Читать книгу Blood Ties: Family is not always a place of safety - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 9

‘Haven’t you done in that bathroom yet?’ Irene was shouting. Kathleen sighed and gave a very satisfying two fingers to the closed door.

‘I won’t be a minute, Mam,’ she called back. The word ‘mam’, as always, stuck in her throat.

‘I don’t know why you bother, girl,’ Irene shouted back waspishly. ‘No amount of bleeding make-up could make that gormless face look any better. Now hurry up, I’m going to pee myself out here.’

Kathleen smiled at her reflection in the mildewing cabinet mirror. The old cow could just bloody well pee herself then. She grabbed an elastic band from the side of the sink and carefully smoothed her shoulder-length hair back into a high ponytail, then eased the hair out at the top so she could make it all bouffant, like all the pop stars like Lulu and Dusty Springfield did. She took her time. She didn’t care about her stepmother’s bladder, because it wasn’t her fault she had to use the bathroom first, was it? It was Mary’s.

Well, not so much her fault, because she couldn’t help being ill, could she? Kathleen understood that. But it was absence of Mary that had put Kathleen behind. She’d sent her husband round with a note for Irene first thing that morning, to let her know that she wouldn’t be able to do her shift on the bar. And, of course, Irene couldn’t possibly be expected to do it – at lunchtime? On a Wednesday? So, of course, it fell to Kathleen, on top of all the skivvying she’d still have to spend the afternoon doing – cleaning the flat, doing the washing, shopping for food and then cooking it, so her poor worn-out step-siblings would have a meal on the table for when they got home from their much harder jobs.

The only solace, and one she clung to, was that while she was upstairs and Irene and her dad were busy downstairs, she could borrow Monica’s record player and play her few records, while fantasising about all the pop stars who might whisk her away to a more exciting life than the one she had now.

Her dad was, as usual, down in the pub’s cellar at this time, so with Darren and Monica both at work, it just left the two of them in the flat. On a normal day, Kathleen would keep herself out of Irene’s way, but, still seething about her stepmother’s hand in last weekend’s non-birthday, today she felt a powerful urge to dawdle as long as she could, just for the sheer pleasure of winding Irene up.

‘Nearly done!’ she called, gaily, as she sat on the closed toilet seat and adjusted the straps on her slingbacks. ‘I’m just finishing off my hair.’

But she couldn’t stay in there for ever. One last check – she liked herself better in a ponytail – and she unlocked the door. The grin soon disappeared.

‘Horrible little cow,’ Irene spat as she clipped her round the head, before pushing past her awkwardly, having to hobble because of her urgency, and slamming the door behind her as forcefully as she could.

‘Now get down them stairs and get some frigging work done!’ she yelled from behind the door. ‘And I’ve told you before, madam, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!’

Or a human being out of a witch, Kathleen muttered to herself as she trotted down the stairs, enjoying the feeling of her ponytail swishing from side to side behind her.

Kathleen was already in place behind the bar before her dad came up to open the front doors, looking out across the sea of neatly arranged chairs and tables, through the sash windows and over the hedges that were threatening to shut the light out, to what little she could see of the bright day beyond. Which was probably all she would see of it, too.

Still, it being a Wednesday, there wouldn’t be a queue waiting, and the regulars would stroll in in their own time. You could set the clock by most of them, and each had their own drinking pattern. First would come the drunks, with the day stretching ahead of them, because they were all unemployed, then, from twelve till one, the workers, keen to fit in as many pints as they could before returning to their various jobs, then the pub would close for a bit, and it would be back to washing up and cleaning, while her dad went back to the cellar, getting the barrels ready for the evening – and more than likely filtering a gallon or so of water to the ones that were already on, just to eke the profits out that bit further.

They’d then reopen for the tea-timers. Almost exclusively men, these would be the ones stopping off on their way home, and who’d be rolling home to their wives and kids at about eight, much the worse for wear – or a bit before that, if their wives came looking for them. Then it was the night crowd. The cycle rarely changed. Day in, day out, the same. And Kathleen wondered at the repetitive nature of it all. There should be more to life, shouldn’t there? Perhaps they enjoyed it, but sometimes the thought of standing here, pulling pints, for years and years, filled her with a profound sense of gloom. She could almost see herself, hand gripping a pump, a decaying skeleton, rictus smile still held firmly in place.

She was shaken from her reverie by the sound of the front door going, and painted on the smile automatically. Because the smile was important. The most important thing about being a barmaid. Her dad had told her that a while after her mum had died, and she’d asked him how he could joke with the punters when all she wanted to do every day was cry. So he’d told her. He’d explained that once you were a grown-up, no matter how sad you were you had to roll your sleeves up and paint a smile on your face when you were working, and do all your crying on the inside.

It had stayed with her that, and it had been something of a comfort. Where previously she’d thought he hadn’t cared as much as she did, it was a comfort to know he was crying just like she was, even if nobody could see. And now she was seventeen, she did it almost automatically. No matter what was going on in your life – whether it was everything or nothing – you forgot about it and smiled inanely at everyone.

Her first customer, for instance, who was a middle-aged regular, who’d been hurt in a demolition accident. It had left him with a limp – he was limping across to her now, very obviously – and though he was only in his forties, a face that seemed much older. Which sort of fitted. He was ‘retired’, or so his line usually went, though, according to Irene, who never had a good word to say about anyone, he was just a lazy bastard who didn’t have a good day’s work in him.

‘Morning, Jack,’ Kathleen trilled, liking Jack because Irene didn’t. ‘A pint of mild is it?’

‘Please, love,’ he said, dragging a bar stool to his favourite spot. ‘No Mary today?’

‘No, she’s poorly,’ Kathleen told him, expertly pulling him a nice frothy top. ‘So you have me to put up with today, I’m afraid.’

Jack grinned. ‘Now’t wrong with that, kid,’ he said, winking at her as he settled on his stool. ‘And mebbe Mary’ll be off a few days yet, eh? Wouldn’t mind that. Have you and that pretty sister of yours serving me any day, I would.’

Kathleen tried not to grimace, because she knew she should be above that. It wasn’t like he was telling her she was ugly, after all. And Monica was pretty. No doubt about it. Well, when she was tarted up, which she mostly was. Everyone said so. ‘Pretty sister’ tripped off everybody’s tongue. Though not to Monica, she suspected – no, she knew – about her. It was her job to be the plain Jane. The dull presence beside which Monica could more easily shine.

She wouldn’t normally do it – the smile was all, the smiling attitude very much a part of it – but today she ‘accidentally’ banged Jack’s pint glass into the pump as she passed it across the bar, knocking some of the head off and ensuring it would flatten within minutes. ‘Oh sorry, Jack,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’m such a clumsy mare.’

By mid-afternoon, Kathleen was getting face-ache. It was hard trying to look thrilled to bits all the time about being at the beck and call of the punters, and the minutes seemed to be crawling by today. It didn’t help that it was quiet – far too nice a day to be sitting in a smoky bar – but with those that were in were all sitting chatting, full glasses in front of them, at least it meant she could nip out the back for a pee and a quick ciggie, her dad not allowing her to smoke behind the bar – it was either out in the bar or in the toilets.

She headed out into the foyer. It was Terry Harris, one of the regulars, who was a long-distance lorry driver – a job that, to Kathleen, always sounded so appealing. He must be here at this time because he’d just finished a local job. He was feeding coins into the one-armed bandit, and he turned when he heard her. ‘Alright, lass?’ he asked her.

Kathleen felt herself colour. She always did when she saw him because he was so ridiculously handsome. To her, anyway. And tragic. He was only young, but already a widower, his wife having died in a house fire a couple of years ago. Everyone felt sorry for him; some of the older ladies would sigh every time he passed. ‘Oh, hello, Terry,’ she said, ‘I’m just nipping out back.’ She gestured. ‘But I can get you a pint first, if you like.’

He shook his head, and gripped the machine’s arm, curling his long fingers around it. ‘No, love, I’m alright for a bit,’ he told her. ‘You go on.’

She turned to go, happy to hide her blush, but then he called her back. ‘I’ll wait for you here actually,’ he said. ‘If that’s alright.’ He looked suddenly awkward. ‘Only, there’s summat I wanted to talk to you about.’

Kathleen left him then, feeling the heat in her face as it collided with the cold air coming from the ladies’ loo. She stood a moment before lighting her Woodbine, looking at her face in the mirror above the sink, wishing she’d put on a bit of make-up, sorted her ponytail out a bit better and just generally looked better. Made that bloody silk purse out of the sow’s ear that was stood in front of her, in its dowdy blouse and skirt.

She lit her ciggie. She wished she could stop herself blushing at the sight of him, but she never seemed to manage it. It was something she didn’t seem to have any sort of control over. It was a stupid crush – she knew that. He was thirty-three, for God’s sake! – and she fervently hoped now she was seventeen she’d grow out of it. But there was just something. Something about his face, the way he smiled, the way he’d let his wavy hair grow. Be longer than hers soon, she reckoned. She liked that. That and the aura of sadness, despite his smiles. And there was a connection, too. Because Terry worked with her Aunt Sally’s Ronnie, who was his best mate.

Kathleen took a drag on her cigarette and watched the smoke weave above her. Perhaps that was mostly what she liked about Terry. The tragedy. That he was injured. Mentally scarred. Like a hero out of a book. Because no one else seemed to see in him what she did. Monica certainly didn’t. She’d said he wasn’t much of a looker. But then neither was Mr Rochester, was he? And there was just something about him that always made her heart flutter. It was fluttering all the harder now. What could he possibly want to talk to her about?

She finished her cigarette, had her pee, washed her hands and hurried out again. Terry was where she’d left him, but now he was staring out towards the road, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

‘I’m back!’ she said brightly, glancing through to the bar to check for customers, but nothing much seemed to have changed.

But Terry’s expression when he turned around was serious, and she wondered what on earth he could want her for. She hoped he wasn’t after a sub because Irene had made it clear that they weren’t lending any more money out to the punters. Not until some debts had been repaid, at least. But not from him. And she doubted it would be that, in any case. He might not dress up much but Kathleen had a hunch that was because he didn’t want to. Not because he was on his uppers. He had a solid, full-time and doubtless well-paid job. He ran a Cortina, as well as the juggernauts he drove.

Maybe he had a message from her Auntie Sally, then. She’d like that. But then he’d be smiling, wouldn’t he? And he wasn’t.

At least she was no longer blushing. ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘What is it you wanted to talk to me about?’

Again, he looked awkward. ‘Well, I don’t know if I should be telling you this,’ he said, ‘but it’s about your Darren.’

Kathleen felt her heart sink. She should have guessed. Her bloody stepbrother! Did he have any shame at all? Pound to a penny he owed Terry money. She pulled a face, waiting for the inevitable. Darren really needed to sort himself out! ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘What’s he done now?’

Terry stared at Kathleen for a long moment, as though he wasn’t sure how to start. For so long that she had to drag her eyes away. ‘Well, I might as well just come out and say it,’ he told her finally. ‘After all, it’s no secret he’s got gambling fever, is it? Thing is, Kathy, I think he might be getting in over his head.’

The blush returned with a vengeance. Terry was the only person since her mum had died who had ever called her Kathy. She wondered if he even realised. Probably not. She waited for him to continue.

‘Only I’ve been hearing tales, love,’ he said gently. ‘Serious shit, actually.’ He lowered his voice and glanced behind her. ‘I think he must be planning a robbery or something. He’s been trying to get hold of a gun.’

‘What?’ Kathleen was confused now. A gun? Their Darren? She shook her head. ‘You must have that wrong, Terry. Surely. Our Darren is a prat but he’s no need to go out robbing. He gets all he wants from bloody Irene! You know that. Everybody knows that. A gun?’

Terry shook his head and she could see how troubled he obviously felt. He meant it. He might be wrong, but he meant it. ‘I’m not mistaken, Kathy,’ he told her, as if reading her mind. ‘He’s definitely been asking about where he can get hold of one. I’ve been told by more than one person. So it’s either a robbery …’ He paused. ‘Or he needs it for protection. Either way, he’s getting himself involved with some bad people.’ He touched her wrist. ‘Love, I’m telling you because you need to warn him.’

The rest of the shift passed as quickly as the first half had dragged, Kathleen’s mind in a whirl, trying to process what Terry had told her. Trying to fathom what her stepbrother could possibly want a gun for, trying not to think about quite how much money trouble he might be in. It must be bad – Terry was right; he had gambling fever pretty badly. But was it that much worse? How much did he owe that he couldn’t get it from his mam? Where Darren was concerned she’d do anything … But then she wasn’t made of money, was she? So could it be true? That he was getting a gun so he could go and rob someone at gunpoint? Or getting it for someone else? Who were these bad people Terry was talking about? Did he know them?

She wished she’d asked him. And protection. What was that all about? Did that mean he owed money to the sort of people who might hurt him? Because there was no doubt his addiction had been steadily getting worse, so much so that perhaps he’d been driven to borrowing from people he’d no business going near. And struggling to pay them off? These days he never had a penny to call his own and he was bleeding her dad and Irene of the pub’s takings most weeks.

So what should she do? The idea of facing Darren himself seemed impossible. He’d just tell her to bugger off and mind her business. She knew he would. So perhaps she should tell her dad and Irene what Terry had told her, and let them deal with it. Her dad would surely know what to do.

But would he? And what about Irene? She could imagine it all too well. The very idea of her passing on anything negative about her golden boy was unthinkable. She’d probably slap her halfway across the room. And if she just told her dad … well, then he’d have to tell Irene anyway.

No, on balance, she decided, as she hung up the last beer towel, and made her way back upstairs, she’d have to be brave and tackle Darren himself, when he got home from work. But Darren? A gun? Even the word felt unreal. Perhaps Terry had got it all wrong. She hoped so.