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  A pile of craft items offered Mandy play prospects. Jen removed a pin hanging from her two-year-old sister’s mouth. Someone had to be in charge while Patricia disappeared into a fashion designer frenzy. The light breeze from the open patio door made the hairs on Jen’s legs rise. She tried to forget the indignity of standing in her knickers, in full view of the estate. As each pin penetrated her scalp, the urge to cry out increased.

  Jen knew the outfit would be repulsive, but the finished product was shocking. The red pussy bow blouse was hideous, and the mustiness of its shoulder pads made Jen gag. Remnants of used bath sponges crumbled when she moved. She considered offering her shoulders as serving trays at the party. The indignity of a tomboy being forced to wear a blue A-line skirt was nothing compared to the bonnet. Jen groaned at the girl in the dining room mirror, swamped by a floral abomination. The weight of the headgear, along with the pins Patricia insisted remained to keep the arrangement intact, made Jen’s head ache.

  ‘Stop sweating, you’ll make it slip,’ Patricia said. ‘Tighten the ribbon on Amanda too.’

  Mandy hadn’t escaped the shame. She wore a matching bonnet which Jen tried to tie under her chin. Considering it a game, Mandy pulled it away. Jen held the ghastly item in place, fearful of Patricia eyeing the glue.

  Patricia assessed her handiwork. ‘Let’s see what Felicity makes of this. Stay clean. We’ll go over as soon as I’m dressed.’

  Above, wardrobe doors opened and were slammed shut. Shoes were hurled from their racks and thumped on the floor. Jen and Mandy resumed watching cartoons.

  Liam appeared and erupted into laughter. ‘What on earth do you two look like?’ He scratched his head. Jen hoped he didn’t have nits again. He always blamed his sisters.

  ‘Mum did it,’ Jen said, awaiting further insults.

  ‘That’s priceless. I’m documenting this.’ Liam took the camera from the television unit and captured his siblings’ misery. Jen wished her dad didn’t keep it loaded with film.

  ‘This photograph is going on the wall,’ Liam said.

  He took over the settee and switched the channel to a western. Jen didn’t bother to argue. She was already on a losing streak. Not for the first time, she wondered how they could be related. Liam insisted upon always being impeccably dressed. He was the only kid she knew who wanted clothes for Christmas and birthdays. Today, he wore a linen waistcoat over a crisp pinstripe shirt, resembling a miniature bank manager.

  ‘There you are, darling.’ Patricia glided in on a waft of Chanel No.5.

  Liam ignored the ruffling of his hair. The sun coming through the windows exposed Patricia’s white sheer dress, leaving little to the imagination. Red beads and faux sapphire earrings completed the look.

  ‘Grab the shirt I bought you and put it on,’ she instructed Liam.

  ‘I’m not going to the stupid party.’ His eyes didn’t leave the television screen.

  Patricia planted a scarlet kiss upon his forehead. ‘For Mummy?’

  ‘No way. I’ve got other, more important, things to do.’ Liam rubbed at the lipstick stain.

  Jen leant on the windowsill, pleased her brother was leaving. Patricia applied her game face. Losing the opportunity to showcase her son was disappointing but her daughters were works of art. No one would be able to keep their eyes off her either. Not bad, considering she was nudging thirty. She seized Jen who scooped up Mandy. Jen prepared herself for the embarrassment of being seen in public.

  The residents of the estate, bar Patricia and the less community-minded, had created a feat of patriotism. Embossed paper cloths covered decorating tables. Mismatched dining room chairs, with streamers dangling from their legs, lined the outer edges of the park. Union Jack bunting fluttered from the swings, slide, and climbing frame. Red and white fake carnations stood tall in blue plastic vases.

  Vernon Brady, from Munch Drive, had set up his decks. Finally, he could play music without his mum’s moaning about disturbing the neighbours. The fact she was footing the electricity bill for this gig remained a secret. Vernon being a part-time DJ was an annoyance for his parent who nagged him to get a “proper job”. Vernon hoped thirty-five wasn’t too old to meet someone, marry, and leave. Ditching the habit of dressing in a John Travolta white suit in the Saturday Night Fever style would have increased his chances.

  Patricia’s legs made an entrance, kicking high to the Can Can. Women sneered at the apparent lack of underwear. Men fell over themselves to get her a drink, a sausage roll, “anything you want, Patricia”. Used to her mum’s performances, Jen guided Mandy to the shade of the park’s only tree. Placing her sister on the ground, Jen sensed him before he spoke.

  ‘Jen, er…’

  It had to be the one person she’d always wanted to impress. Jen cursed her life. Johnny, the eternal rebel, wore his usual jeans. The badges covering his khaki jacket glinted in the sun. Jen swore he’d be buried in the garment.

  ‘She made me wear it.’ Jen shot a warning glare.

  It didn’t require further explanation. Eight-year-old Johnny knew Patricia was the devil. Knocking on the Taylors’ door was scarier than entering the gates of Hell. He always lingered in the park instead, waiting for Jen to join him.

  ‘Fancy seeing what’s in the buffet?’ Johnny asked.

  Jen moved to the other side of the tree. Mandy had staked a claim upon Liz from Picasso Way. The toddler spiralled Liz’s curls around her fingers.

  ‘Have fun,’ Liz said. ‘Mandy will be okay with us.’

  Charlie Pullen, sitting nearby and dressed as a podgy Prince Charles, couldn’t resist a jibe. ‘Ruddy Nora. Nice afro, Jen.’

  Johnny despised the boy. Desperate for acceptance, Charlie became Anthony and Ian’s dogsbody. It was the best Charlie could get. He was the estate idiot, due to his constant snitching, buck teeth, and snotty nose.

  Incensed Patricia had made her vulnerable to the estate bullies, Jen advanced towards Charlie. He retreated, removing his mask. A glimpse of face disappeared and melded into Patricia’s.

  Jen formed a fist and engaged with her target.

  29

  29th July 1981

  Johnny moved Jen from potentially rearranging Charlie’s face. Charlie beckoned her to take a shot, adding “funky flower afro” comments. Johnny shared crude statements about the other boy into Jen’s ear. She took measured breaths between laughs. Deciding he wouldn’t risk getting smacked in the mouth by a girl, Charlie skulked away.

  ‘Let’s get a drink,’ Johnny said. He not only shielded Jen, but as a member of the Rose family, it was inevitable someone would blame him for starting the argument.

  The buffet table groaned under the weight of an army of foil hedgehogs spiked with cheese and pineapple, accompanied by crisps, jam tarts, and sausages on sticks. A Victoria sponge made of dyed blue sponges, white buttercream, and glossy strawberries took centre stage.

  Johnny poured Tizer into plastic cups. Jen blushed at him remembering her favourite drink. Gassiness tickled her nose as she sipped. The bonnet slid. She pushed it back and yelped as the pins pricked her head.

  ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Felicity ceased bossing the other helpers. As party organiser and a sight no one could miss, she was in her element. Red, white and blue baubles and sequins lit her up like a Christmas tree. With every movement, she swished and tinkled.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jen replied. ‘You’re, um, very bright.’

  Johnny sniggered. Felicity shot him a dirty look that would have felled a lesser boy. He stared her out, used to others’ disapproval.

  ‘Couldn’t your mother afford an outfit, Jonathan?’ Felicity waited for him to decide whether to retaliate or stay silent. When he gave no reply, she believed she’d won.

  Johnny knew better. Telling his vengeful mum about Felicity’s comment would later even the score.

  ‘I thought your family weren’t coming, Jennifer,’ Felicity said.

  ‘Mum changed her mind.’

  ‘It must have taken her ages t
o put that creation together. You and Mandy, I’ve noticed.’ The drumming of Felicity’s fingers made the table wobble. Her daughters’ chances of winning the fancy dress contest were over.

  ‘She did it this morning, after she saw Mercedes and Porsche in theirs.’

  ‘Right,’ Felicity said. ‘I see.’

  Jen wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong but a familiar quaking in her stomach took hold.

  Johnny steadied her hand. ‘You’re spilling your drink.’

  She was thankful for his solidarity. The washing machine feeling in her tummy reduced.

  ‘Oh, my…’

  Jen and Felicity turned to the source of Johnny’s shock.

  Doreen drowned in paisley. Her shirt, flared trousers, headband, even shoes, boasted the pattern. Cautious steps helped her balance a collapsed beehive with carrying a glass bowl overflowing with dessert. Beside her waddled Kelly, dressed as a tomato, and with blushing red cheeks to match. A blue and white bow in her hair completed the flag theme.

  Jen tried not to laugh. Something inside gnawed away, telling her mocking Kelly was wrong. Jen’s underdeveloped conscience caught the laughter of the crowd and she joined in.

  Kelly laughed too. She thought joviality showed friendship. Friends did good things and laughing is good. So they must be friends.

  Spotting an opportunity to cause trouble, Charlie and Ian rushed at Kelly. The wide girth of the costume, on top of puppy fat, and a lack of glasses, made her a prime target. She landed on her rear. Some giggled at the squashed tomato. Others, who never registered the Pratts’ existence, carried on conversations. Johnny helped Doreen to pull Kelly up.

  ‘Thank you, Johnny,’ Doreen said. ‘It’s a shame your brother isn’t as decent.’ She dusted Kelly off and checked for grazes.

  Johnny shrugged. ‘No problem. Sorry Ian’s such a git.’

  Doreen knew when to change the subject. ‘Jennifer, you look lovely. That bonnet is so pretty.’ She patted Jen’s head.

  Jen winced. ‘Thanks, Mrs Pratt. Kelly looks great too.’ Liz had told Jen to always be kind to others. Jen realised she’d lied but decided Patricia wouldn’t care on this occasion.

  Kelly blushed deeper, surpassing the scarlet tomato. ‘Mum got this from the charity shop. It was such a bargain.’

  Felicity joined them. ‘What have you brought, Doreen?’ She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘A trifle. The recipe my nan used.’ Doreen beamed at her effort.

  Jen loved trifle almost as much as ice cream. She beheld the tower of cream, glistening jelly, custard, and a rainbow of sprinkles.

  ‘Delightful,’ Felicity said. She moved the dessert to the edge of the table then wiped her hands on a napkin. Doreen let it pass, as if she had received worse insults.

  Felicity scanned the park and blew a whistle. ‘Food’s ready.’

  A scrum of elbows, feet, and grasping fingers launched upon the buffet. Felicity held onto her baubles. Decent parents pulled their children back, determined not to be judged as the producers of ruffians. The others continued necking alcohol, no longer aware they had relatives. Jen stood to the side, wary of the rabble, particularly those making fun of her headwear.

  ‘Take it off. She’s too busy to see,’ Johnny said.

  Jen watched her mum stroking the cheek of a man who must have been visiting.

  Patricia enjoyed acting the single woman. Mike had received orders to go to the pub rather than attend the party. He didn’t need telling twice. Liz and Freddie rolled a ball to Mandy. This is how a family should be, Jen thought.

  With Patricia distracted, Jen removed the bonnet. Sweat-soaked hair clung to her head and neck. She raked her fingers through the knots. When Patricia noted Jen’s bird’s nest appearance, she took an interest in washing her hair. Patricia’s knees clamped Jen’s head and a steel comb exacted torture. Jen’s scalp was already on fire.

  The residents dispersed to eat. Jen and Johnny approached the buffet. Pickings were slim, apart from an abundance of salad. No one wanted healthy options for a celebration. In the middle of the park, Patricia and the stranger danced alone to Green Door. The man cupped Patricia’s rear while she caressed his neck. They became bold under the influence of alcohol.

  ‘Who knew Shakin’ Stevens was an aphrodisiac?’ Felicity quipped.

  ‘Can I have trifle please?’ Jen asked Doreen.

  Doreen was elated at the ladies of the Rembrandt Estate allowing her the responsibility of serving. The opportunities to be part of estate life seldom came. Jen’s request boosted her confidence. Felicity had steered each person who’d asked for trifle to another option. Doreen understood the Pratts weren’t liked. She tried to get involved in the Friday coffee mornings. The women often cancelled, only for Doreen to find out, too late, it was back on.

  ‘An extra big portion for you, Jennifer.’ Doreen held the serving ladle. Felicity was preoccupied, chatting to a gaggle of women. Doreen was determined someone would eat her food.

  A shadow cast over Jen’s shoulder. ‘She’s watching her weight. No pudding for Jennifer.’ Patricia pushed Doreen’s hand away from Jen’s bowl. The trifle splotched onto the table. Felicity snickered.

  Fuelled by her friend’s allegiance, Patricia whispered loud enough to be heard, ‘Jennifer, do not eat anything that woman makes. They’re not like us. You’ll catch something.’

  Patricia tugged Jen’s arm with such force she feared dislocation. Johnny chewed his thumbnail. Doreen hid behind a stack of pudding bowls.

  ‘Get over there and retrieve your sister,’ Patricia slurred. ‘Those do-gooder Normans are interfering with my family again.’ She lost her footing.

  Felicity caught Patricia’s elbow. ‘Easy does it. No more grape juice for you. Everyone’s watching.’

  Patricia righted herself as Felicity played on their mutual fear of public embarrassment.

  Jen tried to leave. Felicity drew her back; a snake toying with its prey.

  ‘Where’s the bonnet your mother worked so hard on this morning?’ she asked. ‘We wouldn’t want all the last-minute work, after checking out my girls’ outfits, to go to waste, would we?’

  The churning washing machine in Jen’s tummy elevated to a spin cycle.

  Patricia affected her best “up yours” voice. ‘I’ve been working on it for weeks, Felicity, dear. Can’t you tell? Jennifer, get Amanda. It’s time to go home.’

  Johnny gave Jen’s hand a furtive squeeze. He looked as miserable as she felt. Her mouth wouldn’t work when Liz asked what was wrong. Pleased to see her sister, Mandy trilled when Jen picked her up. Jen was grateful Mandy wasn’t old enough to understand the situation. The walk to join Patricia was a slow one Jen never wanted to end. Being outside meant she wasn’t indoors, in private, with a drunk and irate parent.

  Out of earshot, Patricia let rip. ‘Get your arse inside. How dare you show me up to that snooty cow.’

  Patricia’s threat clawed at Jen’s innards. The washing machine rumbling descended to her feet. Patricia dragged the girls towards the house and the impending punishment for another thing Jen was sure wasn’t her fault.

  30

  Present

  I have a temporary reprieve although it’s an unfortunate one. Doreen is in hospital. Ellen sent a text stating Doreen fell down the stairs. She’s weakening. Feeling relieved at a person’s suffering is wrong, but at least I don’t have to face her yet. It’s delaying the inevitable though. Until Doreen comes home, I’ll spend the time worrying about what she knows. Her threat to go to the police with information she has on me hangs heavy.

  On waking, I touched Johnny’s “Mods Rule” badge. It’s become a habit. Since I took it, when it fell off his jacket, the badge stays next to my bed, wherever I am. A connection to Johnny through a piece of metal sounds foolish, but I’ll take what I can.

  Last time I stayed at a hotel, I thought I’d lost it. Nicole put on a Christmas party for the practice, including paying for our rooms. The following morning I couldn’t find Johnny’s
badge. I turned the room upside down. Although I’d searched every inch, it wasn’t there. It felt like Johnny had left me again. A few days later it showed up. My magpie cat covets shiny things. Doodle hid the prize under his basket.

  The cat burglar makes repetitive figures of eight between my legs as I stumble to the bathroom. I give him the expected morning chin rubs to tide him over until food hits his bowl. I’ve become the stereotypical cat lady; destined to be single, with a moggy companion, and stinking of pee. Woe is me. Stuff that. I’ve decided the direction my life takes. I’ll have the cats, not the incontinence.

  I’m not alone because of a hatred of men. My dreadful choices are done and buried. I didn’t love anyone I was involved with. Maybe you can only give your heart away once. Those who followed Johnny were a poor imitation.

  Somehow, I made it to my forties. In the early nineties I considered reaching twenty-one would be a fluke. Memories of most of that decade are hazy due to narcotics, stimulants, and hallucinogens. If it was available, I took it. Dancing at raves in a doped-up world felt like freedom. It was shallow. I have no friends from that era. Junkies and party people tend not to be lifelong pals once they’ve matured or paid the price for hedonism.

  Nowadays I focus on work and my degree. I need to keep focused and not let the past be a distraction. It sounds easy in theory, but it’s always on my mind. Whenever I study, guilt creeps in. Kelly never became what she wanted to be, whatever it was. I didn’t ask. She knew about my doctor ambition. The entire world would’ve known, given half a chance. Not long before she died, Kelly gave me an anatomy textbook she’d found in Oxfam. Even though I wasn’t interested in her life, she thought of me. When I spouted on about my treasured medical books, she listened.