Totally unaware her pride and joy had just been tossed off by a twenty-six-year-old man, Queenie yelled, ‘Cooee, that you, Vinny?’

‘Yeah.’

Vinny took a deep breath. He could not look his mother in the eye. It felt like, if he did, she would guess what he’d been up to. ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Apart from having a dodgy stomach all day.’

‘Let me make you up an Andrews powder. That’ll sort you out. Did you not go shopping in the end?’

Feeling a little dizzy, Vinny flopped on the sofa. He’d run out of Macca’s flat so swiftly, he’d forgotten his shopping bags. ‘Yeah, I went shopping.’

‘You’ve not been drinking, have you? Your eyes look glassy.’

‘No, Mum.’

Queenie handed her golden boy his Andrews. She was sure he had been bloody drinking. He looked as white as a sheet. ‘Get that down your hatch and take it from me, alcohol is a slippery slope, boy. You’ve only got to look at your father.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m nothing like him.’

‘So where are your shopping bags then?’

‘Round my mate’s. I forgot ’em.’

‘See! You have been drinking. I knew it!’

Knowing his mother would throttle him if she had any inkling he was stoned, Vinny thought it best to own up to being a bit tipsy. ‘I had two beers and, if you must know, I hated the taste. But because I was with my mate from work, I thought I better drink ’em ’cause I don’t want him guessing my real age. I bought you something, and Roy, Michael, Bren, Champ and Auntie Viv.’

Queenie softened. Vinny had already admitted to her he’d lied about his age to land the job in the posh hotel. ‘You’re a good boy, you are. Do you know what, I always knew you were special from the moment you were born. I’m glad you’ve made friends at work and I’d love to meet Macca. Why don’t you invite him round for tea?’

Vinny didn’t know if it was the Andrews powder hitting the back of his throat or the thought of his mother meeting Macca that made him spew his guts up all over her carpet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Queenie got out of bed, checked on Brenda, who was still asleep, then marched down the stairs. She’d heard that drunken bum of a husband of hers come in after midnight and he’d made an awful racket. ‘Gawd stone the crows! You’ve broken me fucking mirror. How did ya do that? You stupid bloody fool.’ The mirror in question was hung on the wall. It was attached to a big silver chain. The chain was still there and part of the mirror, but most of it lay smashed on her new carpet.

Albie lifted the blanket from over his throbbing head. It was all coming back to him now. He’d tripped up and gone head first into the poxy mirror.

Queenie looked at the gashes on her husband’s head in horror. He was covered in congealed blood. She immediately looked down at her new carpet. ‘Oh no. Look what you’ve done, you bleedin’ imbecile! There’s blood on my new carpet our son worked his bollocks off to pay for. I’ll never forgive you for this, Albie Butler, not ever. Seven years’ bad luck you’ve cursed us with and you’ve ruined my lovely carpet.’