‘No, not just like that,’ she replied, ‘but she’ll obviously get one, now she’s got a nipper in tow.’ Though what was going to happen between the midwife finishing and a place being found for her, Josie had no idea. She couldn’t expect Eddie to keep her longer. Wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair. But maybe, just maybe, Lizzie would come round. She needed to hold the baby. Make that connection. That was key. That it registered that it was her own flesh and blood. That might just soften her up a bit. Right now, though, her expression said it all.
‘Anyway, for the moment, I just need the stuff for little Joey. The bottles and nappies and that, plus a few bits and bobs for Chrissy. She’d got nothing but the clothes she had on when I took her in yesterday. And they’re in a right state, as you can imagine, the poor thing.’
If Josie had hoped the mention of Christine struggling in labour might soften Lizzie’s heart, she was mistaken. ‘Oh, it’s Joey, is it?’ she said. ‘Little Joey. Diddums.’ The same implacable expression greeted this acid pronouncement as it had everything else.
But then, all of a sudden, Lizzie seemed to drop the attitude as swiftly as she might have a hot brick. She pulled out a stool from under the worktop and sat down on it heavily, her face beginning to contort as she did so.
She was crying. That was what was happening. She was sobbing. Josie hurried to put an arm around her. She felt bony. Brittle. ‘Aww, mate,’ Josie said, squeezing her friend’s shoulder. ‘I know this is all shit – I do – I really understand how you must feel about it, you know. But in time you’ll work it out. I know you will. You have to. We’re talking about your grandson here, Lizzie. It’s –’
‘Yes, my grandson by my fucking bloke, Jose! Don’t forget that little detail! My daughter’s bastard by my fucking bloke! You don’t get it, do you? That’s all I can think of – of her screwing my fucking fella! Where did they do it? When? I can hardly bear go in her bedroom without heaving. Were they screwing in there whenever I was out at fucking work?’
‘Liz, it wasn’t like that … He worked on her. Got her drunk …’
There it was. Out. If it could ever have stayed in. Lizzie angrily shook Josie’s arm from her shoulder. ‘How the fuck would you know? She give you blow by blow about it, did she? Fill you in on all the sordid details? The little bitch. I’m not interested in hearing any of her fucking excuses. How could she do that to me? I never want to see her or that fucking kid again as long as I live.’
Josie felt the irritation well again. ‘What about Mo?’ she asked. ‘Hmm? Where does he figure in this? What’s his part in it, eh? I told you, it wasn’t like that!’
‘So she says.’
‘Don’t be so bloody naïve! That’s the way you’re determined to see it, is it? That he’s just some poor helpless sod whose head was turned by your calculating, predatory daughter? I notice you’re cleaning the house. Hoping to see him, are you, Lizzie?’
She had to stop herself saying more. From spelling out a few more home truths. Christ – like she even had to! He was the biggest bloody drug dealer around and the biggest womaniser to boot. How Lizzie could live in such breathtaking denial was beyond astonishing.
Josie sometimes wondered if life wouldn’t be a whole lot less fraught with anxiety if she could be that blessedly naïve. Oh, yes, Lizzie had probably lived a bit – she was in her thirties, after all – but at the tender age of twenty-two, so had Josie. Too much, too soon. And as a consequence she knew exactly what some men were like. Not just the filthy nonce who’d raped her. But her own scumbag of a brother-in-law, Robbo, who’d tried to get himself between her legs too.
And who was she to say – in all seriousness – how that particular nasty memory could have turned out differently? Suppose he hadn’t been a coke-head and a twat and a loser? Suppose he’d liked her, been kind to her, been a confidant and friend to her? How could she say, hand on heart, that she wouldn’t have succumbed to his charms? And Mo was a charmer. Good looking, full of swagger, knew how to smooth-talk women. Whether Christine accepted the fact or otherwise, he had as good as raped her. Known exactly what he was about, confident of controlling her innocent teenage mind.
It had been playing on Josie’s mind, that – that the reason Christine was adamant Mo hadn’t forced himself on her was that she still harboured some sort of wildly naïve hope that, now the baby was born, he’d have a sudden change of heart, and sweep them both off on his white charger. God, she hoped not, but she wasn’t ruling it out.
Lizzie sniffed and scowled at her, perhaps reading her mind. ‘Fuck off, Josie,’ she said, drying her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Don’t try to make out she’s been Miss Fucking Innocent. And don’t you worry – he’s going to fucking get it an’ all. You know as well as I do that men’ll take it when it’s offered on a plate, and that’s exactly what that sneaky little get has obviously done.’
She stood again, coughed up some phlegm, and lit another cigarette. It had been revolting, what she’d done yesterday, and Josie wondered if she was regretting that today, too. But perhaps not. She was clearly still in too much of a state. She was looking at Josie through eyes which (it was now all so evident) had done a great deal more crying than she’d just witnessed. She had a moment of clarity. Lizzie really was that upset. Over fucking Rasta Mo, of all the people in sodding Bradford. A man who’d slept with half the women-of-a-certain-age-and-persuasion on the estate. And was still working his way through the rest. All of which Lizzie knew. All of which she had always known. It made no sense.
Or perhaps it was just jealousy of her daughter, pure and simple. And jealousy was a powerful emotion. ‘I’m not interested in owt else you’ve got to say, Josie,’ Lizzie told her. ‘You’ve got ten minutes. I’m off next door for a cuppa with Barbara, so get what you need and take it. But tell her to keep well away from me, okay? And if I hear she’s been looking for Mo, I’ll fucking kill her.’
Josie opened her mouth – really? – but thought better of it and closed it. She watched Lizzie leave – slamming the front door behind her – then went upstairs to sort out what she needed to take. Despite what she’d said to Lizzie she decided to take as much as she could carry: all Christine’s clothes and shoes, some of her toiletries, plus her precious collection of things for the baby, which she’d been saving up for and buying week on week. She might as well – she doubted there’d be a reconciliation any time soon.
And as she carried them down and then out and then along the road back to Exe Street, she tried her hardest to sympathise with Lizzie’s point of view. It must have been hard; she’d had a shit childhood and a pretty shitty adulthood. And however small a part of Mo’s harem she was, she was still in that harem. You could say – some did – that she was a constant in it, too. He might not cherish her (obviously didn’t, since he was all too happy to fuck her daughter) but he saw her regularly, gave her stuff, gave her an illusion that she was cherished. And perhaps that illusion, in her shitty life, was the raft she clung on to. So, perhaps, she should judge her less harshly. After all, how would she feel if she found out Eddie had been cheating on her? Murderous, no doubt.
Still, in a couple of hours, hospital willing, she’d be bringing Christine and the baby home with her. For ten days, during which time a miracle needed organising. And maybe it would be. Which would be handy, since, last time she heard, miracles were a lot easier to whistle up than council flats.
Christine winced as she passed baby Joey out to Josie, and then again as she climbed out of the taxi. It wasn’t Imran’s today, and she was glad. He’d take one look at her son and no doubt say something sarky, and she didn’t trust herself not to burst into tears. So much crying. It was getting exhausting.
Or she’d thump him.