Chapter Forty-Three
To punish himself further, Johnny took the route back past Sally’s flat. He stopped to look up at the bedroom window, but all was still in darkness. Ringo gave a cursory bark, for which he got a tipsy, ‘Sssh . . .’
He’d drunk more than enough by the time he reached his garage and he knew that he was weaving. Fumbling with the key, he swayed back and forth until he managed to fit it into the padlock, then ‘Sssh’d,’ the garage door as it creaked open noisily. He shivered. Even in his bevvied state, he could still feel that it was cold in here. Earlier, he’d roughed out some ideas for a mural for the Community Centre, but he didn’t have the focus to concentrate on that now. Instead, he wanted to paint something that would capture his mood.
Staggering into his working area, Johnny tried to set up a canvas, but he stumbled and fell, knocking the canvas to the floor. No worries. It would work just as well there, he thought with a shrug. Plus he was probably incapable of hanging it like he usually did. The heavy ropes that he normally used hung down from the rafters of the garage and he grabbed them, letting himself swing forward over the fallen canvas on tiptoe. It felt quite nice. He hadn’t been on a swing since he was a kid. The motion of the ropes carried him backwards and forwards gently. He lifted his feet from the ground and started to let himself twirl round. It was good to be drunk and dizzy, it stopped him thinking about Sally. Well, almost.
Then, amidst the vodka haze, he had a moment of clarity. He jumped down from his home-made swing. Ringo, sensing his change of mood, barked in excitement. Somewhere he had some empty squeezy bottles put to one side, just in case he might ever need them; too much time spent watching Blue Peter as a kid, maybe. Clearly this was the time to press them into service.
With a bit of effort and staggering about, he managed to mix three different colours of paint – red, blue and green – and poured them into the bottles. Then he laid out two more canvases on the floor next to the first one. On the battered old CD player he’d purloined for the garage, he slotted in his favourite Beatles disc and turned the volume to loud.
Taking the bottles of paint, he eased himself up onto the ropes above the canvases until he was sitting on the sturdiest one. Giggling to himself and with a bit of shifting of his weight, he got the swing going. He whooshed backwards and forwards through the air, dangling above the canvases. The Beatles blasted out ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ and Johnny sang along drunkenly. Ringo’s barking reached a frenzy and he ran madly round the canvases while Johnny swung like a pissed trapeze artist above him.
He leaned back, letting his head dangle down and the paint drizzle from the squeezy bottles onto the canvas. This felt great, liberating. ‘Twist and Shout’ brought forth great flourishes to the paintings. Swinging backwards and forwards, twirling as he went, Johnny covered the canvases – and the dog. Perhaps he could paint Sally right out of his head like this.
‘She Loves You,’ the Beatles sang out. But, in his heart, Johnny knew that she didn’t any more.
Chapter Forty-Four
I had a fantastic night with Spencer – believe me, Bill Shankly House was shaken to its very foundations. Spencer is a great lover. I lie here watching him while he’s asleep. Even naked and dishevelled from the night’s activities, he still looks too posh to be in this flat. He opens his eyes and I pull up the duvet to my neck.
‘Good morning,’ he says, and strokes my face gently.
I’d forgotten that I hate new relationships. Moments like these make me cringe. What am I supposed to say now? ‘Thanks for a great night?’ Frankly, I would have liked Spencer to be up and out of here briskly as I can already hear Charlie moving around. Why can’t my boy be like other people’s sons and want to lie in until noon and have to be pulled kicking and screaming out of their beds? My kid’s always up with the lark.
Spencer moves in close to me and starts to kiss me, stroking my back. Oh, that feels good. So very good. I push him away. ‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Charlie’s up and about. He might come in. He doesn’t know that you’re here.’
‘Right,’ Spencer says with a frown. ‘Forgot about that.’
Already, I’m getting out of bed, turning my back on my guest so that he doesn’t get an eyeful of me in the cold light of day. I’m not quite ready for that revelation. ‘I’ll bring you a cuppa and warn Charlie that you’re here. Then you can have a shower.’ I wonder will the hot water run to three people. My boiler is, at best, temperamental. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Have you any Earl Grey?’
I laugh. ‘I’ve got builders’ tea, Spencer, that’s all. There’s no Columbian fine roast coffee either. Everything in my cupboards is the cheapest I can find in Save-It.’
‘Builders’ tea is fine,’ he says, looking slightly chastened.
‘It’ll put hairs on your chest,’ I tell him.
‘Hasn’t done it for you,’ he notes. Then he catches my hand and pulls me to him for a quick kiss. ‘Thank you for last night. I’m honoured that you let me stay here. I know how much it means to you.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I enjoyed it too. I just hope that you don’t eat much for breakfast. All I’ve got is toast and cereal. If you normally eat smoked salmon or kedgeree then you’re out of luck on that too.’
All he does is grin at me. ‘Toast would be lovely.’
I’m taking a cup of good, strong Save-It own brand tea into the bedroom to Spencer when Charlie comes out of the bathroom, all smiles. Then he sees the two cups in my hand and draws himself up straighter. The smile disappears. He knows that second cup isn’t for him.
‘All right, love?’
Charlie nods brusquely.
I lower my voice. ‘Spencer stayed over last night,’ I tell him. There’s a guilty quiver there. ‘Hope you’ve left some hot water.’
My light quip goes down like a lead balloon and my son’s expression turns in a flash to a dark scowl. ‘Breakfast in five?’ I ask.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Charlie says, lip pouting.
He’s always hungry. There’s no ‘full’ level on that kid’s stomach. ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, Charlie.’ I’d like to give him a hug, but my hands are still gripping the tea. ‘It wasn’t planned. I should have talked to you about it first.’
He doesn’t look placated. And then Spencer comes out of the bedroom. My overnight guest is wearing nothing but his undies and a sleepy grin. I’m not sure who’s more horrified, me or Charlie.
‘Hello, little . . . friend,’ Spencer says. The nursery-rhyme voice is back in evidence.
‘Hiya,’ Charlie mumbles reluctantly, studying the wallpaper.
Spencer gives up with my son and turns to me. ‘May I use the bathroom?’ he asks.
Charlie takes the distraction as an opportunity to shoot into his bedroom.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Go for it.’
I hit the bedroom and in double-quick time, I throw on my jeans and a T-shirt. Washing can wait until later, until there are no strange men taking up my bathroom space. Through to the kitchen and I start flinging bread into the toaster and putting the boxes of cereal on the table.
Charlie wanders in, dressed now in his school uniform. He plonks himself down at the table.
‘What do you want on your sandwiches today?’
One shoulder gets lifted and dropped.
‘Peanut butter?’
The other shoulder gets the same treatment and I take it as an enthusiastic yes for peanut butter.
While I’m dashing off a couple of rounds of butties, the toast pops and I slap some butter and marmalade on it for Charlie. ‘You can have a boiled egg tomorrow,’ I say, ‘when I’ve got more time. I’m running a bit behind this morning.’
I get a glare. I do the world’s best boiled eggs and Charlie is just playing hard to get.
Then Spencer joins us. He’s freshly washed and beautiful. Even in last night’s recycled clothes, he still looks wonderful. He’s buttoning his shirt cuffs as he comes into the kitchen. My hear
t lurches. I still can’t believe that I spent the night with this man, but the flip that my stomach does confirms that I did indeed.
My unexpected house guest takes a chair next to my son and Charlie studiously avoids looking at him. More bread gets slapped in the toaster. I top up Spencer’s mug with hot water and give it to him.
‘Thanks.’
Then I squash Charlie’s butties and two pieces of fruit – a banana and an apple – into the battered ice-cream carton he takes in every day. I’d buy him one of these flashy lunchboxes, but he’d only get it nicked. As a treat – and as a consolation for having woken up to find he’s got a wanton mother – I’ve also put in a chocolate-topped flapjack. Not homemade, but then you can’t have everything.
There’s an uneasy silence at the breakfast-table. Charlie’s clearly uncomfortable and so am I.
My new man clears his throat loudly and my son and I both jump. ‘And what’s on the agenda at school today?’ Spencer says in jocular, sing-song tones.
‘Nuffin’,’ Charlie mutters, sliding towards the table, concentrating on his toast as if he’s planning to perform heart surgery on it.
Spencer looks to me for help.
‘Charlie,’ I say crisply. ‘Play the game. Tell Spencer what you’re doing at school today.’
‘Maths, English, Games,’ my son tumbles out in a rush. The last piece of toast is stuffed into his mouth. ‘I’ve gotta go. Late.’ And he shoots towards the front door like a hare out of a trap.
I chase after him, sandwich box in hand and catch up with him as he’s about to leave. ‘Don’t forget this.’
He stops and takes his butties from me. ‘I love you,’ I say, smoothing down the hair that, in his strop, he’s forgotten to gel. ‘We’ll talk about this when you get home.’
‘Don’t want to.’
‘I still love you more than anyone,’ I say. ‘Nothing will change that. Even if Spencer comes into our lives.’
Charlie looks up and his eyes are filled with tears. ‘I want you to love Johnny again.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
My son sags in front of my eyes.
‘I don’t want you to worry about this.’ I kiss the top of his head. ‘Tell me you won’t worry.’
‘I won’t worry,’ he mumbles in a worried way.
Giving him a playful slap on the behind, I say, ‘Go on, otherwise you’ll be late for school.’
Back in the kitchen, I slump down next to Spencer with a big sigh. I take a slurp of his tea and nick a bit of the toast he’s buttered for himself in my absence.
‘That went well,’ I say, relying on the British propensity for irony.
‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Spencer says.
‘Give him time. He doesn’t know you and he’s still very fond of Johnny. This isn’t easy for him.’
‘I’m not used to children,’ Spencer admits. ‘I don’t know what to say to him.’
‘Just be normal,’ I tell him. ‘You don’t need to speak to him like he’s three. He’s a good kid. Relax. Be cool.’
Spencer tugs at his cuffs. ‘I’d rather face a roomful of investment bankers than one ten-year-old kid.’
‘That much is obvious,’ I laugh.
‘I’d better go,’ he says, with a glance at his watch – a watch that would pay my rent for a year (if the DHSS didn’t, of course). ‘I’m due at the Computer Centre shortly and I want to shoot home and change.’
‘I’ll call you a cab.’
Spencer catches my wrist as I stand. ‘I want to do this again soon,’ he says, pulling me to him. My legs oblige by turning to water. ‘Sure you won’t reconsider coming away at the weekend? It will be a lot of fun.’
‘I can’t,’ I say weakly. ‘How can I?’
‘I’d like you there,’ he says. ‘With me.’
And just when I have begun to think that he’s understood my situation, how tied I am, I realise that he hasn’t at all.
Chapter Forty-Five
I’m amazed – and more than a little pleased – to see how many people have turned up for the meeting at the Community Centre. Half of the estate is crammed in here. I had Charlie put some leaflets through the doors during the week; he did it with minimal grumbling which I’m taking as a sign that he’s forgiven me for my indiscretion earlier this week.
The leafleting has clearly worked. I just hope that all these folks are as keen when it comes to putting their workclothes on and getting down to business. Even the hoodies with the weak bladders and the bad attitudes are here. They’re in the back row and aren’t looking very happy, but they’re here. So I’d class that as a result.
Johnny’s standing next to me by the stage. He seems very subdued.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
He shrugs non-committally.
‘Thanks for bringing your mum.’ Mary Jones is sitting at the end of the front row in her wheelchair. She’s got her arms folded across her ample bosom and a big smile on her face. Mrs Kapur and Dora are sitting next to her. I can’t remember when I last saw Mary out and about, so I’m pleased that she’s made the effort.
‘She wanted to be here,’ Johnny says. ‘For you.’
‘I’m glad. We need all the support we can get.’
‘No Spencer?’ He tries to make the question sound casual, but fails. So, he’s still smarting that Spencer was at my flat the other night. I just hope he doesn’t find out that Spencer stayed over, as I made Johnny wait for ages before he was allowed anywhere near my bed. In hindsight, I think it was the right choice – even though we did both have bad backs from snatched sex sessions in the rear of his Transit van.
I wonder where Spencer is now. It would have been nice to have him here today. He went off to his house-party in the Cotswolds and I feel a little flame of envy burn inside me – a feeling that I’ve rarely had before. I want to be at a house-party in the Cotswolds too – even though I’ve no idea what it might involve. But I bet there’ll be plenty of champagne and nice things. There’ll probably be posh birds too, with long legs and flowing locks.
I sigh out loud when I don’t mean to.
‘Penny for them,’ Johnny says.
‘They’re worth at least ten quid.’
‘In that case, you’ll have to keep them to yourself, I’m skint.’
Impulsively, I take Johnny’s hand. ‘Thanks for being here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Well, you’d be stuck for someone to paint the walls.’
‘You know that it’s so much more than that.’
Johnny avoids my gaze and looks out over the crowd in the hall. ‘We’d better get started,’ he says with a nod. ‘The natives are getting restless.’
‘There’s probably footy on this afternoon,’ I say, ‘and they’ll be wanting to make sure that they’re back in time.’
‘Liverpool versus Chelsea,’ Johnny supplies, sneaking a glance at his own watch.
‘Let’s go for it, then,’ I say, and pull him onto the stage behind me.
We take up our positions and Johnny claps his hands. Everyone starts to quieten down. He’s rigged up the PA system and I stand up to the microphone with a sheaf of notes. ‘I don’t know about you,’ I begin, ‘but I’m fed up of this estate looking like the bad side of Beirut.’
There’s a wave of muttered approval.
‘I thought it was about time that we did something about it.’
Again much nodding.
‘I want to live in a nice area. I want to see flowers and trees instead of burned-out cars and litter.’
Mary Jones is nodding so hard I think her head might fall off.
‘I don’t want vandals breaking our lifts and peeing in our hallways.’ I direct my look to the hoodies and they shuffle in their seats. ‘I want us all to be proud of our neighbourhood. Every single one of us.’ And, on a personal level, I want to bring home posh boyfriends and not cringe every time I do. ‘I want this to be a nice place to live.’
Everyone claps enthu
siastically.
‘It will mean a lot of hard work,’ I say. ‘For us all. I want to clear away all the rubbish, grass over the derelict ground, put flowers in neglected corners. Anything that can be painted will get a freshen up. Does that sound like a good start?’
There are rumblings of consent, so I push on.
‘We can get some money from the Government to use for plants, trees and equipment, but we have to do all the grafting ourselves. All of it. The whole shebang. If anyone thinks that they don’t want to be involved, then now’s the time to tell us.’
Neighbour turns to neighbour, deep in conversation.
‘And when we’re done,’ I say, ‘we all have to work to keep it that way. We have to police our own neighbourhood so that it doesn’t fall into the hands of the vandals and the criminals. It won’t be easy, but I think, together, that we can do it.’
For my impassioned speech, I get a round of applause. When I’ve milked it for all it’s worth, I hold up my hand. ‘Johnny’s put some sketches on the walls round the hall. It’ll give you some idea of what we’d like to do if everyone agrees. The work will start with sprucing this place up.’ I sweep my hand to encompass the grotty hall.
No one looks as if they’d disagree with that. ‘Shall we take a vote? Hands up if you want to get involved with this project.’
Across the room hands shoot in the air. Looks like there are very few objectors. The hoodies at the back remain still and I look over at them. Then one of the boys slowly raises his hand, the others look at him aghast and then, after a moment that goes on for an eternity, they too join in.
‘Unanimous,’ I say. God, there are tears of joy in my eyes. What have we started? I grab Johnny’s hand and smile across at him. He’s grinning too. Together we punch the air. ‘Let project “All You Need Is Love” begin!’
Chapter Forty-Six
We were inundated with questions, offers of expertise and general good wishes. Several of the older men on the estate either run or used to run allotments and were quick to offer their horticultural services. That’s a big relief, because I don’t know one end of a plant from the other. I’m the sort who’d be ripping up rare orchids and nurturing common or garden weeds. We had a few people who professed to be dab hands with paintbrushes, so that’ll be useful too. The rest of it is in the lap of the gods. How we’re going to gainfully employ the hoodies, goodness only knows. But everyone can pick up rubbish and put it in a black sack, right?
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