501

  Dandy doesn’t know I’m outside, doesn’t see me until I’m standing in the patio doorway. I know the sun’s shining through my flimsy negligee; I know that I could be wearing nothing; I know what I look like with cigarette smoke curling from my mouth; I know what I’m doing as I sing in my sweet, tempting voice:

  ‘You’re more than gorgeous and I’ll do anything you want,

  I’ll save myself for you,

  slave myself for you,

  behave myself for you.

  You’re more than gorgeous and I’ll do anything you want.’

  I stop then and Dandy is looking, staring at me. This isn’t a schoolgirl standing too close to him. This is me, someone who’s loved and wanted him for two years.

  And it seems that here in this summer morning kitchen, we’re the only two people in the whole world.

  Dandy says, his voice catching, ‘You’re gorgeous, Lena.’

  But it’s not me, it’s him.

  Then Dandy is holding me, kissing me. His hands are under my negligee and I can feel so obviously how much he wants me, wants to love me.

  I think we would have done it there and then on the kitchen floor if Mum hadn’t called down the stairs, ‘Is Mikey’s bottle ready yet, Andy?’

  Dandy starts, pushes me away. Not harshly but gently. Regretfully.

  ‘Lena,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry. What was I thinking of?’

  But I’m not sorry and I know what I was thinking.

  Dandy makes up Mikey’s bottle and his hands are trembling. He spills powdered milk on the tray and nearly scalds himself with the kettle. Then he sits the bottle in a jug of cold water.

  ‘I’ll take it up,’ I say, and he seems relieved.

  Then he says, ‘Lena, I love your mother,’ and I say, ‘So do I, Dandy. So do I.’

  So I take up Mikey’s bottle and Mum has Mikey in bed with her. He’s a wriggling little sod and he spots the bottle straight away and I tell him it’s still too hot for him.

  ‘Have a bit of patience, little man.’

  Mum says, ‘You were just the same, Lena. Couldn’t wait to get what you wanted.’

  Then, as I’m leaving the room, she says, ‘You should really be dressed, Lena, you’re not hiding a lot.’

  So we’re nearly there, not quite there. I know it’s going to happen and Dandy knows it’s going to happen. But when?

  I can look at this now and think what a cow I was to Mum but then my head was full of Dandy. I watched his every move, brushed by him in hall, held his eyes in secret glances. It was like I was blind; like I had no concept of future, of consequence. I couldn’t see where it would end. I just wanted Dandy holding me, loving me.

  I’m thinking this now and all I can see is him; all I can feel is that desire. It burns me up and Dandy only has to look at me to light the gas.

  I’ve had a hot bath and I’ve wrapped myself up in a towel. I’m warm and soft and sweet-smelling and I’m drying my hair in the front room. The telly’s on and Mikey’s been tucked up in bed an hour. Tonight, Mum is going to Pilates.

  ‘Do you think I’m getting my figure back?’ she asks Dandy. She does a twirl in front of him but Dandy, lazing on the settee, has his head in the paper.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, without looking up.

  Mum goes, ‘Men,’ and raises her eyebrows to me.

  ‘Old men,’ I say, and Mum laughs, and Dandy says, ‘Watch it, Madam.’

  ‘Why, what are you going to do?’

  He’s looking up from his paper now. ‘Don’t tempt me, Lena.’

  Mum says, ‘You two, always teasing each other.’

  Dandy says, ‘She started it.’

  So I go upstairs to dress and Mum goes to Pilates.

  But I don’t dress; I go back downstairs, still in the towel, and sit next to Dandy.

  He says, ‘You shouldn’t, Lena.’

  I say, ‘Shouldn’t what, Dandy?’

  Then he says, ‘Oh fuck it, Lena.’

  And then the towel’s on the floor and it begins.

  Irish says, ‘I’d just as well be talking to the wall, Lena.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘God almighty, Lena. You were miles away.’

  ‘Yeah, I was dreaming.’

  ‘Well, fucking wake up, it’s your round.’

  Scottie Dog is going to sleep in the corner and Katy’s texting Lover Boy, mouthing words that are almost readable. Maggie’s looking at the door, waiting for Danny and our lift back to the George. Big Dave Trinder has turned up and he and Pegs are quietly sitting together, looking as if they’re sharing a secret. She’s squeezing his hand and shaking her head. It makes me wonder if she’s up the duff. If she is, I can’t see her father being too pleased; funny lot, the gypsies.

  But at least they’re out together, not like me and Dandy. We hardly ever seem to go anywhere because Dandy thinks that people will mistake him for my dad.

  ‘I don’t care, Dandy. I don’t care.’

  ‘But I do, Lena.’

  I know he’s worried about people taking the piss, and I know the gossips will have a field day, but they talk now. Of course they do.

  So I go out to darts. I go out to the clubs. I laugh and drink and flirt but coming home, slipping between the sheets, feeling Dandy’s warm body beside me, means so much more.

  And the thing is that after these years together nothing’s changed; I still want him all the time. I really can’t wait to go home.

  I really can’t wait to tell him the news.

  He’s in bed when I get back and he moans when I switch the lamp on.

  He sits up, rubbing his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Lena, I’ve got to be up early in the morning.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell you something.’

  Just those half dozen words and his manner instantly changes.

  ‘Lena, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Not wrong, Dandy. Right. It’s something right.’

  All the same, the words crawl out of me. ‘Pregnant, Dandy. I’m pregnant.’

  Dandy looks at me and I can’t read his face, not properly. I wanted him to hug me, to be over the moon, but he sits there and it’s like he can’t grasp the meaning of what I’ve said.

  And then he says, ‘Your Mum, who’s going to tell her?’

  And it makes me wonder if she ever left this place, if she ever left Dandy’s heart.

  Later Dandy does turn to me in the night, he does say that it’s all right, that everything will be fine. His arm slides around me and his voice comes out of the dark.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It was a shock.’ Then he laughs. ‘I’m too old to be a dad again.’

  I tell him it’s obvious he’s not, but I don’t tell him that it’s been a strange few months and my monthlies had been a bit odd, almost non-existent really.

  Before darts tonight I’d gone to Dr. Derby and she said that it wasn’t that unusual and that I was probably quite far gone. I’m stretched out on the examination bed and she’s been prodding and pulling at me for ten minutes.

  ‘Far gone?’

  ‘Pregnant.’ Then she looks at me like a schoolmistress. ‘Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?’

  I shake my head like I’m some sort of div. Although I hadn’t exactly known, I must have suspected because as soon as she said the word ‘pregnant’ I’m in the bathroom after Dandy’s gone to work, throwing up my breakfast, blaming a bug that’s gone round work. And it must have been that because the next week I’m as right as rain. Okay, so I’ve started piling on the pounds and eating like a horse and… and all those things I didn’t want to see in my second great betrayal of Mum.

  And then there’s Dandy and into this night I’m thinking that because of me he lost Mikey, and now I can give him back the same. It’s like repaying a debt; well, not exactly that, but it sort of evens things up between me and him.

  And Mum?

  Well, I’ll have to tell her; I know Dandy can’t. Or won’t.

  Monday night darts
in January.

  The George versus the Queen Elizabeth.

  Scottie Dog.

  I don’t like sitting in on these dark stormy winter nights now I’m an old – I mean, elderly – woman. The night never used to worry me; the dark used to be warm and comfortable, sometimes passionate. And mostly concealing.

  Even when I was a little girl, plain Marie Stewart, I’d lie in bed, listening to the Scottish gale seeking out the loose tiles on our roof. They’d rattle and clap like…

  ‘Like Mrs Delaney’s false teeth,’ Mam says and laughs.

  Mrs Delaney is our neighbour and her teeth are always slopping around her mouth. Occasionally the top set will pop out and she crams them back in with an, ‘Och, the little devils are alive.’

  Mam laughs again and I always see her, remember her, like that; always smiling, always laughing; the happy-go-lucky Mam of no consequence.

  On this night of long ago, Mam’s getting ready to go out – dressing up to the nines, whatever that means. She’s straightened her stockings, fluffed up her hair and painted her face.

  ‘Now don’t answer the door to anyone,’ she says, and then she kisses me goodnight. Then she holds me, hugs me. ‘My bonny wee War Baby.’

  I remember the warmth, the smell of her, to this day and I remember what the two words ‘war baby’ meant then. It meant no father, or no father who was around. Before I realised the impossibility of it I used to imagine a rich, handsome American turning up in one of those huge gleaming cars. He’d park in the street, ring on our bell and I’d answer the door to:

  ‘You must be my little girl.’

  He’d pick me up, throw me into the air and we’d drive to an ice-cream parlour (in Dundee!) and he’d order me a huge Knickerbocker Glory and a tall glass of soda-pop, like in the films.

  It’s funny, Mam was never in those daydreams; it was just me and him.

  And all she says when I ask about my father is, ‘He was in the army. He was away too much,’ and her face hardens into one of those ‘no more questions’ expression.

  So Mam says, ‘I’ll not be too long.’

  The ‘not long’ will happen when I’m deep in the Land of Nod but for now, as soon as she’s gone, I go to the window and watch the street by the lamplight, watch Mam walk the length of this road, watch her disappear around the corner. I can almost hear the tap of her heels on the pavement. From up here, in our rooms above the ironmongers, I turn off the light and watch the night-life of the town begin.

  So I’m here in nineteen fifty-three, a face at the window. I’m twelve years old and the Scottish rain is sweeping the Dundee streets. In my street, from my window to the world, the bright door of the Jolly Sailor swings open and shut, people spill out into the rain, people spill in from the rain. There’s deep male laughter, high-pitched giggles, and always the glow of cigarettes. A dulled tinkle of a piano snatches half a tune through the gale. These sounds are subdued, distanced by the wet, thin glass and the curtain of rain. There’s a lonely cyclist pedalling by, head down, wrapped in a yellow cape, wobbling against the wind.

  I’ll watch from the window until my eyelids start to droop; then I’ll go to my bed and pull the covers up to my eyes and imagine the wind on the sea, the collision of white wave and shore. I’ll imagine until I fall asleep.

  I won’t hear Mam come in, but when I wake in the morning she’ll be lying beside me. She won’t stir as I slip out of bed, go out to the kitchen, make myself a basin of hot milk, bread and sweet sugar. She’ll still be sleeping as I let myself down the stairs and into the street to join the weaving band of kids playing their way to school.

  And this is my life as I grow older, stronger, taller. Of course there are other flats, other rooms, and once even a two-up, two-down, with a proper bathroom. But we’re never anywhere for too long. Because of how Mam earns a few bob when we’re in a tight spot, I suppose.

  She ships me out when she has a male visitor. She’ll give me a half a crown and say, ‘Get yourself down to the chippie for…’ she’ll look at the clock, look at the man kneading his hat in his hands, ‘for an hour.’

  And Mam’s hours merge into nights, into away-days, into lost weekends, and for me into long hours watching from the window.

  So at twelve years old when I come home, sometimes there’ll be mashed spuds topped with a melting knob of butter, peas and two thick slices of Spam for tea. Or there might be burnt sausages and baked beans, because Mam tries, Mam really tries, but she’s a bottle blonde in a tight skirt who can’t resist the bright lights. She can’t resist a drink, she can’t resist company. She can’t resist men. She’s pretty, I suppose, in a brassy way, like Elsie Tanner in Coronation Street. (I think of Mam like that the first time I see the programme; it’s Mam on the screen with brown hair and a Manchester accent.)

  But sometimes when I come home there’ll be nothing to eat.

  And there’ll be no one there.

  And most of the time when I’m thirteen pushing into fourteen, there’s no one there.

  Now, for me, bedtime doesn’t exist. I can stay out until dusk, until the streetlights start to burn. I’m a part-time orphan and I join the other orphans who walk the twilight town until a policeman sends us on our ways, sends us to our homes. Then I can let myself in, slip a shilling into the gas meter and warm my feet by the fire. I can listen to the wireless until I fall asleep or I can sit at the window and watch the world slow, watch the streets empty, until no one walks the lonely pavements.

  So was it this that made me vulnerable? Was it because I was on my own when Denny Adams knocked on the door?

  It’s a Saturday morning, the sky is grey and it’s raining again. I’m thinking about going down the Arcade. I like it there; I like the Penny machines, the Laughing Policeman, the crane where you grab a toy and drop it into a chute if you’re lucky.

  I’ll say one thing for Mam, she never leaves me without money now. (She’s doing well or being well done.) In fact I can tell how long she’ll be gone by how much is in the purse under the mattress. The going rate is five bob for each day and I’ve got fifteen shillings left, so sometime on Monday she’ll be back in my life. She’ll flop down in the chair and I’ll make her a mug of hot milk, feed her a couple of Aspirins, light her a cigarette.

  ‘Marie,’ she’ll say, ‘you’re a good girl, a good daughter.’

  Then she’ll fall asleep and I’ll drape a blanket around her.

  She’ll sleep until the clock strikes seven, then she’ll wake, yawn, stretch and start to get ready for the night.

  But now it’s Saturday and Denny Adams is knocking at the door, asking for Mam.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘You can’t come in.’

  ‘I can,’ says this infrequent visitor, and he shoves open the door, shoves me to one side, and then he’s up the stairs with me following close behind.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asks in our sitting room.

  ‘She’s not here.’ I’m a little bit wary now, wary of this young man in pale-blue jeans, white T shirt and leather jacket. His Bryl-creamed hair is greased back into a d.a. and he leaves a cigarette smouldering in his mouth as he talks. He’s good-looking in a cruel, rebellious way.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your mother; I paid her for something I didn’t get.’

  He settles into the sofa, puts his feet, his pointed shoes on the coffee table.

  I say, ‘She won’t be back for ages yet.’

  He’s looking at me now, looking me up and down, and I can’t quite meet his eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.’ Then he adds my name, ‘Marie,’ and he laughs. ‘Tea. Marie. I’m a poet and I don’t know it.’

  So I boil up the kettle, brew the tea, put it into his hand. But he sets it by his feet on the table, makes no attempt to drink.

  He’s looking at me again and he says, ‘You’ve really grown up lately, Marie.’

  I’m conscious of him eyeing me up
and down. He pats the sofa.

  ‘Come and sit by me.’

  I pretend not to hear, but there’s just the beginning of a strange thrill shivering down my spine. I should be thinking, ‘Just make him go. Just make him go,’ but somehow the words won’t form in my head.

  Denny Adams pats the sofa seat again.

  ‘Come and sit by me, Marie.’

  His voice is soft, cajoling, and he’s smiling at me like he’s a friend.

  ‘C’mon, Marie. I won’t bite you.’

  He reaches out, takes my hand and pulls me down.

  So I sit there unprotesting while he gently unbuttons my blouse, lifts my skirt, slips down my knickers.

  Why do I let him? Why do I let strange curiosity close my mouth and cloud my brain?

  Thinking this makes me sound like some sort of goody-goody seduced by a predator but it’s not like that. I’m not innocent – okay, I’ve not gone the whole way before, but I know men look at me; I know what’s in their minds; I know what Mam does to make a living. I’ve had to avoid the odd drunken lurch towards me, the ‘My yer a pretty young thing, Marie.’

  But like I said, I’m no goody-goody and I’ve shared hot wet kisses in the back seats of the Odeon, fumbled at love in dark doorways, and discovered those touches for relief.

  And now with Denny Adams it’s the time, the time for me.

  So there’s a young girl on the sofa and this youth with her has kicked off his pointed shoes. His pale-blue jeans are down to his knees and the young girl is trembling under his body. She is staring to the ceiling and her eyes are blank, uncomprehending, like she isn’t here. Like she’s looking into somewhere else. Like she’s in another world.

  The hands on the clock have ticked by less than ten minutes before he stands, pulls up his underpants, buckles his belt, as the young blonde girl lies with her legs splayed out on the sofa.

  ‘We better keep this quiet,’ he says. Then he adds, laughing, ‘Tell your Mam I’ll be calling to collect what she owes me.’

  The girl doesn’t say anything, just carries on staring at the ceiling.