Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  The rest of the service passed in a daze. The next thing she knew, Helen was standing in the churchyard, watching as they slowly lowered the coffin into the ground. Her gran was being buried in Grandad’s grave. Next to it was the resting place of Helen’s father, Alan Beck. She briefly shifted her gaze to look at the marble headstone. Had her father been a hero or a villain? She still wasn’t sure.

  As the strong morning sun beat down on them, Helen felt a prickling of sweat on her forehead. The black woollen dress was hot and itchy, and she had to fight against the impulse to scratch at her neck. The vicar dropped soil on top of the coffin. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It made an eerie smattering sound as it scattered on the wood. And then, too suddenly it seemed, the service was over and the mourners moved away from the grave.

  From the church, they all went back to Camberley Road, where there were plates of cold meat, sandwiches and cake laid out on the table in the living room. There was tea and orange juice to drink, as well as sherry for the women and whisky for the men. Helen noticed Tommy pouring himself a large one before going over to talk to Janet and Colin.

  Helen watched them surreptitiously, trying to work out if it was her future they were discussing. She was unable, however, to gauge much from their expressions and was standing too far away to hear the conversation. From time to time her surveillance was disrupted by someone coming up, gently patting her arm and murmuring words of condolence. She smiled feebly back, lost as always as to how to respond. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ was the best she could manage.

  After a few minutes, she decided to escape upstairs. There at least she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She went quickly up to her bedroom and closed the door with a sigh of relief. Sitting on the single bed, she pulled her knees up to her chin and looked around. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. Well, almost. There was a thin layer of dust on the bedside table, something that her grandmother would never have tolerated. Reaching out her hand, she ran a finger through it, creating a single clean stripe. She stared at her fingertip for a moment and then wiped the dust on the sleeve of her dress.

  Although the room was entirely familiar, Helen had the odd feeling of no longer belonging to it. It was hers and yet at the same time it wasn’t. But still it remained a place of sanctuary, if only a temporary one. Would Janet sell the house now, or would she move into it with Colin and the boys? Either way, Helen knew in her heart that this would be the last time she sat on this bed, the last time she looked towards the window that overlooked the garden. She said her goodbyes as solemnly as she had said goodbye to her grandmother.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there – half an hour, perhaps – when the door opened and Janet came in.

  ‘Oh, here you are,’ she said, her voice edged with irritation. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. I think your uncle’s ready to leave.’

  Helen climbed off the bed, her pulse starting to race. A part of her wanted to ask if a decision had been made about her future, but the other part was too scared of hearing the answer. She searched Janet’s face, but found no clues in it. But of course, by the very nature of this dismissal, it was obvious that she wasn’t going to be staying with the Simmses. Tommy was taking her away, but where was he taking her?

  She followed Janet silently down the stairs and into the living room. The mourners had thinned out, and those that still remained had largely migrated to the kitchen. Tommy, who was sitting in an armchair, stood up as she came into the room.

  ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.

  Helen gave a nod.

  Janet began walking towards the door, then suddenly stopped. Her voice, previously stern and matter-of-fact, softened a little. ‘If there’s anything you’d like to have, a keepsake or… you know, something to remind you of her…’

  Helen, startled by this unexpected offer, didn’t know what to choose. She looked wildly round the living room before glancing back at her aunt. She noticed Janet’s eyes flick warily towards the china cabinet, as if afraid that she might pick something valuable. But Helen wasn’t interested in the rows of figurines or the pieces of silver. Instead she pointed at a tiny black glass cat that she had bought for her grandmother’s birthday many years ago.

  ‘Could I have that?’

  Janet, looking relieved, opened the cabinet and took out the cat. ‘Do you want me to wrap it for you, put it in some tissue paper?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘It’s all right.’ She took the cat from her aunt’s hand and slipped it into her pocket. It was at that very moment that she looked towards the shelf on the far side of the room and noticed something else. ‘And could I… could I have the A to Z, please?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The road atlas,’ Helen said, indicating shyly towards the shelf.

  Janet seemed bemused by the request. ‘That old thing. Are you sure?’

  ‘If it’s okay,’ Helen said.

  Janet walked over and took it down. She stared briefly at the cover before handing it over. ‘It’s completely out of date,’ she said, as if Helen might be planning on using it for a tour of London.

  ‘Thank you.’ Helen hugged the old book tightly to her breast, knowing how often her grandfather had perused its contents. She could see him now, hunched over its pages, tracing out a route with his fingertip.

  ‘We all done?’ asked Tommy.

  The three of them walked to the front door, where there was the usual awkwardness of what to do next and how to say goodbye. Before it could become too strained, Janet solved the problem by leaning down and giving Helen one of her swift, uncomfortable hugs.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself.’

  Helen noticed that there was no Stay in touch or I’ll talk to you soon. This was it. The end of the road. Her aunt was effectively severing whatever fragile ties there might have remained between them. ‘I will.’

  ‘Bye then,’ said Tommy. He gave a quick wave, then laid a protective hand on Helen’s shoulder and ushered her along the drive.

  Helen climbed into the Cortina and sat back, still clutching the A to Z. Her heart had started to thump again. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to know what was happening. Before Tommy could start the engine, she asked in a quiet, slightly breathless voice, ‘Are we going to the Fox?’

  ‘Sure, where else would we go?’

  Helen glanced down at the floor and then up at him again. ‘Only I thought… What about Yvonne?’

  ‘What about her?’

  Helen wasn’t sure how to phrase it. She struggled with the words, turning them over in her head. In the end, she just came straight out and said it. ‘I thought she didn’t want me staying with you any more. I thought you were going to send me away.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Tommy said. ‘Why the hell would I do that? You’re family. You’ve got a home with us for as long as you want.’

  Helen gazed gratefully into his soft brown eyes. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said, his mouth breaking into a grin. ‘You’re a Quinn now, Mouse, so you’d better get used to the idea.’

  Helen smiled back at him, her body awash with relief. ‘A Quinn,’ she murmured. It sounded strange on her lips, but she’d get used to it. And in that moment, she made a mental promise: no matter what it took, whatever she had to do, she would never let him down. She would make him proud of her. She would be the very best Quinn that she could possibly be.

  PART THREE

  1974

  24

  As Helen collected the glasses from the table, she felt a familiar groping pressure on the back of her leg. Without even looking, she slapped the hand off her thigh with well-practised ease. Then she turned towards the owner of the offending paw, looked straight into his eyes, smiling sweetly, and said, ‘Do that again, honey, and you’ll be eating with a hook.’

  The man pulled a face, pretending to be shocked. ‘Aw, babe, I was only being friendly.’

  ‘Well, keep your hands to yourself or you can go and be frien
dly someplace else.’

  Helen moved away, unfazed by the exchange. He wasn’t the first lecherous customer who had tried it on with her, and he wouldn’t be the last. Although she didn’t welcome the attention, she was learning to deal with it. Over the past six months – during which time she had celebrated her fifteenth birthday, shot up several inches and developed some unexpected curves – men had suddenly started taking an interest in her. On the whole, this turn of events had proved more bemusing than flattering, but she was trying to take it in her stride.

  It was Friday lunchtime and the place was packed. Since Tommy had bought the Fox, he’d increased the takings tenfold, turning it into one of the most popular pubs in the East End. It was down to his skill as a landlord that the clientele, a curious mix of locals, toms, students, artists and villains, somehow managed to mix harmoniously with each other. He was able to make everyone feel welcome, never forgetting a face or a name and always willing to lend a sympathetic ear to any customer with a problem. There was rarely trouble, even during the regular lock-ins, when the booze flowed freely and inhibitions tended to be shed.

  As she placed the dirty glasses on the counter, Helen glanced in the mirror behind the bar. Whenever she caught her reflection these days, she was surprised by what she saw. Both her face and her body seemed to be changing faster than she could keep up with them. Her tomboy looks had gone, to be replaced by those of a young woman. She didn’t view herself as attractive – Debs and Karen were the pretty ones – but she was more or less satisfied with what she’d got. It had taken a long time, but she was finally beginning to feel comfortable in her own skin.

  To her left, Frank Meyer was perched on a stool, nursing a pint that Tommy had poured for him over half an hour ago. Helen caught his eye and smiled shyly.

  ‘That geezer giving you trouble?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to. Anyway, why aren’t you at school?’

  Helen swept back her long brown hair and gave a shrug. ‘It’s only PE this afternoon,’ she lied. ‘I may as well be here.’ In recent months, she had taken to bunking off more and more often. She hated school and would have left for good if the law had allowed her to. It was only here, in the Fox, that she didn’t feel the need to hide away and was able to be herself.

  ‘You’re a bright girl, Mouse. You could go a long way. You shouldn’t waste your opportunities.’

  Helen blushed, as she always did when he paid her any kind of compliment. She couldn’t say for sure when her crush on Frank Meyer had started. The feelings had crept up on her gradually, until they were as strong and powerful as her eleven-year-old yearnings for David Cassidy. She was realistic enough to know that he was too old for her, but that didn’t stop her heart from missing a beat every time she set eyes on him. ‘I’m not wasting them,’ she said.

  ‘You could do anything, go anywhere. You don’t want to be stuck in Kellston for the rest of your life.’

  Helen tilted her head, as if he might have a point, but the truth was that she did want to stay here. She had no desire to go anywhere else. Debs was working in a salon in the West End and Karen in a trendy boutique on the King’s Road. Although Helen envied them their freedom from the prison of school, she didn’t covet their jobs. She was happy here, working alongside Tommy. Before Frank could press her further on the subject of her future, she quickly changed the subject. ‘So how’s it going at the new flat? Have you settled in all right?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Frank said, with all the indifference of a man who didn’t really care where he lived.

  Helen knew that he travelled light, a fact that made her feel faintly anxious. Last month, when he’d moved out of Bethnal Green and into the second-floor apartment on Barley Road, she had gone along with Tommy to give a helping hand. It hadn’t taken long. There had been no furniture to shift – the new flat was already furnished – and there hadn’t been much else either, only his clothes, a small TV, a record player, a radio, some kitchen stuff and a few boxes of LPs and books. She had a constant nagging worry that one day he would decide to move on again, throw all his possessions in the back of his car and disappear for good.

  ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘Do you think you’ll stay there?’

  ‘It’ll do… for now.’

  The answer did little to allay Helen’s fears. ‘For now?’ she echoed faintly. The flat, which overlooked the Green, was light and spacious, with clean white walls. It was simply but smartly furnished, a very male space without any feminine frills.

  Frank took a sip of his beer and put the glass down on the counter. He didn’t answer her question, or maybe he simply hadn’t heard. It was noisy in the pub and the jukebox was playing. ‘If you got some qualifications, you could go to college.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ she said, disappointed to find the focus back on education again. ‘And you haven’t done so badly.’

  He gave a wry smile. ‘Depends on how you look at it.’

  Helen gazed briefly into his cool grey eyes. She’d known Frank for over four years, but she still didn’t really know anything about him. His private life – if he had one – was as much a mystery to her as it had been when they’d first met. Although she now understood Yvonne’s sly innuendoes about his sexuality, she didn’t want to believe them. It might be true that he didn’t ogle women, but he didn’t ogle men either.

  Frank finished his drink and stood up. ‘Right, I’d best be off.’

  ‘Are you coming back later?’ she asked, in what she hoped was a suitably casual tone.

  ‘Why? You missing me already?’

  Helen blushed furiously. ‘No, I just… I didn’t… I meant…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, laughing. ‘I was only kidding.’

  She inwardly cursed her lack of composure. How come she could deal with all the lecherous oafs that came in here, but dissolved into jelly the minute she was standing close to Frank Meyer? Fortunately, she was saved from any further embarrassment by Tommy placing two pints of lager on the counter.

  ‘Do us a favour will you, hun, and take these over to the old man.’

  Helen grabbed the glasses and made her escape as quickly as she could. She was halfway across the room, forging a path through the crowd, when she realised that she hadn’t even said goodbye to Frank. Looking back, she was just in time to see him open the door and walk out.

  ‘Eh, watch where you’re going or you’ll have it all over me!’

  Quickly, she turned to find herself staring into the sallow face of Pym, one of the older members of Joe Quinn’s entourage. He was a skinny, furtive kind of man who, even when he was speaking to you, was forever glancing over your shoulder as if afraid of missing something or someone more interesting. Although she wasn’t certain of his exact job description, she knew that his position was a lowly one. He prowled around Joe like a hungry mongrel begging for scraps from the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Clean on, this shirt was,’ he grumbled.

  The shirt, which had once been white, was now faded and worn. It was a greyish colour, like the ‘before’ example in the Daz washing powder advertisements. Although some of the lager had slopped out over her hand, not a drop so far as she could see had touched his shirt. ‘I don’t think any of it went on you.’

  Pym pursed his lips. ‘Not the point, though, is it? It might have done, and then where would I be? You ought to be more careful.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered again before stepping to one side and manoeuvring around him. But now that one unpleasant encounter was over, she had yet another to face. Joe Quinn was sitting at his usual corner table, puffing on a fag while he talked to his older son. Connor had come out of jail three weeks ago, and Helen was already wishing that they’d bang him up again. He was a chip off the old block in every way, with the same physical characteristics as his father and the same filthy temper. He was a nasty piece of work, with a split personality. Vicious one minute, nice as pie t
he next, you could never tell what mood you’d find in him.

  Helen placed the pints down on the table and tried to make a speedy escape, but Connor wasn’t having any of it. Never one to pass over the opportunity for a spot of niece-tormenting, he grabbed this one with enthusiasm.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said, staring at the glass. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Lager,’ she replied. ‘Tommy asked me to bring it over.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ he said, frowning at her. ‘But where’s the rest of it? Isn’t it supposed to be a pint?’

  Helen glanced down. There was no more than a quarter of an inch of the drink missing. She felt like saying that as he wasn’t paying for it anyway – he’d done nothing but freeload since he’d been released – he should be grateful for what he got. And it wasn’t as if he was even short of money. She didn’t know how much Tommy had given him for his share of the Fox, but it had been enough to buy the brand-new red Triumph Spitfire that was parked out back. ‘You want me to top it up for you?’ she said through gritted teeth.

  Connor sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Place has gone downhill since you owned it, Dad.’ He scowled up at Helen, his dark eyes full of contempt. ‘The staff are too busy chatting up their boyfriends to provide a decent service. Don’t you think he’s a bit old for you, love?’

  Helen stared back at him. ‘W-what?’ she stammered. Mortified that Connor had somehow worked out her feelings for Frank Meyer, she felt the blood burn into her cheeks again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I think I hit a nerve,’ Connor said, smirking. ‘You two going steady, then?’

  Joe slapped his palm on the table and laughed like a drain. ‘Going steady,’ he repeated. ‘That’s a good one!’ Then, as quickly as he had started laughing, he stopped. Looking Helen up and down, he gave a sneer. ‘Jesus, even Pym isn’t that desperate.’