Smile

Irene was puzzled. "Why should I want to do that?"

"Oh, just me having a funny thought," said Leah, "Just a silly joke." But there was a slight look of disappointment on her face.

The next time Irene went to The Porcelain Doll, she noticed a couple of things that had previously escaped her. With at least a third of the couples present, one partner always seemed to be subservient to the other. And what Irene had thought to be a velvet choker on the bar's porcelain doll was in fact a dog-collar. It looked as if the club catered in part for certain tastes and maybe Leah got off on being dominated occasionally. Well, Irene was fond of Leah but she wasn't going to go down that path. She'd had too much of domination and control during childhood to want to inflict it on another person.

* * * * *

Irene went into The Porcelain Doll and looked around for Leah, this being one of their regular meet-up evenings. The place was crowded and in the dim light it was difficult to spot individuals. Well, there was plenty of time. She pushed her way through the heaving mob and the bar and managed to catch a barmaid's eye. She ordered a red wine, paid for it and went to lean against a pillar. Then she saw Leah sitting at a table against the club's far wall. Leah wasn't alone.

Even sitting down, the woman with Leah looked big, big and butch, and she was drinking beer straight from the bottle. She was dressed in black t-shirt and dungarees and Irene would have taken a bet on her wearing Doc Marten boots. And as Irene made her way towards them, the butch pulled Leah towards her and kissed her very firmly on the mouth. Irene reached the table.

"Leah?"

The pair glanced up, Leah disconcerted as if she'd forgotten it was one of their usual days. There was something different about her too. What? Then Irene realised, Leah was wearing a collar like some of the other women in the place. The butch was the one who answered. She had a beefy slab of a face and her hair was shaved at the sides leaving a kind of stiff, gelled crew-cut on top. "You Irene?" she said before turning to Leah. "Christ, Lee, are you fucking midgets now? When you told me you were seeing someone I at least expected it to be a real woman." She stared disparagingly at Irene's five-foot-nothing height and snorted in disgust. "Like I turn my back for six months and you start shagging Munchkins like this..." Leah cringed a little and yet at the same time seemed pleased to be admonished. The butch turned back to face Irene. "Okay, kid, momma's back in town and Lee's mine so you'd better fuck off. Like right now."

"That what you want, Leah?" Irene said.

Leah turned her face away—Irene had her answer. It was the butch who spoke again. She stood up, encroaching into Irene's personal space so that their bodies were almost touching. Irene had guessed correctly—the butch was wearing Doc Martens. At nearly six foot, she probably weighed about fourteen or fifteen stone. "Have you got a hearing problem, Munchkin? I said you'd better fuck off. Now. Before you have a nasty accident."

It was obvious to Irene that the butch was not a real fighter. Her stance was all wrong for a start and by standing so close she made herself instantly vulnerable. Probably never been in a genuine scrap, just used her size and bulk and aggressive manner to intimidate others, probably much smaller others. Irene reckoned she could break the butch in half with little or no effort and for a moment she was tempted, wanting to show the woman that bullying didn't pay. But... What was the point? It would only have made her as much a bully as the butch. Anyway, if a controlling butch was what Leah wanted, then so be it...

She shrugged and nodded, saying: "Have a nice life, Leah," as she moved away.

As she moved towards the club door, Irene determined that she would never trust anyone again.

* * * * *

Irene knocked hard on the front door, kept hammering away at it until an enraged Frank Wetherill wrenched it open. "What the—? Bloody hell, it's you. What do you want?"

Irene pushed past him to step into the house. It had been more than five years since she'd seen her father and time hadn't improved him. He looked more like a vicious ferret than ever. Nor was the house improved by the look of it. The hall wallpaper, a drab beige to start, was now even more grubby and depressing. Of course it was. Frank Wetherill would have begrudged every penny needed to freshen the place up. "I've come to get some property of mine," she told him.

"Property? Here? You haven't got any property here. Wait..." He clicked his fingers. "Your mother's jewels. You owe me, you bitch. They'll do. Where have you got them hidden?"

"Forget it," said Irene, "You're not getting your dirty hands on them. I'll treasure them, you'd be straight round to the nearest hock shop with them."

Frank Wetherill raised his hand and slapped Irene's face, hard. "I said, where've you hidden them, you dyke bi..." He trailed off. Irene hadn't staggered but had ridden the blow to lessen the sting and there was something in her glower and in her icy blue eyes which gave him strange chills.

"I'll give you that one free because you're my father," she said, "Raise a hand to me again and I'll hurt you."

"You'll hurt me? You're threatening me?" he blustered, "Right, you've asked for it!" He raised his hand again. Instantly his arm was jammed high behind his back and his face pressed hard against the wall. He felt as if his arm and shoulder were being wrenched apart and he squealed for mercy before Irene punched him very hard over a kidney and let him slip whimpering with pain to the floor.

In her former bedroom, Irene dragged the bed out and found the jewels where she'd hidden them all those years previously. She knew that Frank would have been too idle to move the bed for any reason at all. In fact, the whole room appeared to have been neglected during the time she had been away. The bed remained unmade, a fine film of dust—a good five years worth—settled on every flat surface and thick strands of filthy-looking cobweb festooned the upper walls. Irene shuddered, pocketed the jewellery and returned to the ground floor where her father had hardly moved. He was curled up trying in vain to nurse his injured back. "You hurt me." His voice registered bafflement and shock but above all, fear.

"I warned you," Irene told him, "Consider that payback for years of misery. The pain should go within a few days time and you might see some blood in your pee for a while. That'll clear up too. We're quits now, I don't want to see you again."

As Irene opened the front door to leave, Frank reached out a hand. "Irene... help me up..."

Irene gazed at her father coldly. "No, I can't. I'm too small and too stupid, remember?"

* * * * *

Aunt Rose died in her sleep, aged eighty-seven. The old woman had been very popular where she lived and the crematorium's chapel was almost full. The service was conducted by the minister from her local church and her favourite song "Time To Say Goodbye" was played as her coffin slid behind the curtain. Nellie held Irene's hand as tears ran down both their faces.

Rose didn't have much to leave—her house was council-owned—but what she did have came to Irene. As they were preparing to go, Irene saw a familiar face at the back of the chapel. It was Frank Wetherill. Irene drew near and stopped. To her surprise, she saw that he was on crutches. Excusing herself to Nellie for a moment, she went over to him. "What the hell are you doing here? You know Aunt Rose couldn't stand the sight of you."

"Came to pay my respects..."

"Paying respects? You? You don't know the meaning of the fucking word." She sent up a silent apology to God for cursing in a chapel.

"Yeah, and I wanted to see my darling daughter."

"I told you last time I didn't want to see you again. What do you want?"

Her father gestured to his crutches. "Look what you've done to me."

Irene frowned. "What's your game now? I didn't do that to you."

"Yes you did, when you hit me that time. That was real professional fighting and you broke something inside. I've been crippled up ever since. You want to see my doctor's certificates?" He pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and offered it. Irene ignored the outstretched hand.

"What do you want?" she sighed.

"Well now, daughter, I could go to the police and bring a charge of grievous bodily harm against you. That'd probably get you a few years inside. Or, you can support your old Dad—I won't be greedy, three or four hundred quid a month should see it right. For a start..."

Irene gasped. "I can't afford that on my wages."

Frank bared his teeth in a nasty grin. "Then you'll have to get a couple more jobs, won't you...?"

* * * * *

Irene was working two jobs already but she started scouring the 'Staff wanted' ads in the local press. There was a new nightclub opening soon—some place called Guys & Dolls—and the owners were advertising for door staff. After tax, the wages quoted would just about cover her payments to Frank Wetherill. Irene called the number given and a few days later was summoned in for an interview.

The new club's back office was cramped and poky with cheap-looking furniture and a couple of steel filing-cabinets, while the white-painted walls were adorned with a dozen or so photos of handsome young male bodybuilders. The club itself, what Irene had seen of it, promised to be very well-appointed and she guessed that as the public were unlikely to see the office, it didn't much matter what its state was. The boss, manager, whatever, introduced himself as Lance. His blond hair—probably dyed given his heavily-lined face—was long and floppy, his suit was the palest of blues and his shirt a riot of butterfly colours. When they shook hands, Irene saw that his perfectly manicured fingernails were painted to exactly match his suit. Lance was accompanied by a jeans-and-sweater-clad goliath of a man whom he didn't bother to introduce.

"First of all...er..." he glanced at her application form "...Irene, you'd better know that Guys & Dolls is primarily aimed at gay men and women although anyone is welcome as long as they can behave properly." He gazed at Irene over the top of blue-rimmed glasses. "Have you got a problem with that?"

Irene wondered idly if Lance had differently-coloured glasses to match all his suits. She scowled. "No. It's none of your business but I'm gay too. So I don't give a damn what people are."

Lance looked slightly taken aback at Irene's manner. For someone wanting a job her attitude seemed a little abrasive. "You're aware of what being door staff entails?" he continued, "You have to assess customers, decide whether they can be allowed in or not. Mainly that means excluding drunks and obvious trouble-makers and some of them are likely to be bloody unpleasant. The words 'door staff ' can also mean bouncers. Sorry, I'm not sure you'd be suitable."

Irene's scowl deepened. "I could manage."

"You're rather small for a job like that," Lance observed, "What are you, not much more than five foot, I'd guess?"

Irene didn't bother to answer. She just turned to the giant. "Give me your hand."

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. The big man did as Irene asked and without warning he was on his back, right elbow locked hard against Irene's left knee and the toe of her right boot below his chin and pressing into his throat. She looked down expecting to see fury or resentment or humiliation at being so easily bested. Instead the man's eyes shone with amusement and he started laughing. Released, he scrambled to his feet.

"She'll do, Lance," he grinned. Turning to Irene, he held out a shovel-sized hand. "Welcome aboard, Irene. I'm Malcolm."

* * * * *

And that's how it went. Irene worked three days a week in a supermarket, two days in Jack Matthewson's showroom, doing his admin work now rather than cleaning cars, and several evenings each week at Guys & Dolls. And although she now had her own small flat she still helped Nellie at the community hall when she had the time...

And Frank Wetherill got his monthly allowance from his daughter...

Annie

"...so there you have it, six years of paying him off," Irene concluded, "Not a nice story, is it?"

Malcolm had been right. Irene did have a lot of unpleasant baggage aboard. "That was him I saw collecting this month's instalment?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Sounds a lot like blackmail to me," I said.

Irene shrugged. "Call it what you like, it's my problem and I'm stuck with it. And for me, the worst thing is that as long as I'm in hock to my father—" she spat the word out as if it were something toxic "—I'll never be able to afford to do what I really want to. Maybe it's too late already..."

"What's that?"

"A pipe dream, I guess, from the kids' camp. I always fancied being a nurse," she said, "now I'd like to be a children's nurse..." There was a little crack in her voice. "You might not believe it to look at me but I love kids and I'd move the world to help the sick ones. And despite what my so-called father said, I don't think I'm too stupid." That perhaps explained why Irene was studying human biology at evening classes, something I'd been wondering about. She was living in hope.

"What about friends?" I asked.

"I'm not very good at friendship. People avoid me, some even seem to be scared of me. Know what they call me behind my back at the supermarket? Miserable Irene. Think I don't know but I do, got pretty good hearing. Some of them go further, it's Miserable fucking Irene."

"Irene, have you ever stopped to think that maybe your expression puts people off, perhaps scares them? Your face is like a thunder cloud most of the time. Understandable, maybe, but it's a bloody shame because behind it you've got a nice face. And are you sure that people are against you and not the other way around? Why don't you try smiling at people sometimes?"

"Smiling?"

"Yes, smiling. In case you've forgotten, smiling is the one where the mouth turns upwards."

I got the full benefit of Irene's basilisk glare—it was a bit like being zapped with a Taser. "Relax," I told her, "that was a joke. I don't know if you realise but I'm about the only person at Guys & Dolls who gets any kind of greeting from you and that's pretty perfunctory. Irene, there are plenty of people who'd be your friend if you'd only let them in. There's Malcolm for instance."

"He's a man." The tone of those three words condemned half the population.

"Yes, he's a man—that doesn't make him a wrong 'un. Your father may be a heap of shit but he's just one person. Most men are all right. Take Charlie over there, he's everyone's favourite uncle, and I reckon Malcolm's one of the good ones too. Everyone's big brother. How about that Jack Matthewson you told me about? He sounds okay. Believe me, there are more men like them in the world than there are bad 'uns. Come to that, not all women are angels and we've both found that out the hard way. On the question of friends, there's me as well. I'd be your friend if only you'd let me..."

* * * * *

Maggie and I had gone to Guys & Dolls for our usual Friday night meet-up. We got there early enough to bag a table and as well we did for a little later the place was packed. We hadn't quite finished our first drinks but Maggie went to get another round while the going was reasonable.

As she joined the mob milling about at the bar, Irene came up to me. For some reason she had a slightly embarrassed air about her. "Er, Annie, er... do you like classical music?"

"Yes," I told her, "I like most kinds of music including classical."

"Um... so do I..." She said nothing else for a moment and I thought Is that it? Did she come over just to ask if I like classical music and to tell me she does?

Her awkwardness seemed to deepen. "Er... I've got a couple of tickets for a concert in the City Hall next Tuesday evening. I was wondering if... maybe... you'd like to come with me... You don't have to if..."

"I'd love to," I said.

"Oh... good..." Her relief was apparent. "The main item is Scheherazade..."

"One of my favourites," I told her.

"Fine... see you outside the City Hall then. Seven-thirty okay?"

"That's great, I'll see you there. And Irene, thank you."

She nodded and moved away. Maggie appeared in time to see Irene going back to her place on the door. She put our fresh drinks on the table. "What was all that about?"

"I think I've just been asked on a date..."

* * * * *

The concert was great even though it was just a small local orchestra. And then that one date became another, then another. We had to fit them in as best we could: I had my job and my teaching a couple of evening classes a week while Irene had her three jobs and her evening classes and krav maga practice.

We went sometimes to the cinema and sometimes to a sports match—any sport would do, not really my bag but Irene enjoyed it and I think she was pleased that I went with her—sometimes just for a meal, usually Indian or Tex-Mex. On occasion Irene was happy just having a hot chocolate at Charlie's place. She told me once that he did make the best hot chocolate in the city.

Whatever, and I don't know if she would have admitted it at the time, Irene now had a friend. And while she still didn't smile much, at least her expression was more relaxed some of the time than it used to be.

Irene always insisted on seeing me home, "...just in case..." An elderly Jewish lady called Mrs Reece had a bakery a couple of doors along from Dad's studio and she'd seen us once when Irene was wearing a t-shirt with Hebrew lettering on the front. Mrs Reece said to me: "You stick with that friend of yours, Annie, she knows krav maga so you'll always be safe with her."

Then came the night Irene astonished me and, I think, herself. On this particular evening she had walked me home as usual and when we reached the studio door she tiptoed up and kissed my cheek. An odd look crossed her face, as if surprised at her own temerity, and she literally ran from me.

It didn't happen again but I chose to see it as a breakthrough. But that wasn't all. Suddenly I realised that I was falling for this strange little person.

* * * * *

I had a day off work and spent the morning doing essential housework, laundry and so on before lunch. Dad was in the studio all day so I bought a couple of Mrs Reece's fresh bagels, plastered them with cream cheese, added a flask of coffee and took them down for us to share.

While waiting for Dad to clean up I wandered round looking at displays of his latest photographs. There were individual and family portraits and group photos from various functions, dinners, that sort of thing. And one set in particular caught my eye. I looked more closely and realised I recognised someone. "Dad, when did you take these photos?"

Dad came to see what I was pointing to. "Oh, those. Two or three weeks ago. It was some social club on the far side of the city. Mostly middle-aged and older folk go there and they were holding a dance competition. No-one outstanding or brilliant but they seemed to be having fun. These pictures were of the jive session. Why?"

"Oh, I think I know one of the dancers. Could I have copies of all these?"

Dad shrugged. "Sure. I'll print you some off this afternoon."

"Thanks. It's just that I'd like to surprise someone."

"Friend of yours?"

I nodded. "Something like that."

"Nicole took the still photos," Dad said, "While she was doing that, I made a video recording. I can copy that to a disc for you if you'd like, go with the photos."

"Thanks, Dad, that'd be brilliant. You're a gem!"