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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Stan married to a posh bit like that,’ Babs scoffed. ‘No effing way.’

  Confidence bolstered, she waited for the door to open. The woman Babs had seen the previous day looked down at her.

  Even in her workaday clothes, you could see her hourglass figure. Even without make-up and with a kerchief wrapped around her barnet, you could tell she was a stunner. Babs, who already hated this woman, hated her even more.

  ‘Yes? Can I help?’

  Well, could she? Richard Smith had insisted this tart was married to her husband, but Babs didn’t believe it. In spite of all the evidence, she couldn’t believe it. She had to see for herself. But now she could think of nothing to say.

  The woman repeated, ‘Can I help?’

  An idea occurred. ‘I . . . I used to live in this house when I was a little girl. As I was passing, I couldn’t resist . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mrs Posh looked doubtful. ‘I suppose you’re hoping to have a little walk down memory lane?’

  If this was the East End, the woman would’ve assumed it was a scam and slammed the door in her face. But Babs was hoping her good manners would get the better of her. She begged, ‘If I could have a little peek at the old place, it would help me so, Ma’am.’ She wasn’t quite sure why she sounded like Oliver Twist but it seemed to work.

  ‘It’s a little inconvenient; I’ve got workmen in but . . .’ Babs tried to look like her kids when they wanted sweets. Mrs Posh smiled. ‘Oh very well, just for five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, thanks!’

  When she was through the door, Babs began scanning the place for evidence that Stan had just been paying a visit.

  ‘My name’s Clare – and yours?’

  ‘Er – Karen.’

  ‘OK, Karen. Could you wait in the hall a minute? I’ve just got to put my builders straight on a few things.’

  Babs studied the hall. She could see no sign of Stan. None of his hats or coats on the rack. None of his shoes lying around. Her hopes rose. Meanwhile, Clare was in a fair old ding-dong with her builder. He was telling her, ‘What you want’s a bit tricky, luv. And it’s going to cost a fair bit of poke.’

  Clare obviously resented the suggestion that money might be an issue. ‘Don’t worry about the poke and don’t call me love either, I’m not a bus conductress. Just give me a quote and don’t roll me over. My husband’s in the business and he’ll be having a look at it.’

  Her husband was in the business? Babs’ heart sank again.

  Clare came back and led Babs into her main room. ‘Do you remember this? It was probably something else in your day.’

  The room was clearly Clare’s pride and joy. Wooden floors and panels with original fittings and furniture. Even the paint looked like it was sourced from the sort of company that provided original colours. She explained, ‘It’s all completely authentic!’

  But Babs wasn’t interested in how it had been tarted up. Her eyes roamed over the mantelpiece and furniture for any sign of him. There wasn’t any. She couldn’t believe her old man would actually sit and watch telly here. It looked like an expensive hotel. Stan might have his airs but he was a meat-and-two-veg guy, not the sort of ponce who would feel comfortable in a room like this.

  Babs said, ‘It’s so beautiful. Been here long?’

  ‘About two years, since my husband and I got married.’ Clare beamed. ‘It was a complete wreck then so we’ve had to do a fair bit of work but my husband is in property. He’d had his eye on the house for quite a while. Islington might have been a dump but it’s getting back on its feet now.’ She quickly added, ‘No disrespect obviously, I’m sure the people were very nice in your day too.’

  There was no sign of Stan in the dining room either. Babs’ hopes began to climb. ‘Is your husband from Islington?’

  ‘No, he’s from the east side of town.’ She grinned. ‘Bit of a barrow boy made good, if we’re being honest. But no one cares where you’re from these days, do they? Apart from my snob of a mother; but she’d have thought Prince Charles was beneath me.’

  Babs closed her eyes briefly. Why couldn’t this dopey bint have said her old man was from Scotland? Or anywhere but the East End? ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Clare was curt. Babs wondered if she was pushing her luck. Clare folded her arms in a way that was clearly meant to suggest Babs’ visit was over. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’

  ‘Oh – could I have a little peek upstairs? That’s where my family lived, on the second floor. The house was divided into flats.’

  Babs could see how uncomfortable her host was but she had to find the truth. The bedroom was the best place.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  As they went up the stairs, Babs asked, ‘So how did you meet your husband?’

  She knew this was starting to sound like an interrogation and the answer was short. ‘Oh, you know, just socially.’

  Babs headed for the first room she saw. It was a nursery with a small baby lying in a cot. Babs knew how creepy she seemed but she couldn’t stop herself. Clare was right at her shoulder, obviously anxious for her to go. But her good manners won out.

  ‘And this is Florence. We call her Flo. Actually, I think it’s time for her feed.’

  Babs wasn’t listening. She stared and stared at the little girl. The baby wasn’t that much younger than her Tiff.

  Clare had had enough. ‘I hope this visit has helped bring back a few memories but I really need to be getting on.’

  Babs awoke from her trance. ‘Sure. I’ll just have a quick look at my old room.’

  She darted out of the nursery and rushed down the landing to a large bedroom. An uncomfortable Clare looked as if she was planning to throw Babs out. ‘Karen, I don’t want to be rude but I’m going to have to ask you . . . Karen?’

  She rushed after Babs. ‘Are you alright? Are you crying?’

  The tears were flowing down Babs’ face, in muffled sobs that soon broke into shrieks. She was holding a wedding picture showing Clare in a beautiful and obviously very expensive bridal gown. Her arm was linked through her husband’s, Stanley Miller, wearing an equally expensive suit, with a pink carnation in his buttonhole.

  Clare jumped back, terrified, as Babs dropped the photo, fled the room, belted down the stairs out onto the street.

  Rage shook Babs’ body as she ran. I’ll fix you! You cunt! You wanker! And that fucking posh bitch with a stick up her arse! I should have decked the slag. And that wedding gown she was wearing . . . I was in a cheap Roman outfit for a five-bob wedding in a registry office, in some beige council building that looked like a prison. He’d had a kid – Flo, what kind of name was that? – the same age as Tiff, with someone else while hers were just this side of wearing rags. Fucking Stanley Miller. He’d had his last laugh at her expense. And the money he’d spent on that stuck-up slapper. That gown alone had cost more than he’d given her for clothes in six years. And what was much, much worse, far more than he’d ever provided for Jen and Tiffany.

  ‘I’ll give him Cornwall when I see him.’

  She heard a horn sound and a car pulled up. Richard Smith was at the wheel. ‘Do you believe me now?’

  Conscious of the tears staining her cheeks, Babs hurriedly wiped her face. He was the last person she wanted to see her in a state. ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘Been parked up since breakfast time, waiting for you to show.’

  She tried to keep a brake on her emotions. ‘OK. Well, you were right – well done. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s payback time for my lying scumbag of a husband.’

  He looked at her sadly. ‘Get in a minute, Babs. I want to talk to you.’

  She pulled open the passenger door and plonked herself down with her arms folded. He leaned over and kissed her. Babs tried not respond, but this man was offering her something warm and her blood was running so cold. She got deep into it.

  Richard pulled back at last. ‘No point getting mad, Babs. Get even. I’ve told you how you c
an do it – by helping me out.’

  She turned on him. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? People like me don’t help people like you. We don’t grass.’

  ‘He’s made a complete plonker out of you – a laughing stock – isn’t that enough for you?’

  Her mouth twisted. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve got something lined up to sort him out . . .’

  She went to climb out of the car but he grabbed her arm. ‘Er – about yesterday . . .’

  ‘Oh, fuck yesterday . . .’

  ‘Well, exactly, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  She pulled her arm away. ‘I ain’t got time, mate.’

  As she walked away, he called after her, ‘I’ll ring you later.’

  She looked back. ‘You’re a trier, Tricky Dickie, I’ll give you that. I ain’t grassing.’

  ‘I’m not talking about grassing. I’m worried about you. Please don’t do anything stupid.’

  But she was already gone.

  Fifty-Five

  Do anything stupid? Chance would be a fine thing; the bastard never came home. As she went to pick her children up from Cheryl’s, Babs devised ever more spiteful revenges. She considered trying the Maggie Brooks approach of having him beaten up. It would be a brave man who took on Stanley Miller, though. She considered beating him herself; she was angry enough. But she’d be lucky to land a blow before he shut her down. Making a scene in front of his clients? She’d have to find out where he worked first. Perhaps Richard had been right; grassing him up was the best option.

  But she wasn’t prepared to do that, now or ever.

  When the anger ebbed away, she was surprised to find what she really felt.

  Relief.

  For years, she’d struggled with what to do about Stan. He was no kind of husband and no kind of father. Yet, he was still her children’s dad. She didn’t feel she had the right to take them away from him. She didn’t want to have to account to them when they were older and asked about him. She’d struggled on, hoping things would get better. Perhaps it was selfish to expect him to be around every day helping out. Maybe the scrimping and saving would be worth it in the long run. Now, she could kick the bastard out with a clean conscience.

  Perhaps she even owed Clare for taking the little wanker on.

  When she got to Cheryl’s her problems got worse. Poor Jen was in a right two and eight. Her arm had started hurting again. When she’d got the girls home yesterday, Mummy had kissed it better and put a bandage on. She promised Jen that it would be fine in the morning. Instead it looked worse; swollen and painful. Babs put a silent curse on Shell Miller’s head for hitting her own grandchild. By rights she should go around there and make Shell think twice about whacking another kid. But the very thought of going near that loony bin sent chills through her.

  Cheryl looked worried. ‘You’ll have to take her down to the quacks.’ She tutted in sympathy as she stared at poor Jen. ‘She’s such a brave girl, aren’t you?’

  Babs knew she was right, but she dreaded going down to the doctor’s. As far as she was concerned, doctors meant death.

  But Jen was biting her lips so hard that Babs knew she didn’t have a choice.

  ‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, Mrs Miller,’ Dr Phillips informed her, ’but to be on the safe side we’ll run her down the hospital for an X-ray.’

  Babs swallowed, scared. ‘The ozzie? But you said it was nuthin’!’

  He looked at her as if she was an idiot. ‘No, I said I thought it was nothing but we’ll need an X-ray to be sure. It’s a perfectly safe procedure – hospitals do it every day. What happens is . . .’

  Babs cut him short. ‘I know what an X-ray is, I’m not missing a brain.’

  The quack was puzzled. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  Babs held Jen tight. ‘Nuthin’. There’s no problem.’

  She walked from the surgery at a grim pace and went to the bus stop. And walked right past it. She couldn’t take Jen to Mile End ozzie. The place was filled with a wagonload of sad memories. The thought of being in the place where Desiree had died nearly crippled her. She was terrified that if she took another one of her kids there they wouldn’t come out alive.

  Babs asked hopefully, ‘Is your arm still hurting? Is it feeling better?’

  ‘No Mummy, it’s worse.’

  Babs gazed over her shoulder and saw the number 25 bus in the distance. With a huge sigh, she headed back to the bus stop. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart; we’re taking you to the hospital.’

  At the entrance to the casualty wing of Mile End Hospital Babs couldn’t seem to put one foot in front of the other. In her head, all she could see was her darling Desiree in the special baby unit, her tiny chest moving slowly up and down. Then her chest stopping as her eyes shut forever. Oh God, she couldn’t do this.

  ‘Are you alright, luv?’ Babs snapped out of it to find a concerned nurse standing in front of her.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded weakly.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  It was Jen who answered, her lip trembling in pain. ‘Hurt my arm.’

  Before Babs could say anything, the nurse scooped Jen into her arms. ‘Right, let’s get you sorted out.’

  Then she was marching into the hospital. With a sick feeling, Babs followed. The nurse took charge and in a jiffy a doctor was seeing to Jen. He flatly refused to allow her to stay with Jen while she was X-rayed and Babs’ heart beat fast all the time her girl was out of sight. As soon as she came out, Babs gathered Jen up in her arms.

  The doctor pinned the X-ray up. ‘No bones broken, I’m happy to say, it’s just a nasty knock. No games or anything until the swelling goes down.’ He turned to Jen. ‘Will you do that for me?’

  Jen nodded, wide-eyed.

  Babs hurried down the corridor as fast as possible. She passed a staff nurse, who seemed to be staring at her. As Babs raced towards reception, the woman called out, ‘Miss Wilson?’

  When she turned, the woman was coming back down the corridor. ‘Babs Wilson, isn’t it?’

  Babs’ eyebrows creased. ‘It’s Babs Miller now. Do I know you?’

  The nurse was cheerful. ‘Of course it’s Miller, I remember your husband Sid . . . No, Stanley. You probably don’t remember. I was on the team that looked after your daughter. Desiree, right?’

  Babs felt like her heart had been pierced. And then she realised this sick bitch was smiling at her. ‘No. I don’t remember. I’m surprised you do.’

  Now the nurse was laughing at her. It was only her whirling head that stopped Babs from punching her out.

  ‘We don’t get many half-caste . . .’ the nurse corrected herself, ‘mixed-race babies in our unit. And it was quite a fight to keep her with us. She’s always stayed in my memory. There were plenty of times we thought we were losing her. But she was a fighter!’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘So how is Desiree? She must be at school by now.’

  Perhaps this dumb cow had been off the night they lost her baby and they hadn’t told her? Either that, or her memory wasn’t as good as she thought. Babs put Jen down. ‘She’s dead – didn’t you hear?’

  The nurse’s face dropped like a stone. ‘Dead? I’m so sorry. What happened?’

  Babs looked at her. She seemed honest enough. ‘She was too small, I suppose. Why don’t you ask your colleagues up in the maternity unit? They were the ones looking after her; I’m surprised they didn’t tell you.’

  The nurse’s eyes were misty. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  Babs felt the ground giving way under her feet. She looked up towards the floor where her baby had fought and lost her battle. ‘She died up there . . .’

  The nurse stepped back in shock. ‘Your daughter didn’t die, Mrs Miller.’ Babs stumbled backwards, the blood draining away from her face. ‘I remember the day your husband came to pick her up. We all formed a crowd and gave them a round of applause when they left. He said you were confined to bed
under doctor’s orders.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Miller, but if you don’t leave immediately we’ll have to call the police.’

  There was a crowd around the maternity ward’s reception. It included Babs, a howling Jen, several nurses, admin staff and a burly doctor who’d been summoned to offer support.

  ‘You’ll have to call the fucking army, love – I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened to my daughter.’

  The receptionist gritted her teeth. ‘As I say, we have procedures and we can’t—’

  ‘Fuck your procedures. Tell me what happened to my baby and I’ll go.’ Babs knew how she looked and was surprised at how calm she felt. She was on a mission.

  The receptionist looked at a colleague and mouthed, ‘Call the Old Bill . . .’

  A kindly-looking senior doctor appeared. ‘What’s the problem?’

  The receptionist explained. ‘This lady – a Mrs Babs Miller – wants some medical records. As I’ve told her, we can’t do that. She can’t even prove who she is.’

  Babs gestured at the nurse she’d met downstairs, who was standing anxiously in the background. ‘She knows who I am. And she knows who my baby was. Now get me my fucking records or I’ll fucking wreck the joint.’

  The doctor took Babs by the arm. ‘OK, Mrs Miller, I understand your distress. Why don’t you take a seat in my office? I’ll speak to my colleagues and we’ll see what we can arrange.’

  Babs’ nostrils flared. ‘You’re not going to fuck me about?’

  ‘I’m a doctor. We don’t – as you put it – fuck people about.’

  Babs sat in the office with Jen on her knee and waited. She kept up a constant stream of chat to stop herself thinking about what the nurse had said. That Stan had come here and taken Desiree home. They must’ve got her baby mixed up with someone else. She needed one of her Annies so bad she thought her mind was going.

  Twenty minutes later, the doctor returned with a file under his arm. ‘You’re Barbara Miller and your daughter was Desiree. Is that correct?’