by Mia Dolan
The smell of antiseptic made Marcie’s stomach heave.
‘Don’t worry,’ said her grandmother as they waited for the visitors bell to sound. ‘He will be better soon.’
Marcie said nothing. She wasn’t worried about her father. On the contrary she was angry that this had happened. She’d been building up her courage prior to asking him about her mother as a consequence of seeing Garth’s drawings. She couldn’t tell him about the baby and getting married; she couldn’t tell him she was going away. How could she go and leave her grandmother by herself? Though he would, she reminded herself. He would leave his mother all alone if it meant he could find Babs and the kids.
Visiting was the same week in and week out – he was unconscious for a very long time. At first it was touch and go, which meant joining her grandmother on her knees at the side of the bed, praying for her father’s recovery.
In the meantime she considered telling her grandmother about her little problem, but somehow it didn’t seem right. Surely it was her father who should be told first?
So that was how it went on, Marcie sighing away the weeks that her father spent in intensive care. Why had this happened now, just when she’d found the courage to ask him about her mother, plus telling him that she was pregnant?
Once a week she accompanied her grandmother. Visiting times were strictly controlled and the journey to and from London meant arriving back late at night. In time he would be transferred back to the local hospital on Sheppey. Until then her grandmother said more prayers to hurry this happening along.
He’d incurred such serious injuries from the beating that it was very likely he’d been left for dead. The doctors reported that a rib had punctured his lung and that it would be a long haul back to recovery.
The problem seemed to be that he didn’t seem to care about recovering.
‘You will come home soon and I will make you pasta and bolognese,’ Rosa Brooks told him.
Marcie saw no improvement in her father’s will to get better despite her gran’s offer to feed him more nourishing meals than provided by the hospital.
It wasn’t until he’d been in hospital for roughly five weeks that they saw a slight improvement – and found out that Babs had paid a visit.
A few weeks more and he was sitting up in bed and talking about coming home.
‘Things will be different,’ he exclaimed, a smile splitting his face from ear to ear.
There was something secretive in the way his glance shifted from his mother to his daughter. Marcie felt her grandmother tensing.
‘You are not staying in London?’ asked Rosa Brooks.
‘No! Course not!’
A bright smile lit up her grandmother’s face. ‘That is good. That is so good.’
He sounded all exuberance and good humour, but Marcie wasn’t convinced. There was something idling beneath the surface, something he didn’t want to mention just yet. She wondered if it had something to do with Babs again. Maybe she was coming home with him.
‘Get yourself something nice,’ he said to his daughter as she stood at the side of the bed. He’d slipped a five pound note into her hand.
She bit her lip. Was it ungrateful to believe that he was giving her money as compensation for the way he’d treated her? Perhaps he was turning over a new leaf. The father he had once been began shining through again. In time, once he was home, she could tell him about her own problems – especially the baby. But not yet, simply because she was building up her courage. If her grandmother noticed how tense she was or that she was putting on weight, she didn’t say so. Marcie was grateful for that. She would tell both of them once her father was home and back on his feet. She hoped that would be soon. Letting out seams and making shapeless shift dresses helped hide her condition, but couldn’t go on much longer.
The income in the Brooks household had gone down since he’d been in hospital. Not that they were destitute – far from it. He’d left them a bit of cash and Marcie had the money from her part-time job at the record shop. And seeing as there was only the two of them living at home it didn’t have to cover as much as when there was a house full.
Johnnie came down most weekends. She was wearing looser clothes now that she’d made herself. She’d paid seven and six a yard for some plain black material bought with some of the money her dad had given her. So as not to arouse suspicion she trimmed the neckline and sleeves with white – just like the other dress she’d made. The pattern was pure Mary Quant, the idea created from a picture in a magazine.
Perhaps one day I’ll be able to afford a real Mary Quant mini dress, she thought, though goodness knows when that would be.
On the night when they found out that Babs had visited and her father was in such good spirits, her grandmother was strangely morose all the way home.
Marcie didn’t question why. Although a bank of clouds was gathering over the sea beyond Sheppey, Marcie was feeling happier than she’d been for a long time.
It appeared her grandmother wasn’t so happy.
‘She has made him promise something,’ she said when pressed.
Nothing more was said. Marcie wondered idly if Babs had agreed to come home if her dad had promised not to hit her any more. Or even if the promise was something to do with the radiogram Babs had set her heart on months ago.
Marcie kept Johnnie informed about what was happening, but there was one particular subject she kept avoiding. Johnnie voiced the obvious question.
‘So when will you tell him about the baby?’
They were sitting on the sea wall in a bracing breeze that was blowing straight at them in indiscriminate gusts.
‘Soon.’
She turned away so he wouldn’t see her confusion.
‘What does that mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll tell him as soon as he’s been home a while. He’s been very ill. I can’t present him with a shock like that just yet. He needs time to recover.’
‘Damn!’
The single word was delivered with undisguised exasperation. Johnnie was losing patience and she knew it.
But he had to understand how she was feeling; how important it was that she and her father be on good terms. That was the way things had to be if she were ever to approach him about her mother. She hadn’t forgotten Garth’s drawings and his odd references to a time she herself found difficulty in remembering.
‘How about you? Have you told your parents?’
She already knew the answer, but she’d still had to ask. Johnnie had promised to tell his parents immediately after she’d told hers.
He grimaced. ‘I’ve already told you I won’t. Not until you do. First as last, it won’t be easy.’
His expression clouded. Not for the first time she sensed there was something he wasn’t telling her. It wouldn’t be easy for either of them, but Johnnie was very cagey about his parents. Even his best friend Pete seemed to know little about Johnnie’s background.
‘He arrived at the café on the North Circular all alone with just a bloody great bike between his legs, told us his name, challenged us to a burn up and that was it. Never been to his house, not even sure where it is. Never heard him speak of his mum and dad neither.’
Marcie had given up trying to get any information out of him. He got ratty when she persisted. She had her own reasons to explain why he was uncomfortable discussing them.
She was aware that her belly was getting bigger – she’d have to give up her job soon lest her boss begin to suspect. It would pay if she could stay on for six months. At least then she’d get Maternity Allowance. It wasn’t much, but it would help. After that …
The time was coming when they had to tell their families. Marcie gathered her thoughts and laid them on the line.
‘Your family’ll disapprove of me. I’m not the same class as you. That’s the truth, isn’t it? They’re going to think that I’m not good enough for you and that I’ve spoiled your chances of going to university.’
‘No! That’
s what they want for me, not what I want for myself.’
He didn’t meet the searching look in her eyes. Without confirming or even looking at her, in a way he was admitting that what she said was the truth. She didn’t want it to be. It hurt like mad that they’d think she wasn’t good enough for their son. But she was pretty certain she’d hit the nail firmly on the head.
Chapter Thirty-four
When Tony Brooks told his mother that he, Babs and the three kids were moving into a council house, she refused to believe it.
‘You are leaving home?’
The pitch of her voice rose in disbelief. The small face, still a light shade of coffee and cream despite the fact that she’d lived with rain and damp for years, looked dumbfounded.
‘I reckon I’m big enough,’ he grumbled. He’d sorted things out about baby Annie. Babs had explained that reddish blonde hair ran in her family. She also reminded him of a night just before he’d got arrested. They’d been to the pub, had a bloody good time and had bought a fish and chip supper on the way home. Halfway home they’d paused in the bus shelter where the passion of their courtship returned with a vengeance.
‘Annie was only a bit early,’ Babs had added. ‘And anyway, your Marcie is blonde – she and Annie are very similar. Marcie takes after her mother, Annie takes after me,’ she’d said, patting her platinum blonde bird’s nest.
All the same, he’d never expected telling his mother he was moving out would be easy.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. She would most likely be heartbroken, but he had to do this. His marriage depended on it. Babs had told him to make a choice: live with her and the kids in a council house or with his mother, but without his family in the old cottage.
‘And may you both be very happy together,’ she’d tacked on to the threat.
The prospect of living with his mother all his life did not appeal – certainly not if his family wasn’t there too. He’d agreed to move into the council house they’d been allocated as soon as he was out of hospital.
‘Our Marcie will like it,’ he’d added. ‘Especially if I buy you that radiogram you want. You can both play records on it.’
He sounded gleeful at the prospect. Babs was more reticent. At first he couldn’t quite work out why – until she dropped the bombshell.
‘Your Marcie would appreciate a room of her own – especially now she’s in the family way.’
At first he thought he was hearing things, either that or Babs was being spiteful seeing as her and Marcie had never got on.
The hospital wouldn’t cope with a bloke with a temper. They’d likely call the police. Instead he turned sullen. His teeth ached with tension when he spoke.
‘Run that past me again.’
Babs told him again. ‘I saw her on the way out with your mother. I’m surprised the old bird hadn’t noticed herself. But I did. The breeze caught your daughter’s frock and I could see the outline of her belly. Five months by the looks of it.’
Tony placed a hand over his racing heart as his anger rose with his pulse.
Babs knew very well what was coming next, but she didn’t care. She was getting her own back.
‘Who’s the father? I’ll break his fucking neck!’
A nurse threw him a look of reproach. He ignored her, his brown eyes boring into his wife’s face. ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Who is it?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been home, have I?’
No. Of course she hadn’t. But his mother had. His mother must have known. Surely she must!
His mother had cried off from visiting of late, citing the fact that she was old and in need of a rest. The real reason was that she couldn’t contemplate him leaving home and was punishing him for taking his wife’s side. In lieu of visiting she wrote terse letters briefly outlining what had been happening on the Isle of Sheppey.
The last one he’d received had told him that his father had visited and said to look out for increasing family. The news wasn’t entirely unexpected. He’d be home and lying in his wife’s arms before long which might very well result in an extra mouth to feed.
Babs was rabbiting on about the new house all the time. It was wearing him down a bit but he was finished with London. Broken ribs didn’t suit him.
‘Does Mum know about this?’ he asked.
‘How the bloody hell would I know? I’ve been putting up with my own mother these past months, not yours. Be glad to get shot of the pair of them and have my own place.’
‘I thought our Marcie would have been smarter than to get herself into trouble.’
‘She fell in love,’ said Babs in a dreamy voice. An avid reader of True Romance, she reckoned she knew about these things.
‘Silly cow. What did she want to go and do that for?’
Babs fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘I did. I was five months when we got married.’
Tony wasn’t listening. ‘Just wait till I get home. Whoever it is has to marry her, or they’ll have me to reckon with.’
Marcie had never expected to be lonely. The cottage in Endeavour Terrace had been alive with the sound of her half-brothers arguing and little Annie crying for attention. She even missed the sound of Babs drinking her tea from a saucer, and that was saying something. Babs used to suck the tea into her mouth in such a way that her lipstick wouldn’t be washed away.
Her grandmother had told her that her father and the family were not coming back to the cottage. They were moving into a council house.
‘What about me?’ she’d asked.
Her grandmother had replied in much the same vein as Babs had done to Marcie’s father.
‘You will need a room to yourself, you and the little one, unless the father is going to marry you.’
‘Yes. He is,’ Marcie blurted. Then she stopped. ‘You knew?’
Rosa nodded sagely like old people do. ‘Then I will write to your father and tell him so. He will understand and not blow his top if I explain that all will be well. What is the father’s name?’
‘Johnnie. Johnnie Hawke,’ Marcie said softly.
She shook her head in disbelief. This episode was passing like a dream. She really couldn’t believe how easy this had been. She’d expected arguments resulting from a pretty hot confrontation. It hadn’t happened.
‘Putting the position down on paper is always better in these situations,’ said her grandmother. ‘Hot anger needs time to cool and become reflective.’
The first thing she had to do was to tell Johnnie when he came down on Friday. The working week would pass slowly until then. She resigned herself to that fact – after all, what was worth having was worth waiting for and what she wanted most was Johnnie.
Chapter Thirty-five
It was Thursday night, the wind was getting up and the air smelled of rain. Earlier that evening Marcie had accompanied her grandmother up to the hospital in Wards Hill just around the corner from Minster Abbey. His condition having improved, her father had been moved there so his family could visit more easily. They’d only been able to manage once a week when he’d been in London. Marcie had avoided doing even that and he wasn’t happy about it.
‘You should know why,’ she said when he asked her the reason. Her belly made it obvious.
He reacted just as her grandmother had said he would. The letter and time had made him see sense.
‘I can’t say I’m happy but what’s done is done. As long as that young man is going to marry you, that’s fine by me. I’ll let bygones be bygones.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘But I’ll not have you living with him without a ring on your finger. You’ve been brought up a Catholic and even though we don’t attend Mass that much, we do things right.’
The fact was that Rosa Brooks was the only one who did attend Mass regularly, the rest of the family only attending baptisms, marriages and funerals.
Marcie told him that Johnnie wanted to marry her.
‘Then that’s alright then.’
Relief rolled ov
er her. Everything was working out fine as far as her father was concerned.
Up until now her grandmother had been loath to mention the matter, but on the bus on the way home she added her own brand of approval to that of her son.
‘You and your young man can live with me,’ announced Rosa Brooks, ‘but only if you get married,’ she added with a hint of warning.
‘I’ll see what he wants to do,’ Marcie replied.
Expecting a new baby in the family – a great-grandchild – always raised her grandmother’s spirits, more so now that Tony and his brood had moved out.
Rosa Brooks was round at Edith Davies’s. At present she was eyeing Garth’s latest artwork while waiting for Edith to make the tea, which was spread out on the drop-down flap of the kitchen unit. Garth was sitting on a wooden kitchen chair, totally absorbed in what he was doing.
‘You are a very good artist,’ Rosa said to him. ‘These pictures come out of your head?’
He nodded but did not look up. The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth. His fingers clenched the crayons tightly.
‘I don’t know where he gets it from,’ said his mother.
‘No. You would not,’ returned Rosa brusquely.
The gossip that Garth’s father was a Polish airman during the war wasn’t necessarily the absolute truth. His mother had been pretty free and easy with her favours. Blokes in uniform were like a drug – she couldn’t resist them and she couldn’t say no.
Edith Davies had few friends she could confide in and Rosa Brooks was one of them. It did not matter to Rosa that Edith had a very bad reputation. Out of Christian charity, plus the promise of silver if she read the tea leaves or the cards, she called in regularly.
The tea was drunk, the cup tipped upside down and turned the requisite number of times in the saucer. As usual a few male strangers lurked in the tea leaves. Edith was always happy with that kind of news.
By the time they’d finished talking it was nine-thirty. Rosa rubbed her aching back as she got up, stretched and reached for her coat, her hat and her stout walking cane.