Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s a girl called Cleo up there who knows how to handle Pete. She keeps him out of mischief. It’s all sweet.’

  Mel pulled down the vanity mirror and began touching up her pale-peach lipstick. ‘Sweet? The cretin’s a menace. Pete’s got to go before he gets us all into some major league bovver.’ She knew Mickey was fed up, but the fact he wasn’t doing as he was told only goaded her more.

  ‘What am I meant to do?’ he fumed. ‘I’ve just told you, he can’t boot Pete out of the business. It’d be like me telling you to sling your hook. Anyhow, he knows he’s gotta sort Pete out. Drag him onto the wagon if he has to.’

  Mel huffed, not convinced one bit. ‘He won’t be sorting nuthin’ and that’s typical of the way he treats you – like he’s got you on a lead, yanking you every fucking which way he wants.’ Once Mel got started, she couldn’t stop. ‘Whose business was it to start with? Who put up the front money? You did. Then flash moosh comes along and starts chucking out orders. He’s swanning round the West End like Lord Clore while you’re down here with your sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in all the dirty work.’ When Mickey didn’t answer, she snapped, ‘Where’s your fucking self-respect? Do you even know what he’s up to in that office of his? Probably plotting to diddle you out of your own business, that’s what.’

  Mickey’s driving became more Jackie Stewart as he upped his speed, bending under the weight of Mel’s handbagging. She pressed on. She knew why her old man was getting the nark and why his defence of his partner was becoming so desperate. Mickey secretly feared that she was right and she was determined to keep beating him around his nut until he finally grew a pair and did something about it.

  ‘Please – give it a rest, will ya? I know what I’m doing. He’s got a good brain on him; you know he has. He takes care of the admin. I’m better at the practical side. It was the same when me and him were at school. He could do sums, I was good at woodwork. That’s how it is. It works.’

  Mel angrily shoved her lipstick back in her macrame purse. ‘Oh, he’s clever alright, I’ll give you that. He’s too fucking clever – that’s the problem.’ Her voice suddenly screeched, ‘Watch the fucking road!’

  Mickey pulled on the steering wheel, only just avoiding a lorry coming the other way. He slammed on his brakes and pulled over, shoving his finger in Mel’s sour face. ‘Pack it in! I’ve had it up to here with your moaning and nagging. Leave me to look after my business – you get on with preening yourself like a good wife should. I know my mate. We go way back, a lot further than you and me, and don’t you fucking forget it.’

  Mel almost went for him again but if she overdid it he might twig she was trying to jerk him around like a puppet.

  Instead she turned her voice all delicate and gently stroked his arm. ‘Right you are. You’ll speak to him about Pete?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll speak to him, OK?’

  She said nothing and he got the motor on the move again. She meant to keep it shut but was unable to resist softly twisting the knife. ‘You know what he’s up to, don’t you? Have you noticed how he never takes no interest in what you do? Bet he doesn’t chat to Pete about the knocking shop either. Your mate’s keeping his back turned on your side of the business for a reason. You mark my words, one day the Old Bill’s gonna kick in the door and he’s going to pretend it was sod all to do with him.’

  Mickey kept it schtum. He wasn’t arguing. Mel barely managed to keep her glee at bay. She’d nearly convinced the dopey sod that she was right. Months of hard work were paying off. It was just like chopping down a tree. Lots of hacking away and then one final blow and, Geronimo, over it went. Now all she had to figure out was how to get rid of Mickey’s toerag business partner once and for all.

  Six

  ‘I never realised I was in the family way,’ Babs blurted out, her face bright red, as she stared at Stan over her mouth-watering steak and chips in the Lilac Club. ‘Doctor McDaid told me I’m about four months gone already.’

  She hadn’t realised she had a bun well gone in the oven? Stan was constantly reading that trendy long-haired teachers were scrapping old-fashioned education and encouraging teenagers to get their leg over with anything that moved – and this kid didn’t realise she was expecting? And fancy being taken in by an obvious smoothie like Neville.

  ‘I weren’t on the pill but I borrowed some from a friend because old man McDaid won’t dish ’em out unless you’re married. Perhaps they didn’t work . . .’

  Stan nodded with sympathy. He’d known a girl who’d bled to death during a botched backstreet abortion because her quack wouldn’t give her the pills women’s libbers insisted all birds had the right to have.

  ‘And then when I asked McDaid if it was too late to get rid of it . . .’ Babs burst into tears again. That was all he needed, everyone thinking he’d made her turn the waterworks on. He had a rep around here as a man who got on with folk, especially the ladies. Stan quickly checked out the other diners, but they were too busy stuffing their faces. He took out his silk hanky and passed it to her. ‘Here you go, don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘He called me a murderer!’

  Stan nodded sagely. ‘Catholic, is he? That’s probably why; they’re like that. It’s all sin and sackcloth to them. Put it out of your mind, sweetheart.’

  When she’d finished her story, she looked at him as if he were a wise old man who could solve her problems with a few words. In fact, Stan had discovered he wasn’t that much older than her. She was nineteen to his twenty-five. But compared to her he really was a wise old man, and she was just another chump that the East End spat out like grape pips.

  He looked across at her as she waited expectantly to be told what to do. He took out his silver cigarette case and lit up. He offered one to her and her gaze caught his finger. Half of his index finger was gone. He hoped that she didn’t ask about it; he wasn’t in the mood to tell the story he‘d made up to hide the truth.

  She kept her mouth zipped, which he appreciated, and took a fag. Her fingers shook as he lit it and she coughed as he considered what to say next.

  He leaned across the table. ‘Look, Babs-babe – it happens. Girls like you are a dime a dozen. My mum was in the pudding club with my older brother when she was your age. Will your people get the nark? Maybe, maybe not – but they’ll get over it. Life goes on. Go down the council and get yourself a flat – they’re putting up some lovely new estates in the East End. Your family will fall into line. And then you’ll meet some nice fella and he’ll take the kid on and everything will be sweet.’

  Babs’ eyes widened. ‘But Neville’s coloured – and my mum and dad don’t like white people from south of the river, never mind coloureds. When they find out my kid’s half-caste, they’re gonna go fucking spare. And that’s after they’ve gone mental because I’m expecting.’

  Once again, she looked hopefully over at him. He shrugged and decided to tell it to her plain and straight. ‘Yeah, they probably will. You can’t blame them, can you? I know it’s 1972 and we’re all brothers under the skin these days and everything, but it’s a bit much. If I had a little girl and she got preggers by one of my coloured mates, I wouldn’t exactly be throwing a party would I?’

  Tears swam in her eyes again. He didn’t need her boo-hooing again, but he knew what it felt like to have your back pinned against the wall. He took her hand. The poor kid was shaking like a leaf. He decided to help her out. ‘Look – I know a woman who can solve the problem for you . . . She’s clean and discreet.’

  Babs shook her head. ‘I just told you . . .’ She looked down protectively at her tummy. ‘It’s too late now anyway.’

  ‘Get it adopted, then.’

  Babs looked back up at him with deeply troubled eyes. ‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

  ‘You’ve got no choice, girl,’ he insisted. ‘Go home and spill the beans. Take the grief and work your way through it. I’m a businessman, I know about these things. Sometimes life
deals you a duff hand and when you can’t walk away from the table, you just have to play it out and take a hit. That’s how life is.’

  ‘They’ll chuck me out onto the streets. I’ve got no job; I’ve got no eff-off money. That’s too much of a hit for me.’

  Stan was starting to like this girl. Under all that weeping and wailing he sensed guts and determination. And that’s when the spark of a plan started lighting up in his head. His dragon of a mum had taught him a number of rules – mostly with the back of her hand – to help him get on in life. One of which was never show kindness to strangers.

  ‘They take advantage of you, son, they take liberties – show anyone your neck and they’ll bite it, you mark my words.’

  Even as a nipper, Stan had his doubts. If his mum knew the rules of life so well, why were they shacked up with the rats in a tenement in Bethnal Green? Why did she send him out to steal veg from market stalls? Why did he have to rummage through dustbins outside sweatshops to find offcuts of leather to stuff inside his shoes?

  As Stanley had discovered, his witch of a mum was arse about face, as usual. Acts of kindness to strangers meant you could take advantage of them, not the other way around. It meant they owed you. And anyway, he was a nice bloke, a cheeky chappie, an East Ender. He prided himself on it. But he’d found combining being a nice bloke with a little wrinkle worked well.

  Stan seized the moment. ‘I might be able to sort you out there. My modelling agency has a position available and I need a good girl to fill it. And I can see you’re a good girl, despite your situation. How would you like to come and work for me? That old slapper you got in a barney with is only a temp. I’m looking for someone permanent, with a decent head on her shoulders. It’s good money, the work’s easy and if you need time off for the quacks and that, I can help you out.’

  Stan had formed the impression that this girl already trusted him completely. But the look on her face suggested otherwise. ‘A modelling agency in Soho? I don’t know about that . . .’

  Oh, Stan thought grimly – she’s not that dozy. Still, he didn’t need someone with half a brain working for him. He sent her a blinding smile that seemed to make her blush down to the bump in her belly. ‘I’ll level with you; I can see you’re not a div. I run a completely respectable modelling agency. It’s all fashion work for magazines. We don’t do none of that porn or nude rubbish. My girls are well looked after and I run a tight ship. Would I rather be based in the Kings Road or Kensington? Of course I would, but I’m not some mug. I won’t pay silly rents or drive a Roller round and then go bust in six months, like some of my competitors. In my line of work, you have to be in a showbiz area and Soho still counts as showbiz. I have to do deals with a few dodgy sorts, but that don’t make me a crook.’

  His voice turned to steel. ‘But I’ll tell you this. In five years’ time, I’m gonna be living it up in one of those big offices in Mayfair and flying Mick Jagger and Jackie Onassis out to my island in the Caribbean for holidays. If you want to be part of that, I’d be delighted to have you on board. I think you’ll fit right in.’

  ‘Mick Jagger? Jackie O?’ Babs let out a quivering breath. From the light in her eyes and the way she was clutching his hand, she was buying into it. ‘Alright then, you’ve got yourself a new receptionist.’

  They sealed the deal with a handshake and a grin. It was the first time he’d seen her smile and he had to admit she wasn’t a bad-looking sort.

  Outside, Stan gave her a peck on the cheek and told her to report for duty at nine on Monday morning. He advised her to tell her folks about her kid and not hold anything back. Then he went to his office. Bev was long gone, so he took a seat at her desk, put his feet up and lit one of his Turkish fags. He rang his receptionist at home and told her he was absolutely disgusted that she’d attacked a pregnant teenager, in his office of all places. She was given her cards with immediate effect. When he put the phone down, Stanley Miller had a well pleased smile on his face. He didn’t need that old slapper any more. He had Babs instead.

  Seven

  When Babs left Soho, she was riding high, feeling confident. Stan was right. So she was expecting. So what? It happens. So the kid’s dad wasn’t white. Who cares? It happened. Everyone would get over it eventually. Her mum and dad wouldn’t like it but Babs was their only kid and they loved her to bits. When they started seeing straight again, they’d be on her side.

  But when she emerged into the early evening darkness outside Whitechapel tube and began to trek home, through the leftover rubbish from the street market, Soho and Stanley Miller seemed a long way off. Babs was a bundle of nerves.

  At her house, she decided she would have to tell her parents whatever happened, so it might as well be now. But as she turned the key in the lock, she decided tonight wasn’t the night. She was totally done in and couldn’t face the grief. Tomorrow was another day. Or maybe after she’d told them she had a bang-up job – although not that it was in Soho. Her dad would hit the roof at that. She’d definitely mention the colour thing later, after they got used to the idea of having a grandkid about the place.

  But as she crept into the hallway, she knew something was up. The lights were on but there was no noise, no TV, no radio playing. The house was in complete silence, as if someone had died.

  ‘Babs? Get in here.’

  It was her mum, summoning her in a frozen tone. Babs very nearly fled back into the street but her mother appeared in the hallway, arms folded. One look at Rosie Wilson’s stern face told her there was trouble brewing. Her mother marched her into the sitting room like a prisoner.

  The room was clean and smelt fresh from the flowers on the table in the corner, which Rosie got every week from Columbia Road Market up Bethnal Green way. Rosie prided herself on keeping a spotless and respectable home. They were lucky to be renting this cosy Victorian house from the council when so many had been condemned and bulldozed down, their residents now living in new estates and – some would make the sign of the cross next – those homes in the sky.

  Babs spotted her dad. George Wilson was a decade older than his wife and looked it. The years spent working his fingers to the bone as a tailor until he made it to foreman had weathered his skin and taken a toll on his hair. He sat bolt upright in his armchair near the blazing coal fire, his wire-rimmed spectacles pushed high on his nose, looking like a judge. Babs realised she was about to be tried, although she didn’t know what for. She crossed the fingers of her free hand behind her back, praying that this didn’t have anything to do with her very delicate situation.

  Her mother led the interrogation. ‘Where you been all day, young lady?’

  Babs nearly wept with relief. Was that all? ‘Out.’

  ‘Yes, I know that – where?’

  ‘Just out ... you know.’ When her mother’s stare remained stony, Babs added, ‘With Denny.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ her mum snapped. ‘Funny thing is, your mate was up here earlier looking for you.’

  Babs avoided her mother’s eyes. ‘I’m not a kid, I’m allowed out on my own.’

  ‘Yes, we know that.’

  After another silence, Babs begged, ‘Is that it then?’

  Her mother drew closer. ‘Not quite. Are you ill?’

  Babs felt the ground giving way beneath her feet. She desperately wanted to sit down. ‘No. Why?’ Technically, that was true; being up the duff wasn’t the same as being sick.

  Her mother was only inches from her now. ‘Only I ran into that evil old bitch Mrs Jackson earlier. She seemed to think she saw you down McDaid’s surgery this morning.’

  Babs desperately tried to cling on to the life she had, which was disappearing before her eyes. ‘Well, she’s fibbing outta her hairnet and you know it.’

  Her mother pressed on. ‘Perhaps. But it’s difficult to see why she’d lie about that. She had something else to say. She said you had a slanging match with the doctor. Would you like to tell us what that was about?’

  Babs tried hard to think of
an explanation but she had nothing left in the tank. ‘Alright, I was down there, but I weren’t shooting my mouth off.’ Technically true again; that old fart had been the one blowing a blood vessel.

  ‘No row?’

  ‘No.’

  Her mother sighed. ‘OK, then. Fair enough. It wouldn’t be the first time Dirty Laundry Jackson’s poured acid in other people’s drinking water.’ For a few moments, Babs thought she’d survived. But then her mother added, ‘But I’ll find out tomorrow. I’ve got to go and get a prescription, so I’ll have a word with old McDaid myself. See what his version is.’

  Babs was horrified. ‘You can’t do that. It’s private.’

  Rosie folded her arms. ‘You’re my daughter. I’ve got a right to know.’ Babs sank down onto the sofa while her mum choked out, ‘You’re in the family way, ain’t you?’

  Babs had no tears left She saw the bitter disappointment in her mum’s eyes and looked away because it hurt.

  Her dad spoke for the first time. ‘Oh, Babs, we thought you were better than that.’ But he didn’t sound angry; just disappointed and resigned. Her dad had been through the Blitz; it was going to take something bigger than finding out she’d got herself into trouble to make him fly off the handle.

  Her mum wasn’t finished though. ‘So who’s the father?’

  Crikey O’Reilly! No way on this earth could she tell them about Nev. Not yet, anyway. So Babs told them about someone else. ‘My fiancé. He owns a business in the West End and he’s very ambitious. He’s planning a move to Mayfair.’

  Her mum was unconvinced. ‘Is that so? She walks out of the house this morning a carefree nineteen-year-old and comes home with a bellyful and a fiancé who’s moving to Mayfair. Well, la-di-da.’

  Her dad snapped, ‘Alright, that’s enough, Rosie luv. Don’t bully the girl. She’s carrying our grandchild.’

  Babs was the apple of George Wilson’s eye. He and Rosie had given up on ever having a kid after the terrible miscarriage Rosie had had. They’d given up hope and then, like a golden penny, their Barbara had come along. And what a beautiful baby she’d been.