Rita started to sob. I glared at her. She stifled her cries.
Sheh got through the funeral. Sheh was in shock. Wi were numb an went in te automatic pilot. The coffin was tiny.
He paused. Regaining control of his memories. He wasn’t dwellingon details. Quick quick. Getting it out as quick as he could. Throwing it out.
Yer mam wez calm…tee calm. Sheh didn’t bubble an sheh held hor heed up high. Fowk must have thought hor cruel. Sheh seemed te lack any feelin. Ah nearly told the whole place. Ah stood up in the middle o the service…Ah was gonna tell the truth…but ah couldn’t. Not by then, ah’d shown where me loyalty lay. Ah couldn’t gan back. Affta the funeral, ah realised tha sheh’d been carried alang wi the momentum. Sheh’d been focusing on the funeral. Sheh was ne longer numb. Instead sheh wailed and wailed. Piercing noises without warning, triggered by tiny stuff. There was ne consoling hor. Sheh would bubble uncontrollably. Ah couldn’t help. Ah couldn’t help hor. It was aboot then tha sheh talked aboot hearing Adam. Sheh thowt tha he was hiding. Sheh would talk te him…sheh would hear him crying in the neet. All neet. Ah’d wake te see hor rocking backwards and forwards a the bottom of me bed.
He stopped talking.
- Don’t stop. I need to know.
What else can ah tell yee? Ah stopped luvin hor. What does tha tell yee aboot me? Ah hated hor for letting me laddie die. Ah hated what sheh became.
-What’d she become?
Sheh drank. Yer mam was a drunk. Sheh was an alcoholic who preferred the company o the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Sorry Jude—but yee came here for answers and ah divvent really knaa what yee expected te gain.
He left the room. I sat in silence. I watched the swirls on the carpet. Around and around. Rita had not moved. She watched me. She did not talk. My father returned with his cigarettes. He placed one, balancing in the corner of his lips and flicked his lighter. I watched him.
Ah carried the burden. Ah felt such guilt. He was me son an ah’d not protected him. Wi didn’t talk an instead ah was left wi ‘what ifs?’ an ‘whys?’ Ah tried te forget, ah tried te move on, but every time ah came home te the flat sheh…sheh wasn’t reet. Sheh turned te spending time in his room. Sheh would walk wi an empty pram an kept saying tha sheh was waitin, waitin for a sign.
- But she wrote that you were trying again.
I clung to hope.
Wi did. Wi moved to this hoose, but the marriage was deed. Wi lived together, but there was ne love…nothing.
He was almost too nervous to say the words.
-There must have been. You had me.
Yee were a mistake. A drunken mistake. After the Semi-Final. Ah’m sorry pet, but yer mam should nivvor had another bairn.
The truth. Did I need such truth?
- She loved me.
My voice was raised again. He would not lie about my mother.
Sheh loved yee tee much. Sheh nivvor enjoyed yee. Sheh clung te yee an spent nights awake listening te yee breathing. Sheh was convinced tha yee’d be taken frem hor tee. Sheh’d something te prove te horself. Sheh needed te be perfect. Sheh needed yee te be perfect. Sheh tried te hide hor cracks from yee. It exhausted hor. Sheh wouldn’t let me near te yee…
- I needed your love.
Sheh needed yee te give hor all yee love. There was ne room for me. Ah wasn’t allowed te love yee. Ah couldn’t love yee…
-And now the truth da.
Ye should nivvor have bin born Jude. Yer mam an ah should nivvor had another bairn. Wi didn’t deserve yee…Ah felt tha te love yee waad be te forget Adam. Ah couldn’t.
-You’ve never loved me. I needed you. I needed my da to look after me. I needed your love. I needed someone to make everything alright. What did I do to you? I needed you. I had found my mam. My world fell apart. I needed you. I just needed you to show me some love. Anything. What did I do?
Ye weren’t Adam…
The truth.
It pierced.
The truth echoed.
It bounced.
I heard the truth.
It warmed me.
It made me whole.
I knew.
Ah was scared of hor. Sheh’d hide empty bottles. Sheh’d spend hundreds o pounds on booze. Ah was scared tha sheh would leave yee somewhere. Wi didn’t deserve a second chance.
-You used to leave me. You and her.
Again I pointed at Rita.
When yee mam died, ah realised that wi’d destroyed another life. Ah gave up on yee…Ah should nivvor have been yer da.
- But you were and you should’ve just got on with it.
Ah’m sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
He did mean it. I looked at his red cheeks. I looked at his puffy eyes. His cigarette ash was fully formed, clinging to his cigarette. Ashes to ashes. Absolution.
It didn’t matter anymore.
The truth.
The lies.
The gossip.
The evil.
God.
Murder.
Decisions.
Decisions.
Decisions.
Realisation.
It didn’t matter.
None of it.
Nothing.
My mother made a mistake.
She made the wrong decision.
My father had tried to do the right thing.
My mother. My poor mother.
Nothing could be said.
Nothing could be done to change the past.
-And Crystal?
What aboot Crystal?
- Do you deserve to be her da?
Sheh’s me chance.
- Don’t you dare fuck her up.
She was precious. She is precious. My baby sister. She was due home soon. I needed to see her. I needed to hug her. I needed to check that she was alright.
No more questions. Nothing else to say. Silence.
Silence.
Nothing else mattered.
Rita left the room. She scurried off. Tea. A cup of tea. There was a need for tea.
Silence. My father didn’t say another word.
I cleared away my secrets. I cleared away the exhibits. Back into the blue cylinder tin. I put Adam’s tiny items. Back into his coffin.
I sat. In silence. Watching. Watching out of the window for Crystal. She would be home any minute.
Happy Ever After
Suddenly
The handsome prince opened the door
And invited his princess to step onto his special path.
Their eyes were wide open
Sparkling in excitement
As they advanced out into the unknown.
Not once did the blissful duo withdraw
Advancing over hills
Through rampant rivers
Even fighting off all kinds of peculiar beasts.
They walked for the rest of their lives
Discussing
Exploring
And always knowing
That their union permitted true and natural happiness.
I worked in The Traveller’s Rest. I worked full time. The wages weren’t bad. When the tips were added on. My special tips. I liked working there. I was a princess when I worked there. Standing behind the bar. Knowing that if my top was low. Very low. Then my glass of tips would be full by the end of the night.
Clink
clink
clink.
I liked the sound of my glass being filled with money. I would change notes to coins. So that I could hear the rattle. And the clink.
I had had sex in the toilets.
Twenty-three times.
During my break.
During my shift.
That boosted my tips too.
Clink
clink
clink.
Word had spread around the male customers. A few
quid and I was ready. Up for it.
Blow jobs. I didn’t swallow. Calorie control at all times.
Hand jobs. I wasn’t very good. Never been shown how.
Sex. Up against the cistern. Legs spread wide. Quick. Always quick. I monitored it all. Took the money for the drink. No fixed price. It was up to me. I controlled.
Clink
clink
clink.
They offered me a drink. That was the code. I would say yes. They would tell me how much to take. Simple. I took the money. Put it in my tip glass. Clink clink clink. Then I would tease. I would play. I would seduce. I would decide what treat they would receive.
I was a lucky dip.
Mr Johnson (Number 19) had been my first customer. He still smiled a lot. His yellowed mouth with a little gap in between his two front teeth. He still laughed a lot. Sounded like a horse hiccupping. It still made me smile. Mr Johnson was a nice man. Not a very good husband. But a nice man. He always wore jeans and trainers. He didn’t do any sport and he was getting fatter and fatter. He still wore the blue, soft leather jacket which had huge pockets. It was fashionable once. A long time ago. He must have been hoping that it would become fashionable again.
Mr Johnson had given me six pounds and twenty-three pence in tips. I gave him a blow job. Teased the end with my tongue. Like he wanted. Like he told me to. It didn’t take long. He tasted funny. We had sex sixteen days later. Seventeen pounds forty. He was quick. He kissed me on the lips and I liked it. Pushed his tongue into my mouth. In the men’s toilets. Up against the dirty cistern. Hard.
Hard. Hard. My father didn’t know. My father could never know. Hush hush. Mr Johnson was my favourite customer.
But.
It meant nothing. Sex meant nothing.
It was about money.
It was about wages.
It was a job.
An easy job.
There was no need for love and affection. Sex wasn’t ever like that. I provided a service. An extra to have with a pint of bitter and a packet of pork scratchings.
I needed the money. I wanted the money. I was saving. Had a box. Used to contain shoes. Clip clop pointy red shoes. I wore them with a red skirt that was too short. Fit where it touched. It edged up up up when I bent over. Rita liked that skirt. Now my shoe box held money. Jingle jangling with coins. Ready. Waiting. Building. Saving to travel the world. When the time was right. When the time was right I would leave Disraeli Avenue. I would say bye to New Lymouth. Forever.
I had started working in The Traveller’s Rest. Before hospital. Before my father had told them that I was ill. Having tests. Having tests for three months. They knew. Everyone knew. Rita told Mrs Symons (Number 11). Told her it was to go no further. But. Butit always did. Mrs Symons had arrived on Ward 23 with a plant for me. She didn’t stay. She looked around. Stored a few images. Picked up a few details. Then she went back to Disraeli Avenue. My secret went back to Disraeli Avenue. I imagined her yacking down the phone or spilling details in Brian’s Newsagents. I knew that she would. I had heard them. The women in Disraeli Avenue loved to gossip. They loved to yackety yack yack yack. I would have been the talk of the Estate. Reputation. Reputation.
But.
My customers didn’t mind. They already knew me as a reet strange bairn. It didn’t change their view. They still wanted to fuck me. They still wanted me to put my mouth around their things. They still wanted to scrape together their loose coins. To hear them accepted into my clink clink clanking glass.
I returned to work. The day after I discharged myself from hospital. I had sex in the toilets within the first fifteen minutes of my shift. Mr Johnson (Number 19).
Eighteen pounds, sixty-seven pence.
Dirty
Dirty
Dirty.
I was dirty.
My life was dirty. Eddie had made me dirty. Dirty in places that I could not reach. I could not turn my insides out. I could not scrub. Scrub. Scrub away the scabs that he had left there. Out of reach. Out of reach. My insides were out of reach. I was full. Full with sperm. Full with the dirt of all the men who had entered me.
Dirty.
Dirty.
Dirty.
I began to lose count of all the men who entered me. The faces blurred. The names ran into one. Eddie.
They were all Eddie.
Session one
November 14 1992
- I’ve an appointment with Susie Evens.
Go through to the waiting room and I’ll tell her that you’re here.
She didn’t ask my name. She knew my secret.
Susie Evens was everything that her name promised. She was probably in her late twenties. Her clothes were London trendy, petite and with contrasting fabrics and patterns. She wore knee-length brown leather boots and a tailored short brown tweed skirt, which rested about an inch above her knee. She was slim and the smile that she greeted me with stretched to allow her perfectly aligned, white teeth to dazzle. I thought that she was too slight and too faultless to understand eating. I thought that she was too perfectly pretty to understand my inadequacies.
Come in Jude.
I followed her into a tiny room. It smelled stale. It was in desperate need of airing. Words of woe had bounced off the white walls, each leaving a decaying lingering stench. She sat down. Perched on the edge of the chair. Opposite me. The chairs were near to the floor and our knees almost touched. I could see her knees. They were bony. She was slender, tall and blond. She was everything that I wished I could be. Instantly awkward in her presence.
Hi Jude. It’s great to see you. As you know, I am Susie… pause …and today I want to introduce you to the… pause …education… pause …surrounding the therapy that you are getting over the next few weeks.
I wanted to talk about Eddie.
Here are some diagrams illustrating the Cognitive Behavioural Therapy Formulation, which shows a typical pattern for a sufferer like you… pause …for someone who has Bulimia Nervosa.
She handed the sheets of printed paper to me. Her finger nails were perfectly manicured. Painted with a crimson gloss. I stared at the nails. She pushed the papers closer to me. Push pushed to gain a response. I glanced down at the diagrams. Bulimia Nervosa in an enlarged font. Underlined. Glaring at me.
A label.
Another label.
I had another label to add to the many that were pinned to my torso. Pin the tail on the donkey. Bray. Bray. Bray.
As an adult you have adapted strict rules which govern your Bulimia Nervosa.
She pointed a crimson-tipped nail. Onto the diagram.
I wanted to talk about Eddie. And Adam. And my mother. And my father. And Rita. And. And. And.
You have low self-esteem and this… pause …has led to extreme concerns about your weight and shape. You have tried strict dieting… pause …but the precise and rigid boundaries that you have placed upon yourself have led you to binge eat… pause …This is then accompanied by guilt and has led to self-induced vomiting… pause …which ultimately leads to low self-esteem. Can you see the cycle?
She pointed from the black arrows to words. Crimson glow on the white paper.
She didn’t know me. I’d never met her before. I feared that I had missed questions, that the softening introduction had occurred without my realising. Her speech was odd. It was performed. Precise. Faultless. Rehearsed.
- I like to vomit.
I spoke quietly.
Nothing that you can say can shock me. You’re no different from any other woman who comes into my room.
-I’m very different from other women. I’m not normal.
My voice was firm. But quiet. Directed down to my fat knees.
I need to tell you now Jude… pause …I won’t cure you and I’ll probably not even meet your expectations.
- I’ve no expectations of you.
What do you want?
- I want to be normal.
And what is normal?
- I don’t know.
- I know that there’s something wrong with me.
Silence.
- I can’t seem to cope with life.
How did you feel coming here today?
-I didn’t feel anything. I tried not to think about it…went into automatic pilot. I used my usual distraction techniques until I got here.
You can’t use distraction anymore.
-This is how I survive. I’ve been doing it since I was six.
I wanted her to ask me why at six. She didn’t.
Therapy is about facing up to things that you try to hide from.
- I don’t know how to do that.
We’ll work together.
In Search of Adam Page 20