Tara (2 page)

Bill MacDonald had crushed Amy underfoot just like these cabbage leaves lying in the muck. He'd turned Paul into a cringing shadow, and who could blame Anne if she grew into womanhood with the idea that all men were drunken bullies? Now a tragedy was brewing in the family and he could no longer get close enough to prevent it.

A couple of girls with headscarves over their curlers were checking out his boxes of glasses, chattering and giggling about a party planned for later. Across the aisle three Teddy boys lounged at the record stall. They nodded their greasy heads in time to 'Jail House Rock', tapped the toes of their brothel creepers and dragged deeply on cigarettes as they eyed up his customers.

'Champagne glasses, is it, girls?' George recovered his composure. 'Invite me along and I'll make sure your party swings!'

'You're too old for us, Georgie Porgie.' The petite dark one chucked him under the chin. 'But you can send along your 'Arry!'

Anne noted the air of expectancy as she made her way home along White chapel Road. Saturday night was always special, there was a buzz in the air, a feeling that the grimmer side of life in the East End was held in suspension for a few hours.

Girls darted out of hairdressers', dress-shop bags in their hands, hair lacquered in place for the night's dancing. Young women with loaded prams, older women staggering under the weight of the family shopping, all looked less drawn than usual. Men were coming home from work, dirt-smeared faces cheerful at the prospect of Saturday night down the pub and a day off on Sunday. Young men ran after packed buses, daringly leaping on to the open back platform, cigarettes nonchalantly dangling from their lips as they contemplated whether tonight they might meet their dream girl.

Even the London Hospital across the road appeared to be waiting for the influx of casualties later tonight. Every one of its many windows sent a shaft of welcoming light out into the darkness. Soon the market would be packed up, hurricane lights taken down. A man would come and sweep away the squashed tomatoes, cabbage leaves and sweet papers. White chapel was too soot-ingrained, too shabby ever to be considered beautiful, but lit up by car headlights and bright shop windows it had a raw excitement that Anne loved.

'Shakin' all over' by Johnny Kidd and the Pirates blasted from a cafe door as a girl breezed out, her full red skirt swirling over a froth of net can-can petticoats.

'See you up the Empire,' she shouted back then, pulling a scarf over her beehive, she tottered on four-inch heels to the bus-stop.

Anne paused for a moment, pretending to adjust the handles of her bags so she could peep in through the steamed-up window.

Teddy boys in drape jackets played the pinball machine, girls only a couple of years older than her drank coffee and flirted. She noted their pencil skirts, tight sweaters and carefully made-up faces and felt a stab of envy at their gaiety, freedom and their knowledge of who and what they were.

She wasn't a child. How could she be when she already knew that romance and happy-ever-after marriages existed only in films? Yet she couldn't think of herself as an adult, either, not when she couldn't find a way of protecting her mother and brother.

A sense of isolation grew with each passing week. Her mother and Paul's dependence on her increased each time her father laid into them. She had no friends, school only meant laying herself open to ridicule because of her shabby clothes. Now even shopping involved running the gauntlet of prejudice and hostility.

She hitched the two bags up into her arms for the last dash past Sid's fish and chip shop. Golden light spilled out on to the pavement, accompanied by tantalising smells that made her stomach contract with hunger. The black and white tiled floor, gleaming steel fryer, even the jars of pickled onions and bottles of pop arranged in neat rows were a sharp reminder of what her mother called 'Top Show'.

Once she opened that door next to the shop, the stench of frying food and mildew would engulf her, taking away her appetite. If Sid's customers smelled this, saw the filth in his kitchen or the maggot-ridden dustbins out in the yard, they wouldn't be quite so enthusiastic about his rock salmon.

Anne turned the key in the lock and slipped in hurriedly. She didn't put the light on as it was better not to see the bare wood stairs, wallpaper stained and rubbed away by her father's shoulders. The splatters of dried blood here and there testified to his explosive temperament, the neglect proved how little he valued his family.

The landing light came on as Anne reached the half-way point, and her mother looked anxiously down.

'Did you manage to get everything?'

Amy's voice was as small and gentle as herself. From a distance they could have been sisters just a year or two apart. They shared the same slender build, height and dainty features, though Amy's hair was pure blonde compared with Anne's red gold. But closer inspection revealed the ravages not only of time but of hardship and disappointment.

Anne's colouring grabbed the eye, there was a boldness in her stance and expression which couldn't have come from her mother. Amy's powder blue eyes seemed to reflect her feelings of hopelessness, her pinched face, stooped shoulders and lank hair spoke not only of poor health but a woman who had given up considering herself important.

Anne could barely feel her fingers or toes, her lips were chapped from the raw wind, but she managed a bright smile to reassure her mother she hadn't minded being a scavenger at the close of the market.

'I got half a shoulder of lamb, some bacon, sausages and all the veg. Queenie gave us some bananas, too, she said to put them in some custard right away.'

Amy's hands reached to take the bags from her daughter, but she winced with the effort.

'It's all right, Mum.' Anne dismissed her help and bounded up the last few stairs. 'You sit down and rest. I'll make the tea.'

Anne had learned from her mother how to make the best of things. But, unlike her, she resented the necessity.

She felt no anger at being poor, or at living in three small rooms with no bathroom – she knew of plenty of other families far worse off. What really hurt was knowing her father was responsible for shaming them.

Drinking, gambling, even thieving could be overlooked if he was loving and amiable when he was at home. But Bill MacDonald was slowly killing her mother and her brother Paul and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

'You are a little love.' Amy ran one hand caressingly over her daughter's cold cheek as Anne unpacked the shopping on the table. 'I wish I didn't have to rely on you so much.'

'She was sick again with her cough!'

Anne turned at her brother's shrill voice. He was poised on the edge of a chair, like a rabbit keeping watch for predators. Just eight years old, but so small and thin he looked nearer five, with big, despairing dark eyes that made Anne's stomach churn with anxiety and love for him.

'You must go to the doctor again.' Anne ran a hand over her mother's straggly hair in comfort. 'Do you want some aspirin?'

'No, I've taken some more of that cough mixture.' Amy caught hold of her daughter's hand and pressed it to her bony cheek. 'It's nothing, love, don't worry so much.'

Anne knew there was a great deal to
worry
about. Her mother was only thirty, but she looked closer to fifty. On the mantelpiece was a photograph taken on her wedding day, showing a curvy, plump-cheeked beauty with shining hair and sparkling eyes. Now she was so thin her ribs stuck out through her worn blue jumper. To hug her was to feel a bag of bones.

Countless beatings had left her skin yellow with bruising, two teeth knocked out, and a permanent scar above her right eye which opened up with each successive punch. The racking cough she had now was weakening her every day. Anne knew she got up in the night for fear of waking her husband. Sometimes she could eat no more than a couple of mouthfuls without vomiting. But worst of all was hearing her cry in despair.

'It's cold in here.' Anne shivered as she hastily peeled potatoes, one eye on the clock anticipating her father's return.

A polite visitor to the flat would describe the room as cosy, but a room which had to serve four people as kitchen, dining and living room could only be cramped. Amy tried to compensate for the lack of space by tidying, cleaning and polishing constantly, and camouflaged the shabby furniture with her exquisite needlework.

The ugly utility table was hidden under a cloth embroidered with poppies and cornflowers. A brown three-piece suite sported lace chairbacks and ruched satin cushions that wouldn't have been out of place in a Mayfair shop window. Even the hideous mock marble fireplace was softened by a scalloped-edged red cloth running along the mantelpiece.

During the long winter evenings Amy taught Anne these crafts, too. A pale lemon blouse lay on the back of the settee, waiting for the time when they could do the buttonholes together.

But however much Amy worked at making their home cosy she could do nothing about the noise. From the front came the constant roar of traffic, at the back a rumble of Tube trains behind the house. Windows became encrusted with soot and grime within hours of cleaning them, black grit found its way in like an insidious disease.

'The fire won't seem to draw today.' Amy reached down for the poker, giving it a feeble riddle. 'It might be choked up with ashes, I hadn't the strength to rake it properly this morning.'

'I'll just get these spuds on and then I'll see to it.' Anne glanced round at her mother and brother. Anxiety crackled between them; Amy worrying what sort of mood her husband would be in, Paul picking up the message like a radio receiver, turning it to terror.

Anne had realised some time ago it was this very atmosphere which drove Bill MacDonald to violence, a circle that none of them could break. Bill escaped to the pub because he felt their fear. Later, with the beer in him and half his wages gone, he would lash out, often hurting them so badly he felt compelled to run out again.

She had some good memories of her father. A day at Southend, a picnic in Epping Forest and walks down by the docks when he held her hand and tried to explain what had gone wrong. Few people remembered now that he had been a hero during the War. His medals were as tarnished as his reputation, the press cuttings as ageing and yellow as Amy's skin.

All that remained were hideous images. Police rushing up the stairs, turning her and Paul out of their beds as they searched for stolen goods. Bill lying downstairs in the hall in a pool of his own vomit and pee, too drunk to even move to the lavatory just feet away. Paul stripped naked, tied to the banisters and Bill beating him with his belt just for wetting the bed. So many times he'd knocked her mother out cold – broken ribs, black eyes, bruises, cuts and even burns.

'Shall I lay the table?' Paul's shrill voice cut through Anne's reverie.

Everything about Paul was sharp. His small features, ears that stood out like wing nuts, even his voice was squeaky and high-pitched. He had inherited his father's dark eyes and hair, but none of his sturdy build and height. Paul MacDonald was a human mouse, constantly on the alert for trouble.

Had he liked football, swimming, cars or even just raking the streets with other kids, Bill might have left him alone. But Paul clung close to his mother and sister, preferred books to people. Right now his soft, dark eyes were asking for reassurance that he wasn't going to be hurt tonight, but no-one could give him that.

'We'll lay it together,' Anne suggested, giving him a quick hug. 'Don't look like that, Paul, if Dad's in a mood we'll go into the bedroom till he's gone out.'

Of all the things Anne hated about her father, his attitude to Paul was the one thing she could find no excuses for. To pick on one child, continually to deride and find fault until he stuttered, wet the bed and had nightmares, then beat him for that too – that was barbaric.

Anne had her own way of escape. She would cut out models' and actresses' faces from magazines, then draw clothes for them. A coloured pencil in hand, she could immerse herself in luxurious dreams that hid the ugliness of her world. Poor Paul had no such hiding place.

It had just turned six-thirty when they heard Bill's feet on the stairs. Paul ran for his seat at the table, Amy moved quickly to the stove to pour the gravy into a jug.

Anne added another lump of coal to the fire and, leaving the poker as a lever to bring more air from underneath, she stood up, wiping her sooty hands on her skirt.

'Hullo, Dad.' She took a step towards him to take his donkey jacket, mustering a false smile of welcome. 'Tea's just ready, you must be frozen.'

Bill MacDonald was described by most people as 'a handsome devil', though drink and a loss of self-respect had spoiled the face that had once been likened to Clark Gable's.

When Amy met him in '45 he'd been in uniform, just back from the Far East. His black hair gleamed like a raven's wing, a wide smile revealed perfect teeth, his eyes were meltingly brown and his body iron-hard.

Now there were gaps in his teeth, his belly hung over his belt and a scowl was more common than a smile. But despite all this he still had a certain something which men envied and women desired.

Anne saw nothing in his face tonight to be alarmed by. He wasn't scowling, he didn't smell of drink, in fact he just looked cold and a little tired.

Hanging up his coat on the landing, she willed her mother not to mention the mud on his boots. Once he used to leave them down by the front door and walk up in his socks, but then he used to wash and change before eating in those days, too.

'What's going on?' he said, frowning as he looked across the small room to see Paul's head bowed over the table and his wife seemingly engrossed in filling the salt cellar. 'Someone died?'

That current of anxiety crackled and Anne's heart sank.

'Mum's been bad again today.' She laid one hand on his big forearm. 'I think Paul's going down with something, too.'

'Oh, shit,' he exclaimed, rubbing his filthy hand over several days' worth of stubble. 'There's always summat wrong with 'em. What's for tea?'