Sweetie (7 page)

Lizzie twirled her fag up and down her fingers, a neat little trick she had. ‘She’ll never get over it.

Losing a child is bad enough, but to lose one like that

. . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. She’ll be after his guts when she gets her strength back.’ Her thin lips drew hard on her cigarette. ‘I don’t think it’s women’s work, though, do you?’

Sue butted in again. ‘Well, look, my Terry said to give him the nod and he’ll go round with a couple of the blokes.’

‘Sooner the better, I reckon,’ said Nanny Parks, taking a Player’s from Lizzie’s proffered packet. ‘Ta, Liz.’

52

‘I expect Grace and John will be pleased,’ observed Sue.

‘Don’t bank on it,’ countered Nanny Parks, ‘you know what a soft sod my Grace is. She’s always felt sorry for that boy, given him sweets and what have you, so I haven’t told her anything about this and I’m not going to. Her John’s so wound up he’s fit to be tied, but she just sits there on the settee holding on to little Adam. She’s been in a world of her own.

‘My brother Gary always brought the best out in her, ya know. Those two were inseparable when Grace was in her teens. He was never like that with Gillian. I remember, it put her nose right out of joint!

Don’t think Grace ever got over his death until she met John and moved on. Shame her uncle isn’t around now to get her out of herself. It breaks my heart to see her and John so quiet and subdued.’

‘Give them time,’ said Sue, ‘I expect they’re still in shock.’ A loud knock at the door made them sit up straight. ‘That’ll be Potty,’ said Lizzie.

Sandra Potts was a formerly attractive woman, now in her early thirties, who had gone to seed from the effort of bringing up three children without any help from her husband Michael, who preferred to spend all his spare time down the pub with his mates.

She had thought he was the answer to her prayers when they first met eight years before. She already had one daughter, Lucy, a mistake by a very good-looking young lad who had swept her off her feet and 53

then unceremoniously dumped her as soon as she announced her pregnancy.

When she and Michael met and he had taken to step-fatherhood like a duck to water, Potty had thought she had it made. Back then, Michael was quite a catch. Lucy was calling him Daddy from the off. It was only once his own two had come along that he started staying away from home for increasingly long periods. There were rumours about his affairs with other women, and his drunken behaviour was obvious for all to see, but rather than confront him, Potty just let things slide. She took refuge in her TV and her radio. Her house was a mess. She never bothered using a scrap of make-up or tidying her unruly hair. Frayed flared jeans, flip-flops and cotton vests were her uniform.

After Lizzie had opened the door to her knock Potty barged into the kitchen laden with bags of shop ping, which she let drop by the sink. Lizzie looked sharply from the shopping to Potty but said nothing.

‘It stinks out there,’ was Potty’s opening line.

‘Out where?’ asked Sue.

‘On the streets. It’s this bloody heat . . . everything is going off and the bin men didn’t turn up yesterday.

We’re all gonna get diseases if we’re not careful.’ The other women murmured their agreement. Even on the tenth floor, a faint sweet sickly smell filtered in on the breeze. The odour of rotting rubbish and decay hung over the East End like a pestilent fog. Flies and 54

wasps buzzed angrily around melted ice lollies and piles of dog shit. Old chip papers stayed where they were, dropped in the gutter, and rats were feasting on stale doner kebabs, thrown away by drunks on their way home too late for their supper.

‘Cup of tea, love?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Yes, please, three sugars.’ Potty plonked herself down on the fourth chair around the table. Her face was red from the effort it had taken to carry her shopping, and her freckles stood out even more when her face was flushed. ‘Kids break up next week and I’m bloody terrified! Least you know they’re safe when they’re in school. Not too worried about my Lucy, though. Do you know, she bloody nearly threw me across the settee with one of her judo moves, the little cow!’

‘Or if you don’t let them out of your sight.’ Sue gave the new arrival a meaningful glance. She had known Potty since their schooldays and harboured a deep affection for her – who couldn’t love Potty? She had a heart of gold – but she considered her a slouch, lying on the sofa all afternoon watching television while her kids ran wild around the estate. Most of Potty’s conversation was about TV. She loved
The
Generation Game
and dreamed of being Anthea Redfern.

‘How’s your Grace bearing up, Nanny?’ asked Potty. Most people called Iris Parks ‘Nanny’, because she seemed to have been old for ever.

55

‘Bloody awful. She’s aged ten years overnight.

Little Adam’s in agony . . . can’t sit, can’t walk, just lies there with Grace on the settee. Every time the poor little fucker pisses, he has an audience.

John’s doing his nut and is ready to murder.’ They shook their heads in disgust, saying ‘Terrible’. The four women eyed each other knowingly then, none wanting to be the first to say it. Finally, Sue spoke.

‘Terry said that him, John and Paul could pay young Steven a little visit tonight.’

‘Not round his house they’re not, I’m not upsetting Eileen,’ put in Lizzie.

Sue eyed her again. ‘What is it with you and Eileen? She gave birth to the sick twat and is pro -

tecting him, can’t you see her game?’

The room fell silent. Everyone knew Lizzie would have to retaliate. She slowly brought her gaze up to meet Sue’s stare.

‘You listen to me, Sue Williams,’ said Lizzie in a very authoritative tone. ‘I was friends with Eileen while you were still in nappies, so I’m going to call her up and take her down the Bingo tonight. She’s a decent, loving woman, left on her own to deal with a nutty kid, and it’s not her fault. Who are you to judge her? Look at TJ, he’s a lovely kid but we all know he’s a slice short of a loaf. Now back off and leave Eileen to me. We go back a long way, she deserves some respect.’

56

Nanny Parks saw the sense in this and broke in to keep the situation calm.

‘I agree. And it’ll keep her out of the house for a few hours,’ she pointed out. ‘Lizzie can just say she hasn’t seen her around for a while and wondered if she fancied a game.’

‘But what if she doesn’t?’ asked Potty. ‘And what if the police find out?’

‘They won’t,’ said Lizzie emphatically.

‘Yeah, but how can we be sure?’ Potty was feeling scared now.

‘Because none of us are going to breathe a word, are we?’ Nanny Parks fired a warning look at Potty and pulled her polyester cardigan tighter around her chest despite the heat, moving closer to Lizzie as if to emphasise their bond.

‘Do you seriously want to wait for Old Bill to sort this out?’ asked Sue, staring at Potty. ‘Aren’t you worried about your own fucking kids? Mind you, you hardly worry about yourself nowadays, girl.

You’re always a mess, that TV of yours is always blaring, and you’re lost in bloody
Crossroads
half the time. Michael’s a drunk and a liability, good for only one thing . . . to be put down. You are a stupid woman, you really are!’

‘Enough, Sue, that’s a bit rough. Potty meant no harm, she was just giving her opinion, that’s all,’ said Nanny, seeing that Potty’s eyes had filled with tears.

She knew the truth about her own life, but it hurt her 57

that Sue had reacted so aggressively. They had been friends for a long time and now Potty felt betrayed.

‘I’m sorry, Potts. I’m just a bit fraught and, if I’m honest, scared.’ Sue placed a reassuring arm round Potty’s shoulders. ‘The point I’m trying to make is, don’t we have the right to feel safe in our own neighbourhood?’ She was working up a good head of steam now. ‘Let’s get the job done and sorted. Are we all in agreement? Steven gets his comeuppance . . .

tonight!’

Potty just stared down at the cup and saucer on her lap. It had always been that way, ever since school –

you didn’t argue with Sue. Lizzie felt a stab of sympathy for Potty. She was a good girl who wanted to help really, it was just that she’d lost her bottle, being married to that useless sod Michael. He’d worn her down and now the old spark was gone.

She stood up and went to the lounge where she opened the sideboard drawer and removed what looked like a magazine. To break the tension, she raised her voice and asked, ‘Anybody seen the new Green Shield stamps catalogue yet? I picked one up the other day. Reckon I’ve nearly got enough stamps for an electric kettle.’

The mood in the Birdcage had reverted to its usual buoyancy after Chantal’s wake. Hot Chocolate’s

‘You Sexy Thing’ blared out from the jukebox. It was crib night again – there were two a week – and male 58

pensioners made their weekly trip out to the pub to nurse halves of mild and bitter while the Birdcage darts team were warming up for their match against the Royal Oak. It was a league fixture and men aimed for double twenties with grim determination, pausing only to take long draughts from their pint pots and an extra drag on their fags.

Life carried on, Paul Foster reflected ruefully as he sat at a corner table by the door which had been left open to let in some air. The funeral had been a difficult test, but he had got through it. Everyone was now settling back into normality and he too had to face up to life and what had happened to Chantal, if he could only get her tortured image out of his head.

He was part of a subdued group which included Terry Williams and John Ballantyne.

John could stand being at home no longer. Grace was so silent; sad tunes rang out from the radio, and the whole atmosphere was dense and unpleasant. He felt as if she wanted him to do some thing, to put things right in some way, but he didn’t know how and felt absolutely useless. The pub was a welcome release. They were waiting for the fourth member of their band, Michael Potts, to arrive.

It was another close night, the kind where you’d have to sleep on top of your sheets and blankets, dressed only in your underwear with the windows open, and still you wouldn’t be able to get comfortable.

59

Paul was still twitchy after the funeral, not helped by the fact that Michelle had spent all of today with Darren in their flat, going through old photographs, looking for snaps of Chantal and reminiscing about their time together when the girls were young. He kept telling himself he was being paranoid but was still tormented by his old fear that she would go back to Darren. Michelle assured Paul that she loved him, but grief could do funny things to people. Maybe by sorting out Steven Archer he would be able to prove that he was her hero, the one she should look to for comfort and protection. Maybe this was all about him and the fact that he hadn’t been there to protect Chantal.

‘What’s the time?’ Terry Williams broke their uneasy silence.

‘Half-seven.’ John Ballantyne clicked his knuckles.

Grace was always telling him he’d get arthritis if he didn’t pack it in.

‘What time are we going over there?’ asked Terry.

‘’Bout half-eight, I reckon. Give Eileen time to clear off to Bingo. It’s all been arranged.’ Paul sounded a lot more certain than he felt. He had his doubts about what they were planning to do tonight, but John looked quietly determined and Terry was straining at the leash. The time was fast approaching for them to act.

He stood up and offered to get another round. As he moved over to the bar, Michael Potts made his 60

unsteady entrance. He was half-cut and Paul decided then and there that he would not be joining them later. Potts was a liability; not only would he be unpredictable, he probably wouldn’t be able to resist mouthing off later.

Michael Potts’s shirt was rolled up to the elbows and large patches of sweat were visible beneath the arms. His flared jeans were stained all down the front and his shoulder-length hair hung in greasy clumps.

He gazed around unsteadily until his eyes fixed on Paul at the bar and he weaved his way through the crowd, listing and lurching, banging into people and making them spill their drinks. ‘Pauley! All right, my son, you getting them in then?’ he said loudly as he reached the bar.

Michael had arrived home earlier to a tearful wife.

As she sat with the kids, watching
Vision On
, an argument broke out. Potty was complaining about Sue and what had happened at the coffee morning.

As usual Michael offered no support. He was intimidated by Sue and Terry Williams, and besides, they were right. Steven had to be dealt with. Lucy, Potty’s twelve-year-old daughter, unable to listen to their squabbles any longer, made herself scarce and went to get ready for her judo lesson, leaving Mum and Dad to thrash it all out yet again. After half an hour, Michael couldn’t stand the whingeing and left early to have a drink at the Royal Oak before meeting the other lads later at the Birdcage. One drink had 61

turned into another, and now he was well and truly liquidised.

‘Yeah, sure, let me get you a large one.’ Paul had decided that the easiest way to leave Potts behind would be to keep piling the drinks in. ‘We’re over there, mate, you go and sit down and I’ll bring this lot over.’ He exchanged knowing glances with the barmaid. It wasn’t unusual for Michael Potts to be in this state. When Paul got back to their corner table with the drinks, John and Terry looked at him and raised their eyebrows. Michael Potts swigged down his drink in one and slurred, ‘I gotta have a slash, back in two secs.’

‘I don’t think he’s gonna be much help in that state,’ said Terry.

‘No shit, Sherlock.’ Paul took a sip from his pint and wished he’d ordered a whisky chaser.

‘I don’t think he’s gonna make it somehow, Tel.’

John took a cigarette from his pack and fished in his pocket for the silver Ronson lighter that Grace had got him last Christmas, engraved with his initials. He thought back to that holiday as he turned the lighter over and over in his hand. It had been such a happy time. All the family had come to them as they had the biggest house, and Grace had cooked a fan -