Bad Girl (14 page)

It was the morning after the reopening party at the Fox, and the pub looked like it had been hit by a different type of bomb. Helen stood in the centre of the bar, her eyes growing wide at the prospect of the task that lay ahead. Every available surface was covered with dirty glasses and plates, overflowing ashtrays and the crusty remains of food. The air stank of stale beer and fag smoke.

‘Bet you wish you’d never offered now,’ Tommy said.

The party had gone on into the early hours. It had felt like half the East End had turned out for the event, with the three large adjoining rooms packed to the rafters. Helen, together with Karen and Debs, had been allowed to stay up until midnight. Yvonne, if somewhat reluctantly, had finally moved back in, and the family was reunited again.

Helen picked up one of the big refuse sacks. ‘It won’t take long once we get started.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you had a head like mine.’ Tommy winced and rubbed at his temples. ‘Thanks, love, you’re a star.’

Helen smiled and set to work. As she piled the rubbish into the sack, she thought back to the previous night. Frank Meyer had been there, and Moira too. There’d been music and singing, even dancing at one point. She had drifted through the crowd, sipping her Coke as she studied the men in their slick suits and the women in their party dresses. As she passed by one group and then another, she’d caught endless snippets of conversation. That was the thing about being a kid – no one really noticed that you were there. There had been the usual gossip about one person or another, as well as talk of the fire, the ill-judged ambition of the Gissings and their ultimate downfall.

Joe had swaggered around the pub as if it had been him, not Mickey Stott, who had pulled a balaclava over his head and put the three brothers in hospital. Helen knew, however, that her grandfather hadn’t been idle in the weeks since the Fox had been attacked. Stott’s fast and violent retribution against the Gissings had given Joe the opportunity to move in on new business, and he had grabbed it with both hands. Although she didn’t know all the ins and outs, she had been aware of the flurry of activity and the constant comings and goings of his henchmen.

Karen and Debs had spent most of the evening ogling Terry Street, who much to their annoyance had turned up with a pretty blonde on his arm. Since the bombing of the Lincoln, Helen had noticed a change in Joe’s attitude towards Terry. It wasn’t respect exactly – Joe didn’t respect anyone – but a kind of recognition that the younger man had both cunning and brains. Terry had proved the latter not just by coming up with the plan to oust the Gissings, but by having the sense not to brag about it afterwards.

When Helen had first begun to comprehend the violent, shadowy world that the Quinns inhabited, it had filled her with fear and trepidation. Now, even after the short period she had been here, she was becoming accustomed to its different principles and morals. That wasn’t to say that she approved of the way the family behaved – she had listened to too many Sunday sermons for that to happen in a hurry – but she was learning to live with it.

Joe still scared the hell out of her. However, there’d been no repeat of the performance in the cellar. This wasn’t, she was certain, down to any softening in his attitude, but purely a result of having more important things on his mind. Occasionally he would fix her with one of his steely glares, but on the whole he just ignored her.

Helen ran a cloth over one of the tables, buffing the wood to a fine sheen. Four weeks was all it had taken to get the Fox open again. It would have been much longer if it hadn’t been for Tommy’s efforts in preventing the fire from spreading. Had the flames reached the stash of bottles behind the bar, the place would have gone up like a tinderbox. Not that he’d got much in the way of thanks for his trouble. Joe was preoccupied with expanding his empire, and Yvonne would have been more than happy to see the pub burnt to the ground.

Helen had spent every waking hour helping Tommy to get the place up and running. She looked around, proud of what they’d achieved. Reaching over, she touched the new red and gold flock wallpaper. She liked the feel of the raised velvety surface against her fingertips. There were long red curtains too. Joe had wanted to put bars on the windows – thus preventing any future firebomb attacks – but Tommy had managed to talk him out of it.

‘Are you kidding? Half our customers have been banged up at one time or another. They ain’t gonna want to drink in a bleedin’ jail.’

Helen stood up straight and did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. Yes, the Fox looked better than it ever had. It was the floor, though, that she liked best. The old worn carpet had gone, replaced by a zigzag of oblong wooden blocks. There was a name for the style, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Anyway, it would make the cleaning a lot easier.

As she swept a pile of paper plates into the bag, she realised with a start that it was almost the end of August and school would be beginning in the first week of September. Her heart sank. She wasn’t looking forward to it. She wished she could stay here in the pub and never step inside a classroom again. The three-week deal she’d made with Frank Meyer in the cemetery was long past, and with the fallout from the fire, she’d forgotten all about it until now. Thinking of Frank reminded her of something else she’d heard last night.

Helen concentrated hard as she tried to recall the exact words. Yvonne had been standing near the bar, and leaning in to her friend, Carol, she had said in a hushed voice, ‘See what I mean. Frank’s on his lonesome again. He hasn’t even looked at a girl since he got here.’

‘Maybe there’s no one he fancies.’

‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

Carol had given a snigger. ‘Your Tommy had better watch himself, then.’

Helen frowned, wondering what the two women had meant. The comments puzzled her. It was true that Frank was always on his own, but so what? And what had Carol meant about Tommy? She suspected it was something bad, something smutty, but she wasn’t sure exactly what. The little she did know about sex had been gleaned from a furtive reading of the problem pages in Debs’s
Jackie
magazine, and none of those dilemmas seemed to cover this particular subject.

Helen’s line of thought was broken by the sound of the phone ringing. Tommy came hurrying through to the bar to answer it. She wasn’t sure if his haste was down to a desire to prevent the noise from intensifying his hangover, or because he thought it might be Shelley Anne. She often called around this time, when she knew he’d be able to talk.

‘Hello? The Fox.’ There was a short pause, and then he said, ‘Yes, this is Tommy Quinn.’

Helen picked up some glasses and took them over to the counter. She was only listening with half an ear, but suddenly she became aware of a change in his tone.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

Helen glanced over at him, but his eyes met hers only briefly before he quickly and deliberately looked away. Such was the evasion that she was instantly aware that the call was connected to her. She felt the breath catch in the back of her throat. There was a tightening in her chest, a heavy sense of foreboding.

‘Yeah, of course I will. And the… the… it’s on Thursday, right?’

Helen stacked the glasses on the bar, her hands shaking slightly. Her legs felt unsteady too, as if the weight of her body had become too much for them. She leaned against the counter while she waited for Tommy to finish the call.

‘Ten o’clock. Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll be there.’

As he put the phone down, Tommy’s face twisted. He hesitated for a moment before finally meeting Helen’s gaze. ‘That was your Auntie Janet. I’m really sorry, love. It’s bad news.’

Helen gave a shake of her head, not wanting him to say the words. If he didn’t say it, it couldn’t be true. A part of her had always known that this could happen, but she had pushed the possibility to the back of her mind. There it had stayed for the last few months, a horror held at bay.

Tommy stepped out from behind the bar and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. ‘I’m so sorry, hun.’

Helen, who was not used to being hugged, stood awkwardly in his arms. With her face pressed against his shirt front, she breathed in his musky smell. As the finality of the news began to sink in, she felt a shifting inside, a kind of splintering, and she remembered the night of the fire, when she had witnessed one of the pub tables devoured by flames. One minute it was there, and the next it was gone. One minute her grandmother was there, and the next she was gone.

‘It was peaceful, hun. She wasn’t in any pain.’

Helen thought of the woman who had brought her up, tall and stern and nothing if not constant. Joan Beck had been her anchor for so many years that it was impossible to conceive of her as being dead. She hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye. Not one visit to the hospital. Had that been her gran’s choice or Janet’s? She felt a wave of grief roll over her, but refused to give in to the tears pricking at her eyes. Even in the presence of her uncle, she couldn’t bear to cry.

Tommy eventually released her from his embrace. Standing back a little, he placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. ‘You okay, Mouse? Why don’t you go upstairs for a bit? I can finish off down here.’

Helen gave a tiny shake of her head. What would she do upstairs? With Yvonne and Debs lounging in the living room, and Karen still in bed, there would be little chance of any privacy. Anyway, she didn’t want
to be alone with her thoughts.
After Grandad had died, Gran had cleaned the house in Camberley Road from top to bottom. Keeping busy had been her answer to grief, and Helen would follow suit. ‘It’ll be quicker with the two of us.’

‘Well…’ he said doubtfully. ‘If you’re sure.’

Helen forced a thin, trembling smile. Aware of the croak in her voice, she didn’t dare to speak again. Instead, she walked across the bar and started collecting the rest of the glasses. All the time she was aware of Tommy’s gaze on her. He stood there for a while, his eyes sad and anxious, before finally retreating to the room next door. It was only then, when she was finally alone, that a single tear escaped and ran down her cheek. Quickly she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

Helen could hear the radio, Elvis Presley singing ‘The Wonder of You’, as she turned the corner of the staircase and began walking along the landing. The song made her heart ache. It was Thursday, eight o’clock in the morning and the day of her grandmother’s funeral. She wasn’t sure how she’d get through it. The dread lay heavily in her stomach, a great boulder of grief wrapped in pain and regret.

She glanced down at the black woollen dress, the same dress she had worn to her mother’s funeral. It was too warm for it really – already she felt hot and bothered – but she had nothing else suitable to wear. She could have gone to the market, perhaps, and bought something lighter, but it was too late now. Carefully she smoothed out the creases with her fingertips.

As Helen approached the living room, Yvonne’s voice, edged with irritation, floated out to her from the kitchen. ‘So what happens next?’

‘Next?’ Tommy replied.

There was an angry clatter of cutlery. ‘Why do you always pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about? With
her
. What’s going to happen with
her
?’

‘She’s got a name,’ Tommy said. ‘And there’s no need to shout about it. What’s going to happen next is that we’re going to bury her grandmother.’

Helen stopped by the door, too embarrassed now to step into the living room. They would guess that she had overheard them, think perhaps that she’d even been deliberately eavesdropping. There’d be silence and awkwardness. Her cheeks flushed scarlet at the thought of it.

‘And then?’ Yvonne prompted. ‘I take it you’re going to have a word with that aunt of hers, find out what her plans are. It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, that’s what you promised, and the kid’s already been here for months.’

‘Ah, don’t start all that again. I’ll have a word, okay? I’ll sort it.’

‘Well make sure you do. I know what you’re like, Tommy Quinn: you say one thing and do the exact opposite. I’m telling you, you need to put that woman straight before this turns into a permanent arrangement.’

Helen raised a hand to her mouth and bit down on her knuckles. She might have guessed that Yvonne wouldn’t want her around, but even Tommy didn’t seem that bothered. Maybe he’d had enough of her too. Maybe this would be her last day at the Fox. Not so long ago, the idea of getting out of Kellston would have made her jump for joy, but recently her attitude had changed. She didn’t feel at home exactly, but she didn’t feel a complete stranger either. And when she weighed up the options – staying here or going to live with Janet – she knew which one she’d prefer.

After backtracking along the landing, Helen climbed softly up the stairs. When she got to the middle, she paused for a moment and then retraced her steps, making sure that she made enough noise to let them know she was coming.

‘Morning,’ Tommy said. ‘Sleep all right? Sit yourself down and have some breakfast.’

Helen wasn’t hungry – her stomach was churning – but she pulled out a chair and sat across from her uncle. She tried not to look at the bacon and eggs he was eating, although the smell of it still reached her. She breathed through her mouth, feeling nauseous and hoping that she wasn’t going to be sick.

Yvonne, still in her dressing gown, put a plate on the table with a heap of toast on it.

‘There’s tea in the pot. Help yourself.’

Helen reached for the milk bottle and sloshed some into a yellow mug. At Camberley Road there had always been a jug, but things were done differently here. Every morning she had sat down to eat with her gran, but breakfast at the Fox was rarely a communal event, the members of the household drifting in and out of the kitchen at whatever time they liked. She sipped the milk, thinking it might calm her stomach.

Yvonne plonked herself next to Tommy and lit a cigarette. She stared at Helen for a few seconds before saying, ‘So, is that what you’re wearing?’

‘There’s nothin’ wrong with it,’ Tommy said, throwing his wife a warning glance. ‘You look very smart, hun.’

Yvonne’s eyebrows shifted up. ‘I didn’t say she didn’t. Just thought she might be a bit hot, that’s all. It’s gonna be a scorcher today. It said so on the radio.’

‘Yeah, well, it won’t be hot in church. Those places are always cold enough to freeze yer bollocks off.’

Helen, who’d been feeling self-conscious even before she stepped into the room, now felt ten times worse. She didn’t know what to say and so she said nothing. Instead, she leaned forward a little, hunching her shoulders as though by such an act she could make herself less visible.

The Elvis song had come to an end and now Freda Payne was singing ‘Band of Gold’
.
Yvonne sang along between puffs on her cigarette.

‘Jesus,’ said Tommy, winking at Helen. ‘What’s that noise? Is there a bleedin’ cat in here or something?’

‘Ha, ha,’ Yvonne said. ‘Just because you’re tone deaf doesn’t mean that everyone else is too.’

‘What d’ya reckon, Mouse? Voice of an angel or something that needs putting down?’

Helen forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile. She knew that Tommy was only trying to cheer her up, but nothing could make her feel better today. The lyrics of the song reminded her of her mother’s wedding ring, the band of gold lying in her shell-covered box of treasures upstairs. Sometimes she would take it out and slip it on to her own finger, hoping to make a connection with the woman who had drifted so casually in and out of her life.

‘Have some cornflakes,’ Yvonne said, shoving the packet towards her.

‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’

‘I can do you an egg if you like. How about that – a boiled egg? It won’t take long.’

Helen shook her head. ‘No thanks. Really, I’m fine.’

‘Have some toast at least.’

‘She said she wasn’t hungry,’ Tommy said. ‘Leave the poor kid alone.’

Yvonne frowned at him. ‘She’s got to eat something.’

‘She doesn’t
have
to do anything.’

Helen, finding herself not just the unwanted centre of attention but also the cause of another petty squabble between Tommy and Yvonne, cringed inwardly. She wished now that she’d stayed upstairs until it was time to leave.

Yvonne stubbed out the cigarette with a series of quick jabbing movements. She glanced at Helen and said sulkily, ‘Well don’t blame me if your stomach’s rumbling in church.’

Helen, who’d had no intention of blaming her for anything other than a general lack of tact, kept her eyes fixed firmly on the table. On the tablecloth to the right of her unused plate was a brown tea stain in the shape of a cloud. She stared at it intently, then lifted a hand, intending to trace the outline with a fingertip, but stopped herself just in time. Yvonne might think that she was drawing attention to the unwashed state of the cloth. It would be yet another reason for the woman to dislike her.

Tommy poured himself a mug of tea, then sat back and sighed. His gaze raked the room for a moment before coming to rest on a pile of magazines stacked on the corner of the table. There was a piece of paper poking out from the one on top. He slid it out, stared at it and scowled. ‘What’s this doing here?’

‘It’s just a leaflet,’ Yvonne said.

‘I’ve already told her she ain’t going. She’s too young and that’s the end of it.’

Helen looked at the flier, a guide to the Isle of Wight Festival. On it was a long list of the artists who’d be playing, including Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, and Joni Mitchell. Debs, who was desperate to attend, had been nagging her mother about it for weeks.

‘She’s almost fifteen,’ Yvonne said.

‘Exactly,’ Tommy said. ‘She’s
fourteen
. I’m not having it and that’s final. It ain’t safe. Anything could happen to her.’

‘She wouldn’t be on her own. All her mates will be there.’

‘As will every horny teenage male who can haul himself across the Solent. You really want her up the duff at fourteen?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Yvonne snapped back. ‘It’s a concert, not a bleedin’ orgy. And that doesn’t say much for your opinion of Debs. She’s a decent kid. She can take care of herself.’

‘It’s not
her
morals I’m worried about. It’s the dirty little bastard who’ll ply her with cider, gaze into her eyes and swear undying love while he tries to get into her pants. I’ve been there, remember? I know every trick in the book.’

‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t judge everyone else by your own low standards.’

Helen’s gaze flitted anxiously from one to the other. She was relieved that she was no longer the focus of their attention, but she was worried that the sniping would turn into a full-blown row. Tommy’s face had already darkened, and even through his suntan she could see the flush of red on his cheeks.

‘You reckon?’ He gave a snort, pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Glancing down at Helen, he said, ‘You ready, love?’

Helen nodded and quickly got up too.

‘You’ll be early,’ Yvonne said. ‘It doesn’t take that long to get to Farleigh Wood.’

Tommy pulled on his jacket and went through to the living room. Standing in front of the mirror, he straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. Then, without another word, he headed for the stairs.

Helen tagged along behind, musing on whether his fears for his daughter were the result of his own past mistakes or those of his sister. If Lynsey hadn’t got herself pregnant, he wouldn’t have been landed with taking care of her offspring. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and took a final look into the bar. Recalling what Tommy had said earlier about
sorting it
, she wondered if this would be the last time she ever saw the Fox. Perhaps today, like some unwanted parcel, she would be handed back to Janet.