnie had brought for her.
‘It’s my old one. Just in case,’ he’d told her.
‘That’s fab! Thanks.’ She kissed his cheek.
‘It’s only an old one,’ he’d said, turning gruff.
Marcie wasn’t fooled. He was a typical bloke and didn’t want to be thought soft.
‘You could still get your head cracked open if you come off,’ he added.
Pete insisted they go down to the shoreline first just to test the wind. After a bit of arguing they found themselves near Garrison Point.
Johnnie began throwing pebbles into the water. He made a comment that the old forts standing high up on metal legs looked like the Martian machines in War of the Worlds.
‘I ain’t seen that film,’ said Pete.
Rita echoed his comment.
‘It isn’t a film, it’s a book,’ said Marcie.
Johnnie winked at her over his shoulder. ‘There is intelligent life on earth!’
‘I don’t read books,’ said Pete.
Again Rita agreed with him.
Pete didn’t return her doting looks, in fact he seemed to be in a bit of a mood. He began doing the same as Johnnie, picking up pebbles and sending them skidding into the incoming water. All three of them watched. Rita remained jolly but Marcie knew her friend well. Even she could tell that Pete wasn’t his usual self.
‘We’d better go,’ said Johnnie. ‘It’s too windy here. Told you it would be. And we’ve got tents to put up.’
It was getting dark and the breeze from the sea had freshened. Marcie wrapped her arms tightly around Johnnie’s waist.
The road up to the Abbey hadn’t altered much in its history. OK, it had a modern surface,
but it still wound about a bit and had twisty bends in nasty places.
Johnnie loved bendy roads. She could tell that by the way he threw the bike over this way and that, the toes of his boots barely missing the tarmac.
They arrived at the Abbey during the last glimmer of twilight.
The boys parked their bikes on the grass against the crumbling perimeter wall. The gatehouse loomed large to their right. The grass was long and rustled when the wind blew.
Johnnie concentrated on getting the tent and Marcie’s duffle bag from the back of his bike. Pete was doing no such thing. He was sitting astride his bike messing with the fuel intake.
‘Hey, mate,’ shouted Johnnie. ‘Give me a hand getting this tent up, will you?’
Pete nodded. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll get the food,’ said Rita grabbing her pink plastic bag. ‘I’ve brought loads.’
No surprise there then, thought Marcie. Trust Rita to think of her stomach.
‘Pete’s very quiet,’ she whispered to Rita. ‘Is anything wrong?’
Using her hand to shield her mouth, Rita leaned close and whispered in her ear. ‘I told him I was late.’
Marcie gasped. ‘But it’s not true, is it? You told me you were on the pill!’ she hissed, careful that Pete didn’t hear.
Rita took on that silly smug smile that was beginning to get irritating. ‘Yes, but I didn’t tell him that. I know what I want. I want Pete. I want us to get married.’
‘But Rita, you’re forcing him to ask you.’
‘I thought I’d make the first move.’ Her round face turned petulant, pink lips pursed like a tight rosebud. ‘I want to get married. I want a nice-looking bloke like Pete. Anyway, I’ve given him what he wanted so it’s only fair that he does the same by me. Right?’
‘No – that’s wrong!’ Marcie barely resisted the urge to take her friend by the shoulders and give her a good shaking. ‘You shouldn’t have been so free and easy—’
‘But everyone’s doing it. That’s what boys expect.’
‘That don’t mean you should trick him into proposing.’