smiled, ruffling her son’s mousy blond hair.
‘Where’s Rex?’ Tommy enquired. Rex was the Alsatian his father had purchased to protect the family in his absence. Tommy loved Rex and the feeling was mutual. He would often take the dog out with him. Rex was too strong on his lead for Tommy, but he would walk happily by his side and never went into the road.
‘Rex is having his breakfast in his kennel, love. You know your dad doesn’t allow Rex indoors while he’s here, and he’ll be home soon, won’t he?’
‘Yeah, but it’s cold. Rex can’t sleep in his kennel this time of year. He’ll freeze.’
‘I’ve put some blankets in there, Tommy. He’ll only be out there for ten days, until your dad goes back to work. Then he can come inside again,’ Valerie replied, wishing her husband wasn’t coming home for Christmas at all. She didn’t love Alexander any more, hadn’t for a long time. But the children did, so she put their happiness first. For all Alexander’s faults, he was a hard worker and good provider. They lived in a nice three-bedroom house: private, not council. Working on those oil rigs paid extremely well.
A deafening scream filled the air, followed by ten-year-old Linda holding two halves of a seven-inch single in her hands. ‘Hazel snapped Jimmy in half,’ she cried.
‘No, I never. It was an accident,’ lied fourteen-year-old Hazel. ‘I wanted to play Alice Cooper and she—’
‘Enough.’ Valerie Boyle held her hands in the air while eyeing her eldest daughter with suspicion. Hazel had a nasty streak at times, just like her father. ‘Go eat your breakfast, now!’
‘I loved that record, Mummy,’ Linda whimpered.
Valerie held her youngest child close to her chest. ‘I know you did, darling. Don’t worry. Mummy will go to the record shop after breakfast and buy you another one.’
Tommy Boyle stared out of the front-room window nervously chewing at his fingernails. His father had been due home at lunchtime and it was now teatime.
‘Sausage rolls are ready. Who wants one?’ Valerie yelled, trying to keep her voice sounding jovial. Alexander had promised her faithfully he would come straight home, what with it being Christmas Eve. Him stopping off at a pub for this length of time would only lead to one thing. Arguments. Alexander was a horrible drunk, would always drag up the past.
‘Will Dad bring us presents too? Or is Father Christmas bringing them all?’ enquired Linda.
Hazel sniggered. ‘Father Christmas doesn’t exist, divvy.’
‘Yes, he does. He eats the mince pies we leave outside and his reindeers drink the milk.’
‘No, he doesn’t. Rex does.’
‘Stop it, Hazel. Christmas is meant to be a time of joy, not disagreements. And if I catch you breaking your sister’s records again, you’ll get no pocket money for a month,’ warned Valerie.
His stomach churning like it always did when he feared his dad might come home drunk, Tommy continued to stare forlornly out of the window.
It was gone midnight when Tommy was awoken by shouting and what sounded like glass smashing. He immediately started to shake. His mum was only five foot two, his dad a whole foot taller, and he knew who would end up with the cuts and bruises.
Linda appeared in his bedroom, tears streaming down her face. ‘They’re fighting, Tommy.’
‘Get in my bed and put the quilt over your head.’
‘Dad won’t hurt Mum, will he?’ Linda asked fearfully.
‘No. I’ll sort it. You stay here,’ Tommy replied bravely.
Sitting on the top of the stairs rocking to and fro was Hazel. Tommy sat next to his sister and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. The argument was loud, but muffled in parts.
‘You lying whore. I know you’ve been with Terry Fletcher because you were seen in the fucking pub with him,’ bellowed Alexander Boyle.
Tommy winced as he heard something else smash. It sounded like china. ‘I’m gonna make sure Mum is OK.’
‘No, Tommy. Don’t go down there,’ Hazel pleaded, grabbing her brother’s arm. ‘He’ll only hit you again, like he did last time. Don’t get involved.’
Remembering the time he’d got a clump for intervening, Tommy sat down. For as long as he could remember, his parents had argued. His dad was a tall broad-shouldered man with black hair and blue eyes. He was from Glasgow originally and spoke with a deep Scottish accent. So much so, some of Tommy’s friends struggled to understand what he was saying. At forty-five, he was thirteen years older than Tommy’s mum.
‘Who is Terry Fletcher?’ Hazel asked. ‘Is he Billy Fletcher’s dad?’
Tommy shrugged. Billy Fletcher was older than him and in Hazel’s year at school. Tommy thought he was a flash git and steered well clear of him. Whoever this Terry Fletcher was, it was clear he was the cause of the argument. From what he could gather, his dad was accusing his mother of fornicating with Terry while he’d been away.
Tommy didn’t know too much about his parents’ past. They never really spoke about it. The snippets he had learned mostly came via his dad’s mum, Nanny Noreen. She reckoned his father was happily married to a good Catholic girl before he’d been forced to travel to London to find work. According to Nanny Noreen, his mother was working as a barmaid back then and she’d trapped his father by falling pregnant with Hazel.
‘A laughing stock you’ve made me, you no-good slut. Parading around with another man while I’m working my balls off to provide for you. Have you any idea how that makes me feel? You’re a prostitute, same as your mother was,’ bellowed Alexander.
‘Do you think our dead nan really was a prostitute?’ asked Linda.
Not realizing Linda had snuck out of his bedroom, Tommy leapt up and held her in his arms. ‘Nah, take no notice. Mum says when Dad is drunk he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’ Tommy had actually heard Nanny Noreen say that his other nan had been a brass and had died while having an illegal abortion, but he liked to protect his sisters from such horrible gossip.
‘Mum has been going out lots of an evening lately and she has been wearing her best frocks and shoes. Do you think Dad could be telling the truth? Perhaps she hasn’t been going to the bingo?’ Hazel suggested.
Once again, Tommy shrugged. The boys at school were all infatuated with his mother. She was short, very pretty and blonde. The boys insisted she was a ringer for the actress Barbara Windsor, but Tommy reckoned that was because of the size of her boobies. She did look a bit like Barbara, he supposed, but to him she was plain old ‘Mum’. He had heard a few rumours though, that she was a ‘Good Time Girl’. Tommy hadn’t really understood what that meant at the time, but he was kind of getting the gist now.
Hearing more shouting, then a loud scream, Tommy decided enough was enough and bolted down the stairs.
‘No, Tommy. No,’ Hazel shrieked, running after her brother. Linda followed suit. As siblings, they often had disagreements. But whenever their parents fought, the three of them stuck together like glue.
‘What
