Rock a Bye Baby (18 page)

The girl sniffed. ‘As I said, I went out with him, but turned it in when I realised he only wants what he can get, and I’m not that free and easy.’

Rita’s face looked punctured along with her pride. ‘What you trying to say? That I’m cheap? Is that it?’

She was poised as if to gatecrash around the back of the counter. Marcie grabbed her arm and attempted to drag her away.

‘Leave it, Rita. It’s not worth it.’

Rita tried to shrug her off, but Marcie clung on.

‘Tart yourself,’ Rita shouted out. ‘Wait till you’re outside work. I’ll have you, accusing me of being a tart!’

It was on the tip of Marcie’s tongue to say that the girl wasn’t far wrong. She herself had been surprised at Rita’s total abandonment of self-control. She was besotted with Pete; whether he was besotted with her was another matter entirely. Boys being boys bragged of their conquests and Sheppey was a small place; word was bound to get round. Rita was lucky that Pete came down only intermittently from London. Still, if the girl behind the counter at Wool-worths knew, how long before a lot more people did?

She told herself that Johnnie wasn’t like that. He made no attempt to have his way with her – not since that first time. She liked to think she had his respect; in fact she was sure she did.

A loud voice interjected. ‘What’s all this racket?’

Babs had arrived.

The salesgirl pleaded that Rita had called her names. Rita wasn’t given the chance to explain.

‘I want you out of here,’ said Babs, who was showing an imperious side Marcie had never seen before. That, she thought, is what being in charge at Woolworths does for you.

‘Out, out, out!’ she proclaimed, a nicotine-stained finger pointing at the dark-framed doors.

‘Come on,’ Marcie said, dragging Rita towards the doors and the street. Her face was beetroot red. The last thing she wanted was to give Babs reason to repeat what had happened to her father.

‘Promise you’ll wait here,’ she said to Rita, plonking her outside the door.

‘Don’t be so bloody bossy.’

‘I have to be bossy,’ Marcie grumbled. ‘It’s me that’s got to apologise to Babs and stop her from mentioning it at home.’

‘I don’t care,’ said a defiant Rita.

‘But I do,’ returned Marcie. ‘I most definitely bloody well do! My dad’s not like yours, spoiling you to bloody bits.’

Rita gaped at the comment. ‘I am not spoilt.’

‘Yes you are. Now shut up and wait here while I go back in and see Babs. Alright?’

Rita grumbled an agreement that she would stay.

Taking a deep breath Marcie pushed open one of the series of glass doors. She saw her stepmother straight away, exactly where she’d left her. The girl behind the counter seemed to be doing all the talking.

‘Babs?’

She had never ever called her stepmother anything but Babs. They’d never been close enough for Marcie to call her mother.

Babs looked pretty formidable in her Woolworths uniform and you could see she was in charge.

‘Well! Look what the cat’s dragged in!’ snapped her stepmother. ‘Where’s that cheap little mate of yours?’ she asked, dodging her head from one side to another in an attempt to see past Marcie.

‘She started it.’ She pointed at the girl behind the counter. ‘Rita likes Pete and he likes her too. That’s all there is to it. She shouldn’t have called Rita a tart.’

A lip-curling smirk preceded her stepmother’s biting words.

‘Is that so? Well, I’m not so sure about that. From what Maureen tells me she’s been throwing her favours around a bit freely. That girl’s going to end up in trouble if she don’t watch it. Though I s’pose she’ll get through that alright. Knowing Alan Taylor, he’ll pay whatever it takes and any way he can to sort things out.’

‘He’s a good dad to her,’ Marcie blurted out. ‘Why
shouldn’t he do what’s best for her? Better that than being told what to wear, what to do and where to go by a dad who drove my mother away and set up with a … a … an old brass from the East End of London!’

It was only the fact that she was in work that Babs didn’t blow her top. Marcie could see that she looked about to explode. So explode, she thought. Have it out right here and now in the middle of Woolworths.

Marcie became aware that all eyes had turned in their direction. Customers had stopped in the middle of paying for their purchases; shop girls’ heads went together behind the wide wooden counters.

This had not gone the way Marcie had wanted it to go. She wished she could disappear into the cowl neck of her bright-mustard top.

Babs grabbed her arm, her red claws digging deep. ‘Just you wait ’til your father hears about this!’ Marcie winced. The digging fingernails were bad enough. The wrath of her father was something she wished to avoid – at least for now. She wasn’t ready to confront him with what Garth had said. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Garth, but what he’d said was hardly proof. He got easily confused. She also didn’t have the confidence to spill the beans. It took guts to accuse her father of murder. Somehow, each time she was on the point of accusing him, the words just wouldn’t come. Leave it for now.

Marcie pointed. ‘That girl’s chewing gum!’

Babs sneered. ‘So? I’m still going to tell your old man what you and your cheap meat mate have been up to.’

‘I haven’t been up to anything,’ Marcie protested. ‘Not like you. When my dad was inside you didn’t exactly sit at home and knit.’

It was a shot in the dark. She’d heard rumours but had no evidence whether Babs had strayed from the straight and narrow while her dad was in prison. Judging by the look on her stepmother’s face it was very likely that she had. Marcie didn’t ponder about who she might have been unfaithful with. Babs had had the opportunity – once a week she’d gone out to bingo, or so she said, with girls from work. Maybe her father had had more than one reason to knock his wife around.

‘Is her chewing gum one of your mates from bingo?’ Marcie asked pointedly.

A silvery pallor shone through the thick Pan Stick on Babs’s face. Marcie knew she’d hit a raw nerve. Was Babs going to admit to anything? Not likely, she thought.

Lashes clogged with black mascara flickered. She prayed that her stepmother was definitely thinking things through.

Suddenly she knew things had changed. Babs spun on the girl chewing gum.

‘You should know better than that. No chewing
gum behind the counter. Now get it out of your mouth or you’ll find yourself out of a job!’

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Rita when she got back outside.

‘I fixed her good and proper,’ Marcie said, her grin widening. ‘Fixed the girl chewing gum too. Likely she’ll get the sack.’

Far from being grateful, Rita looked terrified. ‘Do you know who that is? Maureen Phelps. Her and her mates were bullies at school. They’ll come after you now – and me. You might be able to cope but I certainly can’t. Christ! What am I going to do?’

Marcie didn’t know quite why but no way was she afraid of Maureen Phelps or any of her mates. She’d fixed her stepmother good and proper, and that alone made her feel good. The one aspect of her denunciation that stayed with her was that her stepmother had played around while her dad was away. She couldn’t help wondering who she’d been playing with.

Rosa Brooks watched her son mowing the front lawn, although the effort was hardly worth it considering that the dingy patch of grass was barely enough to stretch out on.

The boys sometimes played on it but not very often. Babs sometimes put Annie out there in her coach-built pram. It was more to do with showing off the ‘Pedigree’ pram with its fringed canopy and cat net rather than for Annie’s benefit, which was understandable really: the child was a reminder that Babs wasn’t all that she should be – fur coat and no knickers, as they said up in London.

Tony had caught her out with a brawny Dutch sailor and had given her more than just a good hiding. Annie was the result – that, at least, was the story Rosa’s son had spun her.

The child could not help it, but continued to be a brooding reminder of what her mother had done. Babs didn’t hurt the child – Rosa would not stand for that – but she had less affection for her than for the boys. Not that she showed that much for the boys.

Rosa tilted her head sideways as she gave the lawn
further contemplation. Tony was only mowing it with his new lawnmower so she wouldn’t get rid of the chicken house. He’d put other stuff in there as well, even an old deckchair he’d ‘borrowed’ from the beach.

Marcie was the only member of the family likely to lie on the lawn. She’d seen a tanned Bridget Bardot in a magazine and decided she wanted to be bronzed and blonde like her. Rosa had refrained from advising that the starlet’s eyes were dark brown and her hair was no doubt the same colour, therefore she tanned easily. Marcie’s hair was naturally blonde and her eyes were blue. Just like her mother’s. She’d inherited little from the Maltese side of their family.

Rosa’s lips tightened at the thought of her daughter-in-law. She’d thought over the years about asking Cyril whether Marcie’s mother was in spirit, but didn’t have the courage. She preferred to believe that she had run away with someone rather than face the possibility that her son’s temper might have got the better of him. In the meantime she found herself wishing that she hadn’t got rid of the chickens. It occurred to her that killing them had masked other blood that stained the ground. Blood was life and a life taken violently echoed through the years. Of course she could be mistaken; in fact she wanted to be mistaken – for the sake of her family – and especially for the sake of her son.

It was Friday night. Marcie knocked at the door of the Taylor bungalow. Rita opened the door swiftly and dragged her in.

‘Quick,’ she whispered. ‘Steph’s in the bath and Dad’s not home yet. Pete’s promised to phone and Johnnie’s going to be there with him.’

Just recently Marcie had noticed that Rita was calling her stepmother by her first name more and more.

Whatever Rita wanted to do, that was up to her. Marcie was here for Johnnie. She was trembling with excitement. Johnnie had been in her thoughts all week. New sensations that were all part of growing up made her think differently than she had done. It seemed her thoughts and reactions were changing from week to week, as though her body had a mind of its own. Thinking of Johnnie filled her with a strange tingling that made her legs turn to jelly.

Rita was asking her whether she’d brought her overnight bag and suitable clothes for camping.

Marcie held up her brother’s navy blue duffle bag. It looked out of place in the palatial bungalow with its thick square of carpet, black leather furniture with stick-like legs and room dividers glowing with orange, green and dark-red glass ornaments. They even had pelmets above their windows. Pelmets were something only posh people had. At home in
Endeavour Terrace the curtains were threaded onto cheap wires Babs had ‘acquired’ from Woolworths.

Rita pointed at a square-shaped plastic bag decorated with pink flowers. ‘That’s mine.’

Marcie relegated her hands and the grubby duffle bag behind her back.

Rita was grinning. ‘Your dad was OK then. Told you he would be if my dad told him you were sleeping here with me. My dad’s all right, don’t you think?’

Marcie couldn’t help agreeing.

‘He’s great. You are so lucky. My old man’s a right misery. I’m frightened to ask him anything. He only says no or shouts at me as though I’ve done something really terrible – he never used to be so mean.’ Marcie had been amazed when her father had agreed to her request so easily. She’d been getting her courage up all week to ask him, worried that he’d slap her again merely for asking. But he hadn’t. Rita had got her dad to ask and them being old mates … it was easy.

‘Alan Taylor’s a good mate of mine so I’m not worried about you staying at his gaff. But listen here, girl, and listen good: don’t you go bringing any trouble home to my door. Hear me? No buns in no ovens or I’ll knock you to kingdom come. Right?’

She truly believed he would. It seemed such a short time ago when he’d sent her presents like the pink transistor radio. Back then she’d missed him and
wanted him home. Not now though. The father who’d gone away was different to the father who’d come home – though deep down she knew she’d changed too. Alan Taylor was no doubt right. The coltish girl was gone to be replaced by a woman who very closely resembled her mother.

Rita’s face was pink with excitement as she checked her watch. ‘Pete promised he’d ring at seven. One minute … thirty seconds … fifteen seconds …’

The phone rang just once. Rita pounced on it.

‘Pete?’

Of course it was Pete. Rita spoke to him in an enthusiastic whisper.

Marcie waited. Rita’s conversation was sparse and low – a series of monosyllabic whispers continued.

At last she swiftly and quietly placed the receiver back in its cradle.

‘They’re coming here. They won’t be long. Pete said they’ve got a tent each.’

Marcie headed for the door. Rita shouted a hasty goodbye to her stepmother.

‘Doubt whether she heard. But never mind. She thinks I’m going to an all-night party. So does my dad.’ She giggled. ‘And I’m all set.’

She took an oblong of foil-wrapped pills from her pocket. ‘My dad got them for me. Reckons I’m going to do it anyway so might as well be prepared.’

Marcie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Birth control pills?’

Smiling broadly, Rita nodded. ‘Correct.’

Marcie could hardly believe it. Rita’s dad was as far from being an old square as it was likely to be.

‘I wish he was my dad,’ she said wistfully. ‘My dad wouldn’t allow me to take them. Besides, my gran would kill me. She’d kill my dad too.’

Rosa Brooks was an ardent Catholic. Babs had mentioned the birth pill within her grandmother’s hearing and said how it would change everything for women.

Her grandmother’s face had stiffened to the consistency of cold marble. ‘Not in this house!’

So her father resorted to quick visits to the local chemist for a packet of Durex or Babs herself got some during her lunch break.