by Roberta Kray
‘I think you’re pissed,’ Tommy said, trying to keep his voice as casual as possible. God, what if Connor had found out about the long-firm frauds? Frank would do his nut; he might even pull out, decide it was too risky to carry on. And then where would he be? Stuck with Yvonne for the rest of his natural. Jeez, it didn’t bear thinking about.
Connor suddenly lurched forward, pointing a finger at Tommy. ‘You ain’t as smart as you reckon, mate. Good old big-hearted Tommy. Always ready to help anyone out. Except it ain’t really like that, is it?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘The brat,’ Connor said. ‘They paid you, didn’t they? Those stinking Becks. They paid you to take the kid off their hands after our Lynsey kicked the bucket.’
Tommy, more out of relief than anything else, burst out laughing. ‘Are you nuts? Where the fuck would they get that kind of money?’
Connor’s face grew dark. He didn’t like being laughed at. ‘Nah, don’t give me that. It makes sense. I mean, why else would you take the little bitch in? She ain’t nothing to this family, nothing!’
‘She’s my niece, for fuck’s sake,’ Tommy said. ‘And yours too, come to that.’
Connor gave a quick shake of his head. ‘She ain’t a Quinn. She don’t mean jack shit to me. I wouldn’t piss on her if she was on fire.’
‘Nice. I’m sure she shares the same warm feelings towards you.’
But Connor wasn’t listening. ‘Yeah, you and the old man were in this together. There’s no way he’d have let Lynsey’s brat within a mile of here unless there was something in it for him. The two of you split the cash and then gave me a slice to keep me sweet. How much they give you, then? It must have been some wedge.’ He scowled into his drink. He was well bladdered now, and becoming paranoid. ‘It ain’t right. It stinks. What else have you two been up to? What else you been planning? Maybe I ain’t welcome round here no more. Maybe I should be watching my back, huh?’
‘You’re crazy,’ Tommy said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m not listening to this.’
Connor shook his head again. ‘It’s not me who’s crazy. And if the old man reckons he can do me over, he’s got another think coming.’
Tommy raised his eyes to the ceiling. When his brother was in one of his drunken black moods, there was no reasoning with him. ‘Whatever. I’m off. I’ll see you later.’
‘That’s right, you just run away, like you always do.’
‘Sure,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m running all the way upstairs.’ When he reached the door, he glanced quickly back. Connor was hunched over, steadily banging his fist on the table and muttering to himself. He made a mental note to get the locks changed first thing in the morning.
26
It was dark by the time Helen and Moira emerged from the cinema and headed towards Connolly’s. A chill March wind whipped through the air, but Helen barely felt it. Her mind was far away from the grey streets of Kellston, still focused on the tragic fate of Jay Gatsby in a very blue swimming pool in a mansion in Long Island.
‘So, did you enjoy it?’ Moira asked.
‘It was kind of sad.’
Moira linked her arm through Helen’s. ‘Yes, it was that all right.’
Helen thought about Daisy Buchanan, with her golden hair and cool white dresses. ‘I don’t get why he loved her so much. I mean, she never really cared about him, did she? Not right down in her heart, not where it matters.’
Moira glanced at her and smiled. ‘Well, that’s men for you. They always want what they can’t have.’
‘I guess,’ Helen said, although she had no idea if this was true or not. She wondered what it would be like to be so adored by a man, so loved, that he would do anything for you. That kind of thing, of course, didn’t happen to girls like her. It only happened to wide-eyed beauties with perfect skin and soft, seductive mouths.
It had started to rain, so they quickly crossed the road and jogged the last few yards to the café. Helen felt the warmth as she pushed open the door, a welcoming blast of hot air, and gave an involuntary shiver. Connolly’s was nearly always quiet at this time – the lull that came between the afternoon shoppers and the evening customers – and today was no different. They made their way to their usual table by the window, sat down and picked up the menus.
Over recent years, it had become part of their regular Saturday routine to see a film in the late afternoon and then come for something to eat at Connolly’s. It was a chance for them to catch up on the week’s events, to exchange news and gossip and have a good moan about the world in general.
‘What do you fancy?’ Moira asked. ‘I think I’ll have the shepherd’s pie.’
‘Er…’ Helen scanned down the menu before choosing what she always went for. ‘I’ll have a cheeseburger and chips.’
Although Helen thought of Moira as more of a friend than a mother replacement, she was aware that the older woman had taken on some aspects of that maternal role. It was Moira, after all, who had taken her to buy her first bra, explained about periods and even had the awkward talk with her about boys and sex. Had the job been left to Yvonne, Helen would have remained in ignorance.
Moira gave the order to the waitress and then turned back to Helen. ‘So, how’s it going at the Fox?’
Helen gave a shrug. ‘Not bad. You know what Connor’s like. But it’s okay, I can deal with it.’
‘Yes, well, he’s just like Joe. Neither of them has got a decent bone in their body.’
‘Worse,’ Helen said. ‘At least you know where you are with Joe. Connor’s kind of… I don’t know… creepy. There’s just something about him. He gives me the shudders.’
Moira looked at her anxiously. ‘He hasn’t… I mean, he hasn’t been giving you any trouble? Not hurting you in any way?’
‘No, nothing like that. It’s just the way he looks at me. And the things he says sometimes. It freaks me out.’
Moira gave a sympathetic nod. ‘He always was a nasty little bugger, even when he was young. Best thing is to try and keep your distance. Stay away from him as much as you can.’
‘I do.’
‘And tell Tommy if he gives you any grief.’
‘Of course I will.’ Although the truth was that Helen didn’t like running to Tommy whenever she had a problem with someone. It felt like grassing, and she knew the rules about that. She decided to change the subject. ‘Anyway, do you think you’ll ever get married again?’
Moira looked startled for a second, and then she laughed. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’
‘Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about the film. Daisy didn’t love her husband, but she still went back to him. I wouldn’t have. I’d have stayed with Gatsby.’
‘You and the rest of the female population.’ Moira picked up her fork, tapped it a few times against the tablecloth and then laid it down again. ‘And in answer to your question, I doubt it. Well, not unless Robert Redford comes knocking on my door, and the likelihood of that is just about zero.’
‘You never know.’
‘Only in my dreams, sweetheart. Only in my dreams.’
Helen wasn’t aware of all the ins and outs of Moira’s failed marriage, but she had gathered enough to know that it had been a miserable and painful affair. Her husband, a feckless gambling man, had squandered most of her inheritance and then turned to drink. By the time she threw him out, the house and the bookies – left to her by her father – had both been lost.
‘So how’s school?’ Moira asked.
Helen averted her eyes, pretending to scrutinise the rainswept street. ‘Yeah, it’s okay.’
‘Tell me you haven’t been bunking off again?’ A thin sigh escaped from Moira’s lips. ‘Helen?’
‘Not really.’ Helen glanced back at her. ‘Well, only the odd afternoon. I can’t see the point of it. As soon as I’m sixteen, I can leave and work full-time in the pub. I don’t need any qualifications for that.’
‘But what if you change your mind or want to run your own pub one
day? You’re a smart girl, love. You could do anything if you put your mind to it.’
But what Helen wanted was to be free of the shackles of school, to earn some proper money and get on with things. She had never properly explained how lonely it was for her at Kellston Comp. It was only in the Fox, working beside Tommy and surrounded by the customers, that she felt there was any purpose to her life. ‘It’s all right. I’ve already had the lecture from Frank.’
‘Frank?’
‘Yeah, this lunchtime. He was in the pub and… and he said the same thing. Kind of. We were talking and… well, you know…’
Moira watched her carefully for a moment, and then said, ‘He’s a nice guy, isn’t he?’
Helen blushed furiously, wishing that she’d never mentioned him now. She chewed on her lower lip for a while and then gave a casual shrug. ‘He’s all right.’
Mora gave her a knowing smile. ‘When I was your age, I had a mad crush on Tommy. I used to worship the ground he walked on, thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. Of course he never looked twice at me. I was just his little sister’s gawky friend. I never told anyone, not even your mum, about it… well, not until now.’
Helen took a few seconds to absorb this surprising piece of information before launching into a vehement denial. ‘I don’t have a crush on Frank. Not in the slightest. I mean, I like him, but not like that. There wouldn’t be any point, would there? Him being, you know, the way he is.’
Moira’s eyebrows shifted up a notch. ‘And what way is that?’
Helen glanced briefly out of the window again. She shouldn’t have said anything. She should have just dismissed the idea with a joke and quickly changed the subject. Instead, in trying to cover up her feelings, she was only making it all worse. ‘That he…’ She hesitated, not wanting to use the word queer. ‘That he’d rather go out with men than women.’
‘Who on earth told you that?’ Moira asked. A light huffing came from the back of her throat. ‘Oh, I bet it was Yvonne, wasn’t it? God, that woman’s such a stirrer. You can’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth.’
‘So it’s not true?’
‘Of course it’s not true.’
Helen’s heart gave a tiny leap, even though she knew her love for him was hopeless. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Just because a man doesn’t chase everything in a skirt doesn’t mean he’s homosexual.’
The waitress arrived with the food, along with a glass of Coke and a mug of tea. Moira, who was taking over the woman’s shift in half an hour, had a chat with her, and when the conversation was over, neither Moira nor Helen returned to the subject of Frank Meyer.
Shortly after six o’clock, Helen said her goodbyes and left the café. The rain was coming down harder now, and she turned up the collar of her coat. As she walked back towards the Fox, she glanced across the Green towards the windows of Frank’s flat. They were in darkness. Did this mean he was already at the pub, or was he somewhere else? She hurried her pace a little, hoping that it was the former.
Crossing the road by the station, her thoughts swung back to Moira’s revelation about her teenage feelings for Tommy, and she couldn’t help wondering how different things would have been if the two of them had fallen in love and got married. There would be no Yvonne, for starters. Despite her best efforts, Helen had not been able to forge any kind of meaningful relationship with her. From the day she’d arrived, Yvonne had resented her presence, and nothing had changed since then.
Helen strode into the car park, went round to the side of the building and unlocked the back door. As she stepped into the corridor, she heard the familiar sounds of clinking glasses, music and laughter. There was always a buzz to the place, but Saturday night had a particular charge all of its own. With another working week over, the lads had money in their pockets and the girls were looking forward to helping them spend it.
After hanging her damp coat on a peg, Helen shook the rain from her hair and went through to the bar. Tommy was busy serving, along with three pretty barmaids, who were all brunettes. Deciding to follow his head rather than his heart, he had long ago given up trying to hire blondes. It wasn’t worth the aggro from Yvonne.
‘Hey, Mouse,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good,’ she said, while her eyes quickly scanned the bar for Frank. There was no sign of him. Disappointed, she grabbed a cloth and headed for the tables. Although it was still early, there was already a decent-sized crowd and plenty of familiar faces. Of these, some she was glad to see and others not so.
Joe Quinn was in his regular spot in the corner, along with most of his entourage, including Fat Pete, Vinnie Keane and Terry Street. But no Connor, she was relieved to see. Although she still loathed and despised Joe, she was no longer terrified of him. But one legacy of that frightening encounter in the cellar still remained. Like glue, his words had stuck tight to the inside of her mind – bad blood, bad blood – and no matter how hard she tried, she could never peel them off.
For the next few hours, Helen flitted between the tables, gathering glasses, emptying the ashtrays and keeping everything clean and tidy. As soon as she had finished one round of the pub, it was time to start again. Yvonne came downstairs at eight o’clock, taking a seat near the bar where she could keep one eye on Tommy and the other on any good-looking men who might enter her field of vision. Carol Gatesby was with her, and the two of them, dressed up to the nines, flirted outrageously with any male who cast a glance in their direction.
Every time Helen went past, Yvonne would lean in to Carol and whisper in her ear. Then the two of them would snigger like a pair of schoolgirls. Helen knew they were laughing at her, putting her down, and although she tried to ignore it, a part of her still curled up inside. Through the years, Yvonne’s dislike of her had grown rather than diminished, and now she didn’t even try to hide it.
Every time Helen returned to the bar, she hoped to see Frank sitting there. But time and time again she was disappointed. Perhaps he wasn’t coming. Her heart sank at the thought. What if he was out with a girl, having a meal up West followed by a romantic moonlit walk along the Serpentine? But then she noticed the windows, splattered with rain, and felt a small wave of relief. No one in their right mind would take a walk in the park in this weather.
The time ticked by and Helen kept a constant watch on the door, looking over whenever it opened, carefully hiding her dismay when the customer turned out not to be him. It was twenty past ten before her vigilance was finally rewarded. Frank came in alone and made his way through the crowd towards the bar. Standing head and shoulders above everyone else, he was easy to spot.
Helen gathered up some glasses, and after a suitable delay – she didn’t want to appear too obvious – followed him to the counter. By time she got there, he’d already been served his pint and was standing chatting to Tommy. As she came up behind him, she noticed his elegant grey suit and wondered where he’d been for the rest of the evening. Taking a deep breath, she urged herself not to blush before she sidled in beside him and placed the dirty glasses on the bar.
‘Hiya,’ she said, overbrightly.
Frank looked down at her and smiled. ‘Hi, Mouse. They’re keeping you busy tonight.’
‘Yeah.’ She searched for something witty or interesting to add, but her mind had gone blank. What’s the matter with you? Speak, you idiot. Say something. But the only thing that came out of her mouth was a thin, despondent sigh. Fortunately, before she was completely crushed by embarrassment, Tommy came to her rescue.
‘You want to take a break, love? Let me get you a drink.’
‘Oh, okay. Thanks. I’ll have a Coke.’
There was a queue at the bar, and she found herself squashed between the line of customers and Frank. She was so close to him that she could smell the dampness of his jacket and the slight whiff of his citrus aftershave. Just above the noise of the crowd, Barry Blue’s ‘Dancing on a Saturday Night’ floated out from the jukebox.
Glad that he at least had found a topic of conversation, she gave a grateful nod. ‘The Great Gatsby. It was good. Have you seen it yet?’
Frank shook his head. ‘I’m not sure it’s my kind of thing.’
‘What do you like?’ she asked, eager to glean any tiny piece of information about him.
But she was never to find out the answer to her question. Right at that moment, Connor Quinn crashed into the pub, wielding a baseball bat. He staggered over to his father’s table in the corner, steadied himself on the back of Terry Street’s chair, opened his mouth and started spewing out a tirade against Joe. ‘Call yourself a fuckin’ father? Four bleedin’ years I’ve done. Four bleedin’ years and this is what I come back to. You think I don’t know what you’re up to? You think I’m fuckin’ stupid? You think I ain’t got a brain? Well, I get it, I fuckin’ get it, and nobody fucks me over, nobody! So if you think—’
The rest of what he had to say was lost as the crowd quickly separated and shifted back, moving just far enough away to be out of swinging distance without actually missing any of the action.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Tommy said.
Helen saw him glance down beneath the counter and immediately knew what he was checking out. He didn’t need to. Even she was certain that the bat in Connor’s hand, the one with the distinctive blue and red twine wrapped around the handle, was the bat that normally lived under the bar. She was suddenly reminded of what had happened to the Gissings, of how Mickey Stott had paid them back for what they’d done, and she looked nervously towards the corner.
Connor’s face was tight and angry, his eyes blazing. Joe, across the other side of the table, had stood up and was trying to calm him down, albeit not in a particularly effective manner.
‘Are you off yer fuckin’ head? What’s wrong with you?’
‘You’re the fuckin’ matter, old man. Think you can do me out of my share, do you? Think you can fuckin’ rob me! Well, I ain’t having it. I know your game, and it won’t fuckin’ wash.’