All You Need is Love

by Carole Matthews

  Glancing at my watch, I realise that I’d better get moving if I’m going to get to my computer course on time. Sorting out Mrs Kapur has taken much longer than I bargained for, so now food will have to wait. Unfortunately, my exemplary dietary habits only extend to when my son’s here.

  Probably couldn’t eat, anyway. This is only the third week of my course and I’m still feeling very nervous about the whole thing. It’s the first time that I’ve ever done anything for myself – just for me – and there’s a certain amount of anxiety involved in that as I’m so determined not to fail. I was completely useless at school, mainly because I used to spend half my nights looking after Mum when she was ill, so all that I wanted to do during the day was put my head down on the desk and go to sleep. Often, I did. Then I ditched my college course when I got knocked up. So, this is the first time I’ve ventured back into any form of education since then and, frankly, I’m bricking it.

  There’s a knock at the door and I know who it is. I also know that I don’t have time for this. Sighing inwardly, I go to open it. As I suspected, Johnny’s standing there. His little dog Ringo’s at his feet, as always.

  ‘I’ve got five minutes and then I’ve got to go,’ I tell him as I walk away from the door.

  Johnny and Ringo follow me into the living room, where I start to check whether I’ve got my phone, my purse, my notebook, my pen.

  ‘I came to see if you wanted me to pick Charlie up from school,’ Johnny says to my back.

  ‘You could have phoned me.’

  Johnny shrugs apologetically. ‘I was out and about.’ He stands awkwardly, filling the small room.

  Softening, I smile at him. I’ve nothing to be cross with Johnny about, for goodness’ sake. Plus it’s very hard to stay mad when he’s around. He grins back at me, running his hands through his shock of dark hair, which always looks as if it’s been styled by a Saturday girl. ‘Thanks, Johnny. You’re a mate.’

  At that, his smile fades. Even Ringo looks at me with limpid eyes, tail tucked between his legs. I guess the worst thing that you can tell someone who’s in love with you is that he’s a mate. Even their dog gets naffed off.

  Okay, so this is how it is. Not too long ago, Johnny and I were more than just mates. John Paul George Jones – even his dad, the world’s biggest Beatles fan, balked at adding Ringo to his son’s names – and I were together for about five years. On-off. Off-on. It was always me that called it off and always me that asked him to come back. Johnny might be irritatingly laid-back, but he’s also a hard person to live without.

  I finally split with him about six months ago, this time for good. Honestly. It was horrible and really hard, because – essentially – there’s nothing really wrong with Johnny. (Apart from the dodgy name, of course.) He’s handsome, funny and, to be honest, pretty fab in bed. He’s great at remembering to take the bins out. He knows what to do with the working end of a Black & Decker. He can use the washing machine. What more could I want in a fella? you might ask. It’s just that he and I have different ideas about how we should live our lives. I’m trying to better myself. I don’t want Charlie to spend all his life here. I want to get out of this dead-end place, make a nicer life for us. I’m not sure where yet, but I know that the universe doesn’t begin and end in Liverpool. I’m going places. I have ambition.

  Johnny, on the other hand, has none. He’s a dreamer, drifting through his life, being buffeted along by the current, going where it takes him. Which doesn’t seem to be any further than the end of his street. I can’t do that. And I can’t be with someone who thinks like that. It’s dragging me down, keeping me under, pinning me to this place. He’s happy here, happy with his lot. He loves the place. Johnny doesn’t have a full-time job because he’s the primary carer for his mum and that doesn’t really bother him – and I think it should. He’s young, fit, bright – he should want more. He doesn’t think what else might be out there, just waiting around the corner, if only he’d try to stretch himself. I’m sure my former lover thinks that people like us shouldn’t have ambition. That we should be content with our given place down in the gutter of the planet. But I can’t do piss poor for the rest of my life. I’ve had enough of it. I want more. And that’s what’s driven us apart. Simple as that.

  The Government have started up a ‘Back to Work’ programme round here – or, as I like to put it, a ‘Get Off Bloody Benefits and Earn Your Own Way, You Miserable Scroungers’ programme. Because it’s free and held just down the road from me, I’ve signed on for ‘Computing for Beginners’ – proof that I’ve moved on and have begun to build the kind of life that I want for me and Charlie. Okay, so I’m never going to be the next Bill Gates, but it’s a step in the right direction, yeah? I’m twenty-seven, for goodness’ sake – positively a raddled old bird to be thinking of taking on the world of work for the first time – and I’ll admit that there’s a panic welling inside me that if I don’t do something now to break away, then I never will. I’ll be stuck here for ever like Mrs Kapur, grunting up the stairs with my meagre shopping and my cream cakes that are on the turn until the Grim Reaper comes for me.

  To be honest, I’m not sure that computing is entirely my bag. I don’t really see myself as nine-to-five office material, but it’s a start. Everyone needs to know about computers, right? Even the telly seems to be a complicated beast these days with its digital and analogue and terrestrial and Freeview and all that stuff. You need a flipping degree to get it to record Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?. And at least I’m doing something.

  ‘Shall I go and get Charlie then?’

  ‘What?’ I’d forgotten that Johnny was still waiting patiently for my answer.

  ‘I remembered that you were at your course today and wondered if I should meet Charlie. I’m sure he’d like to see Ringo.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, all thoughts of doom and gloom receding. ‘That’s nice. Thanks, Johnny.’ Charlie’s being bullied at the moment, probably because I can’t afford the latest trainers for him. You know what kids are like. Little bastards. Every one of them except my own, of course.

  ‘I miss him,’ Johnny says quietly.

  The hardest part about this break-up is that Johnny adores Charlie and, for better, for worse, Charlie adores Johnny. But am I supposed to stay with a man simply because my son loves him more than I do? I’ve spent many nights lying awake at three o’clock worrying about this. If I could get air miles for my guilt trip, I’d be in the Bahamas now.

  When he was younger and Johnny and I broke up, it didn’t really matter to Charlie. A day, a week or even a month . . . as a child you just don’t register the passing of time; it could be ages before he’d cotton on to the fact that Johnny wasn’t around. Now, of course, it’s very different. Charlie, unfortunately, has his own opinions on the matter. Frequently, they seem to differ from mine.

  ‘I know you miss him. He misses you too.’ I sling my bag on my shoulder, indicating that it’s time for me to leave as I try to ignore those nipping guilty feelings again. ‘You know that you can come round to see him anytime you want. Why don’t you stay for your tea tonight? We’re only having pasta. I can throw a bit more in. Stretch the mince between the three of us.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Johnny says, and I can’t look at him because his voice sounds choked.

  Johnny hasn’t moved on. As I said, Johnny, I’m sure, is still in love with me. What can I do?

  I give a little tsk at my watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. Avoid the issue, that’s what.

  Chapter Three

  Crossing the road, I head off to my computer course. The organisation that’s running it has taken over a council house that previously looked like it had been bombed out. To be fair, they’ve given it a lick of paint inside, mended the smashed windows and, what was a separate lounge and dining room have now been knocked together to form one big space. There are eight computers in there and the course has a full house. I had to wait six months to get a place.

  It’s been a long, h
ot summer. Now it’s early September and the weather is still bestowing its blessings on us. Frankly, I love global warming. I’m guilt-free when it comes to my carbon footprint, since I don’t have a car, I’ve been on a plane twice in my life, I’m frugal with my power consumption because I can’t afford not to be, and I use my Save-It Bag For Life every day because now they have the audacity to charge 5p if you want a new one. The only benefit I get out of all this is the nice sunshine. Bring it on!

  All the grass at the front of the house has been burned to a nice brown crisp by the sun and is waiting patiently for the rain to return. I swing in through the open front door, humming to myself. This is the third week of my course, and it’s fair to say that I’m not proving to be a natural. To be honest, I’m even struggling to remember how to turn the damn thing on. In my own defence, my only skirmishes with technology so far have been programming the DVD and making calls on my mobile phone. I haven’t even used a typewriter, so this whole computing thing is just a bit scary.

  I go in and head for the computer that I’ve bagged as mine. It’s near the window, so if I get too bored I can stare out to see if there’s anything happening on the estate. Which there never is. Not that I’ve had much time to do that in previous lessons. I know all the other people on the course, but I won’t bother to introduce them because, frankly, they’re not that interesting. They’re mainly all dossers from this estate, long-term unemployed and social misfits. There’s a couple of car thieves, each supposedly turning over a new leaf – which will be a severe blow to the second-hand car market round here. There’s a disabled guy, Tom, who comes in his wheelchair and he’s the best of us all. But then he spends the rest of his life playing computer games, so technically he should be. Davy in the corner is a career burglar. He can rob you anything you want to order. Not sure how much use a computer will be to him in his business ventures. He already knows that he can pick one up and run through the door with it or lob it out of the open window to his waiting accomplice – does he need to know any more? Is he going to do a spreadsheet to make sure he doesn’t burgle the same place twice? Make a pie chart of the house most worth plundering?

  I look round as I take my place. I’m the only single mum. Another drain on society, right? I’m the only woman on the course, in fact. No girlie chats to pass the time for me. This lot mean business and, unusually for Scousers, hardly say a word. They get their heads down and crack on. But I shouldn’t be scathing about the others, it’s mean of me. You’re hardly going to get lawyers in pinstripe suits on Government-funded courses on sink estates. These guys are only here trying their best. Like me. Maybe they, too, have realised that there might be a better way.

  Our tutor is waiting for us. And – I can’t entirely blame this on the wonderful weather – I go all hot. Think computers and you think, baldy bloke with greying, bushy beard wearing Jesus sandals with brown socks. Am I right? Spencer Knight, our tutor, is well far removed from that. He is one hot mother. Actually, no – I’m the hot mother! I can feel myself redden in unusual places as he comes over. What looks like measles springs out all over my chest.

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ he says.

  ‘Hiya. Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘You’re not late.’

  No, I’m not. I’m bang on time. It’s just that I have no idea what else to say. My tongue, which seems to have expanded to twice its normal size, is now lolling uselessly in my mouth. There’s a hint of a smile at Spencer’s lips. I think he might be laughing at me.

  ‘Have you managed to do any practice this week?’

  I shrug. ‘Haven’t got a computer.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I forgot. Would you like me to see if I can get hold of one for you?’

  He could do worse than ask Davy. That’s about all I could afford to pay, knock-off prices. ‘It’d have to be cheap,’ I say. ‘But that’d be sound.’

  ‘Sound?’

  ‘Great,’ I correct. ‘That would be great.’ Spencer’s not from round here. He’s from somewhere posh. He talks like the Queen. Everything comes out with massive long vowels. He doesn’t say ‘yeah’, he says ‘yaaah’. We all have to repeat most of our sentences so that he understands us. Everyone round here has a really thick Scouse accent; it comes with the turf and it can be hard to get your head round. But I try very hard to speak nicely and still he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying!

  Spencer Knight doesn’t dress like us either. This estate is shell-suit city – shiny nylon rules. In a place where putting on the latest Liverpool or Everton football shirt is considered dressing up, Spencer’s style stands out a bit. Today, he’s wearing an ice-blue tailored shirt over black trousers with fine, blue pin-stripes in them. The shirt has enormous cuffs with huge cufflinks in them. His brown hair’s all ruffled up. But it’s a stylish mess – a fifty-quid cut – not like Johnny’s, which is a plain and simple mess. He’s got the most flawless skin I’ve ever seen on a man and I bet if I peeked in his bathroom cabinet, I’d find a whole range of expensive moisturising products. He’s probably thirty, maybe even a couple of years older, but he looks like he’s had a life of ease. His demeanour speaks of exotic holidays, business-class travel and fast cars. His eyes are clear blue, offset perfectly by the shirt, and when I look at them my mouth goes dry. No one’s eyes have done that to me before. In short, Spencer looks like a catalogue model. But in a good way. I’m talking Versace rather than Littlewoods.

  My jeans and T-shirt feel cheap and nasty in comparison and I’ve never really noticed that kind of stuff before. For the first time in my life, I wish I had stacks of designer labels in my wardrobe. Trouble is, if you wear labels round here then everyone assumes that they’re fakes or knock-offs. No one would be stupid enough to pay the prices they want for the real McCoy.

  The other students are all here now. One’s a builder who wants to do his accounts on his computer – must have had a tug from the tax man and has seen the error of his ways. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the other two yet, so we nod our hellos and then I switch on and try to pick up where we left off last week – creating a Word document. Despite my fears, I can actually remember what we did, even though there’s been a heap of other useless crap through my brain since then.

  When we’re settled in, Spencer does a tour of the class, moving us onto the next part of the workbook. He gets to me and scoots a chair up next to mine, resting his arm across the back of it. My heart beats faster and it’s not just because I think he’s going to find fault with what I’m doing. My fingers hit all the wrong keys.

  ‘Looks good,’ he says over my shoulder. Despite it being like an oven in here, Spencer is as cool as a cucumber. The Council might have stretched to a new coat of paint and some computers for this place, but it didn’t think about air-conditioning, and the windows are screwed shut.

  I smile shyly at him. ‘Thanks.’ Then he sits and watches me while I type, arms folded, legs stretched out. His shoes are amazing. I know very little about shoes, but I’d bet a pound that they’re handmade. I’d swear that his socks are silk too. I look at him and wonder what he’s doing here, down among the lowlifes and the socially-deserted.

  ‘You’re staring at me,’ he says, giving me a smile that offers a glimpse of his perfectly white, perfectly spaced teeth.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ I switch back to my computer, embarrassed to have been caught out, and bash at the keys again.

  He leans towards me. ‘I rather like it,’ he says.

  ‘I was just admiring your shoes.’

  Spencer laughs at that. ‘My shoes?’ He stares at his own feet, shaking his head. ‘My shoes.’

  ‘They’re nice,’ I say a little crisply. So I like his shoes – so what? It’s no big deal. I’m not asking him to marry me.

  ‘Thank you.’ Spencer puts a hand on my chair and swivels me towards him. His face is very close to mine and he smells wonderful, of freshly laundered clothes, soap and expensive aftershave. Even his scent is out of place here and I want to inhale h
im, fill my senses with him, drive the smell of damp and piss and poverty out of my brain. He glances over at the others, but they’re all engrossed in their work. ‘This is probably highly inappropriate behaviour,’ he says, lowering his voice. ‘But would you let me buy you dinner tomorrow night?’

  ‘Dinner?’

  ‘Or a drink. You’re not busy, are you?’

  Busy? Moi?

  ‘Dinner’s great.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  ‘I’ll meet you somewhere.’ There’s no way I want him coming to the flats.

  ‘I know where you live,’ he says. ‘It’s on the register. I thought we’d drive out somewhere. I’ll come for you.’

  He knows where I live and yet he still wants to ask me out!

  I nod. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Sound,’ he says in his cut-glass tones as he stands up, a smile curling his lips. He’s teasing me but, for some strange reason, I really don’t mind.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Are you all right there, Mam?’

  ‘Right as rain, Son,’ Mary Jones replied, trying to smile despite her pain.

  ‘I’ll get you some tea ready now,’ Johnny said, heading to the kitchen through the crowd of furniture that was too big for the room. ‘I’m going over to Sally’s for mine.’

  ‘That right?’ His mother’s voice brightened. She turned the volume down on the television, fading her best friend, Noel Edmonds, into the background. Finding out about her son’s love-life was clearly more important than discovering whether the contestant went for a Deal or No Deal. ‘Does that mean that yous two are back on?’

  ‘No way,’ he told her. ‘I just want to spend some time with Charlie.’

  ‘Breaks my heart,’ Mary said, suddenly sounding teary. ‘That boy’s like a grandson to me. I love the bones of him. You should have married that girl while you had the chance, Johnny Boy.’