Authors: Mia Dolan
Tonight was not the first time that he’d mused on the idea of seducing his daughter’s best friend. But tonight the idea had firmed up in his mind. She was
ripe for the plucking and he had every intention of being the first in line.
‘Take it slowly,’ he said as he checked his reflection in his rear-view mirror. ‘Some things are worth waiting for.’
At last the days of incessant rain had cleared and the sun came out, making the wet pavements breathe steam. Holidaymakers down from London for their annual jamboree were queuing for popcorn and sticky rock shaped like bacon and eggs.
It was lunchtime when they were allowed to shut for half an hour before Marcie could ask Rita about the weekend.
‘So how was Pete?’
Rita swallowed a mouthful of pasty and grinned from ear to ear. ‘Snogged each other to a standstill.’
‘Just snogged?’ Marcie eyed her sidelong at the same time as biting into her cheese and pickle sandwich.
Rita managed a snigger even though her gob was filled with pasty. ‘One thing led to another. Yes, of course I let him have a feel of my tits. In fact I wanted him to have a feel. I couldn’t help myself.’
‘It was that good?’
‘Good for him and good for me. He’s coming down again next weekend from Friday to Sunday night. This time he’s bringing a tent!’
She said it with a sparkle in her eyes. Marcie could
read where this was going. When a boy took an interest in her, Rita was putty in his hands.
‘Rita, you’re not going to camp out with him, are you? You’re not going to – you know – go all the way?’
Rita sniffed and tossed her head. Her tongue smacked the crumbs from her lips before she laid it bare – that is, as truthfully as she knew how.
‘He fancies me. I fancy him. So why not do it? What about you and Johnnie. How far did you let him go?’
Marcie had been feeling superior and downright smug, but mention of Johnnie made her uncomfortable.
‘Rita, I hardly know the bloke!’
Rita knew her father had given Marcie a lift home, but that was all he’d told her. He didn’t seem to have mentioned Johnnie lurking around at the bus stop. Marcie was grateful for that.
Rita’s pink cheeks bunched like apples when she grinned. She leaned close as though about to impart a secret. ‘Bet he wanted to, though, didn’t he. Bet he was up for it.’
Marcie was indignant. ‘But he didn’t get it. I’m not a five-bar gate, you know!’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Rita, all indignant, even though her mouth was full of flaky pastry.
‘My legs don’t easily swing wide open.’
‘Christ, Marcie! You are such a bleeding prude!’
Marcie threw a piece of crust at a seagull. ‘No I’m not. It’s you being too quick off the mark. One night and you’re in love and willing to give him everything.’
Rita sprang to her feet, pasty crumbs scattering around her.
‘Are you calling me a tart, Marcie Brooks?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Rita pouted, rosebud mouth in a plump oval face. ‘That’s what you meant, though, but it’s a bleeding cheek. You were tempted yerself, so don’t give me that whiter than white stuff. You’re no saint yerself, Marcie Brooks. And neither is that family of yours. Your dad’s spent more time in clink than a cuckoo in a clock! As for your mother …’
Marcie leapt at her. ‘Shut your big fat face, Rita Taylor, and leave my mother out of this.’
‘She went off with another bloke! Must have been a bit of a tart herself!’
Marcie swung a clenched fist. Rita ducked.
They might have tussled, but a scrawny mongrel chose that moment to swipe the remains of Rita’s pasty.
‘Oi!’
Marcie fell back down to where she’d been sitting and rolled with laughter. Rita was livid. Boys were pretty important in Rita Taylor’s life, but came a poor second to food.
The dog had intervened just in the nick of time. There was no scratching and pulling of hair, not this time anyway.
Rita’s attention was diverted to the remains of Marcie’s sandwich. She’d left it to one side, sitting on the paper bag she’d brought it in.
‘Are you going to eat that?’
She didn’t wait for an answer but picked it up and wolfed it down.
‘Hope you choke on it,’ muttered Marcie.
Once the sandwich was demolished, Rita sucked each finger in turn.
‘I
love
Branston pickle.’
Marcie picked up her bag and transistor radio. The Beatles were singing ‘Hard Day’s Night’. Normally she and Rita would have jigged around and sang along together, but not now. Rita’s remark about her family had touched a raw nerve. Was it true that everybody knew about her father? That in itself had dented her pride, but mention of her mother had hurt in a different way. Her father was all she had because she could barely remember her mother; except for her smell: violets. She remembered her softness and the smell of violets. Funny, she didn’t recall remembering that before. In fact, she remembered little – so very little.
She’d tried asking her grandmother about her mother. But Rosa Brooks’s thin lips had set into a straight line.
‘She is gone. Life goes on. Do not trouble yourself about her.’
Marcie realised early on that she’d get no straight answers from her family so never asked anything again. On the surface she appeared to have taken her grandmother’s advice not to trouble herself, but inside was a different story.
It was close enough to two o’clock to be back at work. Marcie marched off. Rita was her best friend. She should not have made the remarks that she did.
‘Are we still friends?’ Rita called after her.
Marcie didn’t answer. Sod Rita. She was never going to speak to her again.
‘Weee!’
Baby Annie squealed with delight each time Marcie sent the pushchair wheels racing along the pavement.
It was Saturday morning and a whole week since Johnnie had dropped her off at the bus stop.
Her stepmother had the day off from Woolworths and had gone out the night before leaving Marcie to babysit. Ten o’clock and she was
still
in bed. It had been down to Marcie to feed, wash and dress the toddler. The boys could manage without their mother and their grandmother ensured they were fed a hearty breakfast. Rosa was biased towards boys – they got the bacon and eggs while Marcie and the baby only got toast. Marcie considered this unfair seeing as she was the one out at work, not the boys. She wouldn’t dare challenge her grandmother. Rosa Brooks didn’t see things the same way as she did. She’d been brought up to regard men as the breadwinners even if they were not. Nothing could change her now.
Marcie pulled up outside the shop and engaged the brake with her foot.
‘Won’t be long, poppet,’ she said and stroked Annie’s cheek.
She collided with Rita just outside the shop door. Rita was carrying a brown carrier bag full of food. On seeing Marcie she flushed bright red.
‘Hello. Um … just in case you see my mum or dad, I stayed at your place last night – and tonight,’ she added quickly.
Marcie glanced behind her. She hadn’t noticed the shiny motorcycle waiting at the kerb, but she did now. Pete was sitting on it sideways, blowing smoke rings.
There wasn’t much chance of Alan Taylor calling at Endeavour Terrace to check on his daughter. Rita could do no wrong in his eyes. She wished she had the same freedom but it wasn’t likely given the old-fashioned views of Rosa Brooks.
Bearing in mind their argument, Marcie was tempted to be awkward. The comment about her mother still stung. But Rita was her best friend.
‘Sorry about what I said,’ said Rita as though reading her mind.
Marcie wasn’t sure of her sincerity. ‘OK. So how was last night?’
Rita’s eyes sparkled. ‘We did it three times last night and twice more since breakfast.’
Marcie was about to say it was a wonder Rita could walk or Pete could ride a motorcycle, but didn’t. Instead she counselled Rita to be careful.
Rita grinned in response. ‘He’s got some johnnies. I went with him into the chemists. He was too scared to ask for them by himself. But I did though.’
Marcie shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’ve got some front, Rita Taylor.’
Rita giggled. ‘See you in work on Monday then.’
Gone was the angry Rita she had argued with. She was gushing and looking pleased with herself.
She watched Rita mount the motorcycle, her skirt riding high. She cuddled the carrier bag between her breasts and Pete’s back, and waved as the bike moved off.
It’s none of your business, Marcie said to herself as she went into the shop, bought the bread and came out again. ‘Here,’ she said to baby Annie. ‘Hold on to that loaf of bread until we get home.’
Podgy hands reached out for the bread.
Marcie began to push. Annie gurgled and dribbled over the crusty corner of the bread. Marcie thought about stopping her, but held out against it. The poor kid was hungry. Her mother should look after her better. Her thoughts went back to Rita.
‘It’s none of your business,’ she said again, though out loud this time. If Rita got into trouble she only had herself to blame. She found herself wondering if Babs had ever been like Rita when she was younger. How could Rita face her father if she did find herself with a bun in the oven? Johnnies, French letters or
whatever they were called, were known to split. Everybody knew that.
‘Silly cow! Silly, silly cow!’
‘You shouldn’t do that, you know.’ The voice that took her by surprise was slow and jerky.
Marcie knew who it was. ‘Alright then, Garth?’ She said it without looking round. Garth was over twenty-one but had the mind of a ten-year-old. He looked what he was – ungainly, awkward and scruffy.
She felt sorry for him, but he was hardly good company. Besides, she preferred to be alone with her thoughts.
Being offhand might put him off following her. Garth Davies. He lived with his mother in rooms above the shop. His mother being a bit of a gadabout, he was usually there by himself. Lonely and scruffy, he latched on to people like a stray dog pining for attention.
‘You shouldn’t be doing that,’ he said again. His voice was slurred as though his tongue was too big for his mouth. And he dribbled. Annie dribbling she could cope with. A grown man dribbling was something else. It made her feel a bit queasy.
Marcie rolled her eyes in exasperation. She wasn’t going to get away with it. Might as well stop long enough to put him off. She brought the pushchair to a standstill.
‘What’s that I shouldn’t be doing?’ she asked, eyeing
the scruffy young man as though she might clip him around the ear.
Well used to admonishments, Garth turned sheepish.
‘You was talking to yerself,’ he said in that same slow tone. ‘Shouldn’t do that, you shouldn’t. Ma don’t like it. My Ma says people think you’re mad if you talk to yerself.’
Marcie was irritated. ‘Do I look mad, Garth? Do I look scruffy and speak in a stupid slow voice and follow people around?’
Her voice petered out. A strange glazed look came to Garth’s eyes. It was as though he had heard all this before and was now retreating to some secret place deep inside. The fingers of one hand intertwined with the other in nervous anticipation. People treated Garth cruelly just because he had the mind of a child.
In Marcie’s opinion Garth was a person to be pitied and that was how she felt, plus some guilt on behalf of herself. The tall gangly lad had watery blue eyes and a nose that seemed continuously to be running. He was supposedly the product of a wartime liaison with a Polish aviator, who had taken off when he’d found out about Edith Davies’s pregnancy. On top of that misfortune, poor Edith had gone through a difficult birth – or at least so ran the tale.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be thought mad, Garth. I’ll bear that in mind in future.’
When Garth smiled his teeth flashed like a row of lopsided tombstones. He began giggling inanely and only stopped when he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Once the snot was wiped away, he recommenced giggling.
Marcie began heading for home. Just as she’d feared, he began to follow her.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his head held to one side, almost as though he were trying to rub his ear against his shoulder.
‘Are you following me, Garth?’
Again he asked her where she was going.
‘Home.’
‘To your mother and your father?’
She shook her head. ‘To my grandmother. You know her, don’t you? Her name’s Auntie Rosa. She comes to your mother for a cup of tea now and again.’
His giggling stopped abruptly. ‘Auntie Rosa and the man.’
‘Auntie Rosa.’ She presumed the man was either a figment of his imagination or his mother’s latest man friend. Edith Davies took in lodgers now and again – difficult seeing as she only had one bedroom and a box room. Garth slept in the box room. His mother took up one half of the double bed in the other.
Garth rambled on, so Marcie didn’t pay too much attention as he went on to describe the man and what he had done or said.
‘My mother’s got a red dress, one like your mother’s.’
‘I don’t think so, Garth,’ she muttered, her mouth set in a straight line. Why had he mentioned her mother? He couldn’t possibly remember her and certainly not a red dress.
‘I saw her in it.’
‘No, Garth! You did not!’
She instantly regretted being snappish, but Garth had unnerved her. For the second time in a few days someone had mentioned her mother. For ages there’d been no mention and now there’d been two. Coincidence or something more? Coincidence, she decided. What else could it be?
People avoided Garth. He was one of life’s cast-offs, rejected from the moment he was born. His mother paid too much attention to her lodgers and not enough to her son. Poor Garth. There were moth holes in his pullover and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves flapped around his hands. His trousers were grey and shapeless and there was a line of grease around his shirt collar. He ponged a bit. Poor Garth had been named after a strong man in a comic strip, but didn’t – in fact, couldn’t – live up to his namesake.
Jabbering and giggling, he followed her all the way home and looked surprised when she came to a stop outside number ten.