Wishing and Hoping

by Mia Dolan

  ‘Are the police coming here?’

  It sounded mad. Nobody had given her a reason that the police were coming.

  Jacob nodded. ‘They may very well do so. Michael has been arrested.’

  She collapsed into a chair, the breath knocked out of her, her jaw slack, her mouth open. No words came.

  Jacob sat down opposite her, set his briefcase down and rubbed his bony white hands together.

  ‘I want you to be calm before I tell you this. Michael is convinced that he’s been set up. I’m sure he has, but my belief in him is nothing compared to yours. You have to believe that Michael is telling the truth. A girl came to the club and accused him of getting her pregnant . . .’

  ‘Linda Bell!’

  Jacob’s eyes opened wide. ‘You knew?’

  ‘She came to me and told me. I threw her out. I didn’t believe her. I’ll say it to her face too.’

  The eyes behind the spectacles looked away from her. ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’

  It wasn’t easy to subdue the shiver that ran down her spine like ice-cold water.

  Seeing that she said nothing, Jacob came right out with the problem.

  ‘Linda Bell’s dead. Michael has been charged with her murder.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘LET ME TAKE your arm, Garth.’

  ‘All right, Auntie Rosa.’

  With a feeling of great relief, Rosa Brooks slipped her hand through Garth’s arm. ‘The butcher’s next,’ she said to him. ‘But not too fast. My legs are older than yours.’

  ‘Right you are, Auntie Rosa.’

  The truth of the matter was that her legs were not really the problem. The fact was that she could no longer clearly see where she was going.

  A passer-by said good morning, addressing her by name as they went by.

  ‘Good morning. How are you?’ she replied while quickening her pace. She dare not stop in case the other person took her question literally and began telling her exactly how they were. She couldn’t stand that. Not any more, the plain fact being that she hadn’t a clue of the person’s identity because she couldn’t see them.

  Rosa Brooks was becoming more and more aware that the darkness of the night was infiltrating her daylight hours. The doctor had told her this would happen. He called it glaucoma and said that it was as a direct result of her diabetes. He’d prescribed insulin tablets but told her she might have to have injections when the tablets no longer did their job. He could do nothing about her eyes.

  ‘Four lamb chops, Mrs Brooks?’

  ‘That’s right. English lamb, please. And can I have an extra piece of white paper around it. I wouldn’t want the blood to run into my bag.’

  ‘And then I can draw on it!’ Garth exclaimed.

  Rosa dug her elbow into his ribs. ‘Never mind that.’

  The butcher didn’t seem to mind going by what he said. ‘Here. Have a folded sheet without any blood-stains. And all for the princely sum of three shillings and sixpence,’ he said.

  She could hear the amusement in his voice. If she’d been younger she might have blushed. The extra paper was indeed for Garth to draw on. He drew on any piece of scrap paper. She’d bought him a sketch pad but he’d used it up in no time. The pieces of white paper helped supplement the sketch pad and the odd roll of wallpaper. Garth was drawing all the time.

  After shopping, they returned to the cosy cottage kitchen where familiar items meant Rosa could more easily find her way around. From the hook beside the range she took a saucepan and a frying pan. From the stiff drawer of the old painted dresser she took the sharp knife she used to peel vegetables. The saucepan was filled with water and put on the range. A knob of lard was added to the frying pan together with a handful of chopped herbs, which she grew in pots outside the back door. It pained her that she couldn’t buy olive oil in Sheerness. Everyone cooked in lard or beef suet; shopkeepers had eyed her querulously when she’d first come to this country and asked for such an exotic item. On the odd shopping trip off the island she had managed to buy it and sometimes her son brought her a bottle back from London – when he remembered to.

  She sighed as she placed the lamb chops in the sizzling pan. Her son was not as dependable as he’d once been. He’d seemed closer to her when Mary was around, almost as though he needed some form of support against such a powerful woman. Mary had not merely been attractive. She’d run rings around her son and Rosa had insisted that no good would come of their marriage. Girls in the old country had been subservient to their husbands and Mary Brooks had been far from that.

  With hindsight she realised that she’d been wrong about Mary. Marcie had come along and Mary, for all her strong-mindedness, had been an angel compared to Babs. There was no doubt about it: Babs was brass to Mary’s golden.

  She sighed. It was not easy admitting to being wrong. Nearing the end of her days, she turned over her life in her mind. It was like turning the pages of a book; some chapters were more enjoyable than others.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, it was a minute or two before she realised that Garth was saying something. It sounded like singing.

  ‘What was that you said?’ she asked.

  ‘I wasn’t speaking to you, Auntie Rosa. I was speaking to Arthur. He was telling me things.’

  A light humming of the ‘Londonderry Air’ drifted like gossamer around the cosy but cramped kitchen.

  Ah, yes. Arthur! Arthur was Garth’s imaginary friend who she’d first heard humming the same tune at the mental hospital. According to Garth, Arthur had been a builder back in the nineteenth century when the hospital was built. He’d been killed on site before the building was finished, a fact that still plagued him in eternity. For some odd reason he’d attached himself to Garth and upped sticks to number ten Endeavour Terrace.

  ‘So what was Arthur telling you?’ asked Rosa, amusement quivering around her lips.

  ‘He said there’s been a murder. In London.’

  Rosa froze. Garth had the gift of sometimes drawing things that would happen in the future. Of late Arthur had been feeding him information that he’d passed verbally on to her.

  Her first thought was that her son, Antonio Brooks, had got himself into trouble again. It wouldn’t be the first time, but he’d never killed anyone.

  ‘Please God, no,’ she murmured, mostly to herself.

  Garth heard her. ‘He said it was her own fault.’

  Rosa heard. ‘She?’

  ‘A woman.’

  To Rosa it felt as though a pair of hands were tightening around her jugular.

  ‘Is it Marcie?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  Garth shook his head, seemingly engrossed in his drawing. ‘She’s got dark hair. It’s not Marcie.’

  Rosa closed her eyes. ‘Mother of God,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for that.’

  An excited hammering on the back door jolted her back to her senses. There was no need for her to open it. The latch was on; it always was.

  ‘Gran, we’re starving.’

  Archie and Arnold came tumbling into the kitchen, their noses upturned, their eyes already checking out the table, the bubbling saucepan of vegetables and the sizzling lamb chops.

  ‘Are they for us?’ asked Arnold.

  ‘For you, your brother and Garth.’

  ‘Ain’t you having any?’ asked Archie.

  ‘No. I’ve already eaten. Divide the spare one between you.’

  It was untrue, of course, but she couldn’t see the two boys go without. But never mind. She told herself that she’d have a cheese sandwich later when they’d gone and Garth was asleep.

  I wish I was there to look after you, Rosa Brooks.

  ‘Go away,’ she said irritably.

  The two boys looked at her. ‘What?’

  She smiled. ‘Not you. I was talking to your grandfather.’

  They both tossed their heads knowingly and rolled their eyes as though they considered her slightly touched. Grandma Brooks had a habit of talking to her de
ad husband, their grandfather. They’d got used to it over the years and besides they were here to eat. Their stomachs were rumbling.

  ‘Where’s your sister?’ Rosa asked.

  ‘A woman took her away,’ they explained as they chewed.

  Rosa raised her eyes to heaven. She had no doubt who the woman was. Someone had reported her daughter-in-law for neglecting her child. The poor mite had been taken into care.

  She immediately whipped off her apron. ‘God save us! Where’s your mother now?’

  ‘Gone to the pub.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  Archie screwed up his face in protest. Much as he loved his sister, his stomach was rumbling something chronic even though he’d eaten half his food already.

  ‘Do I have to go?’ he groaned.

  Rosa grabbed his shoulder. ‘Yes. You do. Now get me my coat. And get yours too, Garth.’

  ‘What’s he coming for?’ said Archie, his face screwed up even tighter.

  ‘I need him to lean on,’ she said. ‘My legs are not so good.’

  ‘No. I’m your eyes,’ murmured Garth.

  Rosa clenched her jaw. The boys were too young and too wrapped up in their own world to realise the significance of what Garth had said. When it had become obvious that her eyesight was getting worse and blindness was just around the corner, she’d somehow thought she would ride it, as though her second sight – her great gift – would see her through. It seemed it was not to be. The fact pained her.

  They left the house and made their way towards the pub.

  It was strange to be sightless and suddenly to have happening what happened next. ‘Garth! Stop!’

  Garth did as he was told though not as abruptly as she would have liked.

  ‘You all right, Auntie Rosa?’ His voice was high and squeaky, but the sentiments were genuine. His watery blue eyes regarded her with concern.

  ‘No, Garth. I am not all right. I’m seeing things more clearly than I have ever done.’

  Her voice fell away into quietness. Her breath was tight in her chest. Holding her hand against her chest, she tried to put into perspective what she was feeling – no! Not what she was feeling. What she was seeing!

  ‘We have to go back,’ she said to Garth, wheeling him around as though he were her partner around a maypole. ‘Marcie may be trying to phone us and we need to be there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Arnold. ‘Can I take some cake back for our Annie?’

  ‘You said a woman had taken her away?’

  ‘Yeah, but me and Archie got her back again. We bought her some fish and chips and she’s sat at home in front of the telly. It’s only a black and white one, but she doesn’t mind. Are you going to get a colour telly, Gran?’

  The last thing Rosa Brooks had a use for was one of the new-fangled colour televisions. She’d seen most of the greatest films ever made in black and white and was sure that anything in colour wouldn’t be a patch on them.

  ‘Right now, Auntie Rosa?’ Garth asked her.

  ‘Right now,’ she replied.

  For once her aching old legs found a sudden burst of speed, which threw Garth off guard.

  They headed back to Endeavour Terrace, Rosa spurred on by the sudden fear that had come upon her. This only happened when a member of her family was threatened.

  The phone in the public phone box at the end of the terrace was ringing just as she’d known it would be.

  Without being told to, Garth heaved the door open. He did not attempt to answer it but stood back as though instinctively knowing that it was Rosa who must answer it.

  Rosa stumbled against him in her haste to pick it up.

  ‘It’s me,’ said the male voice on the other end.

  ‘Antonio!’

  He sounded grim. ‘Ma, I need to come home this weekend. I’m going to get Marcie and the kids to come with me. Something terrible has happened.’

  ‘Michael.’

  The name was not posed as a question. Something bad had happened to Michael. This was what she had suddenly felt on the way to find Babs.

  ‘You will be welcome,’ she said, forcing her fear to stay in its place until she could effectively deal with it, until she knew all the details.

  She did not mention that she’d expected him to phone. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that her son and her granddaughter needed her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  TONY BROOKS SAT watching his daughter. She’d been cradling the same cup of tea for twenty minutes now without saying a word. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking or what she was staring at.

  She’s like one of them bloody zombies, he thought. He’d seen a horror film about zombies at the pictures recently. He’d never heard of the word before that.

  The silence was getting on his nerves and he began wondering what he could say to break it. Nothing he could think of seemed right. But then, how could it be? Michael had been arrested for murder. He couldn’t believe it. Michael was meek and mild; OK, he had a shrewd business head and an average amount of nous, but Tony didn’t regard him as a hard man, certainly not hard enough to commit murder.

  The word on the streets was that the bird had been pregnant and had accused Michael of being the father. Tony wasn’t sure what to believe. After all, the bloke was married to his daughter and it grieved him that his son-in-law could have treated her like that. His first reaction had been anger until he’d countered that with the conviction that they weren’t that much different. Men were different to women. They had needs. It didn’t mean they didn’t love their wife and kids. They were just different.

  The silence was overpowering. He found himself wishing that Sally hadn’t taken the kids out for an hour. Any noise was better than this.

  In the absence of anything useful to say, he studied his daughter. She looked distraught, still beautiful though, even if her eyes were so sad. A pang of regret stabbed at his heart. With her lovely blonde hair, Marcie was a lot like Mary, her mother, his first wife. The only woman Tony had truly loved beside his mum, if truth be told. If only things had been different. Still, he thought, water under the bridge.

  There was nothing for it. He had to make a stab at conversation.

  ‘He’ll get off. Course he will. Everyone knows old Michael wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘His prints were on the gun,’ Marcie stated, her voice hollow, her stance unchanged.

  ‘That don’t mean anything,’ her father replied, with more conviction than the facts allowed. ‘The girl was put up for it. We all know that.’

  ‘And the blood-spattered shirt?’

  There was no answer to that. The shirt had been a complete surprise. It was definitely Michael’s shirt. The police had found it behind a bush at the bottom of the garden where they claimed Michael had hidden it with a view to disposing of it later without her or anyone else seeing.

  ‘Planted,’ said Tony.

  ‘Beneath a rose bush,’ said Marcie with a humourless grin. ‘That was what was planted there.’

  Tony gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh yeah! Planted. Funny – kind of.’

  The silence descended again. This time Tony was determined not to let it continue. He put his arm around her. ‘Look, love. It’s doing no good you sitting there brooding on it. Life goes on and all that. Besides, you’ve got the kids to think of. How about we all go down and stay with your gran for the weekend? We could all do with a breather. It’ll give us time to think. What do you say?’

  The sweet faces of Joanna and Aran smiled in Marcie’s thoughts. It occurred to her that she’d been neglecting her kids. Seeing Michael in the company of Jacob, his solicitor, and the police had been a terrible experience.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he’d said to her, his eyes full of fear and pleading. ‘Honestly.’

  She’d believed him. She still did.

  Letting out a single, mournful groan, she hung her head. ‘Dad, what the hell am I going to do if he’s found guilty?’

  Relieved the silence
was broken, though his daughter was despairing, Tony patted her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, love. Old Jacob Solomon is on the case. If he can’t get your man out of jail, nobody can.’

  Marcie steepled her fingers in front of her face and frowned. ‘The legal fees are going to be huge. I might have to mortgage everything to pay them – or at least the house. I don’t want to, but there it is.’

  The house – the family home – meant a lot to both of them. Michael had been really proud that he’d been able to buy their semi-detached outright. They had no mortgage. A second thought occurred. ‘Best still that I sell the house and move back into the flat. It’ll be handy for my sewing room. I don’t like the kids living in the East End, but there it is.’ She paused as a thought occurred to her. ‘It’ll also be handy for visiting the prison.’

  Her voice came to an abrupt halt over the last word. Prison! She’d never considered her husband might end up there. Not like her father. She caught the look in her father’s eyes and guessed he was reading her thoughts.

  ‘You won’t need to sell your nice house,’ he said as though he had some control over events.

  ‘Yes,’ she said resolutely. ‘I think I’ll have to. In the mean time, I’ll rent it out.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m going to move back into the flat. I need to be on the job. I need to be there to keep an eye on what’s going on.’

  ‘So how about this weekend?’ asked her father. ‘How about we head home to Sheppey?’

  Home. The word seemed to echo in Marcie’s head before curling itself around her like a warm blanket.

  She nodded. ‘I think I’d like that.’

  Marcie had a smart new Mini Cooper, which was great for ferrying herself and the kids around. Her father had acquired some middle-aged spread and tended to overfill the front passenger seat so they went down to the Isle of Sheppey in his car, a dark-green Ford Zodiac with pointed tailfins and chrome hubcaps.

  The car was part of the flash image he’d lately adopted and went along with the Elvis Presley hairdo, bushy sideburns framing his face.

  Marcie knew that he groomed himself to suit the women in his life. If she was honest she suspected there’d always been other women. Normally it would anger her, but nowadays she didn’t want to think about it – just in case her husband Michael was tarred with the same brush.