Authors: Mia Dolan
Anyway, how could a war be called cold or hot? What did it mean?
The sound of a radio and a news bulletin sounded from two doors up in the other direction, just beyond a row of runner-bean canes. Something similar came from the television set that the old couple next door had on too loud.
Marcie ignored both sets of news, concentrating instead on the song running round inside her head, her current favourite. ‘Things We Said Today’ by The Beatles. Paul was her favourite.
Humming a snatch of the song she watched Archie’s rabbits feeding their faces. Her grandmother interrupted, calling for both of them to come in and eat.
As she walked back to the house Marcie looked up at the back bedroom window. The curtains were closed. Her little half-sister, Annie, was already put to bed.
Annie was the youngest and thus the most demanding. It was obvious to Marcie that Babs had no patience with babies and toddlers. She didn’t have much patience with older kids either, but at least they could look after themselves.
Annie got put to bed early whether sleepy or not. It had occurred to her that Babs wasn’t as keen on baby girls as she was on boys.
Her thoughts went back to the newspaper article. Would Babs have had an abortion if she’d had the choice? Without the boys and Annie she would have had a bedroom to herself. All the same, while she might have wished them not here more times than she could count, the boys were funny and the baby was sweet. Marcie couldn’t help loving them.
Mealtimes in the Brooks household were silent except for the sound of scraping plates and clattering cutlery. Everyone ate at breakneck speed.
‘Finished,’ exclaimed Archie.
His grandmother caught him in the act of pushing his chair away from the table.
‘Stay right where you are, Archie. I have an announcement to make.’
All eyes looked furtively up from their plates.
Rosa Brooks had tried on various occasions to have them say grace at mealtimes – hence the hurry to eat and leave the table. Wary eyes flashed from one sibling to another.
The nut-brown face creased into a wrinkled smile. The dark eyes, as black as the clothes she wore, danced from one family member to another.
‘Your grandfather and I have spoken.’
Unseen by her grandmother, Marcie rolled her
eyes. That old thing again! Grandfather coming back and telling her grandmother things!
Marcie was at an age when her grandmother’s eccentricities embarrassed her. It was bad enough to be Maltese and foreign. But imagine a woman who claimed she received visits and talked to her dead husband? It was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Drawing herself up to her full five feet two inches, Rosa Brooks clasped her hands in front of her and pronounced, ‘Your grandfather assures me that your father – your husband,’ she said with a sideways glance at Babs, ‘will be home shortly.’
Babs looked down at her plate so it was impossible to read her reaction.
The boys, however, were over the moon.
‘When? When’s he coming home, Gran? When?’
Archie’s face was bright with excitement. All thoughts about leaving the table before his grandmother could inflict a prayer on him were totally forgotten. His eyes were round as saucers at the news. He missed his dad the most – more than his mother did, that was for sure.
Adopting an attentive expression, though her mind was elsewhere, Marcie fixed her gaze on her grandmother’s face. She glanced swiftly at the clock when she thought she could get away with it.
‘Soon, Archie,’ said Rosa Brooks. ‘Sit down and listen.’
Archie sat. So did everyone else, their eyes locked on this diminutive woman dressed in black, her black hair slicked tightly back into a firm bun.
‘My son, Antonio, will be home shortly. Your grandfather assures me of this.’
She paused. Nobody said a word. Nobody moved.
Marcie gritted her teeth and hid her clenched fists beneath the table. Like the rest of the family, she’d got used to these pronouncements from her dead grandfather. They were usually about how well or how badly they’d been behaving, or to watch out for a windfall, a dip in fortune or the threat of imminent temptation; the latter pronouncement was usually aimed at Babs who had the reputation of being a bit free and easy with her charms, given half the chance.
But this was different. This was one pronouncement Marcie wanted to believe, that her father was coming home.
The last visit had been seventeen months before and that was only fleeting: Marcie had only seen him for a matter of minutes. The police had been right behind him. Before that he’d been away for five years.
She wanted her father to come home and see her as the young woman she’d become, not the child he’d glimpsed on the run. She told herself that things would be different. He’d say nice things and bring her more presents.
‘Just like your mother,’ he’d say, while smoothing her naturally blonde hair back from her face. Her blue eyes would look up at him adoringly.
Oh yes. Everything would be wonderful and he’d call her his little princess again. She vaguely remembered him calling her that when she’d been a lot younger. Then he’d gone away too. She’d put on a brave face and although she proclaimed that he was away working, she knew the truth. Sheerness was a small place and rumours travelled quickly. She’d chosen not to acknowledge them. The lie protected her against being hurt.
Her grandmother had her own views. ‘It was all a mistake. He is innocent. Your grandfather told me this.’
The Marcie that believed and the one that did not fought in her mind. She gritted her teeth. When she’d been Arnold’s age she’d believed it with the same innocence as he was showing. But she was older now and times were changing. It was 1965 and she wasn’t a child. She didn’t believe in that stuff any more, and yet …
She was sorely tempted to ask if this was true and if her father was innocent of inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone, then who had done it? Did her grandfather know that?
The modern, grown-up Marcie argued that this was not going to happen, that her grandmother was
an old woman who only
thought
she could hear or see her dead husband. All the same …
Her half-brother did the job for her.
Arnold’s hand shot up into the air.
Rosa Brooks looked at him and shook her head.
‘Arnold. You are not in school. You do not need to put your hand up in order to ask me a question.’
His brother Archie grinned and slapped him on the head. ‘Stupid.’
His mother fetched Archie a clout around the ear. ‘Knock it off, you little sod.’
‘Barbara!’ Calling her daughter-in-law by her full name was a sign that Rosa Brooks meant business. ‘When will you learn to curb your language?’
Looking suitably chastised, Babs lit another cigarette, even though the ash from the old one had only just disintegrated into the lid of a pickled onion jar that served as an ashtray.
Marcie’s gaze alternated between the clock and her grandmother. Could she get out tonight without having to climb out of the window and shin down the drainpipe?
Rosa Brooks was looking at Arnold.
‘What did you want to ask me, Arnold?’
Arnold sat on his hands. ‘Tommy Smith’s granddad died last week. I told ’im he’d come back and visit his gran. He said I was a liar. That when people is dead, they’re dead and buried in the ground and ain’t
never comin’ back. But I said I wasn’t lying and that my granddad comes back to see you. Ain’t that right, Gran?’
His grandmother’s expression was unchanged. ‘Only if she has eyes to see. Not everyone can see those that have passed over. Only people like me can do that.’
Marcie took it all in, but said nothing. The clock ticked on. Could she get out tonight without getting lumbered with babysitting young Annie? She loved the baby best of all her half-siblings, but Johnnie had promised her and she was sure he wouldn’t break his promise.
Johnnie came down most Friday nights with the rest of a motorcycle gang from London. He’d made eyes at her a few times but it was only on the last occasion he’d finally spoken to her. He’d promised to buy her a bottle of Pepsi the next time he saw her. She wanted to hold him to that and had already decided what to wear.
The only thing curbing her impatience was that she wanted her grandmother’s pronouncement to be true. She wanted to see her father again. It had been so long and although her father had sent her presents – like the transistor radio – she missed him. She wanted at least one parent – one
real
parent in her life.
‘We will have to make ready,’ Rosa Brooks said to
Babs. ‘The boys will move into the attic room. The baby in with you and my son, Antonio. I will share with Marcie until I can get a bed for the box room. Marcie needs a room to herself.’
Although the box room wasn’t very big, Marcie was grateful. The boys had been in there for a while so a lick of paint wouldn’t come amiss.
‘We can start sorting things out tonight,’ said her grandmother. She was looking at Babs when she said it.
Babs looked startled. ‘Tomorrow would be better. There’s a ladies’ darts team match …’
‘That is not important. Your husband is coming home. We need to make ready for his return.’
Marcie said a silent prayer. Thank you, God. No babysitting tonight. It was difficult not to smirk at her stepmother’s expense.
Babs grabbed hold of her just as she was emerging from the bathroom.
‘Not so fast, you little tart. Sneer at me again and I’ll smack it off your face, I will. Get it?’
Marcie shook her off. ‘We’ll see about that. And don’t call me a tart.’
‘I will too!’
Eyeing her stepmother’s appearance brought a mocking smile to Marcie’s face. ‘OK. Call me that if you like, but just remember it takes one to know one!’
Babs’s slap was well aimed, but Marcie was quick, ducking beneath it and racing for the stairs.
‘You wait, Marcie Brooks,’ Babs shouted after her. ‘I’ll cook your goose, my girl. You just see if I don’t!’
Marcie got on the bus in Sheerness. Rita was waiting at the halfway point just down the road from her house.
On seeing Marcie, her rosebud lips, liberally coated in Honey Beige Pan Stick, broke into a grin.
‘You got out OK, then?’
‘My wicked stepmother was given a task to perform by the queen of the castle. So she’s doing her own babysitting,’ she added.
‘So she should,’ said Rita, slumping down into the bus seat beside Marcie. ‘She ’ad the pleasure so she should ’ave the pain.’
‘It’s no real pain, really. Annie’s a cute little thing.’
Rita wasn’t impressed by kids. ‘Here. Have a chewing gum.’
Marcie took a tablet of gum from the small packet. Nothing could daunt her spirits tonight, which made her say something she hadn’t meant to say.
‘My dad’s coming home. Gran told Babs to sort herself out. She said me dad would get in a right stew if he thought she wasn’t looking after our Annie properly, or putting on me. Told her she was to start staying
in more and not meeting up with her mates down the Sailor’s Arms. That told her good and proper.’
She’d been in two minds about saying anything about her father. There was no guarantee that he was coming home. No little brown envelope had arrived from the Prison Service saying that he would be. It was only on the say-so of her grandmother and a dead grandfather. What sort of confirmation was that?
But there it was – she was living on hope and hope had raised her spirits to such an extent that she couldn’t be careful about anything, including what she said. And not just about her father coming home. Johnnie was going to buy her a Pepsi.
Their conversation turned to the things closer to their hearts.
‘That’s nice,’ said Marcie referring to Rita’s red corduroy dress. It looked expensive and probably was. It had a bib top and straps going over her shoulders. She was also sporting her signature tartan cap. It wasn’t in Marcie’s nature to tell Rita that she was too fat for the outfit and that the colour clashed with her rosy red cheeks. Saying it was nice was safe.
Rita preened. ‘Me dad bought it for me in London. Your frock isn’t bad either,’ she said. She jerked her chin at Marcie’s outfit. ‘Made it yourself, did you?’
Was Rita being derogatory or flattering? Marcie was never quite sure whether Rita always meant what she said. Rita’s dad had money and a flash car. She was
always having new clothes. Marcie wished she could, but she couldn’t. Luckily she was a dab hand with the sewing machine and had a good eye for fashion.
She took the course that Rita was her friend and chose to believe that she was being nice.
‘I saw the dress in a magazine designed by someone called Mary Quant. I just copied it.’
The black dress had a scooped collar and short sleeves, both banded with white. It was sharp and slim, the skirt short and suiting her long hair and low-heeled shoes.
‘Handy that you can sew,’ said Rita. ‘Bit short though.’
‘It’s the latest fashion,’ said Marcie. She wanted to add that it only suited girls with long, slim legs, not Rita’s tree trunks.
Rita did not consider herself fat, merely curvy. She also had the confidence to carry it off.
She grinned. ‘Better watch going upstairs. You’ll be showing your stocking tops or giving the boys a flash of yer knickers!’
Marcie declined to blush, but she did flash Rita a dismissive look.
‘Stockings are old fashioned. Tights are coming into fashion so you can wear your skirt as short as you like.’
‘I bet there’s none in Sheerness, though.’ Rita giggled. ‘Well, not any good quality ones. I’ll ask Dad to get me some in London.’
Marcie turned away so that Rita wouldn’t see a trace of envy in her eyes. Rita, her father and her mother lived in a detached bungalow. They were so wealthy they placed orange and green striped sunblinds over the windows and front door. To Marcie, orange and green striped sunblinds were unimaginably posh.
The drive in front of the house was bordered by rose bushes and a lawn that in the month of May was dotted with daisies. Gardens front and back were looked after by a part-time gardener. Rita’s home was imposing, though brash rather than elegant, a bit like Rita in a way. Marcie considered the garage was only fractionally smaller than the ground floor of the cottage her own family was crammed into.