But Gabby couldn’t tell her auntie that
that
was what was wrong with her. That was why she felt so sad. With this part of her family she felt loved and cared for, and she was always terrified that one day this would all stop.
Gabby realised then that she didn’t want to go home ever again. She was far too happy here.
‘You’re not taking them, Cynth, and that’s that.’
Cynthia looked at her father and sighed heavily. They all knew she had no intention of taking her children home with her. This was a game they played all too frequently; Cynthia faked a maternal interest and her parents pretended to talk her out of taking her children home with her. It was tedious, but they all saw it as a necessary evil. Cynthia could go back home content in the knowledge she had done her bit, and that her parents would be heartbroken if she removed the children from their care. It was a win-win situation as far as she was concerned.
Mary joined in the argument. ‘I’m taking Gabby to the market with me tomorrow, and then we’re going to get her fitted for her bridesmaid’s dress. So it’s not convenient really, unless you want to take her to that?’
Cynthia shook her head as if her mother had asked her to do something completely outrageous. ‘No, thanks! Like I haven’t got enough to do!’
This was another part of the pretence; that Cynthia had a busy life, that she was somehow too busy to do the usual things other women did like take her daughter for her fitting for her bridesmaid’s dress. And yet this was the woman who wouldn’t get a job if her life depended on it.
‘They’re all right here then, Mum, if you’re sure.’
Mary Callahan barely kept the sarcasm from her voice as she replied casually, ‘Oh, I’m sure, Cynth.’
Cynthia looked around the home she had grown up in, at the scuffed paintwork, and the old-fashioned wallpaper, and shuddered inwardly. How had these people spawned her? It was a question that had always baffled her, and always would. All her life she had wondered at how she had been brought up in this dump, and yet had somehow known the proper way to dress, eat and live. Her childhood had been all slapdash; it was beyond her how she had grown up so refined. She believed that somewhere, way back in the bloodline, there must have been someone just like her and, generations later, she had been the recipient of those good genes.
Cynthia looked at her daughter and saw her own beauty reflected in her face. She was a good-looking child, true, but she was too much like this lot. Happy with nothing, happy to eat crap and spend her life watching telly.
It even smelled, this house – all overflowing bins and dirty ashtrays, washing-up and bacon sandwiches, everything she had hated growing up here. It never changed – the smell of her father’s work shirts and her mother’s cheap perfume seemed to permeate the very walls. And then there was the gas fire that popped all night long, leaving its residue on the walls and the doors, the constant noise of a radio or the TV, no real conversation unless it was about someone they knew, never about what was going on in the world. It was like being caught up in a soap opera, except the people in the soaps had personalities – this lot had nothing of any interest going for them at all. Her mother was bad enough. She spent her whole life smoking her fags, drinking her tea and living for the next episode of
Coronation Street.
Her mother knew more about Emily Bishop than she did about her own family.
And now her sister was lording it up with a man who was a right Face, and a right earner. It was so unfair. If only she had used her loaf, waited a while, kept her options open. But, back then, she had been so
sure
about James. Now look where she
was; stuck in a vicious circle of debt with two kids hanging round her neck. If James had kept his part of the bargain she would have had a nanny, or at least an au pair, to take the brunt of the work off her. She closed her eyes in frustration. She had to work out a way to get rid of the house and still come out quids in. Once she sorted
that,
they could get back on track. If she left it to James, they would still be in that dump of a street when they were drawing their pensions – if she could stand him for that long.
Now, here was Celeste, about to hitch up with a man who was obviously going places. It was like a kick in the teeth.
Her father lifted his leg and broke wind loudly, and she pursed her lips, knowing it was for her benefit. Her father enjoyed her discomfort at what she regarded as common behaviour. If she wasn’t going to be so busy the next few days she would take Gabriella home with her just to teach him a lesson.
‘Here, Cynth, do you want to stay for your tea? Jonny’s coming round, and Jimmy Boy could come here as well. Be a nice family get-together.’
Her mother was smiling as she said it, and Cynthia realised that she genuinely meant it. Still, she was going to refuse because seeing Celeste and Jonny together made her feel even more depressed than usual.
‘I would, Mum, but I’ve made arrangements . . .’ Her voice tailed off and she forced a smile. ‘Maybe another night, eh?’
Mary nodded, wondering why she had bothered asking Cynthia in the first place. Mary Callahan could see that this daughter of hers was eaten up with jealousy about Celeste and Jonny, and she also knew why, though she wouldn’t bring it up in front of her husband. He’d love to go on about it, to use it as another stick to beat his daughter with. It was strange really because Cynthia had always been his favourite – until she was about thirteen. Then the fastidious ways that they had laughed
at and her determination to act like the lady of the manor had ceased to amuse them. Jack had suddenly realised that his daughter was ashamed of him. Not only that, but she also despised him. Despised them all and wanted to be nothing like them. She had only stayed a Catholic because the nuns had beaten the religion into her, and it was the one thing she knew would cause a complete break from her parents. Jack Callahan was a lot of things, but he was a devout Catholic and there was no way he would countenance his daughter turning her back on her faith. And Cynthia, for all her airs and graces, was secretly frightened of having this front door closed on her once and for all. Mary could see that. And, deep down, she needed them more than they needed her.
Cynthia saw a momentary flicker of sadness on her mother’s face, and stood up to put her coat on; she didn’t want or need her pity. Just because she wouldn’t settle for less than what she deserved didn’t make her a bad person. In Cynthia’s book it made her a winner, a fighter, a survivor. A council house and making do would never be her life, she was determined about that much anyway. She would sort out their financial problems, and put all this behind them.
When her mother left, Gabby sighed deeply. Her mother could even make the air seem heavier with her presence, but Gabby hadn’t understood until then the force of certain people’s personalities.
She was beginning to understand that only too well now.
Jimmy was tired and it showed. A lot of it was to do with being married to Cynthia; she had worn him down to nothing. It saddened him that none of his friends visited any more. Cynthia could cook a beautiful meal, pour them good wine, but her very nature stopped people from wanting to be in her company for any length of time. She only bothered with people she thought were class, with people she thought were a cut above. Unfortunately, those were the very people who saw through her like a pane of glass, much quicker than her own kind anyway. She was neither fish nor foul as his old grandmother used to say. She didn’t really fit in anywhere.
Now, as he sat in the warmth of a pub in Dean Street, he wondered why he didn’t come here more often. It was a great place, full of people, full of laughter. He was with Jonny Parker and his cronies and he was having a really fantastic time – he liked Jonny, and he liked Jonny’s mates. He couldn’t understand Cynthia’s almost pathological hatred of him and all he stood for. Jimmy knew Jonny was a bit of a lad, but that was
his
business, certainly nothing for him to concern himself with. He swallowed another Scotch, and felt the warm glow as it hit his empty belly.
‘How you doing, Jimmy Boy?’
Jonny was smiling at him, but Jimmy could feel his concern.
‘I’m all right, Jonny, just thinking, mate. Drink can do that to a body.’
Jonny sat beside him and, leaning across the table, he grabbed his own drink and sipped it. Lighting a cigarette, he casually waved towards the bar for another round of drinks. They appeared only a few minutes later. Jimmy was very impressed; it was as if Jonny owned the place, and that’s how it had been all night long.
‘Here, Jonny,’ said one of his mates, ‘you heard about Black Micky?’
Jonny nodded and said nonchalantly, ‘He knew the score. I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He’ll get an eighteen if he’s lucky.’
The other men at the table all nodded sagely, the conversation had suddenly turned serious.
‘His old woman’s to blame,’ someone else pitched in. ‘Fucking want, want, want. She could spend money like a fucking Russian oligarch, or whatever they’re called! That’s what alerted the Old Bill – fucking BMWs outside the front door, the kids in private school, and him without a legal fucking earn to his name. Got to attract the wrong attention.’
Jonny nodded once more. ‘I told him five years ago when he was first on a good earn – I was working for
him
then, I was only a kid meself – but I said to him, buy a few houses, rent them out, get a shop or a café, something to look like you’re grafting. But you know him, thought he was sorted because he had a few Old Bill on his payroll. It was the serious crime squad who gave him the capture, not local fucking plod.’
Jimmy listened in amazement at the men’s conversation.
‘The SCS are all over the place lately. Someone, somewhere is earning a fucking wedge of some description from them, either getting a pass for their own dirty dealings, or picking up a serious rent. Either way, there’s skulduggery afoot.’
Jonny laughed nastily then. ‘Well, whoever it is, I wouldn’t want to fucking be in their boots when it all comes floating to the top. And it will. You can’t get away with that for any length
of time. Someone will stumble eventually, that’s the law of the streets.’
Trevor Carling, a small, dark-haired man, with eyes that were a deep violet-blue, leant forward and said conversationally, ‘I hope I get first fucking refusal on the cunt. I’d keep him screaming for days – within the hour I’d have the ponce praying for a quick death.’
All the men laughed now, and Jonny grinned as he said, ‘Fucking hell, Trevor, you’d glass your own granny if she owed you a fiver!’
Trevor laughed good-naturedly then, lightening the mood once more as he said, ‘Nah, I love me granny and she’s too intelligent to borrow money from me in the first place!’
Jimmy sat back in the chair, shocked at the conversation around him, and frightened now of the men who had welcomed him into their company and who he had liked and admired only a few minutes before.
Jonny saw the way Jimmy was reacting to their banter and he put an arm around his shoulders. Then, winking at the men around him, he said loudly, ‘Enough! This is my soon-to-be brother-in-law, and he’s straighter than a copper’s parting.’
Trevor leant towards Jimmy and said with a chuckle, ‘Oi, son, remember the old wartime slogan, careless talk costs lives!’
It was a serious warning, and Jimmy knew it.
‘He won’t say a word, he’s sound is Jimmy.’
Jimmy saw that, with those few words from Jonny, he was accepted without a murmur. And he also thought he understood now why Cynthia had such a problem with her sister’s intended. Jonny Parker was going places, and even Jimmy, who was as green as the proverbial grass where the criminal life was concerned, could see that much. It was also obvious that Celeste would be going with him, and that must be what was really causing Cynthia sleepless nights.
Jimmy knew then that Jonny Parker wouldn’t be getting an
eighteen any time soon. He was too shrewd for that. Jimmy also knew that he liked him, even if those last few moments had surprised him. Still, whatever he might be, Jonny Parker was a nice bloke.
‘You all right, Jimmy Boy?’
Jonny Parker was laughing as Jimmy emptied his stomach into the lay-by. He rubbed Jimmy’s back and, when the retching eased off, he opened the boot of his Mercedes and got out a bottle of water.
‘Here y’are, mate, get that down you, you’ll feel better.’
Jimmy drank the cool water gratefully. ‘I don’t drink that much normally.’
Jonny laughed delightedly. ‘I should fucking hope not and all, your liver must be praying for a transplant.’
Jimmy smiled and Jonny wondered at how this big man, who was a lump in many respects, had lumbered himself with someone like Cynthia. But he knew the answer to his own question; Cynthia was a looker, and she had that stuck-up way about her that attracted men. Jimmy had fallen for her, just as many a man before him had fallen for a prize bitch; it wasn’t till they were safely married that they showed their true colours. Jonny should know – his own mother had been a ball-breaker, and his father, a Face in his own right, a hard man, had still never been hard enough to put her in her place. She had dripped her poison in his earhole all day, every day and, eventually, that kind of treatment could bring down even the toughest of men. This poor sap didn’t stand a chance.