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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Stan was holding Pete up after he’d taken a drunken tumble. He’d cut his face on a paving stone. Pete had lost his key and Stan didn’t have one. Nor did he want one.

  Shell was horrified. She touched Pete’s cheek with her fingertips and put her arm around him. ‘What the fuck’s happened? Come in and let your old mum get you a cuppa and patch you up.’

  Stan stared at his mother with contempt. He always felt she looked like a vulture with badly dyed feathers. Her hair was grey with some brown streaks and she had a nose like a beak. When he thought about her – which he did as little as possible – he always imagined her perched on a lamppost waiting to descend on a victim, wings flapping.

  She led Pete inside, fussing sympathetically all the way. Stan was left on the doorstep. But that was kind of right. He’d been left standing on the doorstep of this house since he’d been old enough to walk. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He was not going to be provoked.

  He followed them into the front room. The house was a total tip as usual. Unwashed dishes on the corner table, monkey-nut shells littering the floor, a Guinness and cider bottle perched by his mum’s armchair. On the black and white telly, Mrs Slocombe was talking about her pussy on Are You Being Served? Shell fussed over Pete, who lay on the sofa clutching his cheek. She turned on Stan, her bloodshot eyes spitting fire. ‘Was this you? Well, was it?’

  His brother’s voice was faint. ‘No, Mum, don’t blame Stan. He started a fight down the boozer and I had to step in and help out. It weren’t his fault.’

  Their mum’s face contorted with fury. ‘You had to step in? You should leave the little ponce to fight his own wars. Look at him – not a mark on him. I suppose he ran off while you did battle?’

  Stan stiffened and unconsciously rubbed his half-finger.

  ‘It weren’t his fault,’ Pete insisted.

  ‘Likely story. Stop sticking up for the little bastard. That’s your problem; you’re always sticking up for him.’

  Stan rubbed his face in frustration. But he refused to be baited and asked, with mock sweetness, ‘You alright, Gladys?’

  His mum’s real name was Sheila – most folk called her Shell – but Stan always called her Gladys because that’s what she was, a right Gladys. He never called her ‘Mum’. She’d lost the right to be called that a long time ago.

  ‘Mind your own soddin’ business,’ she snapped back.

  ‘That’s good then. Glad to hear you’re coping.’

  From across the room a voice chirped. ‘Fuck off, son! Fuck off!’

  Stan turned with a big smile to mum’s mynah bird, on its perch in a cage. The bird squawked its welcome for a second time. ‘Fuck off, son! Fuck off!’

  Stan poked his half-finger through the bars. His voice softened as he whispered, ‘Hello, Charlie, how are you, mate?’

  The bird looked at his finger but decided not to peck it. ‘Fuck off, son! Fuck off!’

  Stan reached into his pocket. ‘Ere, look, I’ve got you something.’ He produced a piece of cuttlefish, which he pushed through the bars. ‘There you go.’

  His mum noticed. ‘What are you giving my Charlie?’

  ‘It’s a present.’

  She reared away, outraged. ‘A present? You never bring your own mother presents. Some fucking son you are.’

  ‘That’s because Charlie’s the only person in this house you can have a sensible conversation with.’

  Stan loved the bird. Charlie might have been trapped in his cage but he’d kept his self-respect. Whenever his mum had visitors she would gather them around her mynah and demand, ‘Go on, Charlie! Say something! Say something! Pretty Polly! Pretty Polly!’ But the bird would sit with its beak shut and look at her with an expression that said, ‘Why don’t you say something instead, you silly cow? I’m not a circus act.’ Charlie only talked when he felt like it.

  Stan noticed something and let rip at his mum. ‘Why don’t you ever change Charlie’s drinking tray? I’ve seen water in the Royal Docks that looks healthier than this.’

  She huffed, ‘What am I? A fucking zookeeper? He’s not complaining.’

  ‘Of course he’s not complaining, he’s a bird, you stupid woman.’ Stan fetched the tray out. He walked into the kitchen, emptied it into a sink stacked high with washing up and carefully scrubbed it clean. He deliberately avoided looking at the block in the garden that most people mistook for a shed, but which was in fact their old outdoor toilet. His mum had a working indoor lav but she kept the one outside because it reminded him of the horrors of his childhood. The malicious old bat.

  Stan shook off the past and filled the tray up. As he put it back, he said, ‘Ere you go, Charlie – have a drink on me.’

  There was a mallet under the cage. He picked it up and held it until his knuckles turned white. It had been his mum’s favourite instrument of torture. More than once he’d been chased up the street with it when he’d upset her for some minor reason. Even their dad had thought that was going too far. His preferred weapons were his fists and boots but at least he’d dished out batterings to both sons. With Gladys, it was only him. Pete was her little mummy’s boy. And he’d been her little mummy’s boy ever since.

  Stan put the mallet down and turned around to face the less interesting animals in the room. He was glad his old man was dead. It was one less useless git to worry about.

  Pete was drifting away. His eyes were closed and the first pig-like noises were beginning as he began to snore. The plaster their mum had stuck to his face was already coming away.

  He grabbed Pete by the scruff of his neck and shook him. ‘Wakey-wakey, bruv. Me and you still need to have that serious chat.’

  Pete opened his eyes and gave his brother a long stare, before closing them again.

  Stan shook him again. ‘Oi! I mean it!’

  Mumbling, muttering and whinging, Pete began struggling upwards. ‘Nag, nag, nag, you’re just like my fucking wife—’

  ‘You ain’t got a wife, you prick. There are plenty of thick birds around here but none of them are thick enough to marry a soak like you.’

  ‘Moan, moan, moan . . .’

  Their mum was horrified to see her patient disturbed when she came back in the room. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Leave him alone, he needs to rest.’

  Stan could feel his blood boiling. ‘Rest? All he ever does is get pissed and rest, fight and feel sorry for himself. Now piss off. I want a word with Pete in private.’

  ‘Anything you’ve got to say to your brother, you can say in front of me.’

  Stan frogmarched his brother to the back room, slammed the door and pushed a chair in front of it so their mother couldn’t get in, although he knew she’d be earwigging outside. He parked Pete at the table and said in quiet, clipped tones, ‘Listen, I’m going to cut the crap because I want out of here as fast as possible. There are two things I’ve got to say and they’re not up for discussion. Number one, the sauce has got to stop.’

  Pete looked at his brother in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about. I like a drink, so what? It’s not like I’m an alkie or anything.’

  For Stan, his brother’s denial was proof enough that he was. ‘Pete, you’re making a total tit of your life. And it’s affecting my business, alright?’

  His tone seemed to be sobering Pete up. The wound on his face began to glow red. ‘I know I ought to stop,’ he admitted. ‘I’m trying, I really am. But you don’t know what it’s like. It’s hard. I only mean to have the one and then one thing leads to another and I’m all over the shop and things get out of hand. I know it’s wrong, I know it’s wrong . . .’

  Pete was in tears now. Stan’s heart nearly broke at seeing his brother in such a mess. Where had the knight in shining armour from his childhood gone?

  Stan spoke more softly this time. ‘The second thing is, I might need to arrange for someone important to come down to the knocking shop and I need you to do the usual special for me. If it’s a g
oer, I’ll give you a bell with the details.’ Abruptly he grabbed his brother and pulled him up so they were face to face. ‘This particular job is very important to me, so don’t muck it up. If you do, I’ll rip your fucking arms off.’

  His brother’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got a short memory. When our dad was ripping your arms off, you were grateful to me when I took him on. When I put a stop to it for good, you swore undying devotion.’

  Stan loosened his grip but his face was still like flint. ‘I know. And I love you, Pete. If I didn’t – mark my words – I’d have cut you off ages ago.’

  The brothers stared hard at each other, remembering the violence that had created the bond between them.

  Stan let Pete go. ‘If the special happens, don’t fuck it up.’

  Pete nodded. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort it. There’s a girl down there called Cleo. She always helps me and of course you know Daffy—’

  Stan brought him up short. ‘How many times have I told you I don’t want to know about Mickey’s sleazy empire? He’s got his side of the biz and I’ve got mine and never the twain shall meet.’

  And that was true, except for the little wrinkle he and Pete had cooked up behind thicko Mickey’s back. There were reasons he kept well back from Mickey’s other dealings. Partly, it was common sense to keep the two things separate, in case the coppers got involved. Stan wasn’t going to get banged up; he was very sure about that. Plus, his only interest in Mickey’s side of their world was the profits he could invest in his business.

  But Stan was unable to resist asking, ‘Is this Cleo alright?’

  Pete’s red face transformed into a sparkling smile. ‘She’s a stunning black bird. She’s smart, she knows what to do and how to keep her gob shut.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure.’

  As Stan knew only too well, smart people are at a premium in life. He made a mental note of the name Cleo.

  As he rose, Pete said, ‘I love you too, bruv.’

  Stan nodded and made his way back to the sitting room. The telly wheezed and cut off as he entered. The TV was a rental and would only work with fifty pence coins popped into the money box on the back.

  His mum groused, ‘After all I’ve done for you, you can’t buy your old girl a proper telly. The shame of it.’ She turned to the door and yelled, ‘Pete, the telly needs a ten-bob bit.’

  Stan smiled. She knew better than to ask him. If she was waiting for him to buy her a TV set she’d be waiting for the rest of her miserable life.

  ‘See ya later, Charlie!’ he called warmly as he left.

  The mynah bird hopped down off its perch and peered out of its cage.

  ‘Fuck off, son! Fuck off!’

  Thirteen

  ‘Babs, you still haven’t brought this so-called fiancé home to see us,’ Rosie Wilson reminded her daughter.

  It was a month later. They were out shopping in Whitechapel market for a few bits and pieces for the coming baby. Babs’ belly was starting to show.

  ‘Ain’t that pretty,’ Babs replied, picking up a stuffed elephant and trying her hardest to steer the conversation away from the non-existent fiancé.

  But Rosie Wilson wasn’t that stupid. She snatched the toy and put it back with the other knick-knacks on the stall. She made her daughter face her. ‘Some man left a baby in your belly and we, as respectable and God-fearing parents, have the right to meet him. Now, if he’s chucked you—’

  ‘No way, Mum,’ Babs jumped in quickly. Her mum and dad finding out that was exactly what had happened was too shameful for her to deal with. She knew they were going to find out sooner or later, but she preferred it to be later. Much later.

  ‘So, when’s he going to show his face?’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll see if he can come over on Sunday for dinner.’

  Now she’d gone and done it! Somehow, Babs had to get her hands on a ‘fiancé’ to bring home to meet her parents.

  Daffy left the world of the brothel behind as she went out via the back door to see the man who was her closely guarded secret. She’d known so many men in her life, some of them leaving scars she would carry around forever, but this man was different. Just thinking about him turned her usually pinched features into a face brimming with pleasure. And what pleasure she would have when they met. She couldn’t wait.

  She caught the bus from Mile End Road, got off at Aldgate East station and took the rest of the short journey by foot. Daffy entered an alleyway and pushed past the bin bags until she reached a rusty back door. She walked into a warm workroom.

  Her face lit up as the sight of her secret man puffing away at his pipe.

  ‘I’m here,’ she called out.

  ‘Get your kit off then,’ said a grinning George Wilson.

  Daffy sent him a quick smile before she took off her dress and put on the overall he always laid out. Then she settled at the sewing machine he’d set up for her and got to work. Most people would roar their heads off if they learned that iron-fisted, knocking-shop keeper Dorothy Sure’s only dream was to one day have her own boutique up West. She’d thought the fantasy would be forever out of her reach until the fateful night she’d met George. That night was so horrible she made herself not remember it. The only shining light had been George. He’d saved her life and she would never forget that. That gentlemen like him still existed remained a wonder to her. When she’d confessed her dream he’d pulled out all the stops to help her.

  Now she sensed there was something troubling him. ‘What’s on your mind?’ she asked.

  His shoulders sagged. ‘My girl has only gone and got herself in the club.’

  This was where most women would shake their heads sadly, but Daffy knew all about the casualties of real life. ‘It happens. It ain’t the end of the world.’

  ‘But me and the missus think she’s stringing us along about having a fella. I think some bloke has left her high and dry.’

  Daffy perched on the table next to him. ‘I’ve been there and it ain’t a good feeling. If that’s what’s happened, you and your wife need to give her double the amount of love to make up for it.’

  He looked so sad it hurt her heart. ‘But I had such high hopes for her—’

  ‘It’s wrong to live your life through your kids. All you can do is support her on her own path.’

  He huffed and got to his feet. ‘Right, let’s see how you’ve got on.’ They went over to check over the blouse she was making. George set her tasks like a teacher, his way of helping her learn the trade.

  He pulled the blouse high. ‘Sleeves good. Collar alright. But this stitching here is as wonky as the road my daughter’s found herself on.’

  ‘I’m trying my best here.’ Her face came over all dreamy. ‘You know what I’m going to call myself when I get my shop? Something that sounds all posh and French. Madam Dominique, that’s who I’m going to be. I want a clean break with my past.’

  She laid her hand gently on his arm. ‘Whatever your girl’s done, you can help her find a blinding future.’

  Babs bit the inside of her cheek anxiously. She needed to find the right moment to talk Stan into posing as her fiancé. She was at her desk sorting through some invoices, but her mind wasn’t on the job. Babs desperately tried to find the right words to persuade him.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a fix . . .’ No, that made her sound like she was really down on her luck.

  ‘Stan, you’ve got to do me an all-time favour . . .’ No, that sounded like she was telling him what to do.

  Babs stood up in frustration. Going over and over it was royally winding her up. The best thing to do was just say what she needed to say and leave the rest up to him. Courage renewed, Babs walked briskly to Stan’s office door, knocked and opened it without waiting for his response. She went into the room and ran straight into his chest.

  His hands were around her in no time to steady them both. Babs inhaled sharply at the feel of his flesh against her skin. It was like an electric bolt jolting through her,
making her feel all sexy and warm. Stan made her feel all sexy and warm.

  Shocked to her socks, Babs glanced up to find Stan staring intently down at her. His hands tightened ever so slightly.

  Flustered, Babs wiggled away from him and tried to get some control back.

  Stan coughed nervously and then popped on his trademark charming grin. ‘Something up about those invoices?’

  Get on with it, girl! ‘Can I ask a favour? Quite a big one, actually.’

  Stan headed back to his desk. ‘Sure, what is it?’

  Babs nervously twisted her teeth into her bottom lip. ‘It’s a little bit delicate.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that – delicate’s my middle name.’

  She swallowed. ‘The thing is, my mum and dad have been going on at me to meet the fiancé I keep talking about. But you know the problem there – I ain’t got one. So I was wondering . . .’ Babs drew out the last word, ‘. . . if you’re not busy on Sunday, if you could—’

  ‘What? Come over and do a Mike Yarwood as your fella?’

  Babs would’ve normally chuckled at him comparing himself to the famous impressionist, but this situation was too serious. ‘Exactly.’

  Stan pulled a face. ‘But I ain’t black.’

  ‘They don’t know about my kid’s colour at the moment, so it’ll all fit.’

  Stan tutted as he linked his fingers together. ‘Babs, you’re gonna have to spill the beans or it’s going to end badly. Very badly.’

  Babs’ mouth went dry again. ‘I can’t deal with that now. I do have to – I know – but just not now. So, will you do it?’

  Stan looked deeply into her eyes. ‘I’d do anything for you, Babs. Anything.’

  Babs expected him to start laughing or wink, turning his words into a joke. But he kept on staring at her as if she didn’t have another man’s baby growing in her belly. It hurt, really hurt, that she wasn’t free to be with an upstanding man like Stanley Miller.