I buy Charlie an ice cream from a nearby cart because he’s still hungry. The chickpea burger didn’t really do it for him. Then we dangle our legs over the wall, letting them hang high above the water. There’s a floating sculpture in the slate-grey water. It looks like an over-sized chandelier, and a million rainbow-coloured sparkles glitter on its surface. It’s absolutely stunning. Maybe this appreciation of art isn’t entirely wasted on me.
‘What do you think of that?’ I ask, pointing at it.
‘Sound,’ Charlie says, but he’s too busy making his own sculpture with his ice cream using his tongue to take any real notice.
‘We can get back in time for your football practice if you want to.’
‘Johnny texted me to say that it had been cancelled. Not enough people could go.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘That’s a shame. Want to do something together? Just the two of us for a change?’
Charlie shrugs, but it’s an ‘okay’ shrug not a ‘get lost’ shrug. I thought it was only when you became a teenager that you carried on all your conversations with your shoulders. He’s supposed to be three years away from that yet.
I stroke my son’s hair. ‘I’m sorry that it wasn’t much fun for you with Spencer this morning.’
More shrugging.
‘He’s really a nice guy. I wish that you could like him.’
Charlie pulls a face. ‘He doesn’t like me.’
‘He does,’ I assure him. ‘He loves you. It’s just that he doesn’t get kids. Give him time.’
We sit and watch the sculpture turn gently in the breeze. The glass droplets tinkle musically.
‘Did you really think that Johnny’s paintings are better than those in there?’ My son flicks a thumb back towards the Tate Gallery.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I did.’
‘What about the one that’s outside the flats?’ Charlie keeps staring straight ahead.
Ah, so my son – who never notices anything – has noticed Johnny’s declaration of love. Would be hard to miss it, seeing as it’s ten feet high and the same wide.
‘Johnny did that, didn’t he?’
‘He did,’ I confirm. ‘And I like it very much.’
‘I do too,’ Charlie says.
Then, to change the subject, I make a suggestion. ‘What about we go on the Magical Mystery Tour this afternoon? See where the Beatles came from?’ Like all good Liverpudlian kids, he’s been brought up on a diet of the Fab Four.
‘Okay.’
So I blow a considerable part of our weekly allowance on two tickets for the tour. We’re just in time to see the rickety 1970s coach painted in psychedelic colours coming round the corner, MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR painted on the side in yellow and blue.
We jump on board, bagging the front seats even though we were probably the last to pay up. Tourists from all over the world troop on behind us – Beatles fans from Japan, Australia, Germany and goodness knows where else.
Singing along to Beatles songs at the top of our voices, we set off, heading out of the city, taking in the sights of Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane, all the local places made famous by the records.
We make stops to visit the homes of George, John, Paul and Ringo. All small, unassuming homes. Ringo’s former house, a two-up, two-down terraced place is in the Dingle – another area designated as a Priority Neighbourhood, prime for redevelopment. In the Dingle’s case this seems to involve knocking most of it down and starting again rather than planting a few flowers and giving it a lick of paint.
We get off the coach and follow our guide to the house. Charlie and I stand outside and look at the faded net curtains, the tiny front door, the grime-blackened brickwork.
‘They were people just like us,’ my son says in wonder. ‘They all lived in little houses – and look what they did.’
‘They took on the world. And they won.’ I hug my boy to me, fiercely. ‘So will we. We’ll do great things. We’re not going to spend the rest of our lives in Bill Shankly House, Charlie,’ I say to him. ‘I promise you that.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘It’s not going well,’ Charlie said.
They were both sitting in Kyle’s bedroom. The window was open and Kyle dragged deeply on the cigarette; he passed it to Charlie who did the same. Simultaneously, they then wafted the smoke out of the window with frantic waves.
‘I had to go to an art gallery with them on Saturday.’
Kyle pulled a suitably appalled face.
‘What can I do?’
‘Child from Hell,’ Kyle reminded him.
‘I can’t,’ Charlie told his friend. ‘Mum’d kill me. And she really likes him.’ The thought made him take another worried drag on the cigarette. ‘We have to find a way to make her like Johnny more.’ He passed the cancer stick to his friend. ‘He painted a great picture on the wall outside our flats telling her that he loved her.’
Kyle stuck his finger in his mouth and feigned vomiting.
‘I know,’ Charlie agreed. ‘It’s a bit soppy, but grown-ups can’t help it. Even that didn’t work. I thought it might.’
‘Johnny does paintings?’
‘Yeah. He’s got a lock-up over the other side of the estate. He’s really good.’
‘Can we go and look at them?’
The boy shook his head. ‘I haven’t got a key.’
‘Since when did that matter?’
Kyle leaned out of the window and stubbed out the cigarette on the brickwork. Then he wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper that he’d purloined earlier for the purpose. The mummified butt then went into his pocket so that any incriminating evidence could be disposed of well away from the house.
‘Come on. Let’s go and look in the shed.’ Both boys jumped down off the bed and Charlie trooped after his friend, down the stairs, through the kitchen and down the worn scrap of grass that constituted the Crossman family’s back garden.
In the long-neglected shed, Kyle rooted through a motley assortment of rusted tools. ‘These all belonged to my real dad,’ he told Charlie as he passed one then the other to his friend for him to examine. ‘My current dad’s a useless fucker when it comes to DIY. That’s what my mum says, anyway.’
Charlie brushed away cobwebs as he tried to peer over his friend’s shoulder into the treasure trove. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘These,’ Kyle said and produced, with a theatrical flourish, a large pair of bolt cutters.
‘What are we going to do with those?’
‘Get into Johnny’s garage.’ His friend handed them over. ‘Put them up your T-shirt.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t want to be seen with them, knobhead.’
Charlie put the bolt cutters up his T-shirt. They were dirty and the metal was cold against his skin and he knew why Kyle didn’t want to put them up his own T-shirt.
‘Bring a screwdriver too,’ Kyle said and, pre-empting Charlie’s next question, added, ‘In case we need one.’
A screwdriver joined the bolt cutters and the pair made their way out of the shed and back down the garden, carefully avoiding being seen from the kitchen window as Kyle’s mum was in there having a cup of tea with one of her mates before they went to Bingo.
‘What are we going to do when we get to Johnny’s garage?’
Kyle looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Break in.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ve nothing else to do, have we?’
Charlie couldn’t really argue with that.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The postman comes and I hear a few bits fall onto the mat. The deliveries are getting later and later everyday. Not that it bothers me. All I ever get is bills and I’m certainly in no hurry for those.
I go out to the hall and retrieve the post. Today there’s a letter from the Council and I tear it open. Inside, there’s a cheque for ten thousand pounds and it takes me a minute to absorb the fact. Ten grand. I blink at the amount of noughts. I’ve never seen a cheque for ten g
rand before. I’ve had to set up a separate bank account for the fund, and Johnny and I are joint signatories. I guess it’s an attempt to stop you defrauding the Council, but frankly I’d consider running away with Johnny for this amount of money.
A thrill runs through me. I’ve done it. I’ve got the money. I have to tell Johnny. Shrugging on my jacket, I grab the cheque and race out of the house. Minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of his mam’s house, excitement bubbling inside me, but I can tell from the amount of time it takes for the door to be opened that Johnny’s not at home.
Puffing and panting, leaning heavily on her walking stick, Mary Jones hobbles to the door. ‘Hiya, our Sally,’ she says, as she tries to catch her breath.
‘Sorry to drag you to the door, Mary,’ I apologise.
‘Don’t worry, love. That’s my exercise for the day sorted.’
The sad thing is that it’s probably true. ‘I take it Johnny’s not here?’
‘Got his first job,’ she says proudly. ‘He’s over at that Les Flynn’s, painting his living room.’
‘I’ve got some good news.’
‘The only good news I want to hear is that you and our Johnny Boy are back together.’
‘It’s about the money for the regeneration project.’
‘Then that’s nearly as good,’ she concedes. ‘Go round there and tell him. You know where Les lives.’
‘Yeah. Want me to make you a cuppa while I’m here?’
‘Nah, doll. Just had one. Thanks all the same.’
So I take off again, wings on my feet, while I think of Mary painfully shuffling her way back to her chair for the rest of the afternoon.
When I get to Les’s road, I see Johnny’s van parked in the street and he’s just coming out of the door heading towards it. His hair’s standing on end and he’s got magnolia highlights. ‘Johnny!’ I shout, and break into a run to cover the last few metres.
That stops him in his tracks. ‘What?’ He looks worried.
‘The money came through,’ I yell joyfully, as I throw myself into his arms.
He lets out a triumphant whoop too. Then he spins me round and round while I shriek with glee. When he puts me down, we hug each other tightly and then break away self-consciously.
‘That’s great,’ Johnny says. ‘Just great.’ He shakes his head in bewilderment. ‘You did it.’
‘I know, I know.’ I sit on the pavement before my legs give way beneath me. ‘I can hardly believe it.’
Johnny sits down next to me. ‘Now the hard work starts.’
‘It’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘You’ll see, we’ll get them all going.’
My ex laughs at that. ‘You will!’
‘I couldn’t do this without you, Johnny. I’d be terrified.’
‘I’m very good at hand-holding.’ He takes my hand and I let him. ‘Friends?’
I nod. ‘Friends.’
‘I’m just finishing up here.’ He flicks a glance back at the flats behind him. ‘Then I’ll come round and paint that bit of nonsense off the wall opposite your place.’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ I tell him. ‘It’s very flattering. I love it.’
‘Makes me look stupid,’ he points out.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not stupid. Just very caring. Besides, it’s a great mural. Seems a shame . . .’ But I can’t be selfish. If I don’t want Johnny then I can’t force him to leave it there for all the world to gawp at. Not sure that Spencer would be too enamoured either.
‘Maybe I’ll just come and paint the name out,’ he proffers. ‘Then people will know that there’s a vacancy in the love-life of Johnny Jones.’
‘I’ll leave it to you, Johnny. You decide.’ Then I notice the time. ‘I’d better get back,’ I say. ‘Charlie’s due home soon. There’s been some sort of teacher training day at school so it’s shut. He’s playing round at Kyle’s.’
My good friend frowns at me. ‘He’s spending a lot of time with Kyle. I know it’s none of my business, but that lad’s not a great role model.’
I shrug. ‘He doesn’t seem too bad, despite his reputation. Perhaps he’s just another misunderstood kid with too little love meted out to him. They have been spending more time together and it doesn’t seem to have had a detrimental effect on Charlie’s behaviour. I’m keeping my eye on it though.’ The minute it does, I’ll be clamping down on the time he spends round there, that’s for sure.
‘Good,’ Johnny says. ‘I knew you would be.’
I give him a wave. ‘Catch you later.’
‘Sally,’ Johnny shouts after me. ‘What did Spencer say about the money?’
‘Haven’t told him yet,’ I confess at the top of my voice. ‘I came straight round here.’
And, for some reason, that makes Johnny smile.
Chapter Sixty
‘Keep a lookout,’ Kyle hissed.
‘What for?’
‘Anything.’
Charlie put his hands in his pockets and whistled nonchalantly as he paced up and down behind Kyle. The bolt cutters bit effortlessly through the flimsy padlock on Johnny’s garage and, seconds later, the boys were lifting the creaking garage door.
Finding the lights, Charlie flicked them on, flooding the lockup with a harsh glare. They shut the door carefully behind them.
‘It’s a bit of a dump in here,’ his friend noted.
‘I think it needs to be like that if you’re a painter,’ Charlie assured him with more enthusiasm than certainty.
It might be a dump, but there was something nice about the garage. He liked coming here. He liked the way it smelled, all sort of funny and musty. He liked all the stuff that was lying around – the paints, the brushes, the tools. It was better when Johnny was here too though. He wasn’t sure why they’d had to break in. Johnny wouldn’t have minded Kyle coming here with him, Charlie was sure of that. Johnny enjoyed having kids around. Not like that Spencer.
‘Hmm,’ Kyle snorted, casting his eyes around the place. ‘So these are Johnny’s paintings?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said. There was a big one hanging from the rafters. It was a woman’s face and it looked a bit like his mum, but it was just made up of lines so Charlie couldn’t be sure.
‘Hmm,’ his friend said again, while he massaged his chin just like Spencer had done at the art gallery. Charlie decided to do the same to see if it made the paintings look better. It didn’t.
Another ‘hmm’ from Kyle.
Charlie didn’t know why, but it suddenly seemed terribly important that Kyle should like them. ‘These are some of his best,’ Charlie told his friend. He went to where the canvases were stacked up against the wall. ‘What do you think?’
Kyle flicked through them. ‘Hmm.’
‘Say something else except “hmm”!’
‘You reckon these are better than the ones in the art gallery?’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie said earnestly. ‘Much better.’
‘Does he ever sell any of them?’
‘Nah.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘I keep telling him he should, but he never gets round to it.’
‘Perhaps we could give him a little bit of help.’
‘How?’
‘Let’s take them down there. To the gallery,’ Kyle said. ‘See what they think.’
‘Why?’
‘They might pay us for them.’
‘But how would that help Johnny to get my mum back?’
That one seemed to stump Kyle. He chewed at his lip for a minute before he came up with, ‘Say if we sold one of his paintings to the gallery, we might get fifty quid for it. More.’
Fifty quid. Charlie felt his eyes widen. Could they really get fifty pounds for one of Johnny’s paintings? It seemed like a lot of money.
‘We could keep twenty-five and we could give Johnny twenty-five. He could take your mum out for a nice meal with that. Or buy her some shoes.’
Gosh, that sounded like a great idea. Kyle was brilliant. He was the best friend you could have.
‘We�
��d have to ask Johnny if we could take the paintings,’ Charlie said, scratching at his head.
‘Not necessarily,’ Kyle said mysteriously. ‘It might be better if we just took a couple. Check out the lie of the land.’
‘The lie of the land?’
Kyle gave an exasperated sigh. ‘See if they’re interested.’
‘Oh, right,’ Charlie said. ‘Wouldn’t that be stealing?’
‘No.’ Kyle shook his head vigorously. ‘Johnny’s your friend. He’s like your dad. You can’t steal off your own dad.’
‘But he’s not really my dad.’
‘He’s near enough that it doesn’t matter,’ Kyle pointed out. ‘You said so yourself. And it would be a nice surprise for him.’
That was true. Yet although he didn’t know why, Charlie still didn’t think it was a good idea just to take the paintings.
‘We’d only be borrowing them,’ Kyle continued. ‘If they’re not interested, we could have them back before Johnny noticed.’
That didn’t sound too bad.
‘Would it still be open now?’ Kyle said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s just take a couple each. We can get the bus down there.’
‘I’ve got to be home soon.’
‘Phone your mum and tell her that something important came up.’
‘Like what?’
Kyle rolled his eyes. ‘Make something up, knobhead.’
‘Okay.’
‘Have you got any money for the bus?’
‘I’ve got a bit,’ Charlie said, fiddling with the change in his pocket. ‘But I don’t know how much the bus is.’ Or which one they should get, for that matter. ‘I don’t know if I’m allowed to go into the city on my own.’
‘She’ll never know,’ Kyle reassured him. ‘We’ll be there and back in a flash.’
‘Okay then,’ Charlie agreed. ‘Which ones shall we take?’
‘These three,’ Kyle said. ‘They look like they match. And this one.’
He picked up the Superman painting that Charlie particularly liked. ‘Good choice,’ Charlie said.
‘The Superman looks like Johnny,’ his friend noted.
‘I think it is supposed to be him.’
All You Need is Love Page 19