Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 2: The Loner, Born Bad, Three Letters

‘Shall I put that in the cupboard?’ Reaching for the bottle, Davie was disappointed when she snatched it out of his grasp, smacking his hand away.

‘I can’t let you do that,’ she told him. ‘I’ve had a bad shock. I need my strength.’ On seeing his downcast face she tapped him more gently on the arm. ‘Go and make your mammy a cup of tea, there’s a good boy.’ She was angry – angry at her husband for leaving; angry because she was in pain and nobody cared. And she was very angry, that a boy not yet fourteen should think he could tell her what to do. ‘Go on, then. Shift yourself!’ She sucked on the cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke.

Concerned and afraid, Davie insisted. ‘I don’t want you to have any more of that.’ He pointed to the bottle. ‘Please, Mam, let me put it away.’

‘DO AS YOU’RE BLOODY WELL TOLD!’ she screeched, lashing out with the back of her hand.

With no choice, Davie left her there and went into the kitchen, where he stood for a time by the pot sink, his fists clenched, head hanging low and his eyes closed. He felt rejected, with a deep-down sadness that was like a physical hurt. He had to ask himself, how many times had his daddy felt the same way he felt now?

In the next room, Rita remained slumped in the chair; she was hurting badly from the fall, but she didn’t want pity. She wanted her life the way it had been. With Donny gone and her father turned against her, all she had left was Davie, but he was just a boy. How could he look after her? The time was fast approaching when she would get the sack from the salon, as she kept erratic hours – and what would become of them then?

When the sadness threatened to overwhelm her, she fumed at how cruel Don had been in leaving. Then there was her father … her own flesh and blood. If Joseph had been any kind of a man, he would have given Donny a bloody good hiding. ‘You let him desert me, Dad, and I’ll never forgive you for that.’ Her shrill voice sailed through to the kitchen where he was now leaning against the pot sink, his pained eyes staring out at the long dawn.

Still a strong, capable man, despite long years in the foundry, and a heart battered by bad memories, the old man heard her relentless abuse and knew exactly how he had spawned such a degraded creature. She was made from the same mould as her mother.

Moving to sit by the kitchen fire, and adding a bit of coal to it, he ran his hands through his thinning hair, trying hard to turn a deaf ear to his daughter’s rantings. His son-in-law’s departure had cut Joseph to the quick. Yet it only reinforced his belief that what he was about to do had to be done – because if he relented now, she would be the death of him – and what of the boy? Someone had to give her a jolt – make her realise what she was doing, get her off the road she was travelling. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind, and that was the way of it.

She’ll blame everybody else, like she always does, he thought crossly. She’s done the damage to herself and torn this family apart, and God help us, she still hasn’t learned. His mind flew to his wife, dead of TB these ten years, and although he still grieved for her, his life was peaceful now, after long years of torment due to her faithless ways.

His mind was made up. No one else should have to suffer like that. Davie would come off worst … that fine young lad who would love his mother whatever she did. Good or bad, he would only ever see Rita as his adored mammy.

In the next room, the vicious tirade was unending. The whole world was against her, Rita raved. Her father was bloody useless and besides, he had always been a thorn in her side, lecturing her about the rights and wrongs of parenthood, and how she should be a better wife and think of others. What a bloody cheek – when he himself had been unable to control his own wife, who used to disappear for weeks at a time with her latest boyfriend. Rita had hated and loved her mother in equal measure.

For one dizzy moment, Rita thought she could smell her mother’s perfume – Attar of Roses – mixed with something far more heady, a scent that the girl later recognised as gin, now her own favourite tipple.

Thinking of her mother now filled her with rage. ‘GO ON, THEN!’ she bellowed. ‘YOU CAN ALL CLEAR OFF – AND SEE IF I CARE!’ Taking hold of the poker, she smashed it into the grate. Then the bottle was thrown, spilling its contents across the half-moon rug. Struggling to her feet and sobbing with the effort, she clung to the standard lamp.

Laughing wildly now, she saw the boy watching her, white with fear. When he darted forward to take hold of her, she drew back her hand and slapped him hard across the mouth, gasping when the blood trickled down the side of his chin. And oh, the way he was looking at her … as though she was the Devil incarnate. Taking the heavy poker, she laid into the mantel-piece, sending the clock and ornaments shattering across the floor.

Then she was crying. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ she gabbled. ‘It’s the drink and whose fault is that, eh? Your dad’s left me and you know I didn’t deserve that.’ She swayed, her hand at her mouth, feeling sick as a dog.

‘I want you out of this house.’

Joseph had come into the room and had witnessed everything.

‘What? You can’t do that!’ Fear marbled her voice. ‘Look, Dad, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I’ve always had a temper, you know that. I’ll put it right. I won’t do it again. Look, here!’ Reaching into her purse, she shook out a handful of silver coins. ‘I’ve got money, I’ll get you some new ornaments and—’

‘I want nothing from you!’ The old man stood tall. ‘I don’t care about the damned ornament, but you can never replace that clock. It was precious to me – a gift from your mother – all I had left of her.’ His gaze fell to the money in her hand. ‘Earn that, did you?’ His voice thickened with disgust. ‘Half an hour in the alley, was it? Well, you can keep your filthy money, you trollop, because I don’t want it. What I want is you, out of this house … NOW!’

‘But Grandad!’ The boy came once more to her defence. ‘Mam’s already said she won’t do it again.’ Inside he was in turmoil, but he had to be strong for her.

Seeing Davie’s downcast face, and knowing how he must be hurting, the old man said kindly, ‘Not you, son. I don’t want you gone from here. It’s her I want out of my house. She’s had her chances time and again, and each time she’s promised to change her ways.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘It’s like your grandmother, all over again. My Marie was just the same, God rest her soul. You see, my boy, I just can’t go through it all again. We’ve allus given in, but not this time. I’m too old and tired to take it any more. It’ll be the death of me.’

‘But you can’t send her away!’ The boy panicked. ‘Where will she go?’

‘Back to the streets where she belongs.’

‘That’s fine.’ Rita struggled to stand. Holding on to the back of the chair, she told them both, ‘I’m a proud woman, and I don’t stay where I’m not wanted. Help me, Davie. I know where we can go, me and you. We don’t need this hovel. We can do better, you and me!’

‘Not you, Davie!’ Just as Don had pleaded with Davie, so now did the old man. ‘She’s not worth it. Let her go and find her own sort. You stay here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Please, Davie, don’t go with her. Stay here, with me.’ Truth was, at this moment in time, he needed the boy more than ever.

But the boy’s answer was the same as before. ‘I can’t leave her, she’s my mam. We’ll take care of each other.’

‘So, you mean to desert me as well, do you?’

‘I have to look after her.’

‘No, Davie!’ Somehow, he had to stop the boy from going. ‘You’re not listening to what I’m saying. Your father tried to warn you, and now I’m begging you … don’t go with her. She’ll take you down the road to ruin. Stay here with me … please.’

The boy was steadfast. ‘No, Grandad. She needs me.’

‘What? And you don’t think I need you?’

The boy shook his head. ‘Not as much as Mam does.’

‘Right!’ Desperation heightened to anger. ‘Go on then! If that’s what you want, you can bugger off the pair of you, out of my house and out of my life. And I pray to God I never see either of you again!’

For a long, shocked moment, the boy looked him in the eye, not wanting to believe what he’d just heard.

‘Come on, sweetheart.’ Rita stubbed out her cigarette and tugged at his sleeve. ‘We don’t need him. We don’t need anybody. You and me, we’ll be fine on our own.’

The old man lingered a moment longer, silently pleading with Davie to see sense and change his mind. But he knew how loyal the boy was, and he had seen how his father leaving had made him all the more protective of his mother. And he realised he had lost to her, yet again.

Without a word, he went upstairs, where he sat on the edge of his bed, saddened at what his own daughter had become, and worried about Davie: there was no telling where Rita might take him. God only knew where it would all end.

A few minutes later, Davie came upstairs to collect a few things. He paused at the old man’s door. ‘I’m sorry, Grandad,’ he said.

But there was no forgiveness in the old man’s heart, only fear for the boy, and hatred for his daughter. ‘Go away,’ he grunted.

‘I don’t want to leave like this.’

For a fleeting moment, the old man almost relented; for the boy’s sake, perhaps he should give her another chance. But how many chances would she need before she saw what she was doing to herself and others? No! The mixture of old and new anger was still burning, and he deliberately turned away, his heart like a lead weight inside him.

After a while he heard the boy move away, heard his footsteps dragging down the stairs – and it was all he could do not to go after him and catch him in his arms and tell him they would have a home here for as long as they wanted.

But he had been through it all so many times with her, just as he had with her mother, and each time she sank deeper into the swamp. Then there was the gossip and the sly looks in the street. You couldn’t go on like it, and she wouldn’t change her ways. Why couldn’t Davie see her for what she was?

The slam of the front door shattered his thoughts. Slowly and heavily, he went downstairs to the front room and looked out of the window. As he watched them go down the street, his daughter limping – from the drink, he assumed – he could hardly see them for the tears scalding his eyes. ‘Look at you,’ he murmured. ‘A mere scrap of a lad, and yet you take it all in your stride.’

He saw how the woman leaned her weight on the boy, and how he took it, like the little man he was. ‘God help you, Davie,’ he muttered. ‘She’ll use you and then she’ll desert you.’

He was bone-tired, and his heart full of sorrow.

When they were out of sight, he left the window and went back to sit down, holding the broken bits of the clock, the tears he’d managed to hold back now flowing down his face. It was all such a mess. What a dreadful night’s work this had been. ‘I’m sorry, Davie. I had to send her away,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve don emy best, but I’m too old and frail to put up with her bad ways.’

He glanced out at the waking skies and he prayed. ‘Dear God, keep them both safe. Let her realise the harm she’s done. And keep young Davie under Your divine protection.’ He hoped the Almighty was listening.

The rage inside him was easing and now, with the coming of the dawn, there was another feeling, a sense of horror and shame. What in God’s name had he been thinking of, to do such a terrible thing?