by Chris Curran
The Chiswick Empire, near London – February 1956
The rough cloth of Sid’s trousers is harsh against her face and she can’t move although the stench of tweed and wee is making her gag. One of his hands shoves down in front of her face, groping at his buttons, the other is still hard on the back of her head, pushing and pushing.
And just when she thinks she’s going to faint – and almost hoping she will – he shoves her chair away from him.
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Her dad’s voice.
Her heart jumps into her throat and she twists round. Dad is standing in the open doorway.
‘Go on, Joycie love, hurry up and get changed.’ Sid gives a hoarse laugh, as if it’s all a joke.
Dad’s face is so white it’s almost green and there are deep creases she’s never noticed before running like scars down his cheeks. He looks from Sid to her and back again.
She wants to die, wants him to say it’s all right, but most of all she wants to run away. Her face, already sore from rubbing against that rough tweed, throbs with heat. She’s so ashamed and longs to tell Dad she’s sorry, but she’s afraid to speak.
He’s still looking at her with that terrible expression and his voice is cold. ‘Go home, Joyce. Right now.’
Burning tears fill her eyes and she bites her lips to hold back the sobs that are trying to force their way out. Her hand is shaking so much she can hardly pick up her bra from the back of the chair and when she stumbles towards the clothes rail for her dress and shoes, Dad is there already, shoving them into her arms without looking at her. His voice is very quiet, coming from miles away, and it still isn’t her dad’s voice. ‘Go home now, Joyce. Get changed there.’
At the door a shoe drops from the bundle of clothes and as she stoops to pick it up she can’t stop a sob from bursting out. She doesn’t dare look back, but when she gets to the end of the corridor she’s too exhausted to keep moving. She leans on the wall and presses her face into the bundle of clothes to muffle the sound of her crying. How can she go home? How can she ever face Dad again?
The voice she hardly knows as his is still going on, low and bitter. ‘You fucking bastard, I warned you.’
Another of those croaky laughs from Sid. ‘Calm down, Charlie boy, it’s not the way it looks. We were just talking about the show. Joycie wants a bigger part and was trying to persuade me. You know what girls are like …’ His voice cuts off and there’s a rush of sound that makes Joycie jump – heavy feet moving fast. But they’re not coming out here so she stays where she is, clutching the bundle of clothes to her chest.
A thump and then another. Her dad’s voice: quieter but oh-so hard. ‘Don’t you dare, you arsehole. That’s my daughter you’re talking about. I’ll fucking kill you.’
Sid coughs a couple of times and when he speaks it sounds like he’s choking on something. ‘Ok, Ok, Charlie. You got me. I’m a right bastard and I should have known better. Just couldn’t help myself …’ This time it’s obvious her dad has hit him and he must have collapsed into one of the chairs because she hears it creak under his weight.
‘That’s it, Sid, I’ve had it with you. I’m getting out.’
Sid sounds muffled, but angry now. Like he’s given up trying to get round her dad. ‘You try that, Charlie. Just try it. You’re past it anyway and I’ll be better off without you. The act is about me, not you, and certainly not about that little tart. If I want another stooge I’ll get one a damn sight better than you ever were. So clear off and see how you manage.’
‘I will.’ It sounds like Dad has turned away and she opens the door to get out.
But Sid is still speaking, his voice very calm. She thinks he might even be smiling. ‘Of course, if you’re not working with me any more I might have an attack of conscience and need to see the cops. And not just about you and your little boyfriend.’
Joycie freezes, her hand still on the door. She wants to go, but she can’t move.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘About getting them to look into what happened to your darling wife. Cora told me what she found when she went to your place the day Mary left you. Or did she leave you, Charlie? I’ve never been sure about that after what Cora said she took from under your bed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was a mat covered in blood, so she told me.’
Say something, Dad, Joycie begs him silently.
But he doesn’t speak and there’s silence for what seems like hours. Then he says, ‘Don’t be stupid. Cora was never at my place.’
‘Have you forgotten the way you were that night? Drunk as a lord and shouting about Mary. We thought it best if Cora went and had a look and she found the mat.’
‘You’re lying.’ Dad’s voice has gone all quiet.
‘Am I?’ This time Joycie is sure Sid is smiling. ‘Well we can ask Cora, if you like, but it was all so long ago it would be a shame to let it spoil our friendship.’
Dad doesn’t speak, but Joycie thinks she can hear him breathing, great loud breaths as if he’s going to be sick or something. Then Sid says, ‘Of course, if you were to change your mind about leaving, it wouldn’t be in my interest to cause trouble for you and little Joycie, would it?’
‘Fuck off, Sid, just fuck off,’ is all her dad says, his voice sounding like he’s being strangled. And she hears him move. He’s coming her way. And she runs out of the door, out of the theatre and keeps running.
As she runs she tells herself not to think about it – any of it. Because if she doesn’t think about it, it didn’t really happen.
She doesn’t stop running until she’s back in their lodgings. She goes straight to her room, takes off the horrible boy’s clothes and puts on Mum’s old candlewick dressing gown. Then lies curled up in her bed staring into the dark. Don’t think, Joycie, don’t think.
She doesn’t hear her dad come back.
***
Chelsea – May 1965
It was only 9.30 when Marcus got home, but Joycie had drunk several more gins by then. She was lying on the sofa and had to wobble to the door to unbolt it for him. She knocked her shin on the coffee table as she passed, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt, nothing mattered. ‘You’re early,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘And you’re drunk.’
‘Just a bit. Haven’t had anything to eat.’ She collapsed back on the sofa, closing her eyes, but opening them again when the world tipped. The trouble was she hardly ever drank a lot so she couldn’t take it. She didn’t go in for pot or pills much either, but she would have liked something now.
Marcus must have gone to the kitchen because he came back with a big lump of cheese, a packet of cream crackers, and some coffee. ‘There’s not much to eat, but get this down you before you go to bed or you’ll feel awful in the morning.’
After she’d eaten and had two cups of coffee she felt almost sober again. And wished she was still drunk. She looked at Marcus. It would help so much to tell him what she’d remembered about her dad and Sid. But Marcus was rubbing his hand over his face and she realized he looked very tired, almost ill.
She touched his arm. ‘Are you all right?’
His smile wasn’t really a smile. ‘Yeah, fine.’
Those goose pimples had sprung up on her arms again even though the room was very warm. ‘Marcus, what is it?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Really, it’s nothing. We can talk about it tomorrow when you’re more yourself.’
She looked at him, telling him with her crossed arms and her raised eyebrows that she could wait as long as it took, and trying to ignore the heavy thump of her heart.
Finally he said, ‘You know I saw Tommy Green tonight?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well the reason we met was because I knew he had contacts on the shady side so I asked him a couple of days ago if he could find a bodyguard for you.’
‘And could he?’ She swallowed. Her lips and throat were suddenly very dry and the food she’d just eat
en felt like a pile of rocks in her stomach. Somehow she knew the answer already.
‘No.’ He was staring into the corner of the room and biting his lip. Joycie forced herself to stay silent.
Marcus took a noisy breath and looked back at her. ‘He said no one would take the job on for any amount of money.’
It was hard to speak because her breath seemed to have stopped completely. ‘Why not?’ He shook his head again and closed his eyes. ‘Marcus, please tell me.’
‘Apparently the word has gone out that we’ve upset some important people.’
She pressed her fingers to her mouth. ‘Who? What people?’
‘All Tommy would say was that he knows the guy who’s been following you, and who really is called Bill, apparently. He’s a member of one of the big London gangs.’
‘Oh my God.’
Marcus pulled her to him, but she could feel his own heart drumming so fast it didn’t really help. She looked over to the front door. He had bolted it when he came in.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he kept saying. Then he pushed her gently away, still holding her shoulders and looking into her eyes. ‘I’ve asked Tommy to spread the word that we’ve got the message and you’ll be keeping your head down from now on. Told him we haven’t found out anything that could bother anyone and you’re going to focus on work.’
She couldn’t speak, just shook her head at him.
‘I had to tell him that, Joycie.’
‘I know.’ She leaned close again and spoke into his shoulder. ‘I might have put my aunt and her family in danger. And he was in Clacton as well, so there’s Mrs Shaw, Dennis and Kay too.’
‘It’ll be all right,’ he whispered into her hair.
After a long while he pulled back, head to one side, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he tried to smile at her. ‘And there’s one bit of good news. Tommy can get us a lovely dog. She’s an Afghan, called Fatima. Her father won prizes apparently.’
She tried to laugh, although it came out like a sob. ‘Don’t suppose it was for being a guard dog, was it?’
He did laugh. ‘I doubt it. Probably for most glossy coat or something, but Tommy swears she’s got a very loud bark.’
They looked at each other, and when he held out his arms she fell into them. His heartbeat was slow and steady now, and he held her without speaking.
After a long time she looked up into his blue eyes. ‘Will you stay with me tonight?’ she said.
Chapter Twelve
They lay on her bed fully clothed, her head on Marcus’s chest. Just hearing his slow breathing helped her to relax. ‘I don’t think I can give up now,’ she said.
He moved to look down at her. ‘But you know what Tommy said. You’d be in real danger and we can’t get you any protection.’
She sat up, her hands in her hair. ‘So what do I do? The fact that they’re so desperate to stop me means there’s something serious to find out.’
‘Let’s go to the police then.’
‘And tell them what? That my mum disappeared years ago and I’ve never bothered to look into it till now. Or that some man has helped me get a taxi and asked for my autograph.’
He twisted to face her. ‘But we can tell them who Bill is. And they’re bound to know him if he’s a gang member.’
‘So what can they do? If they try to warn him off that could make things worse.’
Marcus brushed back her hair, his hand lingering on her cheek. ‘Can’t you just let it go?’
‘If I do I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the things that have happened to me. I want to be happy, Marcus, and to be with you properly.’
‘At least put it out of your mind for a while and see how things go.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t. Now I’ve come this far I know I’ll never get any peace if I do.’
He kissed her forehead then held her to him for a long time, while she listened to his heart and felt his warm breath stirring her hair. Finally he sighed and said, ‘But you do understand that we need to be a lot more careful, don’t you?’
There was an ache in her throat, but along with it a surge of happiness. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For understanding why I can’t stop. And for saying we.’
He kissed her hair. ‘Silly girl. We’re in this together.’ He stood up then and smiled down at her. ‘Do you still want me to stay?’
Joycie felt her face flush and the pain in her throat grow worse. There was nothing she wanted more, but she shook her head. ‘It’s not fair on you. I’ll be all right.’
He grabbed her nightdress from the end of the bed and threw it at her. ‘I’ll take that as a yes then, but you’d better put that on or I might not be responsible for my actions.’
He’d seen her almost naked any number of times, but he made a show of turning his back. Then began to take off his own shirt and jeans. She undressed and got under the covers saying, ‘OK I’m in.’
Marcus slid under the eiderdown, but on top of the blanket. ‘I’ll be warm enough here, just make sure you keep your hands to yourself, eh?’ He lay on his side facing away from her and she listened until his even breathing told her he was asleep.
After that she was awake for what seemed like hours, feeling the heat from him, longing to touch him. If only she could wake him now and tell him how much she wanted him. But it wouldn’t be fair because she knew that awful voice would spoil it again.
***
When she opened her eyes it was light and Marcus was gone. She lay listening to the hum of voices from the radio in the kitchen and the rattle of cups. Last night she had come so close to asking him to make love to her. How would she be feeling now if she’d done that? Horrible probably and so would he because she would have ended up rejecting him again. If only she could stop hearing that voice, stop feeling dirty.
It was all to do with her memories of what happened with Sid; she knew that. But she also remembered how terrible it had been thinking Dad might blame her too.
And it was just before his arrest, so they never had time to talk about it properly. The nightmare of the police arriving and taking him away, and everything that came after, had wiped their few last hours together from her mind. But she thought about them now.
***
Chiswick – February 1956
When she wakes next morning Joycie is still curled up in Mum’s candlewick dressing gown with the eiderdown pulled tight around her. She’s hot and shoves back the covers to sit up, taking a shaky breath when she hears Dad snoring. He must have gone to the pub after the bust up with Sid, but he didn’t blunder about and wake her when he came in so he couldn’t have been all that drunk.
She feels like crying again. She wants so much to hear him tell her it’s all right and he knows it wasn’t her fault, but his face and voice were like a stranger’s yesterday. So angry and cold.
At least in these lodgings, unlike some of the others, she has a sink in her room, and when she’s splashed her face and got dressed she feels a bit better. There’s enough bacon and eggs in the kitchenette for Dad’s favourite breakfast too. But when she starts frying the bacon she can’t hold back a sob. The lovely salty smell reminds her of so many other, ordinary, days. And she wishes more than anything that this was one of them. That yesterday had never happened.
Dad’s door opens and she scrubs her face with her sleeve before she dares to look round.
He’s tying his dressing gown and scratching his head just like always. ‘Smells good,’ he says. His voice is a bit quiet, but he sounds almost like Dad again. She breaks the eggs into the pan, glad of the excuse not to look at him because if she does she’ll really start to cry.
When she brings the plates to the table he rubs his hands, like he always does, and dollops on the brown sauce. Joycie turns back to the kitchenette for the bread, hardly daring to breathe, but when she sits opposite him he gives her a little smile before looking quickly away.
It
’s hard to eat because her throat feels swollen, but she wants him to know she’s all right. That everything is just the way it was. So she forces the food down.
Dad has finished before her and wipes his plate with a slice of bread, folding it in half then mopping the last smears of sauce up with the folded edge. Still without looking at her, he says, ‘We’ll need to be careful with money for a bit, love. Won’t be working with Sid any more.’ He takes a bite of the folded bread and she breathes a bit easier. He doesn’t know she overheard the argument then. She watches him wiping his plate again although it’s almost clean. ‘But not to worry. I’ve been thinking about breaking with him for a while now and I’ve got a few irons in the fire. We’ll be all right and we won’t have to travel all the time either.’
‘That’s good, Dad.’ She wants to say more but is frightened to spoil things, so she takes the plates to the sink and starts washing up.
After a few minutes Dad comes over and rests his hand on her shoulder. His hand is warm and heavy. ‘Thanks, Joycie, you’re a good girl.’ Then she knows it’s going to be all right.
***
Chelsea – May 1965
Marcus came in with some tea and Joycie rubbed her eyes before sitting up to take a mug from him. The tea was hot and strong and when she smiled at him he put his head to one side and she nodded. ‘Just right.’ He must have been back to his own room because he’d put on some different jeans, and a clean shirt still open at the front. He sat on the bed with a bounce that made her lift her mug to stop the tea from spilling. She wanted to push back that lock of blond hair from his forehead and to kiss him, but instead she squeezed his hand. It was important to talk now.
‘I’m so sorry for the way I am, Marcus. I do love you and want to be with you. But I have no right to ask you to wait for me.’