Blood Relatives

Vanessa moved to t’ window, from where she could keep an eye open for business. There wor fewer punters about in t’ daytime, but then, she said, fewer girls wor out working. The banter turned to Emily Jackson, the murdered woman, who like Wilma, like Vanessa hersen, wor a mother an’ all.

Vanessa repositioned the one-bar electric fire toward her legs.

‘I didn’t know her, Emily. She worn’t no regular. I hear she used to hang out at the Gaiety and the Room at the Top club. But that don’t mean owt.’

She patted the corners of her mouth wi’ a tissue, her gaze fixed on t’ gap between t’ gateposts. For a moment it seemed she had a punter. She sat upright, patting her hair, projecting her breasts. Then she relaxed her posture. The punter had moved on.

‘He’ll be back,’ she said, taking a long drag on her ciggie. ‘The girls,’ she said, exhaling upward, ‘are mostly working team-handed. They’ll keep it up for a week or two, and then they’ll forget. Trust me.’

She screwed her fag end into t’ ashtray and lit another. ‘When you’ve been in business as long as I have, you can smell a bad’un.’

She smiled at us both, a smile, I saw, that wor too light for t’ effort she gave it.

I lay on my bed leafing through t’ local rag. They didn’t waste much ink on Emily. Just a brief mention of a second prozzie murder in Chapeltown, and a fuzzy photo. Whores get what’s coming is what most folk thought. If folk thought at all.

I could hear sis in t’ bath. She wor always having baths. No wonder t’ reservoir levels wor so low. I slipped across t’ landing into her bedroom and, sliding open a drawer, took out the diary from under t’ layers of knickers. I flipped it open where a blue biro wor resting in t’ spine.

My fingers danced grubbily through t’ pages. Her scribble wor hard to read, and she’d been scrawling biro flowers and stick figures in t’ margins. It wor t’ usual friggin’ rubbish. Some boys had been carving band names in t’ wooden bus shelter (boring), summat about copying her French homework off Emma in return for buying Emma some fags (learning fast there, sis), and some boy called Adam had smiled at her in t’ corridor.

I turned the page. Sunday. She’d been listening to t’ top thirty pop charts and marking down t’ chart positions in a special chart book. What friggin’ chart book? My eyes skimmed over t’ shoes and bags strewn across t’ carpet, the teddies, frogs and gonks on t’ bed, the washing slithering out of t’ wicker basket. My hand hovered over all t’ girly clutter on t’ small dressing table that Mitch had put together for her in t’ garage last winter, not wanting to move owt in case she clocked it.

I realised I could hear t’ bath water gurgling away down t’ pipes. I flipped the diary shut and scuttled back to my room. I threw mesen on t’ bed and laughed deliciously. A close call wor always more satisfying than getting away clean and easy.

‘Charts!’ I snorted under my breath. ‘Charts!’

Marcella Claxton (#u4cd7cea9-0925-57c6-807d-028e1e6c01d6)

09/05/1976 (survived)

Friday night, as usual, we all went for a chinky and then on to t’ Marquis of Granby at the end of our road.

Even Gran came along these days, now that she wor on her tod. Mandy, being too young for pubbing, said she wor going to Emma’s to listen to records. When sis wor fibbing she talked like a dalek and fiddled wi’ her hair. She wor off to see Adam. Her latest diary entries wor full of him. Adam-friggin’-Adam. Mother didn’t say nowt, except ‘Don’t be late.’

The Marquis wor a large, noisy pub wi’ swirly blue-and-green carpeting, a jukebox and a dartboard.

Mavis, Mother’s mouldiest friend, had pitched up, as had the neighbours, Nora Gudgeon, her diabetic mother Denise, and her daughter Janice. Mavis squeezed her ample backside onto t’ bench seat between Gran and me. She wor wearing a trowel-load of slap over t’ thin veneer of abuse doled out by hubby Don, and a pong so raking I thought I’d gag if I so much as flared a nostril. I spotted her abuser, across t’ bar, through t’ curling smoke, wi’ Mitch and two other blokes I didn’t know, drinkin’ themsens into a slurry.

Janice wor sat opposite me, face like a pickled egg. Struck me she wor all dolled up like she’d been planning on being elsewhere. I could sympathise. It didn’t suit me none, sitting wi’ all t’ brassy women, but Mother wor being as stubborn as a goat, using that ‘family together’ baloney to blackmail me into feeling guilty for wanting to stay at home and play my records.

Janice fiddled wi’ t’ buckle of her wide, white belt. Her nipples wor pushing pertly up against her cheesecloth smock-blouse.

‘Our Janice is getting spliced soon,’ chirruped Nora.

‘Married? Is that right, Janice?’ said Mavis, leaning forward, her glinting hoop earrings leaning wi’ her, her breasts bunching together in her low-cut glitzy top. ‘When wor all this decided?’

Janice dropped her chin, and all eyes followed to t’ gentle bump. Looked like it wor decided about four month gone, I thought.

‘So, come on,’ Mavis said. ‘Who’s the lucky fella?’

‘He’s called Drew,’ Janice said, lighting a ciggie and blowing smoke from t’ side of her mouth. Denise flapped the smoke away wi’ a flash of pink nails.

‘Drew? Short for Andrew, is that? So where is he? When do we get to meet him?’

Janice crossed her arms over her stomach. ‘He’s on a geography field trip. Wi’ t’ school.’

Mavis said, ‘Kids today, eh. Who’d have ’em?’ Then wi’ a toss of her head toward Mother, she added, ‘If I remember right, Pam, you married dead young, didn’t you?’

‘He wor a mistake,’ Mother replied waspishly. ‘We wor divorced before a year wor out … Oh, Janice, luv, not that I mean that it won’t last between yersen and … and …’

‘Drew.’

‘Drew … just that I married a wrong’un, that’s all.’

‘What wor his name …?’ Denise asked, pitching in her tuppence worth. Mavis snatched up her lighter, clicking it furiously against t’ tip of another ciggie ’til Nora struck a match for her, then lit one for hersen.

Mother hissed, ‘You know damn well, Denise. You know damn well his name.’

Mother stretched out a smile. I didn’t know if she wor shunting off the topic for her own sake or mine. What wor to know that I hadn’t learnt already by earwigging and nosing about? Some friggin’ carpet salesman, twice her age, who she’d married and divorced like t’ church had revolving doors. It all happened a friggin’ age before I came on t’ scene. And owt that happened before me didn’t really happen. Except in history books and on t’ telly. Of course she didn’t want to blab on about it.

Denise worn’t done yet.

‘Didn’t he take you down to London on honeymoon? Started out wi’ a stall in Leeds market and before you could say shag pile he had his own warehouse in an old church, heavin’ wi’ carpets and linos. Proper little peacock, he wor. Always wore a suit, and drove a car wi’ a walnut dashboard.’

This wor a stinking, fresh cowpat of news to me.

‘What kind of car?’

Mother looked like her hair wor on fire.

‘A bloody posh one,’ said Mavis.

‘So, Janice,’ said Mother, trying to park the conversation elsewhere, ‘any name yet for the … for the …?’

‘Damien,’ Janice said. ‘Or Rosemary, if it’s a girl.’

‘What unusual names, Janice,’ Mother said.

‘I think,’ said Mavis, ‘we should all drink a toast to Janice. And to Nora on becoming a grandmother.’

Nora bridled. I fathomed that ‘grandmother’ didn’t sit well wi’ her just yet. She nodded at me, and said to Mother, ‘Well, I’m sure this one will do you proud when t’ time comes.’

‘Not me. I’m never getting married,’ I said.

The women guffawed.

‘I’m not.’

Behind Janice’s head I could see Don’s barrel bulk heading our way, parting the drinkers like a shire horse fording a river. Denise, who hadn’t clapped eyes on him yet, wor saying, ‘Course you will, Rick. Some lovely lass will catch your eye, and then before …’