Betty sighed again. ‘You’re always pissed lately, ever since that Irish ponce got married.’ Her voice became softer then. ‘Come on, Madge, let’s get to work before all the blokes are taken.’
Madge shook her head. ‘I can’t be bothered any more. We’re pissing against the wind there. Can’t you see, we’re too old for this lark?’
Her faded eyes were alight with honesty and Betty couldn’t stand looking into them any longer. The trouble with Madge was, when she got drunk, she told the truth. And the truth hurt.
Betty patted her hair, dyed black these days, looking in the bar mirror. ‘Suit your fucking self! I’ve got to earn a few quid even if you ain’t.’ Slipping off the stool, she made her way out of The Blind Beggar pub and towards Victoria Park. She’d pick up the bus and be in Custom House within half an hour.
As she approached the bus stop she heard Madge’s tell-tale high heels behind her.
‘Hold on, girl, I’ll break me neck in a minute!’
Taking out a crumpled tissue, Betty wiped her friend’s face clean and helped her apply more lipstick. As the bus came into sight two young boys on the opposite side of the street started shouting.
‘Oi, you old slappers, how much for a quick flash?’
Ignoring them, Betty helped her friend on to the bus, oblivious to the hostile stares of the women already seated. Madge and Betty’s cheap fur coats and plastered-on make-up were a dead giveaway. They were ridiculed wherever they went and both stared stoically ahead, as they’d learned to years ago.
‘Come on, Cathy, let me.’
She shook her head as she pulled his hands from under her jumper.
‘Stop it. You know I won’t do that.’
Eamonn leaned back against the settee, gritting his teeth. ‘I don’t believe you, Cathy. We’ve done everything else but, and at the last minute you knock me back!’ Jumping up, he arranged himself and pulled up his flies.
Cathy watched him, full of fear that he’d walk away from her, this time for ever.
‘You’re a tease, Cathy, you know that, don’t you?’ he complained bitterly.
She closed her eyes. The cider he had given her had made her drunk and she wished she was in bed asleep, instead of lying on a settee, half naked and upset.
‘I’m frightened, Eamonn.’
Picking up his coat from the floor, he smiled unpleasantly. ‘Thanks a lot, Cath. That says it all, don’t it? After all these years, you’re frightened of me. Well, don’t worry, I won’t be coming back, love.’
As he made for the door, she ran to him, her unbuttoned tartan skirt hanging loose around her waist and threatening to slip to the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Eamonn, really I am. Don’t go.’
He turned and looked at her hard. ‘Does that mean you’re going to let me then?’
She dropped her gaze and concentrated on the old scarred dresser in the corner of the room. She heard his sharp intake of breath.
‘I can’t, Eamonn.’ Her low voice was barely audible.
‘Not can’t, Cathy. Won’t. See you sometime.’
He turned from her and left the room. At the front door he waited a few seconds, sure that she’d beg him to come back. But she didn’t, and feeling the temper rise within him, he slammed out of the door.
Cathy heard his footsteps clattering downstairs as she was pulling on her panties, and swallowed down the urge to cry. Sex was a major part of her mother’s life and Cathy had always accepted that. But sex for herself was something else altogether. She wanted to be a virgin when she got married, and even at thirteen she understood exactly what Eamonn was offering her: the chance to get pregnant, the chance to be used, the chance to become what her mother was. She adored Eamonn but years of living with him had left her with no illusions as far as he was concerned. That, coupled with the fact that she still adored him, was the root of all her problems.
The worst of it was, she wanted to do what he asked, but was too frightened.
After tidying herself, she began washing the glasses and straightening the furniture. Then she went to her room, lay down on the bed and took deep breaths.
She was lulled to sleep by images of Eamonn and herself, in a nice house, with a wedding ring on her finger and a baby in her arms. Respectability was all-important to Cathy because it was something to aspire to. Most people wouldn’t understand that. But then, most people weren’t the child of a dock dolly like Madge.
Since her Irishman had married, she had even started to bring her work home.
It was the shrill laughter of drunkenness that woke Cathy. Rubbing her eyes, she realised she was still fully dressed. She sat up on the bed and glanced at the small bedside clock. It was three-thirty in the morning. Her head ached from the cider and her mouth felt as dry as the Gobi Desert. Yawning heavily, she walked from the bedroom into the narrow hallway. As she made her way to the kitchen she heard a man’s voice.
‘Pour out more drinks, Alan.’
‘Yeah, large ones!’ Betty’s voice was slurred and Cathy closed her eyes in distress.
If it was a foursome, the noise level was likely to increase and she wasn’t in the mood. Hearing the clink of glasses, she poured herself some milk and tiptoed back to her room with it. Inside she drank the milk and undressed hurriedly, hanging up her skirt and smoothing out her jumper. Pulling on a large flannelette nightie, she pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. But she was wide awake now.
By the light of the streetlamp she could make out the furniture in her room, even the damp patches on the wallpaper. She replayed the scene of earlier in her mind and sighed heavily. In her young life only two people had remained a constant fixture: her mother and Eamonn.
Now he wanted something from her, and she knew she would eventually let him have it. Putting her hands behind her head, she comforted herself with wild imaginings: Eamonn waiting for her at the altar, the moment he slid the ring on to her finger, Madge all respectable in a navy blue two-piece wiping away tears of pride.
She was smiling slightly when the bedroom door was thrust open and the harsh light from the hallway dazzled her.
‘Well, well! What have we here?’
The man was tall and thin, with a beaked nose and thick lips. He smiled at her but there was a gloating quality in his voice and eyes.
‘Get out! Go on, mate, get yourself out of here.’ Cathy could hear the sounds of the radio and raucous laughter coming from the lounge.
The man approached the bed. ‘Come on, love, I ain’t stupid. Got the painters in, is that it?’
Cathy closed her eyes at this disgusting reference to periods. Leaping from the bed, she screamed out: ‘Mum! Mum! Get in here!’
The loudness of that voice, coming from such a fragile slip of a girl, took him by surprise. Sidestepping him, Cathy ran into the front room, causing the three of them to fall quiet. The second man sat staring at her in shock.
‘Who’s this then?’
Cathy put her hands on her hips and said nastily, ‘Come on, Mum, do the honours. I have to get up for school in the morning, and there’s a man in my room trying to get his leg over.’
Madge winked at her and said, ‘He’s all right, girl. Tell him the score and send him back in here. You’re safe as houses, love.’
Cathy shook her head in consternation. ‘You go and get him, please - he’s your punter, not mine. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him that and all. He seems to think I work with you two.’
The man walked back into the room as she said that. He was pulling up his flies and belched loudly before saying: ‘Leave it out, girl, you’re ripe for it. Next you’ll be telling us you’re a virgin and your mother’s Lady Docker!’
The men laughed together.
Cathy screwed up her eyes in exasperation and Betty stood up. Taking the girl’s arm she said in a soothing voice: ‘Don’t get in a state, Cathy. Come on, I’ll take you back to bed.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ The second man’s voice was full of innuendo. ‘See you tucked in, like.’
Betty looked at him and said laughingly, ‘Stop it, Alan. The girl’s only thirteen. Leave her alone.’
Alan, a heavy-set man with steel grey Brylcreemed hair and a red nose, said seriously, ‘Thirteen, my arse! She looks old enough to me. Old enough for what I want anyway.’
Cathy pulled herself from Betty’s grasp. Her voice hard and reminiscent of her mother’s, she said loudly and forcefully: ‘That’s it! I want both of you out - now.’ She picked up the two overcoats from the back of the settee and threw them on the floor.
‘I beg your pardon?’ The tall thin man sounded amazed.
‘You heard. What are you, deaf as well as stupid? I said out.’
‘You’ll get a slap around the face, young la—’
But Ron’s voice was cut off by Madge who butted in: ‘If there’s any fucking slapping to be done, mate, I’ll do it! Now then, Cathy, get yourself back to bed and I’ll sort these two out myself.’
The girl gritted her teeth. ‘I want them out, Mum.’
Madge stood up. Pushing out her considerable chest, she said heavily, ‘What you want and what you’ll get is two different things. Now, get back to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. OK?’
Her eyes spoke volumes and Cathy turned abruptly and walked from the room. The tall man stood in the doorway. She had to squeeze past him to get out.
He smiled down at her, his breath rank in her face as she made her escape. ‘I’ll see you again, love.’
She shouted over her shoulder, ‘Not if I see you first, mate!’ Then slammed the bedroom door and made a big production of wedging a chair underneath the handle.
This was becoming a nightly occurrence and she hated it. Twice in the last few weeks she had been disturbed by men trying to touch her, or had woken to find them leering at her. It was getting beyond a joke. Cathy had long ago come to terms with her mother’s way of life. The taunts of the other kids were like water off a duck’s back now. But as she herself approached womanhood, things were changing, becoming frightening. Because Cathy knew, in her heart of hearts, that if offered enough money Madge would try and talk even her daughter into the ‘life’, something Cathy emphatically did not want. Madge Connor patently could not understand her reluctance. To Madge, men were there to rip off, to take from, and if they wanted something in return, well, what was wrong with that?
Memories of her young life assailed Cathy. Visiting men would sit her on their lap and all Madge would do was laugh shrilly and pour herself another drink. Cathy could almost see herself trying to squirm free from their harsh beards and loose-lipped kisses. It made her shudder even now.
As bad as Eamonn Senior was, he had never tried that with her, only ever wanting to be her friend. In a strange way, she missed him. At least with him there, she’d been safe, and Eamonn, her Eamonn had been there too. Now it seemed the only way to get him back was to give in to him; let him have what he wanted. Feeling tears sting her eyes, she wondered what the end of all this would be.
Cathy sat at the kitchen table with a plastic-backed mirror propped up against the tea pot. She made up her face carefully, sipping from the cup of sweet tea beside her and munching a piece of toast. As she applied lipstick her mother walked into the kitchen and began to pour out two teas, letting the mirror fall to the table.
‘Is he still here?’ Cathy’s voice was low.
Madge stared at her. ‘What if he is? This is my flat, love, not yours. Remember?’
‘How could I forget? By the way, Mrs Carter from next door is complaining to the landlord again. She told me when I was bringing in the milk.’
Madge yawned, tongue like a yellow snake inside her mouth. ‘Fuck her, silly old cow!’ Walking to the door she called: ‘Tea up! Breakfast’s extra!’
The tall thin man walked into the kitchen in nothing but his trousers. His braces hung by his legs and his eyes still had white beads of sleep round them. Cathy felt the toast rise inside her as she looked at him.
‘Drink your tea and fuck off.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact.
Madge laughed. ‘She likes you, Ron. Normally she don’t speak to anyone!’
The man grinned and Cathy grinned back. A fake grin that held so much hatred he was taken aback for a few moments.
‘You’re such a stroppy mare, Cathy. You always shoot yourself in the foot, you,’ Madge ran on. ‘If you could give people a kind word, you’d get rewarded. Look at that man a while ago - he gave you half a crown!’ She looked at Ron and said in exasperation, ‘She told him to shove it. Straight up!’ Madge’s voice held pride and annoyance at the same time. ‘She’s a nice girl, this one. No one will ever own her, mate.’
Cathy lit a cigarette and took a deep draw on it. Then, making her voice sweet, she said, ‘So, Ron, have you a wife and kids, and where do you work? Is this how you want me, Mum? The talkative teenager?’
Madge laughed heartily. ‘You should go on the bleeding stage, Cath. You’re a card and no mistake.’
‘She wants a slap round the earhole, Madge, and if I was her father she’d get one.’
Madge turned on him viciously. ‘You and whose fucking army, mate? Because if you so much as raised your hand, I’d stick a knife through your heart without a second’s thought.’
The man looked at her for long moments. ‘I’ll bear that in mind, lady.’
Madge lit a cigarette and said, ‘Get your coat and piss off, I’ll see you later.’ Her voice had lost its fierceness now and was almost cajoling.
When Ron had left she poured out two fresh teas and said sadly, ‘Another day, another dollar.’
‘How much did you get?’ Cathy asked with genuine interest.
‘A couple of quid. Nothing to write home about. How’s young Eamonn?’
Cathy shrugged. ‘Same as usual, Mum. He said his dad’s well before you ask.’
As Madge nodded, cigarette ash fell on to the slip which was all she wore and she wiped at it haphazardly. ‘I loved him, you know, Cathy.’ Her voice was small, crushed-sounding.