CHAPTER 105
Charlie was almost insufferably smug for ages after her return, but I noticed how much she dialled down the gloating when any of the more vulnerable girls were around. Faye, in particular, was still settling into her new, and hopefully better, life, and seemed overawed at Charlie’s confidence, but it was Tiff who surprised me. Her own mood was simply one of serenity, and when I raised the subject with her in private, I was met by an astonishing level of maturity.

“Why would I be jealous, Nana? Who was it who picked me up when I first came to you? How could I be unhappy with her happiness?”

She had smiled, patting my hand as we sat in one of those chain coffee shops the girls seemed to love.

“What it is, well, it’s even better, if you think about it. It’s hope, Nana, but hope where you can see the win is there, available. I mean, look. Cathy and Nell, yeah, but they’re older, and I’m not as clever, really. Then there’s Alicia, and her Dad, and of course Kim, but, really, it’s Charlie and Gemma I can look at”

I had been a little puzzled at her choice, but she was shaking her head.

“Going to sound nasty, Nana, but not meant to be. Said why Charlie, haven’t I? With Gemma… Look, me and Charlie, we’re lucky. We both, what’s that word, we both pass, both look real enough---no!”

A hand up to stop me speaking.

“I know, Nana! I know we’re real, not fake. Don’t need telling. What I was going to say was, well, we, me and Charlie, we are a lot luckier than Gem, just in the way we look, but that doesn’t make her any less real, does it? She’s as girly as a girly thing, but you have to know her to tell, and there’s Marty, and he can tell, so there’s hope for anyone, just the way she is, her life and shit”

Tiff had looked down at her cup just then, her voice a lot softer.

“Just, looks isn’t always a blessing, having good ones, I mean. Neither of us… That wonky-eyed cunt, my Dad, yeah? If I had looked like Gemma… Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, what are you wearing to Paul and Paula’s?”

Subject changed, matter closed, but I could see her point about our pastry chef. It hadn’t really been until she had been caught ogling pairs of tight white shorts that her femininity had really shone through, but she was still with us, still smiling, still in love with a man who was impressing me more each day. How could she not inspire hope?

My answer to Tiff’s question was a cornflower blue dress and matching heels, Frank in a really smart charcoal suit that almost made me appreciate straight values (for about ten seconds), but Paul’s choice was in a dark blue, with badges and a funny hat. He had managed to find an amenable church, Cathays Methodist, which was only a short walk from Frank and Gemma’s place, with a reception booked at the local Sports and Social Club which was the huge distance of a third of a mile from the church. I suspected Frank had done some work on the Parch, probably assisted by a quantity of Gemma’s specials to help smooth the way. Frank had worked another miracle, and when we took our places in the Chapel to await the arrival of the bride, it was one of my lover’s other suits that was worn by the best man, who was a beaming Sparky. Paul had actually been insistent on him for the role, when I asked him about his choice.

“Debbie, love: Diane gave Paula her respect back, you did so much to keep her alive on the cold nights, but if there was anything or anyone that kept her with us, it was Sparky. How could it not be him?”

So as I sat by my baker, my builder, in my man’s spare suit, with a haircut courtesy of two of my girls, stood grinning beside a rather nervous copper. Phil’s present was making him even more wobbly, because the lad still had his sneaky link to the nationals, so he had spoken to s friend, who had spoken to another, just as Paula had dropped a hint to her publishers, and bingo, there was a pro crew outside from the Guardian. From Paula’s satisfied smile as she broke the news to me one evening at the House, I gathered that the fee for the rights to the story was doing a lot to pay for the reception.

Maisie had started to say something about parents just then, but the words had died in her mouth under the heat of Paula’s glare.

“They only got back in touch, you know, Debbie? Get their faces in the Graun, all that rubbish?”

After a quick glance at a blushing Maisie, she had muttered, “I think I made my views clear on that idea, girls. ‘Fuck off and die’ doesn’t leave much room for misunderstanding, does it?”

A quick look around at the other girls had brought a more typical smile from her.

“I am NOT buying bridesmaids’ dresses for you all, but every single one of you is going to walk in as my attendants, got me? Get those dresses bought, girls!”

When she entered, in a magnificent full-on white gown, she was on the arm of Sammy Patel, and all at once I found myself in sodding tears. It didn’t matter where she had come from, by whatever means, she was as much one of my girls as any of the mob that walked smiling or blushing behind her.

The Parch did his thing, with a genuine smile that was full of warmth, and my unkind thoughts, as to whether he was counting his godsquad brownie points for saving such a colossal sinner, evaporated. Sparky had the ring, and Paul and Paula each had the traditional kiss for each other. Paul led his new wife out under a line of raised traditional-style truncheons, the photos were efficiently taken, a local TV crew following the snappers while the important couple said a few words to the Guardian’s reporter (interview already given), and we set off for the Sports Club.

Or rather, we did so after Paula stepped away from her car to stare at an older couple standing on the pavement across the road from the search. I watched her fists clench, and then her right arm shot upwards, first two fingers erect. She waggled the V-sign from side to side a couple of times, before ostentatiously turning her back on what had so clearly been her parents, and ‘had been’ were indeed the words that fitted. She got into the car, and then, after a few seconds, opened the door and stepped out again, crossing the road, but not to her parents. She was back by the car again, with another figure in tow, and she walked over to where Diane and I were standing.

“Girls, you know Moira. We can squeeze her in, I’m sure”

The former prostitute started to argue, but Paula was adamant.

“Yes, I know. You told me, remember? If you are that worried, I’ll have a word, and we can take your plates and that with us for serious cleaning, but you come with us, woman”

Paula drew in a slow breath.

“Di, Debbie, my husband…”

Her face lit up.

“Bloody hell, yeah! My husband… he told me what he said about Sparky, about you two, and he was right, but this woman, she was always there for me, even when I was off my face, when Mo was doing his thing, isn’t it?”

Moira started to protest once more, but Paula simply shook her head.

“Into our car; sit up front. No arguments. Right: want their fucking faces in the paper, do they?”

Off they went, with Paula dropping a little word to the Guardian crew, and this time, as she made another obscene gesture to her parents, they were ready to capture both of her fingers and their targets. I simply stood back and admired her style, Diane chuckling beside me.

The reception went exactly as could have been expected, and we had a decent meal prepared by Ruth and Kim, with cold desserts provided by a certain girl of mine. There was dancing, and smooching, after the bride and groom had changed into more suitable clothing. I kept a careful eye on Moira, and when I spotted the tears, I was only just in front of Sparky in taking a seat by her.

“You okay. girl?”

She shook her head, but her words contradicted the gesture.

“I will be, Debbie. Just makes me look at my life properly. Strong woman, is Posh. But it’s more than that, really. Lets us see what can be. Even me”

She turned herself to look up at me.

“Got a job, now, I have. Makework, really, doing filing and shit for a charity, but it’s still a job. Leaving the halfway house soon, got a bedsit lined up, and yes, I know it was that Asian bloke over there who pulled the strings, but it was Paula who opened the door. They have me on stuff for the HIV, and even more for the Hep, so…”

A slow shake of her head.

“Got me reading, they have, for fun, fuck me, and I saw this thing, phrase, in one book: I aten’t dead yet, and that’s me. The Game, yeah? Not like that stupid fucking film, no Richard Gere in a limo, but just this once… Paul’s not Gere, but he’s better than Gere ever could be, because he is fucking real and fucking here for her”

Sparky passed her a napkin, and she grinned.

“Paper, yeah? Don’t have to nick a linen one. Off now, I am, and it is as a happy woman. Say my farewell to Posh for me, please”

She rose, making her way to the exit, her own pride still there along with the strength she had shown each time we had met, and I turned to Sparky, just as I saw Paul hug Frank.

“Remember you asking me about your friend? Mel Stevens?”

He jerked upright.

“And?”

“Been doing some negotiating with the vicar you saw on that news report, love. What are you up to next month? Fancy coming on a camping trip? You’ll need to borrow that suit again, though”