Wronged Sons, The by John Marrs Read Free Book Online

a punishment so harsh as to have encouraged him to see the error of his ways.
    By the mid 1960s, Kenneth had remained a small fish in a crowded pond. As a career criminal, he had seen meagre returns. All he had under his control were his aspirations, and Doreen. According to one report about his conviction for beating and robbing a postmaster, he’d been released from prison shortly after my mother had last walked away from us. I realised he must have been the one my parents argued about behind closed doors.
    Kenneth returned to find me engrossed in his criminal CV. Doreen’s apprehensive expression told me she too sensed the atmosphere that hung thick in the air like her cigarette smoke.
    “Right, let’s get the tea on,” she offered in an overly chirpy voice, like Barbara Windsor in a ‘Carry On’ film. She nervously tapped her bottom lip with her finger. “Do you want to give me a hand Simon?”
    “How do you know him?” I whispered as she bustled me into the kitchenette.
    “Kenny’s an old friend,” she continued without making eye contact, and focused on peeling potatoes and dropping them into a deep-fat fryer.
    “But why is he here? With us?”
    “He lives here, Simon.”
    I glared at her, waiting for a better explanation, but there was none. I scowled at Doreen, unable to reconcile the carefree life she’d lead in my imagination with the squalid reality before me. The silence loomed heavy between us as we made our first, and last, meal together.
     
    1.50pm
    I’d sifted through mountains of electoral registers in the library dating back two decades, but drew a blank in trying to find any trace of Doreen. It was possible - and given her history, quite likely – she had moved on from East London. But the pain etched into her face the night my father and I turned her away from our door for the first time told me she’d resigned herself to her fate. And that lay with Kenneth.
    So I relied on my hazy memory, a London street map I’d smuggled out under my shirt, and several buses to get me to Bromley-By-Bow.
    I recalled Doreen’s futile attempts to gloss over the sour mood between Kenneth and I that day by talking incessantly. He had little to say, and stared menacingly at me to relay his feelings instead. I all but ignored him, frightened to even make eye contact. She had everything she could have possibly needed from us but discarded it for a pitiful existence with a worthless man. It made no sense.
    “How long’s he here for?” Kenneth suddenly spat, then stuffed his face with another chip sandwich. Tomato ketchup trickled down his chin like lava.
    “Don’t be like that, Kenny,” Doreen replied gently. Around my father she was the life and soul of the house, but around Kenneth, she was subservient. I didn’t like her.
    Doreen asked me about school and I explained how I planned to go to university and study architecture. She smiled warmly. Kenneth just laughed.
    “Poncey load of crap,” he roared. “University. Load of bollocks.”
    “Why?” I asked; the first time I’d dared to speak to him.
    “You should get a proper job. Get out there and work instead of learning rubbish.”
    “I’m thirteen and I can’t train to be an architect if I don’t pass my exams.”
    “Listen, kid, I was in the boxing ring and earning money working on the markets when I was your age, not wasting my time.”
    “Well my dad doesn’t think it’s a waste of time,” I directed at Doreen. Her eyes remained fixed on the table.
    “What does that wanker know? Someone needs to make a man of you.” I was aware cockiness probably wasn’t the best way forward with a man like Kenneth, but my brain wasn’t listening.
    “Like you?”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing.” I looked down at my plate.
    “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?” he continued, a volcano preparing to erupt. “Coming down here with your big bloody ideas. Well you’ll never be better than me - you’re fuck all.”
    I