Wishing and Hoping (14 page)

Her voice came to an abrupt halt over the last word. Prison! She'd never considered her husband might end up there. Not like her father. She caught the look in her father's eyes and guessed he was reading her thoughts.

‘You won't need to sell your nice house,' he said as though he had some control over events.

‘Yes,' she said resolutely. ‘I think I'll have to. In the mean time, I'll rent it out.' She got to her feet. ‘I'm going to move back into the flat. I need to be on the job. I need to be there to keep an eye on what's going on.'

‘So how about this weekend?' asked her father. ‘How about we head home to Sheppey?'

Home. The word seemed to echo in Marcie's head before curling itself around her like a warm blanket.

She nodded. ‘I think I'd like that.'

Marcie had a smart new Mini Cooper, which was great for ferrying herself and the kids around. Her father had acquired some middle-aged spread and tended to overfill the front passenger seat so they went down to the Isle of Sheppey in his car, a dark-green Ford Zodiac with pointed tailfins and chrome hubcaps.

The car was part of the flash image he'd lately adopted and went along with the Elvis Presley hairdo, bushy sideburns framing his face.

Marcie knew that he groomed himself to suit the women in his life. If she was honest she suspected there'd always been other women. Normally it would anger her, but nowadays she didn't want to think about it – just in case her husband Michael was tarred with the same brush.

There were whispers, of course; there always were in the shady world they lived in. Men working at night in close proximity to semi-naked girls were bound to attract gossip. That didn't mean the rumours were true.

She looked out at scenery, so familiar to her from a childhood where things had been cosier than it
seemed at the time. Michael had taken her away from all this. Was she a fool to believe he was innocent?

Her grandmother seemed to be bustling around in the kitchen as usual, her face wreathed in smiles at the arrival of her granddaughter and her great-grandchildren. If she was any slower, it didn't really register with Marcie, though nothing much did at the moment. Michael filled her waking hours and haunted her sleep.

Garth was drawing pictures for Joanna. At the same time he sang a very off-key version of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm' and encouraged Joanna to mimic the animal noises that he did so well.

Although aware of all that was going on, Marcie sat stiffly. Her body felt so cold, so empty. She'd expected her grandmother to look her over in that shrewd way of hers and immediately ask what was wrong. But Rosa hadn't once looked her over and the twinkling dark eyes didn't seem half as bright as she remembered them.

Strange that I want her to notice, to ask what's wrong. Surely she can see it in my face, she thought.

That's selfish!

The voice in her head brought her up short. Of course it was selfish. Her grandmother had raised her, cared for her when she was small and left without a mother. Now she was old.

The realisation left her feeling guilty and needing to apologise.

‘I shouldn't have come,' she whispered to her father.

‘Of course you should,' he whispered back.

If Rosa heard or saw, she said nothing. Absorbed in providing for a family she didn't see so much of nowadays, she looked happy in her work.

Abundant smells of cooking and all things warm and heartening filled the air. Saucepans on the old range gurgled and steamed. A plum pudding was fetched out of the oven.

Rosa set a cup of tea and a slice of home-made fruitcake on a plate in front of her granddaughter. ‘There have been problems. Tell me about them.'

Father and daughter exchanged glances.

‘I'll take the kids out into the garden,' said her father. ‘We can play football. You coming, Garth?'

‘Just one kid, Dad. Aran doesn't play football yet and he's currently asleep.'

Her dad nodded sheepishly. Garth was all chuckles and enthusiasm.

Grandmother and granddaughter were left alone.

Marcie looked into her grandmother's face. The steam from the cooking pots had plastered her hair to her head. It was her eyes that drew her greatest attention. To Marcie's eyes, it seemed as though a thin net curtain hid the dark lustre that used to be. Her eyes didn't seem so black. Her movements were
less confident as though she was carefully considering what she was doing.

She's getting old. That's all, she told herself, and yet again rebuked herself for not noticing before.

Her grandmother pummelled a cushion on the hard oak chair and sat herself down.

‘I dreamed of something bad,' she said.

Marcie's breath caught in her throat. ‘Michael's been arrested.'

She went on to tell her grandmother the rest of it.

‘He didn't do it, Gran. Michael's not like that.'

Even though her dark eyes seemed less lustrous, Marcie flinched beneath her grandmother's gaze.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

Marcie filled in the rest of the details about the gun and the blood-stained shirt found beneath a rose bush at the end of the garden.

‘They're checking to make sure that it's her blood.' Marcie shook her head. ‘It can't be. He wouldn't kill someone. He wouldn't!'

Rosa took the news incredibly well, neither condemning nor sympathising. She nodded her head sagely, but her countenance remained unchanged and incredibly calm. How could she be so? thought Marcie.

She herself had been devastated, unable to move, even to speak.

‘You must be strong. You must believe in him.'

She nodded. ‘Yes.' Inside she was reliving the way she had felt when the shirt had been found. Michael had insisted that he'd ripped it at the club and had put on a clean one; he always kept spare shirts at the club. Was she naive in believing him?

‘It isn't because of lipstick on the collar, or the smell of someone else's perfume,' she blurted. ‘He always kept a spare shirt in his office.'

‘Listen to the advice people give you, then make up your own mind. You know a person's truthfulness by listening with your mind, your stomach and your heart.'

Rosa Brooks indicated each body part as it was mentioned. Something about her doing that, plus the quiet way she was saying things, washed over Marcie like a wave coming in from the sea. She felt calmer and also refreshed.

‘If you believe in him, then things will come right.' Rosa's eyes flickered. ‘I recall a time when I had to believe in your grandfather. We were parted because of a misunderstanding. A silly thing. Just because I was Maltese Catholic and he was not. I listened to everyone's advice and then I made up my own mind.'

Marcie knew she was referring to the time when her grandparents had met each other just after the Great War in Malta.

‘Tell me,' she said.

Her grandmother smiled. Marcie had never seen
her smile that way before. Suddenly the years seemed to fall from her face. The lines were gone, filled out with a shining happiness that was equally reflected in her old, tired eyes.

‘It was like this,' she began.

Marcie listened to the story of her grandmother and grandfather.

Her Maltese great-grandmother had placed a potted plant – a pink geranium – on the first-floor window ledge of their narrow terraced house in the old quarter of Birgu, one of the old cities of the island. The potted plant advertised the fact that there was an unmarried virgin in the house. Unfortunately nobody knew that Rosa had already met the love of her life – a less than upright Naval rating with twinkling eyes and a way with words.

‘They would not countenance me marrying him. He was English and not of the faith. He was also ten years older than me. I sat through many lectures when they told me that such a marriage would never work. The priest was brought in to lecture me on the error of my ways. For a time they threatened to have me put away. They even enrolled me in a convent for a whole week! The nuns were strict, but no matter what they did I refused to give in. They called me wild and even mad and told me that I would be put away for good if I did not obey my parents. I calmed down at that and eventually was
allowed to go home. And then I ran away. We were married eventually, though it was never an easy path. I was a fiery young woman. My husband, your grandfather, was always chasing some crazy moneymaking dream. Not that he ever made much money. But it didn't matter. We loved each other and sometimes we hated; there is a thin line,' she said on seeing the look of disbelief on her granddaughter's face. ‘We parted once. My mother had been ill. I felt guilty I had been in England. But we got back together and enjoyed making up.' Her smile widened. ‘We always did.'

It was a moment before Marcie could speak. Listening to her grandmother was like reading a romance novel, but real.

‘You love your husband.'

Marcie nodded.

‘Do you believe in him in your heart, in your head and in your stomach?'

Perhaps buoyed up by her grandmother's life story, Marcie nodded. ‘Yes.'

Then she shook her head. ‘I can't believe it. Not of him.'

‘Then don't,' said her grandmother.

They might have gone on talking about the problem, but were rudely interrupted.

The front door of number ten Endeavour Terrace was usually left unlocked so family and friends could
come and go as they pleased. The sound of it slamming against the wall made Rosa and Marcie turn their heads. The door to the kitchen flew open too, bouncing against the wall and springing back on its hinges.

‘Well! Where is the fucking bastard?'

Babs, Marcie's stepmother, came flying into the kitchen, her breasts bouncing against the top of a low-cut sweater. A safety pin glinted from a broken bra strap and a roll of fat sagged over the waistband of her skirt.

Everything about Mrs Barbara Brooks was looking shoddy and tired. Dark roots showed greasy against straw-dry blonde. There were dark rings beneath her eyes and she smelled stale, as though neither her clothes nor her body had been dipped in water for weeks.

In the past Rosa Brooks would have glared at her daughter-in-law and warned her to watch her tongue, either that or order her from the house. Instead she sank into a chair with a low moan, her forehead resting on her hand.

Marcie was appalled. ‘Any chance of you being a bit more considerate?'

Babs snorted. At the same time she got out a packet of Woodbines from a white plastic handbag.

‘Huh,' she snorted again as she attempted to light up. ‘Look who it is! Miss High and Bloody Mighty. What do you want down here? Doing a bit of
slumming are you or looking for old flames? Well you won't find your mate's old man that's for sure,' she said with a snigger. ‘Alan Taylor's body is a mouldering in his grave,' she sang to the tune of ‘John Brown's Body', then added, ‘Rita Taylor's body is a mouldering in her grave . . .'

Marcie felt her face turning red. She didn't need Babs to tell her that Alan Taylor was dead. She'd seen him die. She'd struggled and he'd fallen and hit his head. Not that she'd ever told anyone what had happened. She'd been scared. She'd run away. Sometimes at night she woke up fearing the police had arrested her and were taking her to prison. That was bad enough. It was when they told her that she would never see her children again, that was the worst.

‘Anyway,' Babs went on, heading for the back door, ‘I don't want to speak to you. It's my old man I want. The bastard's leaving me short of cash. The kids are starving. Bread and dripping. That's all I've been able to give them. So! Where is me other half?'

The sound of laughter came in from the back garden bringing Babs to her feet. Her expression darkened. ‘Right!' she said, gathering her coat around her and straightening so that the safety pin holding her bra together pinged off into space.

Marcie stepped in between her stepmother and the back door. ‘Oh no you don't!'

‘Get out of my way,' shouted Babs.

‘I'll do no such thing. You are such a liar, Barbara Brooks. Not only that, you're a drunk and a slut. Just look at you! Hardly love's young dream!'

Bottom lip curling in disgust, she eyed her father's second wife from top to toe. The four-inch court shoes were scuffed and dirty. Her stockings were laddered and the hem of her skirt was sagging on one side, a loose thread trailing down to her ankle. She'd once been regarded as quite a looker. Now she looked a mess.

‘Let her go.'

The voice of Rosa Brooks was tired and measured. ‘Let her go,' she repeated. ‘It is not for us to keep husband and wife apart.'

Marcie felt stung. Not for being taken to task. That wasn't what her grandmother was doing. It was as though she were seeing the whole situation more clearly. Husband and wife needed to confront each other. Each needed to be confronted with the problems they'd caused themselves.

‘Ta!' snapped Babs and went out the back door.

Garth, instantly recognising an angry woman when he saw one, came in with Joanna hanging on to the hem of his pullover.

‘I'm scared,' whined Joanna. ‘There's a nasty witch out there.'

Marcie picked her up. ‘Nothing to be scared of. You're with Mummy now.'

‘Is she a witch?' asked Joanna, not looking entirely sure her mother could protect her.

‘Not quite,' replied Marcie, mindful that she might give the child nightmares. ‘But even if she was, your mummy's the good fairy and will wave her away with her magic wand. Isn't that right?' she giggled, tickling the little girl's tummy so that she giggled too.

‘Old MacDonald had a farm . . .'

Garth was singing and drawing again. Joanna joined him, laughing as he made piggy noises or mooed like a cow.

The grunts and moos distracted the child, but Marcie and her grandmother were still aware of the noise beyond the back door. The pine planks it was made of were incapable of keeping out the sound of Babs shrieking obscenities at Marcie's father.