by Linda Green
Dad looks at me, frowning.
‘Who?’
‘The sheep apron lady. The one who looked after me until you got there.’
Dad’s frown clears as he realises who I mean.
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Can we ask her round for tea? She gave you her number in case she could help in any way.’
Dad thinks for a moment. Normally he would say no. But nothing’s normal any more. We both know that.
‘Let me ask her and see what she says,’ he says.
AFTER 2
2
Kaz
The noise of someone shouting in the room next door wakes me up. I’m used to having neighbours in the flat above and next to the kitchen but not used to being surrounded by noise twenty-four hours a day in a hostel.
Still, beggars can’t be choosers and as it was either this or roughing it in a shop doorway, I suppose I should consider myself lucky. And it could have been a whole lot worse, too. I haven’t forgotten that. How can I, when I look in the bathroom mirror every morning? The shame doesn’t wash off, it still stares straight back at me. I’ve told no one, of course. Certainly not Terry. But it’s enough that I know.
At least I managed to get some sleep last night. The recurring nightmare I have had since childhood has receded in recent weeks, to be replaced by a new one, with new faces and new horrors. A new scream at the end. But last night it didn’t visit me, although I am not naïve enough to think that it won’t be back.
I get up and squeeze past Terry’s TV and video player and his boxes of videos to get to the window to open the flimsy curtains. My neighbour Mark was good enough to bring them here in his van, along with my clothes. The other bits and bobs got shared out among my neighbours. Mark took the kettle and toaster to a mate he knew who had just come out of prison and was setting up in his own flat. I feel a bit like one of those organ donors who may have lost their life but at least were able to help other people to have a better one. Not that it will be much consolation when Terry is well enough to leave hospital and finds that he hasn’t got a home to go to.
I haven’t told him yet. How could I? It will only worry him at a time when he’s got enough on his plate. What I need to do is concentrate on getting myself a job so we can get somewhere of our own to live again. Not that I’m any nearer to doing that than I was four weeks ago.
I haven’t heard a dickie bird from any of the cafés I’ve been to. The Post-it notes with my number on have probably fallen off the fridges by now anyway. They weren’t proper Post-its, only cheap copies from the market. And as I haven’t had a sniff at an interview, Denise from the job centre is sending me on a ‘work-ready’ training course today. Because someone who has grafted every day of her life since she was sixteen, before losing her job a month ago, clearly hasn’t got a fucking clue what work is.
I pull my dressing gown on, pick up my shower gel and shampoo and head across the corridor to the bathroom. The door is locked. I can hear someone singing in the shower. It’s the one thing I can’t get used to, not having my own bathroom. I go back to my room and sit on the bed. At least Terry has his own bathroom and gets fed where he is. I never thought I’d be grateful that he’d be in a psychiatric unit again, but then I never thought I’d be in a mess like this.
Ten minutes pass. I sit there looking at my watch, listening for the sound of the bathroom door opening. I think about the boy, Finn. Not a day has gone past since when I haven’t. Nor a night either. I think of Terry at the same age, of everything he had to deal with, and I worry that Finn could struggle to cope, just like he did. Most of all, I hope he is being loved and cared for by his father. That he has someone fighting his corner. Because he will need it, I know that much.
By the time the bathroom door finally opens, I haven’t got time for a shower, just to wash my face, brush my teeth and throw on some clothes.
The bus into town is late as well. A good fifteen minutes. I know I’ll be cutting it fine, now. The last thing I need is to get a bollocking for being late from some kid in their twenties. The bus is packed and hot. We’re all so used to the heat now that no one even talks about it any more. Apart from the occasional person who says something about their garden needing a bit of rain.
With two stops to go, the traffic is so bad I decide to get off early and walk. It’s going to be a complete waste of time. I told Denise that last week and she trotted out the usual crap about me being sanctioned if I refuse to go on a course. Which is a bloody cheek when I’m still being sanctioned for having been sacked, but there you go. At this rate, I won’t get my full benefits till Christmas.
I arrive five minutes late and have to press a buzzer and wait for someone to let me in. She looks pissed off when she opens the door.
‘Hello, you must be Karen,’ she says, smiling but clearly not meaning it. ‘I’m Billie-Jo.’ She holds out her hand. I shake it, deciding against asking if I’ve come to a country and western party by mistake. She doesn’t look like the sort who would appreciate my humour.
‘We have just started, and I would remind you how important it is to ensure you are punctual for all training courses and work programmes in future.’ Billie-Jo is smiling as she says it. I think I’d rather have got a bollocking.
I follow her into a room where a dozen other people are sitting at desks with computers on. They all look at least twenty years younger than me. Billie-Jo stands in front of a big screen with a pointer thing in her hand.
‘Right, Karen, if you could take a seat at the spare screen there, please,’ she says, indicating with the pointer to a desk at the back. ‘We haven’t got time to do the icebreaker again but if you could just tell everyone who you are?’
‘Morning all, I’m your Grandma Kaz,’ I say. A couple of the others smile half-heartedly. Most simply carry on staring at their screens. Billie-Jo does a false laugh.
‘Great. Let’s get back to where we were then. I was talking about the importance of creating a strong first impression and how crucial your CV is in that. Today we’re going to get your CVs up to date and ensure that you’re all workplace-ready!’
She raises her left arm with a clenched fist as she says the last bit. Everybody else continues staring at their screens. It’s going to be a long morning.
Half an hour later, Billie-Jo is standing next to me, looking at my blank screen.
‘How are we getting on, Karen?’ she asks.
‘Haven’t got a clue, Billie-Jo,’ I reply. ‘Never been on a computer before.’
Billie-Jo laughs, looks at me, realises I am not joking and appears horrified.
‘Oh, right,’ she says. ‘Do you need any support to use a keyboard?’
‘No, pet. There’s nowt wrong with me. Just can’t afford a computer and have never needed a CV to work in a café. As long as you can make a good builder’s brew and a mean bacon butty, you’re considered qualified.’
‘I see,’ she replies. She will tell her colleagues about me later, I am sure of it. If I had any colleagues, I would tell them about Billie-Jo too.
‘Well, let’s get you logged in and we can get you started,’ she says, pressing a few buttons. ‘You can start by listing your qualifications.’
‘I’ve only got one O level,’ I say. ‘But it were an A I got in Art, so maybe we could put that in big letters. Or I could do some drawings on it, brighten it up a bit. I’m good at art, see. Art and making bacon butties.’
Billy-Jo gives me a very weak smile that she has probably been on a training course to work on.
*
Later that afternoon I come out with a dozen copies of a one-page CV, which Billie-Jo has emailed to Denise, as she couldn’t email it to me. There’s nothing important on it that you couldn’t have fitted on a Post-it note, to be honest, but if it gets Denise off my back for a bit, it will be worth it.
There’s no time for me
to take the CVs in anywhere now though, because I want to get to the unit before teatime to see Terry. I walk across town. If I’m not careful, I’ll get fit at this rate, all the walking back and forth I’m doing. I must have lost quite a few pounds with all the meals I’ve been missing over the past month too. They should do a programme about it on Channel Four: The ‘Sanctions Diet’, they could call it. I should get in quick before some stick-thin celebrity comes up with it and tries to make out that living on hardship payments is in any way glamorous.
The nurse on the front desk smiles at me when I arrive. They all know me now, which at least means I haven’t got to explain that I’m Terry’s sister, not his wife, for the hundredth time.
‘I think he’s having a nap,’ she says.
I nod. Terry is always having a nap these days. He could nap for bloody England. It’s his meds. They always do this to him. That’s why he doesn’t like taking them.
I walk down the corridor to Nightingale ward. I know the way to his room now with my eyes shut. I don’t like it, though. The fact that it has become so familiar. Terry shouldn’t be here, he should be at home with me. If I still had a home, that is.
Terry is still asleep when I go in. He has at least got dressed today, or someone has dressed him, more like. If it was up to him, he’d probably stay in his T-shirt and boxers all the time.
I sit down on the chair next to the bed. He’s put on a lot of weight since they started him on the antipsychotics. That’s another thing he doesn’t like about taking them. Not that it’s a problem – there was nothing of him to start with – but it’s still weird seeing him like this. He doesn’t look like our Terry, my kid brother. Mam used to call him the runt of the litter. That was on her good days, when she was able to call him anything.
I haven’t had the heart to tell him that the Department of Work and Pensions have reconsidered the decision that he was fit for work and found it was right. Bloody bastards. Still, no point in upsetting him over it. They said we could appeal to a tribunal, so I’ve sent off the form for that. They’ll only find against him as well, but I’ve got to keep fighting for Terry. I’m the only one on his side.
After about ten minutes of shuffling around and doing little coughs, I decide to wake him up. It’s not like he needs the sleep and they’ll be waking him for his tea in an hour, so he may as well at least see me while I’m here.
I go over and shake his arm gently. ‘Afternoon, our Terry,’ I say. He stirs and opens his eyes. It seems to take a while for them to focus on me and for his brain to send the correct message about who I am.
‘All right, Kaz,’ he says, sleepily.
He doesn’t try to sit up or even to say anything more. It’s as if he’d be quite content just to lie there like the Queen of bloody Sheba.
‘Let’s get you up, then,’ I say. ‘Come and sit in chair for a bit. Just till it’s teatime.’
He shrugs. I take it as a yes, because that’s the most I can get out of him at the moment. I take his arm and help him up, even though there’s nothing physically wrong with him. He’s like an overgrown teenager who can’t be arsed to move. I have to keep telling myself that it’s not his fault, in order to stop myself from giving him a bollocking.
He sits down heavily in the chair. Scratches his head and stares blankly at me.
‘What did you have for lunch?’ I ask.
‘Sandwich,’ he replies.
‘I’ve been on a course today,’ I tell him. ‘Some girl in her twenties trying to tell me how to use a computer so I can get a job.’
Terry goes back to staring.
‘Printed me out a fancy CV, she did. Reckons that will get me a job. I bet she’s never been out of work in her life.’
Terry stares at me some more and yawns. I sigh and look out of the window. I know it’s wrong but right now I wish he’d ask for his torch or start hunting for rats. Because as much as Terry was a pain in the arse when he was psychotic, he did at least seem more alive than this version.
*
It’s just gone eight that evening when my mobile rings. My first thought is that something has happened to Terry.
‘Hello, is that Karen Allen?’ a man’s voice asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Is it about our Terry?’
‘Er, no. It’s Martin Carter. I’m not sure if you’ll remember me. I’m Finn’s dad. You know, the boy from—’
‘Of course, I remember,’ I say. ‘I’ve been thinking about him a lot. Is he OK?’
‘Yeah,’ says Martin. ‘Well, you know. Still finding things tough. He asked after you, actually. That’s why I’m ringing. He’d like to see you. He wondered if you might like to come to ours for tea.’
I wasn’t expecting that at all. I don’t know what to say.
‘Are you sure? I meant it when I said to call me if I could help with owt, but I wouldn’t want to come if it’ll upset him, seeing me again.’
‘That’s OK,’ says Martin. ‘I was concerned about that too and I’ve explained to him that you won’t be able to talk about what happened but he’s adamant that he’d like to see you. Of course, I completely understand if you’d rather not meet up. Please don’t feel at all obliged.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’d like to. I really would. Tell him I’ll come. It’s right nice of him to ask.’
‘Thank you. That’s great. How about Saturday at five? Unless you’re busy that is?’
I try not to laugh down the phone.
‘Saturday would be fine. Where are you?’
‘Not far from Manor Heath Park. I’ll text you our address. Will you be coming by car?’
‘No. Bus.’
‘Oh, we can come and pick you up. It would be no trouble.’
‘No, thanks,’ I say quickly, realising I do not want the lad to see where I live. ‘I’ll make me own way.’
‘OK, if you’re sure. Thanks very much. Finn will be so glad you can come. We’ll see you then. Any problems, just give me a call.’
I say goodbye and put down the phone. It’s only then I realise that my hand is shaking.
BEFORE 3
3
Finn
They are still laughing at lunchtime and making fanny jokes. They will probably make fanny jokes for the rest of year six. If I wasn’t going to a secondary school that none of them are going to, they would be making fanny jokes for years. When we were in reception and the teacher asked us to get undressed for PE for the first time, Lewis B took off his pants and everyone still goes on about that, even now.
‘Just ignore them,’ says Lottie. ‘They’re all idiots.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. She’s right but it doesn’t make it any easier. Lottie’s great but she doesn’t really understand because no one laughs at her or calls her names, not since year five when Jayden said she looked like a boy and she kneed him in the balls.
At that moment, Riley comes up and shouts, ‘Fanny face’ at me before running away.
‘Do you want me to do him?’ she asks.
‘No thanks, you’ll only get into trouble.’
‘Well, you should tell someone, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’
‘Yeah but if I do, he’ll call me a grass and probably thump me and there’s only the dinner lady around and I’ve told her about things before and all she says is not to tell tales.’
‘So, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Mum says if I ignore them, they might stop.’
Lottie nods although we both know that I have been ignoring them for nearly seven years now and it is showing no sign of stopping.
‘Dad says it will be better at my next school,’ I add.
‘What, because they’re posh?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Posh people do mean things too.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yeah. My mum said David Cameron who used to be Prime Minister was posh and he did really mean things.’
‘Oh well,’ I say with a shrug. ‘At least he won’t be going to my new school.’
*
I survive until the end of the day. I always feel a bit like that by Friday afternoon, that I should get a badge, or at least a certificate, for having survived the week.
Before we go, Mrs Kerrigan says she is going to have a chat with us about our SATs. She says that with only a week to go before they start, we need to do some revision over the weekend but make time to ‘have fun too’. I wonder if Mum has talked to her about this or maybe given her one of our apricot, orange and bran muffins to show her what ‘fun’ tastes like.
‘And next week,’ she continues, ‘we’re going to have a special breakfast club for year six where you get to come in early and have toast and juice while we all do some revision together. There’s a letter in your book bags explaining all about it.’
She says it like it’s an exciting adventure and we should all be pleased. I look around the classroom. Only Caitlin Gilbody looks pleased and that’s probably because she doesn’t get any breakfast at home and is always saying she’s starving. I’m definitely not pleased because I don’t want to be at school one second longer than I have to be.
I put up my hand. ‘Do we have to come to the breakfast club, Miss?’ I ask.
Mrs Kerrigan, who hasn’t stopped smiling the whole time, turns her smile up a little bit higher.
‘Well, you’re all invited, and we really wouldn’t want any of you to miss out, as it’s such an important time for you.’
I look at Lottie. ‘That means yes,’ she whispers. I nod. I know Mum won’t want me to go but that means she will come into school and there will be a ‘big scene’ and I don’t like ‘big scenes’ and there are enough of them at home and I wish it would all go away. I feel the tears gathering and trying to force their way out and I try to think about the time I met Alan Titchmarsh at Tong Garden Centre, to make them stop.
The bell rings and everybody puts their stuff away. Lottie looks at me and shakes her head.