My Mam laughed for ages when I told her that. She said it was a bit rude.
‘But I suppose that’s just Malcolm’s way,’ she said, smiling. ‘And really it must be terrible, putting up with weather like this when you’ve been used to the sort of temperatures that Malcolm was brought up in. Ah,’ she said, ‘I feel real sorry for him. Poor Malcolm, I hate the thought of him freezing to bits in that perishin’ playground.’
That’s why she bought him the jumper! The big thick chunky jumper. She brought it home from Marks and Spencer’s the next night and wrapped it up all nicely. And I was supposed to take it into school with me the next day and give it to Malcolm. I didn’t know what to do with it. I had to carry it round town with me all day. In the end I gave it to a homeless person who was sat outside the Arndale, asking people for money because he had a brain tumour and wanted to buy some Pedigree Pal for his starving dog.
I said, ‘I haven’t got any money but y’ can have this if y’ want.’
He snatched the parcel off me and ripped the paper open. Then he just looked at the jumper and said he wouldn’t be fuckin’ seen dead wearing something from Marks and Spencer’s. He threw it back at me then and told me to fuck off back to Blue Peter or Oxfam or fuckin’ Unicef or something. And I don’t think he did have a brain tumour really.
In the end I just dropped the jumper in a bin and felt dead guilty about doing that. Because it was brand new and my Mam had paid good money for it. It wasn’t my fault though. It was Malcolm’s. I was starting to get a bit fed up with Malcolm. And when my Mam asked me what Malcolm had thought about his jumper, I toyed with the idea of telling my Mam that Malcolm had had to go back to America. But she was looking at me with such eager anticipation in her eyes and so I told her how Malcolm had been all delighted with his present and how his face had lit up when he’d seen it and he’d said, ‘Wow! Ray! Your mom bought this for me?’ And then his eyes had filled up with tears and he’d said, ‘Just for me?’ And Malcolm could hardly speak then because he was too choked and he had to lower his head for a minute and then shake it and pull himself together. And clutching the jumper to him like it was already his favourite thing in the world, he said, ‘Ray … your mom … I guess she’s … a real special person.’
But I didn’t tell my Mam any more of what Malcolm had said about the jumper because there were tears streaming down her face now and she had to run to the kitchenette and get some kitchen roll for her eyes.
When she’d stopped crying, my Mam said, ‘Isn’t it nice to think that there’s someone as lovely as Malcolm in the world. When you hear about all these young people nowadays,’ she said, ‘always in trouble, out of control, dragged up so they don’t know the first thing about manners or respect; skipping school and hanging around town all day, shouting abuse and shoplifting, getting into trouble.’
My Mam shook her head and I looked at her, wondering if she knew, if she’d somehow found out about me not going to school. And about the shoplifting. It wasn’t bad shoplifting, not really. It had started with just a couple of packets of Super Noodles. And it was stupid really, because I couldn’t even boil them up and make them into proper noodles. But I found that if you kept them in your mouth, made enough spit and chewed them for long enough, they did eventually become sort of soft. And in the end I quite liked them like that really. Only I didn’t like being a shoplifter. I felt really guilty. And when my Mam said that about young persons, hanging around town and shoplifting, I thought it was all up and that my Mam had found out. And I was going to have to tell her about everything now and own up. But I was glad. Because I didn’t want to be a shoplifter and I didn’t want to be bunking off school and telling lies to my Mam. I knew she’d shout and get upset about it at first. But then she’d understand and help me and it’d all be all right again. And that was why I was glad when she said that about kids who get into trouble.
But when I looked at my Mam, I realised she wasn’t talking about me at all. She wasn’t even thinking about me because she had this faraway look in her eyes and she said, ‘Isn’t it wonderful, when a boy like Malcolm comes along. And he’s such a good boy, such a nice boy, it restores your faith in kids today.’
My Mam just sat there with the dreamy look in her eyes. And that’s when the jealousy started. Because it was like she loved Malcolm; loved him more than she loved me! And I said, ‘Well, he’s not always good, y’ know!’
My Mam turned and stared at me with a disbelieving frown on her face. ‘What d’ y’ mean?’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘Sometimes,’ I said, ‘sometimes … he cheats in school.’
My Mam looked really disgusted. ‘Cheats?’ she said. ‘What d’ y’ mean, Raymond, cheats?’
‘Cheats!’ I said. ‘Like when we have to do a test in English. Instead of finding his own answers, Malcolm always looks over my shoulder and copies down the answers from me.’
My Mam looked really offended. And I was glad because I thought it was Malcolm’s behaviour that was causing her such offence. But then she said, ‘Don’t be so stupid, Raymond! Malcolm, a cheat?’ she said. ‘Malcolm wouldn’t cheat! A boy like Malcolm doesn’t need to cheat.’
I just stared at her. How the bleeding hell did she know? She’d never even met Malcolm!
‘He does!’ I said. ‘He’s always cheating because he—’
‘Now look,’ my Mam interrupted me, ‘I think you should be very careful what you’re saying, Raymond Marks! There’s cheating and there’s cheating. But just checking your answers against somebody else’s, that’s not cheating.’
She was glaring at me like she was defying me to say anything more about it. But I did say more because it was stupid her saying Malcolm didn’t cheat when I was the one who sat next to him! I was the one who’d invented him in the first place. And if I wanted to make him into someone who cheated in English then that was up to me and it was nothing to do with her.
‘Well, he wasn’t just checking his answers,’ I said. ‘He was copying the answers and pretending they were his own; so that is cheating!’
My Mam sat there glaring at me with her mouth all puckered up like she was sucking on a sherbet lemon. And then she started nodding and said, ‘Just listen to you! Just listen to yourself, Raymond! I thought I’d brought you up to show a bit of concern for those less fortunate than ourselves. But it seems I’ve been wasting my time. There’s poor Malcolm speaking American English all his life and then he’s suddenly plonked down in the middle of Greater Manchester where everything’s different; it’s freezing cold, the traffic goes the wrong way, there’s only four channels on the television and if he wanted a game of baseball he’d be hard put. And on top of all that he’s got to start thinking in a new language; he’s got to forget about faucets and diapers and sidewalks. He’s suddenly having to think in terms of taps, nappies and pavements, lifts instead of elevators and a thousand and one other strange things. But when he needs a little help, when all he wants is to just check that he’s using the right words in a strange new language, what happens, what does he get? He gets you, his friend, begrudging him; begrudging him and calling him a cheat. Well, let me tell you something, Raymond Marks, Malcolm is not a cheat! And I think you should be deeply ashamed of yourself for coming out with something like that!’
It was ridiculous! My Mam was getting all narked with me and I hadn’t done anything wrong. It was Malcolm! He was the one who’d done all the bleeding cheating, not me. I started to get narked myself then. And I looked over at my Mam who was just sitting staring at the telly even though it wasn’t on.
‘He swears an’ all!’ I said. ‘He’s always swearing, Malcolm is.’
My Mam shook her head and ignored me, staring at the telly like she wouldn’t even listen to me no more.
‘He even swears at the teachers,’ I said, ‘because yesterday Mr Fuller caught Malcolm cheating and told him he had to do detention for that. And Malcolm threw his exercise book at the wall and said, “Call this goddamned dump a school?
It’s more like a fuckin’ penitentiary!” ’
My Mam turned round and looked at me then. And she got to her feet, all sort of huffy and swollen up. And she said, ‘Well, perhaps Malcolm does swear now and then. But maybe with friends like you and teachers who don’t understand him and want to put him in detention, who can blame him if he does come out with the odd salty phrase now and then?’
I couldn’t believe it! If it was me who’d said the ‘f’ word, my Mam would have gone ballistic and hit the roof and wiped the floor and all sorts. But because it was marvellous Malcolm, because it was my fabulous friend who was doing the effing and blinding, my Mam was making all kinds of excuses for him. She stood there glaring at me as if I’d done something really really awful. And she said, ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, trying to blacken the name of your best friend. All right, perhaps Malcolm does have one or two small faults but I don’t see what cause you’ve got to be so high and mighty. Malcolm might come out with the odd swear word now and then. But you can bet that he’d never have got up to the sort of things you got up to down at that canal. Malcolm would never have done things that caused him and his mother to have to leave Failsworth and end up in a godforsaken hole like Wythenshawe.’
I couldn’t believe my Mam saying that. She’d said. She’d told me it wasn’t my fault and I wasn’t to blame. But now she was blaming me. And secretly she’d probably always blamed me for having to leave Failsworth and move to Wythenshawe. And that’s what got me so mad and I said, ‘You blame me for everything, don’t y’? You said it wasn’t my fault but you were only lying when you said that, because you do think it’s my fault, all of it, everything. An’ I’ll bet you’re just like all the others in Failsworth and you even think that it was me who did something bad to Paulette!’
My Mam started to protest and say that she didn’t think that at all. But I wouldn’t listen to her and I said, ‘That’s why you don’t love me any more. I know that you don’t love me and you’d rather have a son like Malcolm than a son like me. Whatever he does, you never ever blame Malcolm but you’re always blaming me!’
My Mam was looking at me, all upset now, and she started to move towards me saying, ‘Look, look … come on, come on.’ And I knew that she was coming across to try and hug me but I didn’t want her to hug me and I looked her straight in the eyes as I said, ‘Well, you’re gonna have to forget about Malcolm from now on, aren’t y’? Because Malcolm’s dad’s had an offer to join the Beach Boys in America and he’s taking Malcolm back there with him!’
It was like my Mam had been hit with a bucket of cold water. The look of shock and hurt on her face was terrible. But that only made it even worse for me; because it wasn’t me she was upset about! It was Malcolm. And if it had been me that she’d been upset about then I never would have run away in the first place.
I knew that I wasn’t properly running away because I didn’t try and go to Liverpool or London or anywhere like that. All I did was get the bus back to Failsworth and go to my Gran’s house. And when I got there I wished I hadn’t because when I rang the bell it was my Uncle Bastard Jason who opened the door. And straight away I knew the reason he was there because as I walked down the hall I heard my Appalling Aunty Paula in the front room, telling my Gran, ‘But look Vera, forty-eight channels of international broadcasting! It’s such a waste, Vera. I don’t know what you want with all that media when you hardly ever even watch the ordinary television.’
They never gave up! My Bastard Uncle and my Appalling Aunty Paula. Right from the very beginning they’d had their eyes on that satellite dish. Even on the very day that my Grandad had fell off the roof and he was still a slightly warm cadaver on the patio, the first thing that my Uncle Bastard Jason had said to my Gran was, ‘Well, you won’t be needing all that media now, will y’!’
But my Gran had told him in no uncertain terms that she was keeping her satellite facility because the media was the future and whether she chose to watch it or not, it was a particular comfort to know that she had satellite capability and was electronically linked to the richness and diversity of continental Europe.
My Uncle Jason told her she was talking shite. But my Gran just ignored him and wondered aloud, as she’d wondered so many times before, why the first fruit of her womb had turned out to be a thick-skinned, sour and bitter grapefruit. My Uncle Jason had got narked then and my Aunty Paula called my Gran a wicked old bitch. And as a protest, my Aunty Paula said, her and my Uncle Jason might not even attend my Grandad’s funeral now.
‘Makes no difference to me,’ my Gran had told them as they’d flounced out the house, ‘because I certainly won’t be going.’
And my Gran never did go to my Grandad’s funeral. While my Grandad was being buried, my Gran went to the Progressive Pensioners’ meeting instead and took part in a lively and sometimes heated discussion about the effects of marijuana on the over-sixties.
My Uncle Jason and my Aunty Paula wouldn’t even talk to my Gran for ages after that. They said she was a callous old cow and uncaring and unnatural. But in the end their moral outrage and indignation were outweighed by their overwhelming lust to acquire the satellite dish. And they started going round to my Gran’s again, dropping hints about the satellite dish all the time and trying different strategies like they were doing on the night I arrived from Wythenshawe. And it was lucky that I had arrived because I think my Gran was gradually getting worn down by the pair of them. And when she saw me stood there in the doorway she said, ‘Ah, it’s our Raymond, come to gladden my heart. Come here, son,’ she said, ‘come here and give your Gran a kiss.’
And as I did as I was bid and moved towards my Gran to give her a kiss, I saw my Acidic Aunty and Unbearable Uncle swapping dark looks of peeved disapproval. And as I kissed my Gran, my Uncle said, ‘I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re doing back here! I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the neck to show your face in these parts, not after what you did.’
‘Hey! He did nothing!’ my Gran declared. And pointing her sharp finger straight at my Uncle Jason’s nauseous nose, she said, ‘He’s done nowt wrong to nobody. So you just leave him alone! This is my house,’ she declared, ‘and our Raymond’s welcome here any time he likes, day or night.’
My Gran glared at my Unspeakable Uncle and he couldn’t say nowt no more because my Gran’s glare was legendary; a glare from my Gran could stop the tongue of many a man and many a man much bigger than my Uncle Grapefruit Jason. He stood there chewing on his chewy and looking at my Aunty Paula who was staring at me like she was scrutinising the contents of a paper handkerchief she’d just blown into. My Gran ignored them both then and smiled at me as she held my hand, holding on to it dead tight.
‘Now what do you think, son?’ she said to me. ‘What do you think about all this business with my satellite dish?’
‘I don’t know, Gran,’ I said.
‘Well, I want your opinion,’ she told me, ‘because to be honest I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth all the bother. At my age I might be better off forgetting about all this new media and the technological revolution.’
I saw them out the corner of my eye, my Aunty Paula and my Uncle Jason glancing at each other with the glint of possibility and potential triumph in their eyes. I could hardly believe my Gran was considering giving in to the pair of them.
I shrugged again and my Aunty Paula said, ‘You tell her, Raymond. You tell her how much electricity it takes, running all those channels. It’s not like watching the BBC, y’ know. The BBC takes up hardly any electricity at all, because it only has to come from London. But when you’ve got channels which have to be beamed in all the way from abroad, it costs a fortune in electricity. And you see, my big worry is the hypothermia! You know what the old people are like. If we have a cold snap it could be the end for her. She could be sitting here frozen to death because all the electricity’s being used up by the satellite channels and there’s none left for the electric fire!’
My Aunty nodded
a nod of significant solemnity; and my Gran sighed and said, ‘Well, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be sat here dead and frozen solid like a leg of lamb out the deep freeze.’
What was wrong with my Gran? I couldn’t work out why she was even bothering to listen to my addle-brained Aunty.
‘Gran, you wouldn’t have to be frozen like a leg of lamb out the freezer,’ I said, ‘because it doesn’t use any extra electricity at all, watching the satellite telly.’
My Uncle Jason got noticeably narked at my intervention and he said, ‘Hey! What would you know about it? You know nowt about owt so just keep out of it.’
But I ignored him and I said to my Gran, ‘And another thing, Gran, how will you be able to keep on learning Spanish if y’ have to go back to watching The Nine O’Clock News in English?’
And I thought that’d do it then because the one thing my Gran did watch on satellite was the news in Spanish. She’d never bothered with ITV and she said the BBC was full of frivolity nowadays and where had all the gravity gone? But then she’d discovered the news in Spanish and she was made up because the Spanish newscaster had a particularly sombre demeanour and a marvellously morbid face; and he delivered his nightly litany of tragedy, death and disaster as if it had all happened to him personally. My Gran said it restored her faith in broadcast news, and encouraged her to learn a bit of Spanish at the same time. And I thought it was really good that my Gran was trying to learn Spanish, even though she’d never got further than Buenas noches, señor.
The Wrong Boy Page 23