Rock a Bye Baby (16 page)

Her grandmother was gathering up the half dozen birds she’d killed, their claws sticking through her fingers like yellow twigs. Her son, Marcie’s father, was a picture of agitation, a look of absolute dismay on his dark, rugged features.

‘But you’ve always had chickens, Mother. You always said we’ll eat well if we keep chickens.’ He sounded dismayed, even puzzled.

‘That was in the years after the war,’ she said without turning to acknowledge his presence.

She straightened, rubbing her aching back with one hand despite the meat cleaver she still held in it.

‘We had to grow and rear our own food back then. We do not need to keep chickens now. They make too much noise in the morning and people are beginning to complain.’ Her eyes seemed to light up when she looked at him. ‘It is nothing for you to concern yourself with. They are my chickens. It is my shed. I will do with it as I please.’

He frowned when he saw Marcie. ‘What are you doing out here? Get on in.’

She stood her ground. ‘The boys said Gran was getting rid of her chickens. Is that true, Gran?’

She didn’t add about wondering why he’d dashed out at the news. Why should he get concerned over dead chickens? Her grandmother had been raising and killing chickens for years.

Tony Brooks turned back to his mother, a fearful look in his eyes.

‘But there’s no need to burn the coop down,’ he said, slapping the side of the hutch. ‘It’s a strong old lot. I could use it to keep tools in and the lawnmower.’

She noticed he was using the same forced light-hearted tone he’d used with her in the kitchen.

Her grandmother noticed something else. ‘We have not got a lawnmower. I cut the grass with a pair of shears.’

‘I’m going to get a lawnmower,’ he blurted out. ‘I was only thinking about it the other day. Save you getting down on your knees, Ma. But I will need somewhere to keep it. This shed should do the job nicely.’

It occurred to Marcie that her grandmother was fixing her son with a very suspicious eye. Her father saw it too, blinked and looked away. There were few people who could meet a look from Rosa Brooks. She had a way of eyeing people that made them feel naked, as though she were reading their thoughts.

‘Everything is arranged,’ said Rosa Brooks.

She went on to inform him that the chickens were
already sold – her grandmother was shrewd enough to make sure she could dispose of them before she’d killed them.

‘You’re not plucking and drawing them tonight!’ Tony said with a grimace.

‘Yes. Once I have eaten my meal.’

Rosa Brooks was true to her word. She had six chickens to prepare for her customers and at ten shillings and sixpence a time she certainly wouldn’t leave them to waste. ‘Chickens are best plucked when they’re warm,’ she pointed out.

Later on after they’d eaten she asked Marcie to get her chair from the front room. ‘I was using it to hang up the clean curtains after I’d washed them.’

The same rickety old chair that she sat on outside the back door to do her knitting had many uses, hence being used as a stepladder for hanging curtains.

Just for a change Babs had put young Annie to bed herself. Marcie’s father was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, though it looked as though he was having trouble concentrating.

The two boys were preparing to assist their grandmother.

‘I like pulling out the giblets best,’ said Arnold, rolling up his shirtsleeves.

Archie said he preferred the feathers.

When Marcie went to collect the required chair
Babs was standing in the middle of the room quietly contemplating the right-hand alcove to the side of the fireplace.

‘What are you doing?’

Babs was startled at first. ‘That wasn’t funny! What you doing spying on me anyway?’

‘I wasn’t spying.’ Marcie went to the window where the chair had been left. ‘I came for this. Gran wants it so she can sit outside and do the chickens.’

Babs sniffed. For once she seemed placated. ‘That’s alright then. Just don’t tell her you found me in here,’ she added somewhat worriedly. ‘Promise?’

Marcie frowned. Babs had never been easy to deal with. Hostility had always simmered between them. ‘Why should I promise?’

Babs made a face. ‘Look. There’s something that I want to buy. I was just in here looking to see where it will go. I’ve decided on that place there.’

She pointed to the alcove.

Marcie was curious. ‘What are you buying?’

Babs grinned and her eyes sparkled. ‘Promise you won’t tell? I’ll gladly tell you if you don’t tell. I know you’ll be pleased.’

‘OK. Tell me.’

Babs took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to buy a radiogram. A Pye radiogram. A Black Box they call it. It’s all glossy wood with thin black legs. What do you think about that then?’

‘With a record player?’

‘Of course it’ll have a record player. Wouldn’t be a radiogram without one, would it!’ She sounded indignant that Marcie might have presumed otherwise.

‘Right.’

Marcie headed out of the door without committing herself to secrecy. Babs grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t tell your grandmother. And don’t tell your dad. Right?’

Marcie chewed her bottom lip as though she were thinking about it. ‘Right,’ she said at last and Babs was happy.

She wondered how come her stepmother was able to buy something so expensive.

‘There you are, Gran.’

Her grandmother settled herself on the chair. The boys hunkered down. Arnold waggled a chicken leg at her.

‘Yuk! Boys are so disgusting.’

‘We are being watched,’ said her grandmother.

Marcie looked around her.

‘At the back gate,’ said her grandmother.

Someone large and awkward was peering over the back gate. Realising he’d been discovered, he backed away then dipped back again, his head appearing around the side of a straggling buddleia.

‘Garth. The boy is lonely.’

Her grandmother’s voice broke into her thoughts. Her lips had barely moved and the fingers nimbly plucking feathers did not pause. Neither did she look up.

Rosa Brooks had often told her that you didn’t need to see people to know they were close. You could sometimes feel them.

The last thing Marcie wanted was Garth following her around in that persistent and pesky manner of his.

‘I fancy a night at the pictures,’ she said, pulling thoughtfully at a strand of long blonde hair. She was contemplating going by herself if she had to. Without Garth seeing her she could dash out through the front door – he wouldn’t be able to get round from the back lane in time to follow her.

As usual her grandmother was in tune with her thoughts. ‘Take Garth with you. Remember that good deeds done on earth are remembered in heaven.’

It was far from Marcie’s thoughts, to be remembered in heaven. Hoping by some chance Johnnie had stayed on in Sheerness was her uppermost thought.

Babs chose that moment to poke her head out of the back door. ‘Marcie, love, can you look after Annie, only me and your dad want to go down the pub? There’s a darts game tonight and he fancies his chances.’

Her wheedling voice was annoying, but that’s how she could be when she wanted something done.

‘You’re too late,’ said Rosa Brooks. ‘I have given Marcie five shillings to take herself and Garth to the pictures.’

‘Oh!’ Babs’s face dropped. ‘Well … I put her to bed—’

‘Once Annie is asleep you may follow your husband to the pub.’

Marcie pulled on a coat with a big collar and turned it up around her face.

Newly shaved, her father came out of the bathroom at the back and regarded her quizzically.

‘Bit warm for a big coat, our Marcie.’

She snuggled her head down inside the collar. ‘It might rain later.’

What if any of her friends saw her out with Garth on her way to the pictures? Hopefully nobody would see her once she was inside and cloaked by darkness. She couldn’t bear the leg pulling she’d get if they did.

The coat she wore covered the very short suede pinafore. Her dad looked her up and down before turning and making his way back to the bathroom to finish his shave.

That was something she’d got away with! Garth was a burden she had to bear. She groaned inwardly, her fingers playing with the coins her grandmother had given her.

Garth was already waiting at the front gate.

‘We’re going to the pictures, Garth.’

She swept straight past him. Best if he walked behind a bit.

‘Is it a cowboy?’ he asked excitedly, his gangly legs and shuffling gait struggling to keep up with her.

‘I don’t know.’

Marcie could have kicked herself for not checking what was on.

With a bit of luck it might be a love story, she thought, as she hurried along with her head buried in her coat collar.

The collar was doing its work and her face was partially hidden. No one glancing at her would recognise her as Marcie Brooks. Not if she kept her head down.

It was sometimes difficult to believe that Garth was twenty-one, old enough to join the Army and fight; old enough to get married without his parents’ consent. Due to the circumstances of his birth he acted and sounded like a ten-year-old, and would never do things like others of his age.

He continued to prattle on in his inimitable manner as they marched along. He was chattering nineteen to the dozen and darting around from one subject to another until they all seemed to run into one subject – which couldn’t possibly be right. She caught snatches that made some sense, but not much
– until he said the one thing above all others likely to catch her attention.

‘Your mum used to take me to the pictures with you when you were small. I was bigger than you. You were smaller than me.’

‘What did you say?’

He continued to prattle on.

She grabbed him with both hands so he had to stop, had to face her.

‘You remember my mother. You do, don’t you!’

It was a statement not a question. He’d mentioned her twice. He couldn’t be storytelling. He really did remember.

His sudden whimper made her realise she was holding him too tightly.

‘Are – you – going – to – to – hit – mmmeee?’ he stammered.

She released her grip on him, aware suddenly how intimidating she must appear to someone used to being bullied.

‘I’m sorry.’

They walked on. Garth was silent at first, a little wary of what she might do. A few yards and he was off again prattling on about digging holes and planting cabbages.

Occupied with her own thoughts, Marcie took little notice. She’d wanted to talk to someone about her mother, someone who would speak freely and openly.
It had never occurred to her that Garth would actually remember her mother. She’d half expected his account of the woman and child sitting beneath a tree was some kind of story; her grandmother hadn’t confirmed whether it were true or not.

She slowed her pace until he caught up and was shuffling along beside her. He had a strange, loping gait, similar to the crabs she’d seen on the beach. Desperate as it seemed, he was the only person she could ask about her mother.

‘Do you remember my mother?’ she repeated.

He had a donkey-like action when he nodded his head, almost as though it were too big for his body.

‘Yes. She was kind. She took me to the pictures with you – when you were small. And I was bigger than you—’

‘Yes. So you said. And my father? Do you know my father?’

‘Yes. He isn’t kind.’

She didn’t argue with that. ‘My mother went away. Do you remember the time when she went away?’

He nodded.

‘Did you see her leave?’

He shook his head. ‘Your dad had a shovel. He said he was going to plant potatoes.’

Marcie’s head jerked round. ‘But you didn’t see my mother?’

‘I saw your dad with a shovel. Going to plant potatoes.’

‘But you remember my mother went away?’

He nodded. ‘She was hurt. I saw her hurt.’

Marcie’s blood ran cold. ‘Who hurt her?’ Had her father hit her mother like he hit Barbara? Or worse, perhaps.

Garth hung his head, his eyes fixed on the broken pavement and his shuffling footsteps.

‘Can’t say,’ he said at last. ‘Can’t say.’

She didn’t need him to answer. Each word was part of a puzzle, a puzzle of suspicion that was swiftly coming together. The look on his face was enough to convince her that her mother had good reason for leaving home.

‘Even if she left with another man, I can’t blame her for leaving,’ she murmured mostly to herself, though Garth heard her.

‘She got hurt,’ Garth said again.

Marcie frowned. He’d said that just now.

‘How? How did she get hurt, Garth?’

But Garth was already in a world of his own.

‘I love Hopalong Cassidy.’

It was no use telling him there was no cowboy showing that night, and certainly nothing as old as Hopalong Cassidy!

It was only a five-minute walk to the Ritz. They were outside and there wasn’t much of a queue for
the stalls – there rarely was this early in the week.

While they queued she tried pressurising Garth, asking him how her mother had got hurt.

Garth’s eyes flickered. ‘I like cowboys and Indians.’

She could see how excited he was and that the chance of getting a logical answer was extremely slim. However, she had to try.

Taking a deep breath she asked him the question that now haunted her. ‘Where is she? Where is my mother? Do you know where she went?’

He hung his head again, so deeply that his chin rested on his chest. She fancied his spoon-deep eyelids were closed and presumed he was trying to remember. She prayed he’d come up with an answer.

The answer when it came didn’t make sense and was certainly not what she’d hoped for.

‘She’s lying down somewhere dark. It’s very dark and she doesn’t want to be there. And then we built a chicken coop. I helped.’

Marcie stared. Garth looked as though he’d scaled Big Ben, while she felt more like throwing herself off it. She removed her coat, not realising that she was being watched.

Marcie tossed her head, an action which sent her hair falling like a velvet veil onto her shoulders. She was wearing a honey-coloured mini dress – a very short mini dress which showed off the shape and firmness of her young, coltish legs. Alan Taylor sighed with longing. He’d watched as she’d taken off her coat, wishing he was in the position to ask her to take off more.