Wishing and Hoping (5 page)

Eyes thickly outlined with shiny black liner turned in Marcie's direction. Babs had seen her. The laughter was silenced and crack lines began to appear in the thickly applied make-up.

‘Marcie,' she said, attempting to resurrect some semblance of a smile while hitting away the hand creeping up her thigh. On seeing Marcie with her long blonde hair and fresh-faced complexion, the two men leered suggestively. The leers soon disappeared once they saw the look on Michael's face. Seeing their plans were on hold for the moment, they moved further along the bar.

Babs sniffed and pouted as though she were still eighteen years old. She uncrossed her legs and clamped them tightly together.

‘I wasn't expecting you this weekend,' Babs said tartly. ‘Your dad didn't say you were coming down – but then he wouldn't – I don't get to see much of him at all nowadays. Thought Rosa might have said though.'

Mention of her grandmother pulled Marcie up short from the accusations she'd been going to throw. After all, she was feeling a little guilty that she hadn't visited too much of late.

‘Oh. Have you been round to see her?'

Sensing a bout of female sarcasm was about to erupt, Michael murmured that he would get in the drinks.

Babs heard him. ‘Port and lemon for me, Michael darling,' she said, swigging back what remained of her drink and handing him the empty glass.

Eyes blazing, Marcie intercepted it and placed it firmly onto the bar with a resounding thump. Luckily the glass was thick enough to stand it. ‘Never mind having another port and lemon; why are the boys sitting outside waiting for a packet of crisps? Dad sends you money to look after the kids not to come down here boozing. And who's this woman you've left our Annie with?'

Other people besides Babs looked taken aback by the anger in Marcie's voice. Even her stance was far from being that of a young woman who at one time wouldn't have said boo to a goose. She was livid. Babs had always been free with her favours and too fond of a good time. In times past Marcie had not offered criticism, but she was older now and had kids of her own. Her opinions and reactions had hardened up.

Babs' jaw dropped and she adopted her gravely affronted look. ‘That's none of your bloody business. They're my kids, not yours.'

‘They're my brothers and sister. I have every right
to know how they're being treated and, anyway, Dad will want to know.'

Babs gave one look before guffawing with loud laughter. ‘Your dad will want to know? Well, if he's so bloody concerned about his kids, maybe he should come down and see them a bit more often!'

‘He sends you the money,' Marcie pointed out, already smarting at the truth of what Babs had just said. ‘He is working up there you know, not seeing the sights!'

‘Huh!' Babs exclaimed tossing her head. ‘Don't make me laugh. My old man likes his bit of the other and he ain't coming down here to get it from me. And that means only one thing! He's getting it elsewhere.'

Marcie was momentarily taken aback. Tony Brooks was still her father and as a daughter it was hard to believe anything bad of him. She'd thought he'd learned his lesson after he'd almost come a cropper over the last girlfriend Babs had found out about.

Still, she had to put up some kind of defence for her dad's actions.

‘That's no excuse for neglecting the kids,' She could feel her face growing hot. OK, her father was no saint, but then neither was Babs.

‘Ooow! Lovely,' said Babs, reaching for the drink Michael had paid for and the barman had pushed in her direction.

Marcie grabbed the hand that reached for the drink. ‘Answer my question. When was the last time you saw my grandmother?'

Babs gave a small shrug of her shoulders. ‘Ooow, I suppose two or three weeks ago.'

‘Two or three weeks since you've been round there?'

Marcie could barely control the urge to slap the panstick off her stepmother's face.

Babs blinked like they say rabbits do when they're caught in the headlights of a car. But she pulled herself together.

‘Come off it, Marcie. You know how it is between me and Rosa. We're chalk and cheese. Never did like each other very much now did we, girl? She don't like me and I don't like her. Never going to be any different is it? Likely to start bloody World War Three me and 'er. So it's best I stays away. Right?'

‘You said you saw her.'

‘I did. She was out shopping with the spastic kid – Garth. He always goes out shopping with her.'

‘I suppose the boys go round there for a good meal if they want one,' said Marcie.

Babs winced at the same time as smiling, trying to make it seem as though everything was sweetness and light. ‘Yeah. They like it round with their gran.'

‘And it suits you,' said Marcie accusingly, her fingers tightening over her stepmother's wrist. ‘It
suits you to have an old woman look after your kids so you can pretend to be single again.'

‘I might just as well be,' Babs retorted hotly. ‘What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. My old man's shacked up with some tart up in London and thinks that I'll be the good little wife and look after his kids for him. Well, I've got news for him. I've still got a life to lead and he's not the only fish in the sea!'

The two blokes who'd been feeling her up were listening and cheered her on at that.

Marcie scowled in their direction before turning her temper back to Babs. ‘You're not a fresh fish, Babs. You're an old trout and them two there are both married old men with faces that look as though they've been slapped with a frying pan. Prince Charming they are not! Just look at them, Babs, and then when you get home tonight take another look at yourself in the mirror!'

Her stepmother's countenance fell. She hated being reminded of her age, hated the thought of no longer being one of the prettiest girls on the island. Those years were long past, but she hated being reminded of it.

There had never been any love lost between Marcie and her stepmother. Marcie could never quite work out why her father had ever married her – except for the fact that she was pregnant of course. Tony, being
of the old-fashioned type, had married her. It helped that Babs had resembled a rather overblown version of Brigitte Bardot at the time – all blonde hair, pouting lips and checked gingham dress. Babs was to Sheerness what Elsie Tanner was to Coronation Street; only in her case she was the tart with no heart – none discernible that is. The men came and went – even when she was married.

Babs was not the sort to remain deflated for long. Colour flooded into the pansticked cheeks like cheap rouge. The pouting mouth turned into a snarl.

‘Now just you listen 'ere, you little bitch,' shrieked Babs. ‘Don't you come in here as though you're bleedin' snowy white and throw the dirt at me! Your old man's left me high and bloody dry and thinks that money is enough to keep me tied to the bleedin' kitchen sink. Well, it's not! I deserve a good time. I deserve to be able to go out and enjoy meself just like he's doin' up in London!'

Sensing some unscheduled entertainment, the customers of the public bar fell to silence. All eyes were on the plump blonde wearing the tight skirt too short for her age and the gorgeous-looking girl with the cool-looking dude with London written all over him.

Marcie felt Michael gently touch her shoulder; he suggested they leave.

‘She's not worth the aggro, Marcie. Leave it be.'

Rarely, if ever, had Marcie rounded on him and told him to stay out of it. But she did now. This wasn't about her and her stepmother's mutual dislike; it wasn't even about her father's honour or her grandmother's quality of life. It was about the kids. Marcie loved her own kids and couldn't understand why Babs could so easily neglect her brothers and Annie, seemingly without an ounce of guilt.

Marcie shrugged Michael's hand from her shoulder. She couldn't leave this be. She had to have it out with Babs here and now, but if direct confrontation and a reminder about her duties weren't going to do anything, perhaps a few home truths in front of an audience might help.

‘This is my stepmother,' said Marcie playing to the crowd with a sweeping gesture of her arm. ‘She has three kids, none of whom have been fed tonight. One of them, the youngest, has been left with a neighbour and the others have been left to fend for themselves. And here she is, in here boozing and acting as though she's love's young dream. And as for you,' she yelled, glaring in the direction of the two men who'd been fawning all over her, ‘just imagine if it were your wife and kids. How would you like it, eh? How would you like it?'

Babs' eyes were blazing. ‘You bitch! Running me down. At least I had all my kids after I was married. Not like you, you fucking bitch! Not like you!'

Marcie leaped at her, her fingers clawing at the beehive hairdo. It was like grappling with the candyfloss she used to sell to punters on the beach when she'd just left school – only harsher – like wire wool.

Strong hands pulled them apart.

‘We're going,' growled Michael.

‘No!'

Although she struggled there was no escaping Michael's firm grip. A couple of the blokes in the bar got Babs to her feet after she'd fallen off the stool – partly as a result of Marcie's attack, and partly because she was half cut anyway.

Once they were out on the pavement and the fresh air hit her, Marcie covered her face with her hands and muttered, ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch!'

When she uncovered her face, she saw Michael looking up at the sliver of sky that showed between the buildings. He was shaking his head and looking exasperated.

‘Let's go away for a peaceful weekend, she says. Let's get away from it all.'

Marcie was immediately overcome with a great sense of regret. This wasn't how things were meant to be at all.

‘I'm sorry.' She hung her head and bit her bottom lip, seeking out the right words for a more fitting apology.

Then she hugged Michael's arm and lay her cheek against his shoulder. ‘I'm sorry, Michael. It got out of hand, but the boys – Dad will be mortified.'

He looked down at her. ‘Then he should be down here looking after them, shouldn't he? I would if they were mine.'

Marcie made no comment. He was right. Without her dad around, Babs fell to pieces. Without her dad around, the kids would run riot. There was no getting away from the fact that a great deal of fault lay with her father. He should be with his wife and family. Something had to be done about it and it would fall to her to tackle him about it. He wouldn't like it. It wouldn't be easy, but sod it! It had to be done.

Paddy Rafferty had slipped Tony Brooks a pony when they'd met up at a West End nightclub, a haunt of high-class whores and low-class politicians.

Normally Tony wouldn't have touched it, but loyalty to his son-in-law flew out of the window after a few bevvies. It was hard to say no when a gorgeous woman was hanging on to his arm asking him what he was going to buy her.

The woman sleeping beside him was called Desdemona. She was as dark as his previous girlfriend, Ella, had been and just as curvaceous.

Dark women were the exact opposite of his wife Babs with her peroxide-blonde hair and ghost-white
face. Babs had put him off blondes. It was always dark girls nowadays.

Still, it was Rafferty's money that was on his mind today. His head throbbed just thinking about it, or was that partly due to the amount he'd consumed last night?

Creeping quietly across the cold cracked lino so as not to wake Desdemona, he slid his trousers from the back of the chair and delved in the pockets.

The wad of notes he brought out was thinner than when it had gone in.

After licking his thumb and forefinger, he began to count. What had been five hundred was now only three. Where the hell had the other two hundred gone?

He vaguely remembered having something of a party, buying drinks for friends and strangers alike. He might also have stuffed a few quid down the front of Desdemona's dress; on the other hand it could have been the waitress's dress or even the barmaid's.

He stared at the money, half afraid it might burst into flames in his hand. Rafferty was out to make him his man, but he didn't want that. Was it too late to turn back?

He picked up the phone and dialled Rafferty's number.

A woman answered. ‘Yes.'

‘Is Paddy there?'

‘Who's calling?'

‘Tony Brooks.'

The line went dead.

‘Tony! To what do I owe the pleasure, me boy?' Rafferty sounded full of himself.

‘I can't accept your money, Paddy. I'll send someone over with it.'

‘All five hundred pounds? Now why's that, Tony? Were you offended?'

‘No. Not at all.' Tony felt confused. His head ached. Desdemona was stirring and so was his guilt. ‘I can't accept it,' he said more forcefully this time.

There was a pause, as though Paddy Rafferty was taking a very deep breath.

‘All right,' he said at last. ‘Send the money round – all five hundred of it mind – plus interest. I did say there was interest on repayment, didn't I?'

‘I've only got three hundred,' Tony blurted. He realised immediately that he'd made a big mistake. He'd told Rafferty exactly what he wanted to hear.

‘Sorry, son. I can't accept partial repayments. It's the whole McCoy or nothing at all – not until you've got the full amount. In the meantime, you owe me. I'll expect you to work it off.'

The line went dead. Tony stood starting at it. He'd got himself into a tight corner. He had to pay Paddy back somehow. What he couldn't afford to happen was for Marcie and Michael to find out what he'd
done. Michael would likely fire him and would probably never trust him again. On the other hand how was he supposed to work it off? Deep down he knew. Rafferty wanted him to report back on his son-in-law's movements. Sod Rafferty. He wouldn't do it.