by Mia Dolan
‘You did right, Garth, but it isn’t mine. Tell you what, how about you go in and put the kettle on. I’ll be in shortly to give Joanna her feed. I won’t be long.’
She could imagine Joanna was getting irksome that she hadn’t yet come with her bottle, but she had to put this right before the police came. Garth would be terrified if they started asking him questions.
Rather than be slowed down with the bike, she ran along the back lane and was just in time to stop Father O’Flanagan from dialling.
‘It’s alright,’ she gasped on hauling open the heavy door. ‘We’ve found your bike. Garth put it round the back because some young scallywags were about to make off with it.’
She was breathless and in the rush to stop the pennies from dropping into the box, her neatly brushed hair was wild and the top button of her dress had sprung loose exposing an inch or so of cleavage.
She told herself that Father O’Flanagan wasn’t looking at her with surprise, only misgiving, that the sudden change from demure to wanton had merely shocked him, but she felt distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze.
‘Have you noticed Father Justin’s eyes?’ she asked her grandmother, later that evening.
Rosa Brooks was hemming a tablecloth with a bright green silk cross stitch. Without raising her head, she looked at her granddaughter with hooded eyes and waited for her to continue.
‘I think they’re devilish eyes. I caught him looking down my cleavage.’
Her grandmother’s gaze stayed steady. ‘Is that so?’
‘When I took his bike to him.’ She went on to explain the rest of it. ‘Maybe I just took him by surprise.’
Her grandmother’s eyes went back to what she was doing. Her lips were pursed and she was stabbing the needle in and out of the material with more force than before.
At the back of her mind Rosa Brooks was remembering another priest, another place and another time.
In future she would ensure she was always present whenever Father O’Flanagan called. He was supposed to be celibate, but she knew that what was supposed to be and what actually was were often two very different things.
Chapter Two
IT WASN’T IN Alan Taylor’s make-up to be a churchgoer. He prided himself on being the big businessman with second-hand car dealerships in Sheerness and also down in Deal. In this respect he considered himself something of a benefactor to the community – especially the Brooks family over the years
‘I gave Tony Brooks a job. You’d think he’d be more grateful,’ he oft repeated to his daughter Rita or anyone else who would listen. ‘And I treated Marcie Brooks as if she was my own daughter!’
He was always careful to stop there. From the time she first blossomed into puberty, Alan Taylor had developed an unhealthy obsession with Marcie Brooks. The fact was she was beginning to look as gorgeous as her mother. He had been obsessed with Mary Brooks too. Unknown to Tony, her old man, he’d pursued her and got rebuffed every time. I mean, who did she think she was anyway? Just a tart, if local gossip could be believed! A tart no different to any of the others around the London nightclub scene.
A churchgoer he definitely was not, but these were special circumstances. Anyway, he wasn’t actually entering the church, he was merely observing.
There was a handy little parking space close by where he could watch without being observed. He’d heard from a friend of a friend that the christening – baptism – call it what you will, was scheduled for eleven o’clock this morning. The event wasn’t secret, of course, but even if it had been Babs – Barbara Brooks, Tony’s second wife and Marcie’s stepmother, would still have blabbed it from here to bloody Sheerness and back again. She had a big trap that one. No wonder his old pal Tony had slapped her about a bit in the past. He might have done the same himself, if he had been married to her. Though Alan considered himself more of a lover than a fighter. Women were made to be taken to bed and loved. As far as he was concerned, they wanted it as much as men did, though sometimes they said they didn’t. But that was all it was. They often said no when what they really meant was yes.
Dressed in their best, the Brooks family plus a few friends were making their way towards the church door. He saw Marcie with the baby in her arms. She was wearing a pretty, short dress with matching jacket. That was when he wondered whether he shouldn’t get on in there and sort everything all out, point out that the kid was his. It was, wasn’t it?
He saw Tony with Babs and the kids. Babs was done up like a dog’s dinner, her skirt way above her dimpled knees. Chance was that if she bent down she’d be showing her knickers. Silly cow! She’d been a good-looking bird when she was younger and she made the effort to keep hold of her looks. The trouble was now she was trying too hard. There was a time to stop dressing like a seventeen-year-old and start acting your age. The rule didn’t apply to men of course as far as Alan was concerned. They were different than women. Younger women liked older men; father figures. Sugar daddies.
The awkward lad was there too. He couldn’t remember his name and wasn’t entirely sure he even had one. Not that he cared. The lad spent a lot of time round at the Brooks’ old cottage in Endeavour Terrace. His mother chose to think he didn’t exist half the time and probably wished he didn’t. Given half the chance she’d be off with the milkman or some other bloke who gave her the time of day. Now here the idiot was at Joanna’s christening, Marcie’s kid. Bloody nerve. Him going into the church as bold as you like, whereas him, the kid’s probable father …
Suddenly he burned with anger. The ungrateful bitch! Marcie’s baby would have been adopted if it hadn’t been for him. She should be thankful. She should have married him instead of telling him to get lost and insisting that her rocker sweetheart had been Joanna’s father. He still chose not to believe it. He always would.
Once the little group had disappeared inside the church, he got out of his car. Not wishing to be seen stalking them, he’d left the Jag at home and borrowed his daughter’s mini. It was a mustard colour and bog standard and suited the occasion. The Jag was flash and would have been instantly recognised. He hadn’t wanted that. He was hoping for a moment when Marcie was away from the rest of the family. So far it hadn’t occurred.
‘Right, old son. Get on in there and sort them all out.’
He crossed the road swiftly, legged it up the path to the church and reached for the door. On second thoughts he decided to take a look-see in one of the side windows just to make sure that nobody too handy – one of the family’s rough relatives – was attending. Tony had told him to stay away from Marcie and made it clear what he’d do to him if he didn’t. In the past Alan would have laughed the threat off. Who was Tony Brooks but a small-time thief with attitude though not necessarily the right muscle to back it? Alan was a man of means, as bent as Tony but a bit more subtle about it. OK, not all his operations were legit, but at least he kept up the façade of being legal if nothing else. Tony had crime written all over him and even trusted the people he worked for. Silly sod! Didn’t he know there was no honesty among crooks? That was the trouble with Tony: he was so trusting. Give him a good reason for what you were doing and he’d swallow it hook, line and sinker.
However he’d heard that Tony Brooks was now working for some heavyweight Sicilian gangsters in the East End. Alan chewed his lip nervously at the thought of it. Perhaps one of Tony’s new contacts might be among the invited guests.
Furrowed by many feet, a track had been worn through the rough grass sprouting around the church’s stout stone foundations. Careful not to muddy his slip-on Italian shoes or the hems of his Levis, he picked his way along carefully. There were puddles in places and he did a quick sidestep, nimbly avoiding a dog turd.
Once he felt he was on safe ground, he placed his hands on the sloping stone window ledges and pulled himself up, the toes of his shoes jammed into gaps where the mortar had fallen out.
The effort proved fruitless. Thick plates of stained glass made up the majority of the windows.
Those that weren’t stained glass were protected with sheets of stiff wire. There was nothing to be seen.
That made his mind up. If he couldn’t see in then he was going to go in.
He jumped down, dusted his hands on his jeans and made ready to put in an appearance and stake his claim. What the fuck could any of that lot do anyway?
He smirked at the thought of their faces; them in all their finery acting as though they’d never broken a commandment in their lives. Christ, at some point that bloody family had broken them all. Not that he couldn’t own up to a few sins himself, but that was beside the point; he wanted to stake his claim. Most of all, he wanted Marcie. He’d had her once, but once was not enough. She hadn’t exactly been responsive. In fact she’d been blotto following the drinks he’d given her. Next time he had her she’d want it as much as he did, and nobody was going to stop him.
Stumbling back onto the path that led back round to the front of the church, he thought he heard someone call him. He looked round but couldn’t see anyone.
He told himself he was imagining things.
Taking a deep breath, he prepared to grab the church door and yank it back. The plan was that at the same time as doing that, he’d shout out that the baptism had to stop. He didn’t want Joanna baptised; not here in a church of left-footers. And seeing he was the baby’s father, what he said was law. Wasn’t it?
The truth was that he didn’t have a clue about the lawful bit and whether a father could justifiably prevent a baptism taking place. He had no proof that he was even a contender to be Joanna’s dad though he still couldn’t accept that the ‘greaser’ Marcie had been going out with was the kid’s father. And wasn’t he the one who’d fetched her back from the place where she’d given birth to the kid? He’d even offered to marry her and the little cow had turned him down. Just as her mother had turned him down.
The people in the church were in for a nasty surprise. But did he care? Sod it, he did not!
He didn’t get far.
‘Oi! What are you doing with my bloody car? I had to get the bus here thanks to you. What’s the matter with you, Dad? Getting senile are you?’
His daughter Rita was presently sporting a pudding-basin hairstyle. Apparently she’d seen some pop star with the same style on TV. The pop star had been skinny and had long legs. Rita was more substantially built and the kindest thing that could be said about her legs was that they were strong. In fact they were chunky and the girl was not suited to wearing miniskirts.
Her eyes glimmered from amidst coal-black eyeliner and mascara. She’d drawn extra eyelashes beneath her bottom eyelids – the latest fashion for the hip chick of today. The effect made her look as though her eyes were stranded at the bottom of two deep dark wells. Her lips were plastered with the same foundation as the rest of her face. He believed it was called American Tan. She always wore it.
Her hair was pale brown and, teased out with the wire tail of her comb, curving into the nape of her neck. Her dress had big green spots and her shoes were white and had ankle straps and chunky two-inch heels.
Rita had once been the apple of her father’s eye. She wasn’t too sure she was now. Her father had changed since Marcie had come home with Joanna. He didn’t dote on her as he once had, in fact it seemed he’d become obsessed with the girl who had once been her friend. As of yet she still hadn’t worked out why.
Puzzled, she frowned at her father. ‘Did you hear what I said? What are you doing here?’
The last thing he wanted was for Rita to know the truth. Deciding to make light of it, he shoved his hands in his jeans and laughed.
‘Just thought I’d come along for the crack. Old Tony being a grandfather now and all that. Thought I’d go in and pull his leg a bit.’
Rita was selfish and spoilt but no fool. Her father had allowed her greater freedom than most girls of her age had, and doing that had made her streetwise. She eyed him with suspicion.
‘I don’t think we’re invited, Dad.’
Still smiling he shrugged casually as though it were all a huge joke. ‘That don’t matter. We’re old mates, me and Tony. We go way back …’
Rita was getting impatient. ‘I don’t care about you and Tony. I want my car.’
Alan got the keys from out of his pocket. ‘There you are.’
‘And I want some money.’
Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘I gave you some earlier this week.’
‘I’ve spent it. Come on. I need a new dress and some shoes. I’ve seen a super white pair and a dress to match.’
‘What’s wrong with the white shoes you’re wearing?’
Rita threw him a disparaging look and held out her hand.
Alan delved into his pockets and brought out a pound note, a ten-shilling note and two half-crowns.
Rita eyed the handful of money with contempt. ‘That’s not enough!’
Alan sighed. When money had been plentiful he’d showered his little girl with presents and gifts of money. Anything and everything she’d wanted he’d given her. But the used car game wasn’t as good as it had been – not when you had to play things straight it wasn’t, and just of late he’d been playing it straight.
‘I’ll have to go to the bank.’
‘I’ll drive you there.’
Her heels clip-clopped back along the concrete path from the church to where he’d parked the car. He told himself he should have parked further from the church then she wouldn’t have noticed him and decided she needed more money for shopping. As it was the day for him had been ruined; it had taken some courage to show his face at the church – not that he’d actually done that thanks to Rita. In a way he was glad; Marcie’s old man had threatened to chop his balls off if he didn’t stay away from her. Tony Brooks was a rough diamond, but not known for violence towards his mates. However, this was about his daughter. There could always be a first time, so perhaps Rita had done him a favour turning up when she did. On this occasion he’d been prevented from making a fool of himself, but another time, another place, things might be different.
Chapter Three
THERE WAS NO celebratory spread in a local hostelry following Joanna’s baptism. Instead Rosa, Marcie and Babs had made ham and cheese rolls spread out on the table in the kitchen at number 10 Endeavour Terrace. Here and there a bowl of pickled onions and beetroot interspersed the plates of white bread and the fruitcake Rosa had made especially for the occasion.
Only the family attended plus a few neighbours. Garth gorged on the leftovers and said it was the best party he’d ever been to. Everyone knew it was the only party he’d ever been to, but didn’t have the heart to correct him.
The day had been fine but by five o’clock storm clouds had blown in from the sea and rain was hammering against the windows. Although a fire glowed red and yellow in the grate and the lights were lit, the old cottage held on to its gloomy corners.
Marcie watched as her father bent over the cooing baby telling her crazy stories that she was far too young to follow. Marcie smiled. It didn’t matter that Joanna didn’t understand. She was enjoying being spoken to and her father enjoyed telling stories to his first grandchild.
A small figure in black appeared at her side. ‘Your father is very proud.’
Marcie agreed with her grandmother. For all his faults her dad loved kids. ‘I think he firmly believes that she’s the most beautiful baby in the world and that nothing bad can possibly happen to her because he’s around.’
‘He will do all in his power,’ her grandmother said softly.
There was something about her grandmother’s tone of voice that made Marcie look at her. The olive-skinned face was difficult to read at the best of times and even though her guard was down on this most auspicious of days, she was still hard to interpret.
Knowing that asking what was on her mind wouldn’t bring forth an answer, Marcie turned her mind to other things. The future was doubly important to her now she had a child to take care of. Johnnie, Joanna’s father
was dead so there was no income forthcoming from that quarter. Neither would his parents – or, as she had found out, his adoptive parents – support her financially. There was some money likely from National Assistance, but that was tiny and would provide little towards their daily costs.
Until recently, there had been another option; Alan Taylor had asked her to marry him. His daughter, Rita, had once been her best friend, but things had cooled between them for more than one reason. Marcie accepted that they’d grown out of each other and to her mind it was all for the best. At one time she’d desperately wanted her dad to be like Alan Taylor. He’d been so ‘with it’, so understanding of young girls out to have fun. She hadn’t seen through the friendliness to what he’d really wanted. She’d trusted him enough to spend an evening with him, to accept a drink or two. She didn’t remember much about that night. The alcohol he had plied her with had caused her to pass out, and it was only the morning after that she realised what had happened. Her knickers had been on inside out and back to front and she had felt raw and bruised ‘down there’. There was no getting away from the horrible fact: Alan Taylor had raped her. So it was for the best that her friendship with Rita was over along with any contact with Rita’s father.
Her grandmother was allowing her to live in the old cottage for free and her father helped where he could. However, she had made some money towards her keep from dressmaking, though it would never be enough to fully support her. Basically she needed a job and only the day before she’d seen exactly the sort of job she needed.
She told her grandmother about it. ‘It’s advertised as full time, but only from eight till four. I thought I’d try and get them to take me on part time …’ She paused, looked at her grandmother and tried to gauge her initial reaction. ‘It wouldn’t be so much money part time, but I was wondering …’
Rosa Brooks was typical of women born on the islands and countries scattered or surrounding the Mediterranean. Her hair was still jet black, her skin paled from tawny to olive by the lack of sunshine, and her eyes were quick and dark. She wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and as a widow always wore black. Her mind was still quick and her family meant everything to her. Her family was who she lived for.