Kay Brellend - The Family

Since that day Faye had seen Alice go into Matilda’s house on several occasions; sometimes she had a little girl with her who looked about five years old. Faye supposed the fair-haired man who occasionally accompanied them was her husband. She’d not wanted to question Jimmy over his dead wife’s relatives, but she’d got snippets of information from her mother. Slowly Edie was coming to know the local families and their gossip. Her mother had warned her to avoid the Keivers because they were out to cause trouble. Faye reckoned that if anything the family were keen to avoid them . Anyway, she’d needed no such telling. She’d no desire to get to know anyone. As soon as she could, she’d be leaving.

‘How you doing, son?’

Jimmy’s voice startled Faye from her reflection. Quickly she made to go inside, but Jimmy casually placed a hand on both railings, keeping her where she was.

‘Stay ’n’ say hello to him, you rude li’l cow,’ he breathed close to her face.

Jimmy had hailed Stephen on previous occasions but had been ignored. He hadn’t exchanged a word with his youngest son since the evening of the wedding reception, several months ago. ‘Business booming?’ Jimmy remarked in a jolly tone once he’d gained Stephen’s attention. He could guess why his son was staring and tightened his grip on the railings in case his stepdaughter tried again to get past him.

Stephen slowed down and stuck his hands in his pockets. Robert constantly warned him to ignore Jimmy if he tried to cosy up to him when he was in Campbell Road. Stephen hated his father yet, illogically, a worming curiosity was urging him to walk over and find out a few things. He longed to know what Jimmy had been doing, and where he’d been in the missing years.

Despite painful memories of the beatings his father had dealt out, Stevie had retained a spark of optimism that there might be some reason to be proud of the man who’d sired him. Back when he was a lot younger, he’d convinced himself that Jimmy Wild, like the unknown warrior and the men who’d lived in the neighbourhood, such as his uncle Jack Keiver and Geoff Lovat, had perished nobly on foreign soil for king and country. Later, when no official notification ever arrived about Jimmy Wild being missing, presumed dead, Stevie’s hopes had taken a different turn. His father might have returned, dreadfully wounded and suffering from amnesia. He had heard of fellows – seen them, too – who’d been shell-shocked, or had their minds destroyed by the terrible things they’d witnessed in the trenches. Then he’d wondered whether he might have been one of those unlucky civilians caught up in the London bombings, which had left many corpses too horribly mutilated for identification. Obstinately Stephen had clung to the fantasy that something other than callous self-interest might have prevented his father coming back home.

Now he inwardly mocked himself for having wallowed in such sentimental guff. Yet he remained where he was; the old man was standing with his stepdaughter, and she had a face that’d draw any bloke in for a closer look. A couple of times he’d seen her walking down the road, but she’d crossed over and ignored him. He’d learned from Robert that their father had taken on a stepfamily when he’d got involved with Edie Greaves. He knew one of Edie’s kids was a girl aged about eighteen, called Faye. An odd note in his brother’s voice when he’d mentioned her had alerted Stephen to the fact that Rob had an interest there. But he’d not questioned him over it. Robert could be aggravatingly uncommunicative when it came to personal matters, especially where women or money were concerned.

Curiosity was creeping over Faye too, so she ceased straining against the cruel grip Jimmy had placed on her arm. She’d only previously seen Stephen Wild at a distance. Now, as he slowly approached, she noticed that his hair was styled short, probably to tame its curls, and had a coarse appearance. Neither was the colour as dark brown as Robert’s sleek, straight mane. Stephen also looked to be a few inches shorter in height than his brother, although they shared a similar spare build. His eyes appeared lighter, too; more the colour of caramel than chocolate, and he had a slightly softer set to his lips. On the couple of occasions Faye had been with Robert she’d noticed the slant to his mouth that made him look constantly on the verge of being sarcastic. Possibly, when he’d been in his twenties, their father might have resembled his handsome sons. Now Jimmy was a bloated, grizzled wreck of a man; only a few dark threads in his lank grey hair hinted at his lost youth.

‘Still here then?’ Stephen greeted his father sourly as he approached and stopped close to the kerb. He cocked his head, looking them up and down.

‘’Course we’re still here. We ain’t goin’ nowhere,’ was Jimmy’s blunt reply. ‘Next time I leave The Bunk, it’ll be in a pine box.’

‘They all right with that?’ Stephen nodded at Faye as his eyes swept over her, a crooked smile on his lips. Now he was close to her, he could see it wasn’t only her face that was lovely; she had a sweet figure on her too. ‘Don’t know of any nice young lady who’d be grateful to be dragged here to live permanently.’

‘Faye’s a good gel; she’ll do as her dad tells her.’ Jimmy slung a possessive arm about her narrow shoulders.

Faye shrugged him off immediately in a way that taught Stephen a lot about their relationship, and her obedience.

‘Yeah … can see she’s devoted to her new dad,’ he scoffed, watching her slender back as she disappeared, unhindered by Jimmy, into the house.

‘Don’t matter about her,’ Jimmy said, lip curling. ‘It’s me boys – me own boys, that is – who I care about.’

Stephen hooted an acid laugh. ‘Yeah, we noticed how much you cared about us when we was growin’ up.’ He started on his way, but halted on hearing his father’s next comment.

‘Always thought it’d be you, y’know, who’d make summat of himself.’ Jimmy smiled, having regained Stephen’s attention. ‘You was always the brightest of the two of yers.’

‘How d’you work that out? Weren’t me wot done any good at school; Rob did.’

‘Don’t need no schoolin’ to be shrewd.’ Jimmy nodded at him. ‘You was the one learned the right lessons.’

‘Wot … like not to wet the bed ’cos I’d get the belt?’ Stephen took a step forward and put his lips close to his father’s unshaven cheek. ‘Yeah, I learned that lesson all right,’ emerged in a hiss.

‘And it were a lesson you needed to learn, son,’ Jimmy said in his weary, gentle way. ‘Did you want all the kids round here teasing the life outta yer ’n’ callin you names like “piss-pants”?’ Before Stephen could recover from the shock of hearing his father finally acknowledge his brutality, Jimmy continued, ‘You knew early on that you gotta be ambitious and make some money.’ A paternal hand patted his son’s shoulder. ‘When you was just a nipper, you was the one always wanted to earn himself coppers when the gambling school was up ’n’ running on a Sunday dinnertime; always acting dogger-out for us, wasn’t you. Your brother was too fond of sparring down the boys’ club with pals, or kicking a football about, as I remember.’

‘Yeah … ’n’ I soon learned he was wiser, ’cos doin’ little jobs for Solly fer nuthin’ paid off eventually in a fuckin’ big way. Anyhow, whatever I earned, you or Mum ’ud have it straight off me.’

Jimmy shrugged, all affable. ‘Don’t want to start no arguments with you, son, nor hear you speak bad about yer mum, God rest her. She did her best …’

‘I’ll never speak bad about her … only you !’ Stephen exploded. ‘Don’t you try to twist me words, you crafty bastard.’