Kimberley Chambers - The Schemer

Cathy raised her eyebrows. ‘Girls, eh! Who’d have ’em?’

Bill Jackman was quite pleased that his grandson was stuffing a bit of fluff, but his wife had her concerns about the situation and had insisted on hanging around to meet the girl.

Wayne agreed to the introduction. As long as his grandparents didn’t cramp his style, he didn’t care what they did. He knew he was lucky to be allowed to have the house to himself to bed a girl, none of his friends were, and he couldn’t wait to have sex with Angela again. He had seen her every evening this week, but she’d flatly refused to let him have his wicked way with her over the park, even though he’d begged her. When the doorbell rang, Wayne bolted into the hallway. ‘All right, babe? Come and say hello to me nan and grandad,’ he said, dragging Angela into the lounge.

‘Hello,’ Angela said, awkwardly staring at her feet. If they sussed her real age, she was dead meat.

‘Nice to meet you, love. Our Wayne says you live with your mum and dad near the Heathway. Is that right?’ Doris probed, nosily.

‘Yeah,’ Angela replied.

‘What’s your mum and dad’s names? I’m always up that Heathway.’

‘Pam and David Marshall,’ Angela lied.

‘Come on, Doll. Let’s leave the kids to play records and stuff,’ Bill urged, gently shoving his wife out of the room.

‘Well? Pretty little thing, wasn’t she?’ Bill asked as he shut the front door.

‘Horrible little cunt! Couldn’t even look me in the eye – and if she’s fifteen like our Wayne says she is, then I’m fucking Doris Day.’

Barry and Stephanie took the District Line train to Bow Road Station and then had a ten-minute walk to get to the market. ‘Have you been up ’ere before?’ Barry asked.

‘Yeah. My mum comes from Bow and my grandad still lives here. We ain’t been to visit him for ages though. I was only about twelve last time I came to the market, I think.’

‘Do you wanna pop in and see your grandad while we’re up this way? I’ll wait for you outside if you like,’ Barry asked, thoughtfully.

‘Nah. He’ll probably be in the pub anyway,’ Stephanie replied, truthfully.

Stephanie felt her heart flip as Barry held her hand. Her nerves hadn’t embarrassed her so far today, but the feel of Barry’s warm hand pressing against her own felt like an electric shock entering her system. ‘Let’s have a fag,’ she said, snatching her hand away and riffling through her small silver shoulder bag.

‘What time you gotta be back later?’

‘Ten. Are we hanging about up here all day or going back to the Heathway later?’

‘Firstly, I’m gonna introduce you to the geezer I work for. Then, I’ll treat you to lunch. We can have a mooch up and down the market, then I’m gonna take you up to Bethnal Green to show you where I come from. Our last stop will be the Bishop Bonner pub. It’s where my dad drinks and I really want you to meet him.’

‘I can’t meet your dad, Bal. Say he tells your mum and then my mum finds out?’ Stephanie replied, horrified.

Tilting Stephanie’s chin upwards so that she made eye contact with him, Barry treated her to his killer smile. ‘Look, babe, I know you don’t want your mum to know that we’ve been out together and I can understand why. No one wants their daughter associated with a muvver like mine, but my dad’s a good geezer. He’s gotta go away for a while next week and, seeing as you’re the first girl I’ve ever really liked, I’d be well chuffed if you’d meet him. He’ll adore you, I know he will.’

Stephanie’s heart was pounding at twice its normal rate. Did Barry just say that she was the first girl he had ever really liked, or had her ears deceived her? ‘OK, I’ll meet him then,’ she croaked.

Wayne and Angela spent the whole afternoon at it like rabbits. After her initial painful experience, Angela had taken to sex like a duck takes to water and had even learnt the art of giving a blow job.

‘Suck it again for me, Ange. It’s your fault it keeps getting hard,’ Wayne said, bluntly.

Angela smiled. Wayne had told her earlier that she gave him the best sex he’d ever had and Angie liked to feel indispensable.

‘Do you love me, Jacko?’ she asked him coyly.

Desperate to feel her plump warm lips around his penis again, Wayne nodded. ‘Yeah, of course I love you, babe.’

Stephanie Crouch shook hands with Barry’s boss, Steve. Most Indian people Steph had met before, including the two boys in her class at school, were very reserved, kept themselves to themselves and spoke in weird accents, but Steve was entirely different. He was loud, funny and sounded more cockney than she did. When Barry had first told her he was a fly pitcher, Steph hadn’t quite understood the occupation. She hadn’t wanted to ask in case she made herself look silly, but now she knew exactly what Barry did. A fly pitcher was someone who hadn’t been given a pitch by the council so stood on a street corner selling their wares. Steve and Barry sold kingsize bath towels, and Barry would act as a look-out for the police and market inspectors while Steve used his witty sales patter to charm the public.

‘Do you ever get caught?’ Steph asked, as they said goodbye to Steve.

‘Nah, and even if we do we only get a slap on the wrists. Got eyes in the back of me head, me,’ Barry replied, laughing.

Stephanie smiled broadly as Barry held her hand again. Everybody knew him down Roman Road market and she could sense how popular he was with the other traders. ‘That’s a nice top, ain’t it?’ she said, pointing at an off-the-shoulder baggy red sweatshirt.

Barry dragged her over to the stall she was pointing at. ‘Bag me up one of them red sweatshirts please, Joanie,’ he ordered the lady who was serving.

‘I can’t let you buy that for me,’ Stephanie said, amazed by Barry’s generosity.

Handing Steph the sweatshirt in a carrier bag, Barry turned towards her. ‘I really do like you, Steph. Please say you’ll be my girl?’

Barely able to believe her luck, a completely besotted Stephanie nodded her head with glee.

Marlene Franklin was sitting opposite her friend Marge in the Albion pub in Woolwich. Marge’s real name was Karen, but she had earned her nickname because her legs tended to spread quicker then Stork margarine. The name didn’t bother Marge at all. She loved sex, always had done, and if people were jealous of her success rate with the male gender, then that was their bloody problem.

‘Does this dress look all right? You can’t see me knickers when I walk, can you?’ Marlene asked her pal as she returned from the Ladies.

‘No, you look stunning, mate, and them blokes in the corner can’t take their eyes off you,’ Marge replied, truthfully.

Pouting her lips just like the models did, Marlene sat down and crossed one leg seductively over the other. At thirty years old, Marlene still looked rather youthful for her age, and with her bright red lipstick, false black eyelashes, and thick blonde hair that she curled herself with heated rollers, Marlene considered herself to be the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Today, she had made a special effort and had worn the short, leopard-skin dress that she had stolen from a designer boutique in Hornchurch. Marlene was an expert at shoplifting. She would always wear bulky clothes to go out shopping, would try lots of items on in the fitting room, then would walk out with her favourite underneath her own outfit.

Marlene smiled coyly as an elderly man in a tan Crombie-style coat winked at her. She knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her fishnet stockings and high-heeled black suede shoes, and who could blame him?

‘So have you finished with that Winston now?’ Marge asked her friend.