Now Johnny and I are both sitting in rickety plastic chairs with our feet up taking a breather – shame that our budget probably won’t run to replacing these uncomfortable old buggers. I feel high on a rush of adrenaline and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like this before. Mary’s neighbour has wheeled her home for Johnny, and now Charlie and his all-knowing mate, Kyle, are stacking the rest of the chairs away for us.
‘The girl did good,’ Johnny says.
I blow an unsteady stream of air out of my lungs. Only now are my nerves kicking in. Only now am I realising exactly what a huge undertaking this might be. There will be a lot of people depending on me and, frankly, I don’t know if I’m that dependable. ‘Do you really think we can do this?’
‘It’s too late to back out now,’ he tells me.
‘I’m not thinking of backing out,’ I assure him. ‘It’s just that I’ve never organised anything on this kind of scale before. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever organised anything before.’ I struggle to make sure that I’ve got enough food in the fridge for Charlie’s packed lunch every day. That’s the limit of my organisational skills. Can I really pull off a stunt like this? Li’l ol’ me?
‘If you’re going to start,’ Johnny says, ‘may as well start big.’
‘Do you think people really will rally round?’
‘They seem keen enough. This sort of thing tends to bring out the old British fighting spirit.’
‘I wonder will that exist in the next generation?’
‘Depends if we hand it down to them.’
‘I have a wonderful vision for this place.’ My voice sounds wistful. ‘Do you think we can stop the rot and turn it round?’
‘I think it’s worth trying.’
Suddenly all this thinking, planning and strategising is too much for me and I feel emotionally drained. ‘I’m gasping for a cuppa.’ My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper.
‘Me too.’
‘Why don’t you come back to the flat?’ I suggest. ‘We could spend the afternoon going through some ideas. Maybe you could sketch out a few things, draw up our masterplan.’
Johnny looks evasive. ‘No can do,’ he says. ‘I’ve got stuff I need to see to.’
‘Ah, the footy.’
‘That and other things.’
‘You’re not backing out on me now?’
Johnny laughs. ‘Prior engagement,’ he says. ‘I could come over tomorrow though. Haven’t seen Charlie for a couple of days. If the weather stays nice we could go to Sefton Park together, kick a ball about.’
‘He’d like that.’
‘I’d better get off,’ Johnny says. ‘See you tomorrow.’ I watch as my friend strides off purposefully. Wonder what he’s up to?
‘Are you nearly finished, boys?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie and Kyle shout back.
I stand, stretch my back and look around the hall, taking in the peeling paint, the rising damp, the mouldy curtains. Can I do this? Can I really mobilise these people who have been so apathetic about the decline of their neighbourhood for years into a lean, mean, keen workforce? I’ll have my work cut out, that’s for sure. But then I remember that I’m not an ordinary human being. I’m Sally Freeman, Single Mum and Superwoman. And I can do anything I want.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Johnny opened up the garage, then stood back and looked along the row. These lock-ups could all do with a coat of paint too. They were all scruffy and his was the only door that wasn’t completely buckled. Sally was right: how could people let their own estate become such a pigsty? He was only just starting to see things through her eyes and it wasn’t a pretty sight.
He’d never before been discontented with his lot in life and he didn’t like the way that it made him feel. Sally had often accused him of seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses and it seemed that for the first time, he’d taken them off. Johnny shook his head sadly. Sally, it seemed, was determined to shake everything up, reshape it, re-energise it. He wasn’t finding it a comfortable process.
Now that he’d thought about making his own changes, his stomach was in a constant swirl. The core of contentment and stability that he’d always felt had gone, almost overnight. He felt scared, unsettled and excited at the same time. Johnny rubbed his hands over his face and breathed out a heavy sigh. Sally Freeman, you crazy lady, where is all this going to lead?
Inside, still on the floor, were the canvases he’d painted the other night. He stood back and scrutinised them.They weren’t half bad. Maybe some of his better work. He should get roaring drunk and paint to Beatles music more often. If nothing else, it was very therapeutic. Even the thought of Sally shacking up with this new man hadn’t left him feeling quite so downhearted. Ringo had padded across the corner of two of them and, to be honest, the blurry doggy footprints only added to their charm. Johnny laughed as he lifted and stacked them against the wall.
Today’s task was more important. Liverpool was famous the world over for having two great football teams – Liverpool and the Liverpool reserves. He’d been a lifelong fan like his father before him. He put the radio on so that he could tune into the Liverpool game, but he knew that his mind was only half on it.
Outside, the van he’d bought dirt cheap was waiting. When he’d cleared a space in the middle of the floor, he drove it inside. It was a small Ford van, ancient, and every panel looked like it had been customised with a hammer. He’d got it off a bloke who knew a bloke. The engine rattled a bit and there was more smoke than you’d ideally want puffing out of the exhaust, but it ran reasonably well. Seemed like a good buy at the time. Now he had it inside his workshop, he wasn’t quite so sure. This was going to take some serious paint job to make it look good. Still, the sooner he got started, the sooner he’d be finished.
He’d borrowed a compressor and an airbrush from a mate who worked in a place that did these flash designs on motorbikes – Harley Davidsons and the like. He’d got to work quick as the fella wanted his stuff back for Monday morning before his boss realised that his precious equipment was missing. For a six-pack of Stella, his mate had also supplied the necessary paint. With a promise to redecorate his living room to return the favour, the guy was also going to make sure that his design was lacquered and finished in the right way – after hours, of course.
Johnny picked up the brush. It was years since he’d done this kind of thing and then it was only a fleeting interest. He hoped that he hadn’t lost his touch and what little technique he’d acquired. Flicking open the art books he’d borrowed from the library, Johnny rubbed his chin as he browsed through them until he found what he wanted. Putting the book in a plastic bag so that it didn’t get dirty or splashed with paint, he smoothed it down and laid it out on the nearby work bench. Then he cranked up the radio, listened in dismay as Liverpool went down to Chelsea, one–nil, and got on with his work.
Chapter Forty-Eight
At eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, the doorbell rings. I’m still in my dressing-gown and have a hedge where my hair used to be. I had a late night with Debs and a bottle of cheap wine or two. We put the world to rights, but it took a long time and plenty of drink. Plodding to the door, I wince as it creaks open.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ Johnny says without preamble. There’s an excited glint in my ex-lover’s eyes.
‘What?’
He tugs at my hand.
‘What? What?’ I pull back. ‘I can’t come out like this.’
‘You look fabulous,’ he says, giving me a cursory glance. I’m sure he actually winces at my hair, but nevertheless he yanks me out of the door. Then he stops. ‘Get Charlie too.’
‘Charlie,’ I shout over my shoulder. ‘Johnny’s here. He’s gone mad.’
My son sticks his head out of his bedroom door and his trademark grin is in place. ‘Hiya, Johnny.’ If only his face lit up like that when he saw Spencer.
‘Come on, lad,’ Johnny urges. ‘Let’s get this
old mum of yours moving. I’ve something I want you both to see.’
So Johnny pulls and Charlie pushes my bottom and they get me out of the flat and to the stairs.
‘I haven’t even got any slippers on,’ I mutter. ‘I’ll catch my death of cold. I’ll get splinters in my feet. Look at the state of my hair.’
I look behind me and Johnny and Charlie are making comedy ‘yack, yack’ movements with their hands.
‘Very funny,’ I say. ‘This better be worth it.’
We make it down the ten flights of stairs, me stomping and with them giggling like a pair of loonies at my back.
I’m pleased to say that at eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning there are precious few people lurking outside Shankly House.
‘What do you think?’ Johnny says.
And, to be honest, it takes me a minute to get my breath. Not because I’m knackered at having come down ten flights – that’s a piece of cake these days – but because of the sight before me.
‘Ohmigod,’ I say. ‘Ohmigod!’
‘Is that ohmigod good? Or ohmigod bad?’ Johnny, watching anxiously, wants to know.
Charlie has raced ahead of me and is now also standing agog, bereft of speech. And it takes a lot to stop Charlie talking.
There’s a van parked at the end of the path and it’s amazing. It’s got the most incredible mural all over it. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘The Sistine Chapel,’ Johnny supplies. ‘Well, part of it.’
Quite a large part.
‘That’s God’s creation of Adam.’ He points to a bunch of angels fronted by a big guy with a flowing white beard who’s touching fingers with a reclining, blond-haired Adonis with an incredible six-pack. Adam, I presume. Then Johnny shuffles a bit self-consciously. ‘The other side’s got the creation of the sun and moon on it.’
I’m still struggling to take this in. ‘When did you do this?’
‘Yesterday,’ he says. ‘And during the night. I’ve not long finished, in fact. Actually, there are still some bits to do.’
‘I’m stunned,’ I say, as I start to circle the van to view it from every angle. Not an inch of its surface has escaped Johnny’s airbrush. It’s all covered in the most astonishing, brightly coloured paintwork.
‘This is the best bit,’ Johnny says. ‘This is what I want you to see.’
He takes my hand and guides me to the front door of the van. I follow him like a sleepwalker; any minute now I’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.
‘Look.’
My eyes follow his outstretched finger.
On the door, painted in large and beautifully curly script, are the words JOHNNY JONES – PAINTER and, underneath, in much smaller script it says AND DECORATOR.
‘You’re going to be a painter and decorator?’
Johnny nods. ‘My first job is to paint the living room of the fella who loaned me all the stuff to do this, but I thought I’d give it a go.’
For some reason, tears come to my eyes. ‘This is fantastic news. You can start a portfolio. With the mural you’ve done at Ronaldo’s dance studio and the Community Centre, when that’s done—’
‘I wasn’t thinking of doing this kind of stuff,’ Johnny says with a frown. ‘Who round here would want that kind of thing?’
‘Durr,’ I say. ‘Ronaldo’s studio, the Community Centre.’
‘Yeah, but who wants to pay for that kind of thing? No one round here has the money.’
‘No one in Shankly House, perhaps.’ Although I’m sure Mrs Kapur would definitely have God’s Creation of Adam on her kitchen ceiling if she had the spare cash. ‘But businesses, bars, hotels would go mad for it. They love this sort of stuff. The other night I went to a swanky bar with—’ then I realise what I’m about to say and falter slightly ‘a mate.’
My friend’s expression darkens.
‘It used to be a Catholic church. Now it’s got this kind of mural all over the walls,’ I bluster on. ‘We’ll have to go there so you can see it.’
Johnny shakes his head. ‘This van is just my gimmick. I have no illusions that I’m going to be able to make a living out of my art. I’ll be slapping on the Dulux Brilliant White and a coat or two of magnolia and hoping to pay the bills.’
‘Johnny,’ I say, an exasperated tone creeping into my voice, ‘this is a real talent. I never really appreciated it before, but you could definitely make a go of this.’
He looks at me uncertainly. Have I spent so long pouring cold water on Johnny’s aspirations to be an artist that he now can’t see just how good he is? ‘At least try,’ I add. ‘For me. For yourself. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
‘Whatever I do it isn’t good enough for you,’ Johnny replies tightly. His ready smile disappears; the excitement in his eyes dulls. ‘I’m not working because I want to look after my mam – and that’s not right for you. You reckon I should be doing something more. Then when I decide that you’ve got a point, I have been coasting all these years, and set myself up with a little business, that’s not good enough either.’
‘It isn’t that it’s not good enough, it’s just that I can see your true potential.’
‘Oh, suddenly you’re an art expert too,’ Johnny snaps and I’m taken aback as he’s never spoken to me like that before. ‘I can’t just do this for a bit of cash, I’ve got to be the next Picasso. Well, let me tell you, Sally, some of us are happy with who we are. We don’t need big cars and trips to fancy bars to define ourselves. We don’t constantly need to prove that we’re better than everyone else. Some of us like ourselves just as we are!’
Then he stomps off, gets in his fabulously decorated van and screeches off.
I turn round, open-mouthed, and Charlie is standing next to me kicking at the kerb.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask.
‘Why can’t you just like Johnny?’ Charlie says and there’s a crack in his voice. ‘His van’s great. Why couldn’t you just tell him that? Why do you always have to upset him?’
Then my son stomps off too, leaving me standing in my dressing-gown on the pavement wondering exactly what it was I said.
Chapter Forty-Nine
I’m at the computer in my living room. Ostensibly, I’m downloading garden-design plans from the internet to give me some idea of how we can brighten up the neglected areas on our estate with our influx of cash from the Government. My computer tutor is here and, also ostensibly, he’s supposed to be helping me. There are some great things on the internet but, at the moment, they’re failing to hold my interest. Currently, Spencer’s behind me stroking my back and kissing my neck while I try to remember what I’m meant to do with Acrobat Reader. I’m a bit of a lost cause.
‘We could do this later,’ Spencer murmurs in my ear as his hands slide over my shoulders and down to my breast.
‘We could,’ I breathe.
Frankly, I’ve no idea why we’re on the computer when we have the place to ourselves for a few hours – except that I want to get the proposal in for the estate renovation really quickly, so that we can get our hands on the cash as soon as possible. Having drummed up some enthusiasm among the residents, I don’t want it to wane due to unnecessary delays. One of which would be me snogging my boyfriend senseless instead of doing this.
I haven’t seen my new love since his weekend away – socially, at least – and I feel we have a lot of catching up to do. The funny thing is that I don’t really want to ask him what he did at the weekend. A certain amount of ignorance is bliss. I wouldn’t want him telling me about all the attractive, single women who were there too.
Then I hear Charlie’s key in the door. I’d given him a late pass to stay round at Kyle’s until nine o’clock. But now it’s barely eight and he’s back. ‘Hiya, Mum,’ he shouts out as he comes in. Then, when he’s in the living room and sees Spencer, he pulls up short and huffs, ‘Not you again.’
‘Charlie,’ I snap. ‘Don’t be so rude. Spencer’s here to help me with the plans for the e
state.’
‘Sorry,’ Charlie mutters as if he’s not sorry at all.
‘I thought you were staying round at Kyle’s until nine?’
‘I came home early.’
‘That’s a first.’
‘I’ll go to my room.’ Charlie turns on his heels.
‘Don’t do that,’ I say. ‘Come and help us. You can tell us what you’d like to see on the estate.’
‘I don’t care,’ my son tells me.
‘Then I hope that not everyone feels like you.’
With that he walks out and slams his bedroom door behind him. Hmm. Handled that well, Super Sal.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say to Spencer. ‘He’s not normally like that.’ But then, I have to admit, when Spencer’s around, he is.
‘Not to worry.’ He gives me a squeeze. But I can tell that the mood’s been broken. ‘Can’t you come back to my place tonight? Perhaps Mrs Kapur would stay here. I’ve got a hot tub and champagne that are both at exactly the right temperature.’
My heart is urging me to say yes.
Then the doorbell rings again. ‘Bloody hell,’ I moan. ‘It’s busier than the M6 in here. Can’t we get a minute’s peace?’
Johnny’s at the door. ‘Hate to be the harbinger of doom, but there’s a Porsche with its tyres slashed outside. I thought it must be Spencer’s.’
‘Oh, no,’ I hear my boyfriend groan from behind me.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Johnny offers.
‘I’ll go down and look,’ Spencer says, picking up his car keys.
‘Did you see who did it?’ I want to know.
All You Need is Love Page 16