Anyone Who Had a Heart (3 page)

The effort proved fruitless. Thick plates of stained glass made up the majority of the windows. Those that weren’t stained glass were protected with sheets of stiff wire. There was nothing to be seen.

That made his mind up. If he couldn’t see in then he was going to go in.

He jumped down, dusted his hands on his jeans and made ready to put in an appearance and stake
his
claim. What the fuck could any of that lot do anyway?

He smirked at the thought of their faces; them in all their finery acting as though they’d never broken a commandment in their lives. Christ, at some point that bloody family had broken them all. Not that he couldn’t own up to a few sins himself, but that was beside the point; he wanted to stake his claim. Most of all, he wanted Marcie. He’d had her once, but once was not enough. She hadn’t exactly been responsive. In fact she’d been blotto following the drinks he’d given her. Next time he had her she’d want it as much as he did, and nobody was going to stop him.

Stumbling back onto the path that led back round to the front of the church, he thought he heard someone call him. He looked round but couldn’t see anyone.

He told himself he was imagining things.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared to grab the church door and yank it back. The plan was that at the same time as doing that, he’d shout out that the baptism had to stop. He didn’t want Joanna baptised; not here in a church of left-footers. And seeing he was the baby’s father, what he said was law. Wasn’t it?

The truth was that he didn’t have a clue about the lawful bit and whether a father could justifiably prevent a baptism taking place. He had no proof
that
he was even a contender to be Joanna’s dad though he still couldn’t accept that the ‘greaser’ Marcie had been going out with was the kid’s father. And wasn’t he the one who’d fetched her back from the place where she’d given birth to the kid? He’d even offered to marry her and the little cow had turned him down. Just as her mother had turned him down.

The people in the church were in for a nasty surprise. But did he care? Sod it, he did not!

He didn’t get far.

‘Oi! What are you doing with my bloody car? I had to get the bus here thanks to you. What’s the matter with you, Dad? Getting senile are you?’

His daughter Rita was presently sporting a pudding-basin hairstyle. Apparently she’d seen some pop star with the same style on TV. The pop star had been skinny and had long legs. Rita was more substantially built and the kindest thing that could be said about her legs was that they were strong. In fact they were chunky and the girl was not suited to wearing miniskirts.

Her eyes glimmered from amidst coal-black eyeliner and mascara. She’d drawn extra eyelashes beneath her bottom eyelids – the latest fashion for the hip chick of today. The effect made her look as though her eyes were stranded at the bottom of two deep dark wells. Her lips were plastered with the same
foundation
as the rest of her face. He believed it was called American Tan. She always wore it.

Her hair was pale brown and, teased out with the wire tail of her comb, curving into the nape of her neck. Her dress had big green spots and her shoes were white and had ankle straps and chunky two-inch heels.

Rita had once been the apple of her father’s eye. She wasn’t too sure she was now. Her father had changed since Marcie had come home with Joanna. He didn’t dote on her as he once had, in fact it seemed he’d become obsessed with the girl who had once been her friend. As of yet she still hadn’t worked out why.

Puzzled, she frowned at her father. ‘Did you hear what I said? What are you doing here?’

The last thing he wanted was for Rita to know the truth. Deciding to make light of it, he shoved his hands in his jeans and laughed.

‘Just thought I’d come along for the crack. Old Tony being a grandfather now and all that. Thought I’d go in and pull his leg a bit.’

Rita was selfish and spoilt but no fool. Her father had allowed her greater freedom than most girls of her age had, and doing that had made her streetwise. She eyed him with suspicion.

‘I don’t think we’re invited, Dad.’

Still smiling he shrugged casually as though it were
all
a huge joke. ‘That don’t matter. We’re old mates, me and Tony. We go way back …’

Rita was getting impatient. ‘I don’t care about you and Tony. I want my car.’

Alan got the keys from out of his pocket. ‘There you are.’

‘And I want some money.’

Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘I gave you some earlier this week.’

‘I’ve spent it. Come on. I need a new dress and some shoes. I’ve seen a super white pair and a dress to match.’

‘What’s wrong with the white shoes you’re wearing?’

Rita threw him a disparaging look and held out her hand.

Alan delved into his pockets and brought out a pound note, a ten-shilling note and two half-crowns.

Rita eyed the handful of money with contempt. ‘That’s not enough!’

Alan sighed. When money had been plentiful he’d showered his little girl with presents and gifts of money. Anything and everything she’d wanted he’d given her. But the used car game wasn’t as good as it had been – not when you had to play things straight it wasn’t, and just of late he’d been playing it straight.

‘I’ll have to go to the bank.’

‘I’ll drive you there.’

Her heels clip-clopped back along the concrete path from the church to where he’d parked the car. He told himself he should have parked further from the church then she wouldn’t have noticed him and decided she needed more money for shopping. As it was the day for him had been ruined; it had taken some courage to show his face at the church – not that he’d actually done that thanks to Rita. In a way he was glad; Marcie’s old man had threatened to chop his balls off if he didn’t stay away from her. Tony Brooks was a rough diamond, but not known for violence towards his mates. However, this was about his daughter. There could always be a first time, so perhaps Rita had done him a favour turning up when she did. On this occasion he’d been prevented from making a fool of himself, but another time, another place, things might be different.

THERE WAS NO
celebratory spread in a local hostelry following Joanna’s baptism. Instead Rosa, Marcie and Babs had made ham and cheese rolls spread out on the table in the kitchen at number 10 Endeavour Terrace. Here and there a bowl of pickled onions and beetroot interspersed the plates of white bread and the fruitcake Rosa had made especially for the occasion.

Only the family attended plus a few neighbours. Garth gorged on the leftovers and said it was the best party he’d ever been to. Everyone knew it was the
only
party he’d ever been to, but didn’t have the heart to correct him.

The day had been fine but by five o’clock storm clouds had blown in from the sea and rain was hammering against the windows. Although a fire glowed red and yellow in the grate and the lights were lit, the old cottage held on to its gloomy corners.

Marcie watched as her father bent over the cooing baby telling her crazy stories that she was far too young to follow. Marcie smiled. It didn’t matter that
Joanna
didn’t understand. She was enjoying being spoken to and her father enjoyed telling stories to his first grandchild.

A small figure in black appeared at her side. ‘Your father is very proud.’

Marcie agreed with her grandmother. For all his faults her dad loved kids. ‘I think he firmly believes that she’s the most beautiful baby in the world and that nothing bad can possibly happen to her because he’s around.’

‘He will do all in his power,’ her grandmother said softly.

There was something about her grandmother’s tone of voice that made Marcie look at her. The olive-skinned face was difficult to read at the best of times and even though her guard was down on this most auspicious of days, she was still hard to interpret.

Knowing that asking what was on her mind wouldn’t bring forth an answer, Marcie turned her mind to other things. The future was doubly important to her now she had a child to take care of. Johnnie, Joanna’s father was dead so there was no income forthcoming from that quarter. Neither would his parents – or, as she had found out, his adoptive parents – support her financially. There was some money likely from National Assistance, but that was tiny and would provide little towards their daily costs.

Until recently, there had been another option; Alan Taylor had asked her to marry him. His daughter, Rita, had once been her best friend, but things had cooled between them for more than one reason. Marcie accepted that they’d grown out of each other and to her mind it was all for the best. At one time she’d desperately wanted her dad to be like Alan Taylor. He’d been so ‘with it’, so understanding of young girls out to have fun. She hadn’t seen through the friendliness to what he’d really wanted. She’d trusted him enough to spend an evening with him, to accept a drink or two. She didn’t remember much about that night. The alcohol he had plied her with had caused her to pass out, and it was only the morning after that she realised what had happened. Her knickers had been on inside out and back to front and she had felt raw and bruised ‘down there’. There was no getting away from the horrible fact: Alan Taylor had raped her. So it was for the best that her friendship with Rita was over along with any contact with Rita’s father.

Her grandmother was allowing her to live in the old cottage for free and her father helped where he could. However, she had made some money towards her keep from dressmaking, though it would never be enough to fully support her. Basically she needed a job and only the day before she’d seen exactly the sort of job she needed.

She told her grandmother about it. ‘It’s advertised as full time, but only from eight till four. I thought I’d try and get them to take me on part time …’ She paused, looked at her grandmother and tried to gauge her initial reaction. ‘It wouldn’t be so much money part time, but I was wondering …’

Rosa Brooks was typical of women born on the islands and countries scattered or surrounding the Mediterranean. Her hair was still jet black, her skin paled from tawny to olive by the lack of sunshine, and her eyes were quick and dark. She wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and as a widow always wore black. Her mind was still quick and her family meant everything to her. Her family was who she lived for.

‘You wish me to look after Joanna.’

It was a statement rather than a question. Marcie nodded. ‘Well. Yes.’

She felt her stomach turning inwards and wished she hadn’t asked. It was much too big a burden for her grandmother. How could she have even suggested it?

‘Of course I will look after Joanna.’ Rosa’s smile brightened her face and sent a sparkle to her eyes. ‘It’s wonderful to have a baby in this house again. Your grandfather warned me you would ask. Your grandfather had such insight you know. I miss him.’

The last three words sounded tacked on and a
little
sadder than everything else. Though Marcie’s granddad had long since died, Rosa gift was such that she maintained that she talked to him regularly since his passing. Her grandmother’s words also touched a chord in Marcie that she hadn’t known was there. What would things have been like if Johnnie had lived? Would she still be in London? Would they have a little place of their own where the boards were bare, the furnishings old and battered? Poor as it might have been, they would have been happy. Of that she was sure.

‘It’s a sewing room serving the hospital, making nurses uniforms, sewing hems around sheets and making pillowcases. I thought three days and on the other days I could do my own sewing.’

She wasn’t sure about the uniforms, but hoped that the sewing wouldn’t be confined to sheets and pillowcases. If it was, well, she would have the consolation that she’d be doing her own sewing on the other days.

‘Mrs Spontini is very pleased with her funeral dress,’ said her grandmother.

Mrs Spontini was one of her grandmother’s closest friends. They went to church together and drank tea with the priest on those days when he met with the more senior members of his congregation.

Marcie said she was glad. In her heart of hearts she never wanted to make Mrs Spontini a funeral
dress
ever again. The old trout had criticised the whole project from beginning to end so it came as something as a surprise to hear that she’d intimated to her grandmother that she was pleased with the end result.

Like her grandmother, Mrs Spontini was a widow who had married an Englishman back in the 1920s. Originally from Italy, she had crooked legs and black eyes either side of a hooked nose. As was the habit of Mediterranean widows, she only wore black but had different black dresses for different occasions.

The very next day Marcie took her application form into the hospital sewing department that maintained and made the various items needed on the wards. The interview was for ten o’clock. She also took a sample of her sewing: a very pretty blouse she’d made for herself, the front of which was covered in pin-tucks.

She didn’t bother with her fake wedding ring. She had heard it was still difficult for married women to get jobs. Single girls always got priority.

Miss Gardner, the workroom supervisor, had black kiss curls and a bouffant hairstyle. She wore a tight skirt and a black polo-neck jumper and big gypsy-style earrings jangled from her lobes.

She read the application form in quick bursts,
glancing
up intermittently. It made Marcie think she was trying to catch her doing something she shouldn’t.

Marcie felt as though a wire-wool brush was scouring her insides. She put her nerves down to the fact that this wasn’t just for herself, this job was for Joanna too and their future together. She badly needed the money.

At last Miss Gardner put down the form and picked up the blouse, examining the pin-tucks one by one.

‘Not bad,’ she said at last. ‘Well, Miss Brooks, it seems you have a number of things in your favour. Number one, you can sew. That fact is very evident.’ Her fingers lightly touched the blouse. ‘Number two you’re very young and not married. That means we’ll have a few years’ work out of you before you get yourself hitched to a man and proceed to produce a family. It is both the hospital’s and this section’s policy that we employ single women with no family ties. Once you get married we expect you to leave. That is why I am still a Miss not a Mrs,’ she said with a short, sharp smile.