Rock a Bye Baby (11 page)

‘So was I – I mean I was born here,’ said Marcie. To her own ears her voice sounded far away. Thinking of her birth, she suddenly felt a great urge to ask her grandmother if her father had ever hit her natural mother. Was that why she’d run away? It occurred to her that her grandmother was not the right person to ask. Antonio – Tony Brooks – could do no wrong in her eyes.

‘No. You were born in hospital. He brought you here.’

‘With my mother?’

Rosa Brooks slammed the wardrobe door and turned the key. She had a tight smile on her face when she turned to face her granddaughter.

‘Come along, Marcie. No more questions. Out while I dress.’

Marcie frowned. Her grandmother had never before insisted she go outside while she changed from her day dress – except on those occasions when she asked questions about her mother – as she had now.

Alan Taylor’s sleek Jaguar slid to a stop outside the Brooks’s place. He kept the motor running while he checked his appearance in the rear-view mirror, combing and patting his hair to hide areas where it was thinning.

He smiled. ‘Not bad for your age, old son.’

Satisfied that he was still the ticket, he jumped out of the car, smoothed his hair back one more time and rapped on the door.

Babs answered. The state of her face threw him for a second – not that he was all that surprised. Tony was the sort of bloke who liked to think he was in charge of his family. He got pissed off when anyone tried to prove otherwise. He guessed Babs had been pushing her luck with someone, though she must have kept quiet about their own brief fling – he’d have heard from Tony before this if she hadn’t. Full marks to her for keeping her mouth shut. Maybe he should slip her a few quid for that.

‘Fell down the stairs, girl?’ he said blithely as he breezed into the tiny front room of Tony’s gaff.

Babs threw him a meaningful look that he chose to ignore. Now to test Tony’s frame of mind.

The bloke who’d helped him with a very profitable job down in Dover came in from the back somewhere.

‘Tony! You’re looking better, my old china! And smelling like violets,’ he said with a wink to denote that he was joking. ‘Your girl ready to go out and trip the light fantastic, is she? I’ve left our Rita waiting down at the Crown in Leysdown.’

Tony looked surprised, but also better at ease. ‘She didn’t say you were giving her a lift.’

‘There and back, old son. Got to make sure they’re safe, haven’t you. Never know what perverts are about nowadays. I said I’d pick them up and take them home afterwards.’

‘Good of you to give her a lift.’

‘No goodness about it, mate. Glad to do the favour.’

Everything was OK. Alan had known Tony Brooks for a while and before that by reputation. Not the brightest bloke he was ever likely to meet, though not the thickest either. Alan prided himself on being a good judge of character and hand-picked the blokes he had working for him. He worked out their strengths and their weaknesses, then used them accordingly. He could play blokes like a violinist could play a violin, though more profitably. They carried the can, he reaped the proceeds.

Tony Brooks had one big flaw: his pride. He was the sort who could get well out of order if his pride was hurt. Alan made sure he never dented his pride. Couldn’t count Babs of course; just a moment of weakness on his part – a few quid in her pocket would keep her sweet and her mouth shut.

‘How about I come with you and we have a pint or two?’ Tony suggested.

Alan shook his head. That was the last thing he wanted. ‘Can’t, mate. Got a little errand to do after dropping off your girl. Could pick you up after though. How about that?’

‘Suits me fine,’ said Tony, looking and sounding sincerely grateful. ‘Gives me a chance to settle in like.’

He threw a meaningful look at Babs. Alan got the gist of it – Tony was making up for lost time and the lack of female company in Wandsworth. Poor cow would have trouble walking by the end of the week. Likely have a bun in the oven as well.

His attention was diverted to Marcie who had just come down the stairs. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. That was the saying that came to mind, though he was after a bit more than that. Women were glorious no matter what age they were, but there was nothing like a young piece of fruit that hadn’t yet been picked.

At the sound of the door opening, he turned round and adopted his most disarming smile. ‘And here comes Tony Brooks’s little princess. My, my, girl, all the young fellahs in Sheppey are going to be after you. You’ll have your old dad out there with a shotgun if you’re not careful.’

Tony Brooks responded by saying that his daughter had to be in by ten.

Marcie groaned. ‘Oh, Dad. Get with it!’

‘Keep yer cheek to yerself!’ His eyes, as dark as those of his mother, were wide with warning.

Marcie winced and took a step back. Even Babs looked away. Luckily the kids were out, the baby in bed and Gran Brooks was in the kitchen.

It was Alan who calmed things down.

‘Come on, Tony. Give the girl some slack. Tell you what, make it half eleven. I’ll pick the girls up at eleven and get your Marcie home by half past. How’s that?’

For a moment her dad was reticent, though not for long. It was difficult to refuse Alan anything. He knew how to handle people.

Marcie couldn’t believe how ‘with it’ he was. In fact he was the only proper grown-up she’d met who really understood teenagers. Rita was so lucky.

Tony’s expression relaxed as he began to see things Alan’s way. ‘We … ll … I’m still not happy about her being out so late, things being the way they are nowadays, but seeing as it’s you, it’s OK. Just don’t think you can make a habit of it, my girl,’ he finished, wagging a warning finger before Marcie’s face.

Marcie sighed as she finally settled in the passenger seat of the smartest car on the island. She was glad to be out and would have burst into song if it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d had to change outfits and scrub off the make-up.

Alan smiled at her. His eyes were shiny and friendly.

‘Well? Are you going to thank your Uncle Alan for getting you extra time?’

She managed a self-conscious smile. ‘Thanks.’

‘Just here. You can kiss me just here,’ he said indicating his left cheek.

She darted a quick kiss as directed.

He began to drive.

‘You look smashing, by the way.’

Coming from any other bloke his comment might have made her blush. But Alan was her dad’s age. And he was so nice and so easy to talk to.

‘This old thing,’ she said disparagingly. ‘I wanted to wear my new outfit. It’s suede and looks lovely, but Dad said it was too short. He wouldn’t let me wear it.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Alan. His attention flickered between the road ahead and her. ‘Can’t have been that short surely. How short was it then?’

‘Only a few inches shorter.’

‘Show me.’

She placed her hands sideways on to where the hem would have reached. ‘That short.’

‘I can’t tell that well from here what with having to keep my eyes on the road ahead. Fold the hem of that dress up to where you reckon the hem of the other one came to. I’ll tell you whether it’s too short or not.’

Marcie didn’t question his reasons for asking her to do that. He was on her side. There might even be a chance that he’d tell her dad there was no harm in wearing her skirt four inches shorter than the one she had on.

‘Like that,’ she said.

Alan took his eyes off the road long enough to take in the fact that her legs were long and slim, and that she was wearing stockings and not those terrible tights that women were beginning to get keen on.

‘Can’t see anything wrong in that. You’re young and you’ve got a gorgeous pair of legs. Show them off. That’s what I say.’

He patted the leg nearest him.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said suddenly. ‘What if I was to look after this new outfit for you? I could hide it in the boot of my car and when you wanted to wear it you could give me a ring and I’d come along and pick you up. You could change in the back. Then I could drop you off with our Rita or whoever you’re with that night. How would that be?’

‘You’d do that for me?’ She couldn’t believe her ears.

‘Course I would. I’ll persuade your dad to come round. He will if I’ve got anything to do with it. Trust me. Do you?’

She looked at him. ‘Sorry?’

‘Do you trust me?’

She thought about what he’d suggested. She thought about the swift change in atmosphere since her father had come home. What was it that had changed him? She didn’t hate him yet, but in time … who knows?

Alan noticed her wistful expression. He nudged her arm as though he was her best mate, not her best mate’s dad.

‘I asked if you trusted me, sweetheart. Well do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on. Say it as though you mean it.’

‘I trust you.’

He looked extremely pleased. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s settled. Let’s get you to our Rita.’

The party was being held in the room above the Crown, a big pub at its busiest on a Saturday night.

Johnnie’s birthday party!

‘Are you sure I’m invited?’ she’d asked Rita as they did a last-minute check on their make-up in the ladies.

‘Of course you are,’ Rita had replied. ‘He’s expecting you to be there.’

Her manner had been flippant. Perhaps if Marcie had been older and wiser she might have reserved judgement, but she wanted to be invited. She wanted to see Johnnie again.

Her heart was beating in time with the thumping sounds coming from upstairs. The ceiling in the ladies loo was high and had ornate plasterwork along one wall. The rest of it had disappeared long ago when the toilets were first installed.

Bits of loose plaster fell like snow from the ceiling. People up above were stamping their feet to the sound of the Dave Clark Five playing ‘Bits and Pieces’.

Coming out of the toilets meant passing the public bar on her way to the staircase. Noise and cigarette
smoke poured out of the bar in equal measure each time the door swung open.

A middle-aged woman pushed the door open and held it there. With her free hand she held on to a man of similar age, obviously her husband.

‘Alfie Metcalfe, you’re coming home! You’ve had enough!’ she barked, her expression not dissimilar to an out-of-sorts bulldog.

Her husband was holding on to the door. ‘Bugger off! Give me another pint.’

She tried prising his fingers off. It did no good. Leaving smudgy sweat marks in their wake, his fingers found a new holding place.

Drinkers at the bar turned to laugh at the unfolding spectacle. The door remained open.

‘Marcie!’

She peered between the heads of the warring couple. Rita was waving from the bar.

‘Wanna pint or a port?’ Rita called out.

Pushing between Alfie and his wife, Marcie shouted back that she’d prefer a port and lemon.

‘Are you old enough to be in here, young lady?’ someone said as she squeezed past.

‘Course I am.’

The man was old enough to be her father. His grin exposed broken teeth and bad breath.

‘That’s alright then. I’ll buy you one any time.’

‘Shove off!’

There was always the chance of being refused a drink as they were under age. Not that they’d ever let that worry them.

Rita could sink a pint as quickly as a bloke and had the belly to prove it. Marcie preferred shorts of any kind rather than pints.

‘Don’t know how you do it,’ she’d often said to Rita. ‘If I drank pints I’d be out on the lavatory all night.’

Pete was leaning on the bar looking the worse for wear. His lank fair hair was hanging in grease-slicked stripes over his forehead and he was having trouble focusing. He waved a hand in a desultory manner.

‘I’m out of cash or I’d buy you one,’ he said with a stupid grin on his face. Shoving both hands into the pockets of his jeans, he brought out the linings.

‘Look,’ he said, still grinning. ‘Not a penny in the bloody world. Brassic I am. Absolutely brassic!’

Rita intervened. ‘Here. Have another,’ she said, opening her purse.

She was wearing the plum-coloured dress with the zip down the front that she’d bought earlier. The sight of it almost made Marcie wince with pain. She would so loved to have worn the suede pinafore dress.

Rita didn’t appear to notice that Marcie was wearing her familiar black and white number. Wrapped up in her own world, she leaned close and whispered in Marcie’s ear. ‘Pete wants me to sleep with him tonight.’

Marcie nearly choked on her drink. ‘How are you going to work that one? Your dad’s coming to pick you up.’

Rita wrinkled her nose as she worked her mind around the problem. Plump fingers drummed against the side of her pint glass. Suddenly she grabbed it, tipped it up and downed the lot.

‘I know,’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘He can drop both of us off at your place. I can say I’m stopping with you and then Pete can pick me up from there. Right, Pete?’

Pete didn’t look as though he could pick himself up if he fell down, let alone drive a motorcycle to her place and pick Rita up.

‘Anything you want, babe,’ he slurred.

‘You know what I want,’ Rita murmured. She laid her head back so it rested on his shoulder. Pete’s hand slid beneath Rita’s armpit and proceeded to grope her breast and pinch her nipple.

Marcie looked at her drink rather than watch Pete’s hand kneading Rita’s left bosom.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ she muttered.

‘You’re just jealous,’ said Rita wearing a hurt expression.

‘Of what?’

‘Me and Pete. We were made for each other. Ain’t that right, babe?’

It was obvious from Pete’s bleary-eyed expression
that he didn’t have a clue what she was on about.

‘I don’t think Pete’s driving anywhere,’ Marcie observed. ‘Besides, my dad’s home. Him and your dad are going to be drinking pals in future. Something’s bound to get said, then you’ll be in for it.’

Rita shook her head. ‘Nah! My dad believes in live and let live. Course he’ll be mad at first, but I’ll get away with it.’ Her face became wreathed in smiles as she cuddled Pete’s paw against her breast and gazed lovingly up into his eyes.