Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

Several deflated balls, lie discarded in the front garden of my house. An old rusty swing stands haphazardly to one side of the footpath leading to the front door, and there’s fresh glass, shattered upon the parched, neglected lawn. The adjacent window still has brown cardboard plastered over it from a previous breakage.

  I hear the sounds of violence and hatred inside and I swallow a lump the size of my fearful heart. It feels like its swelling and rising up my throat.

  I carefully walk my bicycle to the front door – as quietly as I can - as if my presence alone will act as a catalyst for even more ferocity.

  I blame myself for somehow not being good enough to stop these things happening. I leave my bag and my helmet outside the door. I want to be free of any physical burdens, in case I have to run somewhere and hide quickly with Mother and Buddy.

  In moments like these it feels like every sense is enhanced. As I walk up the path, I notice its cemented bumps and crags. I notice the brown, peeling window ledges. The shards of sound; my families’ hate-spat shouts; each syllable is pronounced. They pierce and arch somewhere close by. I feel their pain, the loss of self-control…the loss of love.

  To sense the vivid clarity of my surroundings must surely be a beautiful thing, but it is not. How I long to march in there and hold my own like some of the teenagers I see on EastEnders. I remind myself I’m not yet technically a teenager, and so I can be excused, but I know timid-little-me will never have the courage to make myself heard. My hand clings to the handle of the door for longer than it should. I twist it and prepare to face the inferno.

  I’m Shelly Clover. I’m part of a dysfunctional family. I’m part of the problem – I will never be part of the solution.

  I’ve just entered the eye of the storm, but I know there are carefully concealed cobras here, coiled and ready to strike. Mother’s face is red and flushed. Elvis sits on the chair next to the table. He’s staring blankly out of one of the few remaining window panes as if he’s been hypnotized. His breathing is rapid and I just know that he’s going to explode again any moment. There’s banging and clattering somewhere upstairs; the footsteps are marked and menacing – full of intent. I know that whenever mum’s partner, Mark, comes downstairs, the fighting will start again.

  Buddy’s cowering in the corner next to the microwave.

  I walk over to him slowly. I really have nowhere else to go as it matters; he’s actually helping me in this situation, giving me a focus. My heart is bleeding for him, but I’m terrified out of my mind that something in my walk, my body language, even the way I breathe, is going to provoke the situation. My presence is unwanted; I am bothersome; I’m just the scratty mongrel that is asking to be kicked. I hold Buddy and feel a pang of guilt that the compassion I have for him is tainted by the sheer relief that I’ve got someone in the room.

  ‘What are you doing over there? Why are you here at all?’ Elvis snarls.

  The footsteps above have moved to the top of the landing. Something comes crashing to the bottom of the stairs followed by footsteps - heavier and getting closer. I squeeze Buddy as gently as I can. He tightens in my arms.

  The door to the kitchen bursts open. I close my eyes, pulling Buddy closer.

  ‘There’s your case. Get out!’

  I hide my head next to Buddy’s. I hear Elvis rise, the table and chairs moving with him or, more likely, he’s pushed them with force and purpose.

  ‘Who are you? You can’t tell me what to do!’

  ‘Stop it, please. Mark, Elvis, please.’ Mother pleads urgently.

  I open my eyes.

  Mark looks at mother. ‘He’s no good here, Christine.’ turning to face Elvis, ‘You worthless piece of -’

  ‘You’re not my father! Don’t think you’ll be around much longer.’

  ‘Elvis, enough!’

  Elvis enough, I agree in my mind.

  ‘It’s true, Chris- tine.’ Mocks my brother vilely, ‘What good has he done for any of us here?’

  Turning back to Mark:

  ‘You’re a loser, a no-life nobody. You’re scum and you know it; you’re pissed and drugged up half the time.’

  And, with directed focus and cool venom:

  ‘You are not wanted by anybody in this home. If you could afford it, you’d only be a lodger.’

  ‘How dare y-‘

  ‘Touched a nerve, have I? Told you something you already know. Despite what you’re thinking, you’re just one of many, Mark. I’ve seen them all come in through that door and leave a few months later. Actually, you’re probably one of the worst. So, take that suitcase yourself and pack the few bits of worthless crap you own and get out!’

  Mark scowls but looks uncertain. I’ve seen this look on the faces of the people I play in chess club, when they surrender a winning position. He rubs the massive thuggish scar on his bald, thuggish head.

  ‘Elvis, you’re just…a boy. You open your big mouth without any thought – look at the trouble you’ve caused today.’

  ‘Trouble! You want trouble? You’re puffing on a large pipe...’

  Elvis’ narrowed eyes dart from mother to me.

  They linger on me.

  ‘Oh. I can bring you trouble.’

  ‘Elvis.’ Mother barks, peering up fleetingly.

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll find out soon.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Mark looks to my mother for some more emotional support but she’s now looking down at the broken laminate flooring: Dejected; defeated and hopeless. He keeps staring at my mother...waiting for support.

  None comes.

  ‘Alright then,’ he sighs almost calmly, ‘I think I’ll make a move. It’s clear that it’s not my place to say anything here.’

  Mark shakes his head and storms straight out of the front door, kicking the empty suitcase as he passes.

  The door slams.

  There’s a moment where nobody speaks and the silent vacuum is uncomfortable in its clarity, a bit like when you prick yourself unwittingly on a bramble bush. It’s like the second before the pain kicks hard – the waiting.

  But, Elvis turns and walks slowly upstairs, a calculating and malevolent sneer on his face. His walk is confident and assured. He looks calm in a way that shouldn’t be normal for a fifteen year old boy. I become conscious of the pulse on Buddy’s forehead as I realise that we’re both embracing, my palm protectively covering his face.

  Mother turns and attempts a smile. It just looks wonky, but it’s a genuine attempt to bring reassurance to me and Buddy.

  ‘Shelly, thanks for coming home.’ Her eyes are teary.

  She’s shaking.

  ‘We’ve all eaten, love...but there’s some dinner in the microwave just for you.’

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this statement; it seems so abstract.

  It’s mum’s way of changing the subject, blacking out what’s just happened – dealing with it. I don’t blame her; she’s got it off to a tee.

  I just nod.

  She smiles at me as warmly as she can. My mother does try, she really does. I wish I could change things for her. I know that I never want her life – as selfish as that sounds - and if I see things going wrong, then I’m going to change them; I’m going to school, I’ll do better than the best I can. I’ll recognise all the influences that stand in my way. All the things that will distress, or knock me on to a dark path; I will not choose them. Any boys or men in the future who would bring me to a place similar to this; I will not entertain them. I won’t do any more drugs, I won’t smoke, I won’t do drink. I won’t…

  Mother walks over to the side board and pulls a tissue out of her handbag.

  I begin to wonder if, once upon a time, a young Christine had these same aspirations. Somehow, as I ponder these thoughts, I know that a young Christine, my mother...my mum, would never have wanted her life to turn out like this. Yet, in my heart I know that life isn’t black and white and c
lear-cut. Surely she had dreams like me, but this world gradually consumed them.

  I realise that I’m having my wistful cemetery thoughts again. I don’t feel hungry at all. I feel wary that Mark’s going to come back, or Elvis will come back downstairs.

  ‘Mum, I’m just going to take Buddy upstairs to bed.’

  I’m shaking.

  Through hurting eyes, my mother stares at me for a moment, fresh tears forming.

  ‘Yes love...you do that.’

  I lead Buddy by the hand. He’s shaking and clinging to me tightly. He stops halfway up the stairs. He’s very afraid of Elvis.

  ‘Scared.’ he mutters.

  ‘Don’t worry – I’ll look after you.’

  ‘Don’t...want to... go.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be right next to you Buddy; you can trust me.’

  His eyes are big and fearful and he looks long and hard into mine for reassurance.

  I smile a sympathetic smile as we enter our room. I play with him for an hour or so and then help him with practicalities like spreading small amounts of toothpaste evenly on his tooth brush, and even tucking him tightly into bed. It’s actually quite early, too early for me to be heading to bed. Back downstairs, there’s no sign of mother, so I eat my microwave meal and go and have a think in the lounge. I don’t know where my other brothers, Chuck and Jerry are, they are hardly ever around.

  Only a few moments after finishing my food, emotional and physical exhaustion begin to flood me. I watch a bit of mindless TV before ascending the stairs once again and sure enough, Buddy’s fast asleep, when I climb into the bed next to his, in the room we share. His breathing is deep and peaceful but in the glow from my reading lamp, I can see that his face still carries the toils of the evening. I lean over and kiss his forehead. He doesn’t stir. I climb into my bed with my rucksack that I’ve retrieved from the front door. I take out the book. I know that with the commotion that has just taken place that my birthday will not be high on tomorrow’s agenda, so I pretend that the weighty book really has been written for me; this is my special present. Tomorrow, I become a teenager. Whoever has written my name on the inside cover, wanted to celebrate the day with me.

  Once again, I carefully open it to the back. What mechanism is causing this metal dome to pop out? I pull lots of different levers, and notice that on every fourth tug, they all slide back to their original positions. I am careful not to catch myself on any of the spikes. The whole thing is fascinating. Mr McFadden would surely know how it worked. I then flick back through various interesting hand-written chapters until I reach the nursery rhyme section. I palm through some of the classics, but there are lots that I don’t recognise. I jolt forward and realise sleep is overcoming my conscious thought. I hit the off switch on my bedside lamp.