Anyone Who Had a Heart (16 page)

‘It was kind of him.’

‘Lucky you!’ April pouted her baby-pink lips. ‘Wish he’d invited me out. So? Will you go?’

Marcie smiled. It was a long time since she’d gone out on a date. Johnnie had been her last date, the one and only boy she’d ever properly dated.

‘I suppose I will. He seems nice enough.’ The truth was that she was bubbling with excitement.

‘Nice? I don’t know about nice,’ warned April. ‘Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile, his hand up your skirt before you’d even noticed it was on your knee!’

‘How do you know?’

April shrugged nonchalantly. ‘How do you think I know? A girl has only one asset to make her way with in this world. The Camilleris can open doors for me. It pays to keep on the right side of them.’

‘He’ll take us to nightclubs and introduce us to people. I’ll tell you this, Marcie, it’s better to be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave.’

Marcie could have been struck dumb. She could have blurted out that they were nothing short of prostitutes – that’s if she was getting the right drift on what they were saying. The last thing she wanted to do was to upset anyone, so she steered the conversation elsewhere.

‘I thought their son was named Nicholas?’

‘Nicholas Roberto. Still, what’s in a name? You’ve struck gold there, girl. Enjoy it while it lasts and get what you can off him.’

Carol asked what they were laughing about when she came back from the cloakroom. The two girls told her. Like April, Carol issued a warning.

‘Don’t get involved with Roberto. He eats women for breakfast.’

‘And Michael?’

April made a face. ‘He’s got a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. That’s what comes of being the second son.’

Marcie frowned. ‘I thought the Camilleris had only one son?’

‘They have,’ said April. ‘But two different mothers. Victor Camilleri likes to play the field. That’s where his son gets it from.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I shall just have to wait my turn.’

‘Me too,’ said Carol. ‘Whatever he wanted me to do I would do.’

April agreed with her. ‘That’s the only way a girl can get the good things in life. We all know that.’

Marcie laughed. She presumed they were joking – until she saw their serious expressions. Her laughter was brought up short.

‘You’d do anything for a fur coat or a pair of shoes?’

April laughed.

Carol handed her a chocolate caramel.

Marcie looked at the caramel and accusingly at Carol. ‘I thought you went out to buy something in the chemist’s?’

Carol winked. ‘I needed a pick-me-up. The sweet shop was nearer.’

Flowers arrived the next day. They were sitting in a vase on her table in the sewing room. They had a heady scent.

Marcie asked Meg, the old girl who did the cleaning, who’d put them there.

‘Dunno,’ said Meg, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

Marcie smiled. It had to be Roberto.

There was another bouquet waiting for her in her room, though bigger and looking more shop bought than the pretty posy in the sewing room.

‘They’re from Roberto,’ beamed Mrs Gabriella Camilleri. She stood on tiptoe so she could whisper into Marcie’s ear. ‘I think you are the girl of his dreams.’

Marcie didn’t know what to say. No one had ever sent her a bouquet before.

‘Two bouquets!’ Marcie exclaimed. ‘Sweetpeas and these.’

Mrs Camilleri looked puzzled. ‘Did he? I did not know that.’

MARCIE EYED HER
reflection in the full-length mirror fastened to the back of the bedroom door. She was wearing the black linen dress and white boots. Her hair was piled on top her head and fastened with pins. A few tendrils had escaped and hung down like pieces of torn silk around her face. A thick silver bangle, triangular silver earrings and a purple feather boa completed the picture. Her eyes were emphasised with black eyeliner and mascara. Her lips were as beige as the rest of her face though they blossomed like a rose at its centre. She was seeing a trendy modern girl with things to do; places to go and handsome guys to see. Roberto was handsome. He’d be there tonight when she went out with her father. Her stomach churned with excitement. London had been good to her so far. Her only real bugbear was that she had not made any friends here – not real friends of her own age. She’d dismissed Carol and April as being work colleagues, not friends as such.

Mrs Camilleri stood behind her, eyeing the same reflection. ‘Your father will be very proud of you. You are very beautiful, just like …’ She paused.

‘Like what?’ Marcie asked.

For a brief moment Mrs Camilleri seemed stuck for words. ‘Just like a daughter should be.’

The words came out in a rush. Marcie was quick minded enough to suspect that something was unsaid as much as said with those words. She decided not to push it. Tonight she was going out with her father and Mrs Camilleri was right. She looked beautiful.

Tony Brooks looked at his watch. He was running late. Mrs Reynolds had made him a cup of tea. She looked cleaner and less harassed than she used to. This had nothing to do with her husband having followed up the job Tony had put his way. The bastard had done a runner back to Jamaica, though not before knocking Ella about and getting her up the spout.

One of the kids had been put to bed. The other was playing with a set of wooden bricks that Tony had bought for her.

He’d never much liked this debt collection lark, but Camilleri paid him well for his trouble. Blokes on their own swinging the lead he could cope with. Young families looking cold and miserable in a city they’d been told was paved with gold were becoming the norm in Victor Camilleri’s miserable Victorian tenements. The rental business was booming on account of the flood of immigrants arriving from the West Indies. The properties were sub standard and
the
rent was high. Victor Camilleri had his fingers in a lot of pies; renting to an influx of black people was one of them. Some other geezer called Rachman had been running the same racket as Victor, cramming newly arrived immigrants – blacks, Irish and Poles – into cramped accommodation where the roofs leaked and fungus grew out of the walls. Ella had one of the better drums, but it was no palace. The windows shook when a train went by down on the adjacent railway line. The wallpaper was peeling and the tired old three-piece looked as though it was pre-war and had barely survived a direct hit from the Luftwaffe.

Ella slumped down in the armchair opposite him. After bashing the chair arm back into place after it had sloped sideways, she ran her hands over her growing stomach.

‘I cannot have this baby.’

He hated the way she said it, her face screwed up and whining as though she were choking on the words. She looked down at her stomach. ‘I cannot afford to.’ Her eyes were big and brown. He couldn’t help feeling as though he were falling into them. He wanted to do more to her than that.

Tony leaned forwards, jamming his elbows between his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His chin jerked up and down in a stiff nod as though he understood and sympathised. He could afford to do the former, but God help him with the second. Three
weeks
rent was owed when he’d first come calling here. He hadn’t meant to fall for her and couldn’t quite understand why. He lay awake at night thinking that one over. He usually went for blondes. Ella was dark skinned, spoke with a West Indian accent and had wiry hair kept in place by a brightly coloured bandana. Her breasts were high, firm and round. Her hips were ample and her backside was a joy to behold.

While his hormones danced in one direction, his conscience reminded him that he had a wife; a blonde wife. Babs had been a ringer for Brigitte Bardot when she was younger. Things had changed. Getting blowsier year on year, her figure had ballooned; as good a reason as any to fall for Ella, he told himself.

Disregarding the ache in his loins wasn’t easy, but he was here on business. ‘Look, love, this has to be the last time. You’ve got to keep a better check on your money – stop the old man taking from you for a start. I can’t keep paying it for you. You know what will happen if it don’t get paid, don’t ya?’

She nodded. She knew alright. Some of the blokes who worked for Victor would have smashed everything up – Ella too probably. She’d seen it happen to neighbours.

Tony sighed and thought what a prat he was getting to be. In the past he’d been paid to put on the pressure, but he’d been younger then. Must be getting old, old son, he thought to himself. He couldn’t bring
himself
to slap a woman, especially not when there were kids about. He still had to get the money out of her, but a few kind words cost nothing.

‘I know what you mean, girl. The National Assistance only spreads so far, love, but so does my dosh. I’m paying your rent, love, but you do have to pay me back sometime.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you for any more,’ she protested. ‘You’ve been so kind to me. I told you before I knew I was pot bellied that I was going to get a job. I was going to pay you back. But with this …’ She spread her hands helplessly.

When she looked at him with those big brown eyes, Tony was as soft as chocolate, but the edge of reason still nudged its way forwards. ‘You can get rid of it,’ he suggested. Good Catholic boy that he was, he knew what the Church thought about abortion. However, he also understood how desperate a woman could get without a steady income. Despite dictates of Church or society, the practicalities of life had to be addressed. If Ella did pop another kid into the world, she’d be hard pressed to make ends meet. Desperation could lead to prostitution; he knew plenty of slappers who used to be good girls until a smooth tongue and a wandering dick had got them into trouble. Single mothers with kids to support were particularly vulnerable. Part of him wondered if he cared about Ella’s predicament purely because she
reminded
him of his daughter. Marcie could so easily have not come home. But he knew that his feelings for Ella were far from fatherly.

The windows rattled as another train went by heading towards Piccadilly. Neither of them spoke – neither of them could speak – until the rattling had ceased and the train had disappeared into a tunnel.

Ella looked down at the scuffed lino where the edge of a ragged mat was unravelling as surely as her life. It looked to him as though she were considering his suggestion. He knew that if he asked around a name was bound to pop up. Old biddies in crummy tenements down near the docks and other places were still going strong despite the relaxation in the abortion law.

But Ella had already been asking around. ‘I have heard of a woman …’ she began, her black eyelashes fluttering across her high cheekbones. ‘She charges a lot of money. Her name is Mrs Smith.’

‘I bet it is,’ Tony said with a sardonic smile and a toss of his head.

‘Do you not believe me?’ she said with wide-eyed innocence.

Laughing, he reached across and patted her hand. ‘They’re always called Mrs Smith, though you might get the odd Mrs Jones thrown in for good measure.’

She looked puzzled.

He enlightened her. ‘Smith and Jones are common
names
. Harder for the law to track down. Know what I mean?’

She nodded.

Tony was already digging into his pocket. He brought out a wad of one pound notes.

‘I’m not sure what the going rate is for sorting you out. Here. Thirty pounds tops – that should do it.’

He reached to offer her the money. She looked at it. He wasn’t sure how to read the look in her eyes. There was fear, that much was for sure. But fear of what? The money? The operation itself or the condemnation of her own conscience?

Perhaps she was afraid of feeling obliged to him, which was quite understandable. To his surprise he felt a great urge to touch her dark glossy skin. Slowly her fingers curled around the fan-shaped fistful of pound notes. She looked down at them scrunched in her hand.

Tony studied her reaction, wanting her to look up at him with gratitude but knowing she never would. Ella, he’d found out, was fiercely independent. He could only guess at how desperate she was feeling to accept his money. It was all about the kids of course. She’d do anything for them, he thought. If he asked her, she’d go to bed with him. He’d like that. Should he ask…?

A pang of conscience he didn’t know he had swept over him.

‘Everything will be alright,’ he said for no reason other than to hear something, even the sound of his own voice.

She was slow thanking him. Was she thinking there might be a catch? he wondered. The prospect was tempting. He wouldn’t make the first move. He’d leave it to her, and if she did, then he wouldn’t refuse.

Slowly and silently, she got to her feet and went out to the kitchen. He heard the grating of a tin lid and guessed she was putting the money in the safest place she knew. She probably kept the tea or sugar in the same tin. It seemed a totally naïve thing to do; if anyone did break in they’d make straight for those tins. He smiled and shook his head. Women were so predictable.

The toddler began yawning and crying for her bottle. Ella gave it to him, picked him up and snuggled him down beside the other child in the double bed that dominated the room.

Tony put his teacup on the table and prepared to get up from his chair. Tonight he was taking Marcie out on the town. Boy, was she going to love it! Not a smoky old pub or third-grade dance hall in Sheerness. This was London and the bright lights would still be shining in the early hours of the morning. She was young, the city was swinging and she would love it!

Pressing his hands down on the chair arms, he was
about
to get up when Ella came and stood in front of him, legs braced, fingers already unbuttoning her blouse.

He said the first thing that came into his head. ‘Ella. There’s no need for this.’ But that wasn’t what he was thinking. His dream was coming true.

She gave him a ‘happy face’ smile, the sort that photographers insist on before they click the shutter; a smile that’s not real but just pasted on for the moment.