by Hayley Doyle
‘I thought you’d gone,’ I whisper.
Jim and Mary stop chatting.
‘What did she say?’ Mary asks.
‘She said she thought I’d gone,’ Jim says.
‘Gone where?’ Mary asks.
‘Dunno. I think she thought I’d just got off, like.’
‘Why would she think that?’
Nobody answers Mary’s question. I smile at Jim, my way of saying thanks. He didn’t just ‘get off’, or however he wanted to put it. Jim actually smiles back, that one-sided smile of his.
‘And now you’re awake, queen,’ Mary says. ‘Can you tell me why the bloody hell you’re carrying a bloody mop around with you? I asked your friend here as he was carrying you through me front door, but he said he didn’t know.’
‘Well, I told her I wouldn’t ask,’ Jim says. True to his word, he hasn’t.
‘I mean, it’s not unusual for a girl to be dragging a couple of suitcases around. But a mop?’
I hold my china teacup out for a top up and tell them my story. The elaborate details are discarded, a dumbed-down version of how I’ve been telling it before yesterday. Mary’s wrinkled, painted face seems to grow a few more grooves as she listens. Jim sits quietly in the rocking chair, listening, not opening his book once while I speak.
‘I wish you would’ve told me that story sooner,’ Jim says, when I finish.
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, ’cause I could’ve warned you that Nick was a right plank.’
Mary breaks into a cackle.
‘My heart is shattered,’ I say, aware that I’m on the brink of yelling, but I’m furious. ‘I know I seem like a crazy person, carrying a mop around like a security blanket, but it became a thing … like a joke. A private joke. Just between us. We’d video chat and the mop was always there with us like this extra person and I’d dress it with a silly hat or a wig and … oh, you don’t understand.’
They clearly don’t.
They’re crying tears of laughter, Mary smudging her eye shadow and Jim pressing his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. They both keep apologising because they know their uncontrollable fits are offending me.
‘And you brought it all the way from Dubai?’ Mary asks.
I nod. ‘I’ve flown so much in my life, it’s almost like taking the bus. But this time was different. I had purpose rather than just bobbing back and forth.’
‘Bloody hell, queen. It would’ve been easier bringing a camel than a mop. At least you could’ve rode on its back.’
‘You know what, I don’t have to listen to you guys mocking me,’ I say. Enough is enough. ‘Thank you for taking care of me, thank you for the tea, thank you for lending me your ears, but—’
‘Oh, sit down, queen. Bloody hell, she’s a dramatic one, isn’t she?’ Mary cocks her head and rolls her eyes at Jim, who seems to be really enjoying rocking back and forth in that chair.
‘I’m not being dramatic,’ I say, admittedly loaded with drama. I take a breath. ‘I was under the impression that Nick was the person I’d spend my life with. He said those actual words, “We’re going to spend our life together”. What was I supposed to think? That really, he meant, “Oh, I’m secretly married and have two daughters”? Everything I own is squashed into those two suitcases. I booked a one-way ticket, for God’s sake. That’s how positive I was. No. That’s how tricked I was.’
Jim stops rocking. The cat reappears and finds Mary’s lap again.
‘Anyway,’ I say, calm, starting to feel the benefit of a decent cup of tea. ‘I’ve booked a flight back, tonight. This trip is over. Almost. I just need to get to the airport. If I miss my flight I’m screwed.’
‘What time’s your flight?’ Jim asks, both he and Mary looking up at the clock above the fireplace.
‘Ten.’
‘Oh, plenty of time,’ Mary says. ‘Do you wanna cheese butty?’
‘No. I don’t have plenty of time.’ I swallow. ‘I’ve got to get to Heathrow.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you,’ Mary says, her attention switching to the cat, stroking with verve. ‘You both better get going soon. How far’s Heathrow? That’s London way, isn’t it … maybe four, five hours from here?’
A thick pause sits in the centre of Mary’s sitting room. Then, the cat, just about to drop off, is shaken awake, hissing, as Jim stands with gusto, the empty chair continuing to rock away.
‘LONDON?’ he shouts.
‘What are you shouting for?’ Mary asks.
‘He always shouts,’ I inform her. ‘Although he thinks he doesn’t.’
‘I DON’T,’ Jim shouts.
‘You must bring out that side in him,’ Mary says, trying to comfort her pissed-off cat.
‘Thanks, Mary,’ I huff.
‘You didn’t know you were taking her to London?’ Mary asks.
‘I thought I was taking her to John Lennon, or Manchester.’ Jim paces the room and has a good look at the pictures on the wall. He clears the shaggy curls hanging over his eyes, pushing them back past his forehead. ‘I know now,’ he says.
Did I just hear that right?
‘You’ll take me all the way to London?’ I ask.
Jim folds his arms, his focus remaining on the pictures.
‘If you let go of the mop,’ he says.
Well, of course I’ll let go of the mop. What a stupid suggestion. Why would I want to carry this pointless mop around with me any longer? It symbolises the most catastrophic waste of time and an abundance of lies, lies, lies.
Then again.
Being without the mop means going back to who I was six months ago. What will I do with all the hope that’s been growing within me, blowing up like a balloon? I don’t want it to burst and disappear into thin air. Every minute, somewhere in the world, two people fall in love. So, when’s it my turn? My heart is honest. I’m not cynical enough to have presumed Nick was lying. If I discard the mop, will it turn me into a cynic? Or strip me of my confidence? What will happen if I let go?
The cat is sleeping, snoring and purring in unison.
‘I could do with a new mop,’ Mary says. ‘Or I could sell it on Ebay. If that mop’s from Dubai, it’s probably gold plated and worth a small fortune. Today could be my lucky day.’
I sling my canvas tote bag over my shoulder and pick up one suitcase. Jim follows me, lifting the second suitcase and the broken holdall. The mop stays flat on Mary’s thick carpet, a dead man awaiting his burial.
‘No, Mary,’ I say, watching Jim load up his ruined car. ‘I think today is my lucky day.’
20
Jim
Lodged deep within my soul, a glimmer of hope had been shining. Today was supposed to be my lucky day. You see, as I was sitting in Mary’s rocking chair, I thought about getting my car to Griffo’s dad, with minimal mileage, and maybe he’ll tell me that the boot can be fixed. An easy job. Common, perhaps. It might still be worth something. And something is better than nothing. I’ve promised my ma Florida. There’s no way I can take that away from her, not if there’s the tiniest chance that Griffo’s dad will give me something for this car.
Except, ha. Oh, ha fucking ha. Now, now I’ve been roped into going across the whole country, being some skivvy taxi driver, and for what? What’s in it for me? Why didn’t I say no? Who does Zara think I am; Robert bloody De Niro? But how could I stand in Mary’s house after drinking her tea and eating her biscuits, after taking her paperbacks and using her loo, and look like the bastard who won’t help the damsel in distress? Knowing women like Mary, she’d beat me senseless with that mop before sending me on a guilt trip that’d take years to return from.
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Zara says, pulling the seatbelt across her. ‘Road trip!’
I sigh. This is absurd.
‘Plus, I get to travel in style. Your car is so comfortable, Jim.’
With my foot on the accelerator, a harsh rev unleashes my need to swear.
‘How’s your hangover?’ she as
ks, grinning.
God, I want to wipe that grin off her face.
‘How’s your love life?’ I ask. Result.
That was a bit mean, wasn’t it? The girl is broken, her ripped clothes making that deep scar on her face more prominent for some reason, and her long hair, so lush with loose curls this morning, is now a mass of frizz. I glance across at her, petite like a little doll, shrinking into the black leather seat. One leg is crossed over the other, a huge ladder in her black tights exposing smooth, bronze skin. She clearly gets to enjoy the sun. I dislike myself for eyeing her legs longer than necessary. Oh, so what? She’s pretty. Doesn’t mean I have to like her. And she’s sulking after that last comment; her enormous, dark eyes studying her lap.
The traffic’s not moving fast. We hit three reds in a row. A flashing light from behind the steering wheel distracts me.
‘Shit,’ I say.
I’m almost out of petrol. And there’s nothing like a fuel strobe to trigger a bout of anxiety. Hitting the wheel with my fist, I shut my eyes. I hate how something as simple as filling a car up with fuel is a massive ball ache. Only hours ago, this would’ve been the least of my problems. In fact, with fifty grand in my pocket, I couldn’t even begin to imagine having a problem. Now, I’m drowning in them.
‘Do you go to London often?’ Zara asks.
‘Oh yeah. All the time,’ I say, totally relishing in my own sarcasm.
‘Business or pleasure?’
Heavy rain patters down, blurring my visibility. I’m going to have to tell her that this ‘road trip’ is about to end. Very, very soon. She might cry, and I’ll feel like a right dick. But, I owe her nothing and the sooner our ordeal is over, the better. I can’t afford to fill the tank up. It’s as simple as that. The flashing light is urging me to speak up, begging me to get rid of Zara and get to Griffo’s dad’s before the car comes to an embarrassing halt.
The windscreen wipers go into overdrive. I pull into a slip road and park up outside a row of shops consisting of a newsagents, a betting shop and a takeaway called Pizza Perfecto that isn’t yet open for business. I tell her simply that I can’t take her to London and give her no excuse. I feel one hundred per cent shitty. But I remind myself that if Zara hadn’t pissed on my chips, then I wouldn’t be pissing on hers. Christ, there’d be no chips to piss on at all if she’d just been watching the bloody road this morning.
I wait for her tears to come. Instead, Zara starts to rub her hands together.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ she says. Taking the liberty of fidgeting around with the various dials and buttons beneath the radio, she finds the heating and turns it up full blast. She’s completely ignored everything I’ve just said to her.
‘Zara?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
She nods.
‘I can’t take you to London,’ I reiterate, my words delicate.
‘I’m not stupid, Jim. I knew you weren’t going to take me.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. I mean, why would you do that? Really? What’s in it for you?’
I’m stumped. ‘Nothing. Exactly.’
‘It’d be weird if you did that.’
‘It would.’
‘So just drop me off at a train station. If it’s not too much trouble.’
But, it is. It’s indeed too much trouble. Driving from the outskirts of Liverpool to Lime Street station means hitting Friday traffic, which also means not making it to Griffo’s dad’s without having to fill up. And the way she said if it’s not too much trouble. Christ, it’s wound me up in corners I didn’t even know I had.
No matter what way I look at it, I’ve got two choices: I can either ask Zara to pay for the petrol, which is humiliating, or I can swing by my flat and take the money from the biscuit tin.
And both choices suck.
It sits on top of the microwave in my kitchen.
Technically, it’s not even a biscuit tin. It’s an empty Quality Street tin, the last chocolate eaten sometime between Christmas Day and New Year’s Day twenty-odd years ago. As a kid, I used to put my spare change – or my slummy, as my dad would call it – in there, because it was more transparent than a piggy bank. I liked to see my money, not guess how much might be in there. That way, there was no disappointment. Back then, the slummy saved would be spent on my favourite magazine, or with enough will power, games for my Sega; Sonic, Golden Axe. They were replaced by hardback books, videos, and eventually DVDs, my vast film collection still presented across three shelves in my bedroom (in alphabetical order, too).
These days, the slummy is saved for less entertaining essentials such as bleach and toilet roll, a pint of milk. I dip into the biscuit tin more often than I’d like, so I’m not holding out for a miracle, just enough to keep my dignity intact. There might be enough in there for a bit of petrol, but nowhere near enough to get my ma to the airport, never mind bloody Florida.
‘Where’s the train station from here?’ Zara asks when we pull up outside the chippy, the busy flyover rattling overhead and sheltering us from the rain. Wide eyed, like Alice in bloody Wonderland, I’m guessing that a girl like Zara isn’t used to places that are so unattractive.
‘It’s not around here,’ I say. ‘I just need to nip in and get something.’
‘Nip in where?’ Zara looks around frantically across the dashboard.
‘There,’ I point to the chippy.
‘Wong’s Fish Bar?’
I nod.
‘Why? Are you hungry?’
I can’t tell her this is where I live, but honestly, I do not understand why. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, nothing whatsoever. The flat I rent is decent. Small. My leather settee purchased on Ebay is in good nick; wooden blinds; an impressive wall of bookshelves. A turntable sits on a second-hand tile-and-teak coffee table with a collection of vinyl filed at its side. I’m no slob, and other than not changing my bed sheets as often as I probably should, the place is clean. But, from the outside, I know it looks like a crack den. And no matter how many scented tea lights I burn around the place, the smell of grease from the chippy can’t be masked. Why do I care what Zara thinks? Christ, she thinks I’m some ‘mysterious entrepreneur’, a joke almost worse than today itself. Maybe that’s it; I can’t pretend that I don’t like the notion of being somebody I’m not. Somebody successful, somebody who has it all. Anything’s better than the truth.
‘Starving,’ I tell her.
Well, I’m not lying. Except something from Wong’s? Ah, bollocks. The novelty of that wore off about four days after I moved in. But I say, ‘And you should eat before your journey.’
‘From there?’ Zara asks, horror bleeding from her voice.
I’m quick to defend. I’m fond of Mr and Mrs Wong and their antisocial kids.
‘Best chips in Liverpool,’ I say. ‘You can’t leave without trying them.’
‘We’re kind of in a hurry …’
‘You’ll be sorry.’
Zara flashes her perfect teeth, smiling from her mouth, not her eyes.
‘Okay. I’m up for anything,’ she says.
‘Wait here.’
I’m parked on double yellows, but there isn’t another space free. Switching on the hazards, I dive out of the car but not before warning Zara to stay put. I don’t trust her not to wander off, so I give her a job; to watch out for traffic wardens. She accepts her challenge with a small salute and I run into Wong’s.
‘Jimbo!’ Mr Wong cries, his blend of Chinese and Scouse always sounding on the verge of tears. ‘Long time no see, lad.’
An acute waft of vinegar and chip fat hits my nostrils.
‘Can I go through the back, mate?’ I ask.
‘You forget your key?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Jimbo!’ Mrs Wong appears, always sounding as though she’s telling me off.
‘He forget his key, love,’ Mr Wong cries.
‘Stupid.’ Mrs Wong folds her arm
s.
I ignore her and fly past, through the kitchen and out the back door, ajar to carry away the smell of cooking. I grab the spare key from under the mat, there for the Wongs’ antisocial kids to let themselves in and watch Netflix on my telly.
Taking the lid off the biscuit tin, I see a sea of silver and copper; about fifteen quid’s worth, I reckon. It’ll take me too long to count all this out. I open the cupboard below the cutlery drawer, take a carrier bag from the stash. Emptying the coins into the bag, I shake it to check there’s no holes, then tie a knot in it. I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror hanging in the hall beside the bathroom door. It won’t hurt to change my t-shirt. It reeks of smoke, stale booze, body odour. I throw the carrier bag of coins onto my bed, unzip my fleece and take off my t-shirt, scrunch it into a ball, chuck it into my wash basket. I grab a clean t-shirt, one I won from the Pacific Arms pub quiz, a local brewery advertised across the chest. I put my fleece back on.
Shit. Zara’ll wonder why I’m wearing a different t-shirt.
I drop the plastic bag, zip my fleece right up to beneath my chin. That’s better. I ruffle my hair a bit and retrieve the bag.
Oh, double shit. The bag rips. Coins splatter across the carpet. There must’ve been a bloody hole in it after all. Falling to my knees, I attempt to collect the coins but can’t hold onto them without some slipping between my fingers. Blood rushes to my head. I see stars, black spots. Snowy wasn’t half right about how I handle hangovers. Suddenly the idea of salty, greasy chips from downstairs isn’t such a bad one.
I go back into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water. I catch a glimpse of the collage hanging on the wall, photos arranged all slapdash, yet thoughtfully planned with an online template, made by Helen – a joint gift from her and my mates – for my thirtieth birthday. Most of the photos were taken during our teens and twenties, boozed up, boggle-eyed and effervescent. Hats played a big part: all of us wearing sombreros and drinking tequila; all of us in Santa hats or sparkly devil horns. Christ, I was broke back then, too, except it didn’t seem to matter the way it does today. An unwise arrogance allowed me to enjoy the lack of cash, the start of debt, almost as if there was a poetry attached to it, a beauty that portrayed me as more interesting because I had more shit to shovel. These photos are bursting with stupidity, but in truth, they were packed with potential.