The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  But my Unbearable Uncle said, ‘Spanish! Learning Spanish! I don’t bleedin’ believe I’m hearing this.’ He glanced at his septic spouse then and shook his head as he said, ‘With a mother like her I sometimes wonder how the hell I grew up with my sanity intact.’

  I looked at my Gran then because I was expecting her to give him the glare again. But it was like my Gran hadn’t even heard him and she was still clutching hold of my hand and looking up at me, smiling but like she was a bit puddled and all. And I said to her, ‘So you’ll want to keep your satellite dish, won’t y’, Gran?’

  She sort of blinked as she looked at me. And then she beamed a big proper smile as if she was just seeing me for the first time and she said, ‘Hello, son! Ah,’ she said, telling my Aunty and Uncle, ‘look who’s here. It’s Raymond, come to gladden my heart. Come on,’ she said, ‘give your Gran a big kiss.’

  And I wondered at first. I wondered if it was just my Gran’s way of outsmarting my Uncle and my Aunty and putting an end to any further satellite dish manoeuvring. And it even seemed to work because my Aunty Paula got up out the chair and said, ‘Come on, Jason, the budgie’s probably fretting for us by now.’ She turned and looked at my Gran as she buttoned up her coat and said, ‘We’ve done our best, Vera. A lot of good it’s going to do you, learning Spanish, when you’re sitting here getting frostbite and gangrene and having your legs amputated. But that’s up to you, Vera. There’s nobody can say that me and Jason didn’t warn y’. That satellite dish, it’s already been the death of one in this family. And I’m just praying, Vera, for your sake, love, I’m just praying that we can get through the winter without it claiming another victim.’

  And then they were gone. And I said to my Gran, ‘Are you all right, Gran?’

  ‘I am now,’ she said, ‘now that they’ve buggered off.’

  And that’s why I thought there was nothing really wrong with my Gran. I thought she’d just been pretending to be a bit puddled so that she could get rid of the satellite-seeking pair of them.

  ‘But what about you?’ my Gran said. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing coming out here on y’ own, all the way from Wythenshawe?’

  So I told my Gran. I told her about the row I’d had with my Mam. And I told her about Malcolm. I said, ‘I’ve made up this boy, Gran. And it was all right at first but it’s all sort of gone wrong now because my Mam won’t talk about anything else; it’s Malcolm this and Malcolm that and Malcolm morning noon and night. And my Mam loves Malcolm now and it’s made me dead jealous and I know that’s stupid because Malcolm’s just an invention. He’s just a figment of my imagination. He’s sort of … apart from the American accent, he’s sort of … the boy that I used to be, before the canal. And before everything happened to the little girl.’

  My Gran stared at me and nodded. And I thought she was listening carefully to me and thinking about what I was telling her. I said, ‘So I know it’s stupid, getting jealous of him when all he is is who I once was. But I do get jealous, Gran. Because I can’t really be him, not any more. I can’t be the boy that I used to be. I keep trying, Gran. I keep trying not to be bad. But I can’t seem to help it.’

  My Gran was staring at me really hard now and I knew that it might shock and upset her if I told her about the other things. But I had to tell her, I had to tell someone. And I knew that even if she did get upset, my Gran would still understand and she’d probably say something that might help me make sense of it all. So I told her, I said, ‘I haven’t been to school for months, Gran. I’ve been bunking off and hanging round town and I’ve binned all the letters the school keep sending to my Mam.’

  Then I told my Gran the worst thing of all. I couldn’t really look at her. I just stared at the mantelpiece and I said, ‘I’ve turned into a thief, Gran. I’ve started shoplifting and I keep trying not to do it but I can’t help it and if I get caught I know it’s going to be just terrible, just really really terrible for my Mam.’

  I kept staring at the mantelpiece and waiting for my Gran to say something to me. But she didn’t say a word and I thought she must be so shocked that for the first time in her life she was speechless. So I turned round and looked at her. But she was smiling. And she said, ‘Do you like Kentucky Fried Chicken, son?’

  I just stared at her. That was before I’d seen the light and become a vegetarian. And as appalling as it seems to me now, I did like Kentucky Fried Chicken back then. But why the hell was my Gran going on about bleeding Kentucky Fried Chicken? I’d just told her the things that I couldn’t tell to another single soul in all the world. But all my Gran said was, ‘Ooh, I love it, I do. I love it, that crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken.’

  And I really should have known then. I should have known that there was something starting to go wrong with my Gran. Because my Gran was the sort of person who normally would have frowned profoundly at the frivolousness of fast-food fried chicken coated in breadcrumbs and served in a waxy tub. But I never ever wanted anything to be wrong with my Gran. And I think that’s why I ignored the bits and pieces of stuff that didn’t seem to make no sense; because I just wanted my Gran to be all right like she’d always been. And when she said, ‘Come on, get us my coat from the hall and we’ll go and have some Kentucky Fried Chicken tonight, just me and you,’ I did as I was bid and me and my Gran went down to the KFC. And apart from her bizarre change of eating habits, my Gran just seemed normal again. She told me about Wilfred Pickles who used to read the news during the war so that the Germans wouldn’t understand him because he had a Yorkshire accent. She told me about the Asian flu epidemic in the 1950s and how they couldn’t cope with all the corpses and had to put some of the bodies in the butchers’ big freezers because all the mortuaries were full to overflowing. She told me about the blizzards that caused much suffering and a great many deaths in 1947 and the contaminated cans of corned beef that killed off thousands in the 1960s. And because it was dead interesting, like my Gran was always dead interesting, I never really noticed that the only things she was telling me about were things that had happened in the distant past. And she never once mentioned Malcolm or me bunking off school. Or becoming a shoplifter. It was like she hadn’t heard a word that I’d said about any of that.

  And riding back on the bus to Wythenshawe I even thought that perhaps my Gran had just refused to believe what I’d tried to tell her. Because perhaps she couldn’t bear the thought of her favourite grandchild turning into a person who played truant from school and intercepted letters that were meant for his Mam. And went shoplifting in town. I didn’t want my Gran to be ashamed of me. And I didn’t want to get caught shoplifting and cause my Mam to feel really really terrible. So I promised myself that night, as I rode home on the bus, that from now on I wouldn’t ever go shoplifting again. I’d even try and go back to school and just put up with them calling me queer and saying that I had the HIV. And if they did bash me up for being a pervert I’d just have to put up with it. Malcolm would have to go back to America and stay there, where he belonged. My Mam’d get over it in the end and then everything would be all right between me and her. That’s what I decided as I rode home on the bus. By the time I did get home I felt much better. And when I walked into the front room and saw my Mam sitting there, staring at the blank telly, I told her, ‘It’s all right, Mam. I’m sorry that I ran away but I’ve come back now and everything’ll be all right now, Mam, I promise you it will.’

  Only it wasn’t all right. Because my Mam just slowly turned her head and looked at me. And I knew then! I

  knew that she hadn’t even realised I’d been gone!

  ‘When?’ That’s all she said. ‘When?’

  ‘When what?’ I asked her.

  ‘When are they going back?’ she said. ‘Malcolm and his dad?’

  I just looked at my Mam. And I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell her it was all rubbish and there was no Malcolm or his dad and there never had been. But I knew that’d be even worse for her than having the pair of them sent back to
the US. So I just shrugged and shook my head and told my Mam I didn’t know when they were going back exactly. My Mam got up from the chair then and said she was having an early night and going to bed. And I watched her as she walked to the door. She looked all weary like a woman without bones. As she got to the door she turned round and she said, ‘I’d like to meet Malcolm … just once, before he goes back. Ask him if him and his dad would like to come round for tea one night … before they go back.’

  I couldn’t stand it! I couldn’t stand my Mam being so upset. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I should have stuck to it and sent Malcolm back to Baton Rouge. And I should have just gone back to school the next day like I’d promised myself that I would. But I had to think and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to think if I had to spend the day putting up with the likes of Spanswick and Tucknott and Golightly telling me I was a fat twat queer pervert with the HIV. So I just went down town again but I didn’t do any shoplifting. I walked around all day and I couldn’t wait for it to be four o’ clock so that I could go back home and tell my Mam that the Beach Boys had unexpectedly broken up because of artistic differences and so they wouldn’t be needing a bass player now.

  My Mam could hardly believe her ears when I rushed in and told her that Malcolm wasn’t going back to America after all. She leapt to her feet and hugged me and I told her I was sorry for saying that Malcolm had been cheating and swearing and I’d only said all that because I’d been so upset myself, about my friend going back to America. My Mam hugged me even more then and it felt lovely. And she said she was sorry too and she shouldn’t have shouted at me like she had. She said it was wonderful, wasn’t it just the most wonderful news? And it was wonderful that night with my Mam hugging me. It didn’t matter that we were living in a poxy maisonette in Wythenshawe. It didn’t even matter that I was a fat and friendless shoplifter who hadn’t been to school in ages. None of it mattered because Malcolm was back and my Mam was happy. So I didn’t give a stuff that Malcolm wasn’t real. What did it matter? My Gran always said that God wasn’t real. But there were trillions of people all over the world who needed to believe that he was. So why shouldn’t my Mam have Malcolm to believe in? It didn’t do any harm. It was a bit difficult later that night when my Mam suddenly said, ‘Raymond, listen. I know they’re not going back to America now but it’d still be nice, wouldn’t it, if Malcolm and his dad would come and have tea with us one night.’ She looked all dead happy and hopeful. And as I sat there trying to work out what to do, I saw this sort of wistful look appear on her face as she said, ‘He must get lonely, mustn’t he, Malcolm’s dad. I wonder what he’s like? I wonder if he’s blond like Malcolm.’

  And it was the look in my Mam’s eye, that sort of longing look, that made me frown. She caught me looking at her and she laughed like she was a bit embarrassed as she said, ‘What? What?’ But I just shook my head and my Mam really started laughing then and said, ‘What’s wrong? I’m only saying I’d like to meet him.’

  But I knew. And my Mam knew that I knew. Because she suddenly pounced on me and started tickling me as she said, ‘I’m just inviting him for tea, y’ silly bugger; not asking him to marry me.’

  She sat there on the couch with me, after the tickling had stopped. And I looked at her as she stared at the wall. I could see that she was miles away. And despite her denying it, I knew that my Mam was sat there fantasising about being married to a blond-haired bass player from Baton Rouge. And if he’d been real I probably would have got all upset about that. But as he was just a figment of my imagination I didn’t mind at all about my Mam being besotted by a bogus blond bass player.

  I couldn’t have him and Malcolm coming round for tea though!

  So I explained to my Mam about Malcolm and his dad both being born-again Muslims and it was strictly against their religion for them to eat in non-Muslim houses. My Mam pulled a face and said that that was a shame. But then she brightened up again and said that strange as it must be to us, we must respect other people’s religions. We had to count our blessings and all, she said. They might not be able to come to tea but the important thing was that Malcolm and his dad were no longer going back to Baton Rouge. My Mam got up then and went through to the kitchenette, singing as she did so. And all the bones were back in her again then, as she sang her song and reached for the bread and danced a few steps on the kitchenette tiles.

  So I kept Malcolm going then and kept on telling my Mam about all the things that Malcolm did and all the things that Malcolm said. And if I ever started to feel guilty about it all, I’d just look at my Mam and see her smiling at me or singing to herself. And I’d think, well, it can’t do any harm.

  And it didn’t.

  Until just before my birthday.

  I should have known that my Mam was up to something. But I didn’t. Not until it was too late. I didn’t know that my Mam had dreamed up this marvellous surprise and she’d gone to see Mrs Babu Daruwalla who ran the Eight Till Late in the precinct. My Mam asked her if she could recommend a Muslim restaurant in town. Mrs Babu Daruwalla was happy to oblige and gave my Mam the telephone number of the Vindaloo Village. My Mam booked a table for four people on my birthday. She even asked them if they could do a special birthday cake. And then she phoned the school!

  And when Mr Wilson came on the line, my Mam said she was sorry for bothering him but she was planning a surprise birthday party and she’d be really grateful if Mr Wilson could have a confidential word with my American friend Malcolm and ask him and his dad to join us at the Vindaloo Village, seven thirty prompt on Wednesday. But it had to be kept secret, my Mam stressed, because it was a surprise. So would Mr Wilson make sure that Raymond didn’t overhear when he talked to Malcolm?

  There was a pause. And then my Mam heard Mr Wilson say, ‘I’m sorry, who did you say it was speaking?’

  ‘Mrs Marks,’ my Mam said, ‘Raymond’s mother.’

  There was another pause. Until my Mam heard Mr Wilson saying, ‘Mrs Marks, could you come down to the school straight away please?’

  My Mam asked him why.

  And Mr Wilson cleared his throat then. And said he’d prefer to discuss it personally with my Mam when she got to the school.

  ‘But I’ve got a shift this afternoon,’ my Mam said. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, Mr Wilson? Our Raymond’s all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘How could I possibly answer that,’ Mr Wilson asked my Mam, ‘when Raymond hasn’t been near the school for the best part of two months!’

  And as my Mam stood there, trying to take in what she’d just heard, Mr Wilson told her the worst part. Told her, ‘And I don’t know what you mean by an American boy, Mrs Marks. To my knowledge, there are no American boys at this school.’

  * * *

  I knew. Even before I saw Mr Wilson sat there on the settee, I knew that the shit had hit the fan, because it was still hanging in the air. My Mam was stood there, staring out of the window with her back to me, like she couldn’t even bear to look at me. The telly was on with the sound turned down and I just stood there staring at it. I heard my Mam start crying. And then she turned and pushed past me and went into the kitchenette, slamming the door behind her. I just carried on staring at Blue Peter. If it had been a normal night we’d have been turning over to ITV by now and watching Blockbusters. And we’d be having milky coffee and toast with grilled cheese on top, all hot and bubbling up like the tarmac on the road at the height of an Indian summer. And I’d be telling my Mam all about the things that Malcolm had done today. And if Blockbusters turned out to be a bit boring or Bob was being particularly unbearable, I’d be telling my Mam about the really funny things that Malcolm had done. And my Mam would be laughing now. And delighted. If it had been a normal night. But nothing was normal. My Mam was crying in the kitchen. Mr Wilson was sat there on our settee, with a folder on his lap. The toast was still just bread, in the breadbin, the coffee still powder in the jar. And over on ITV, the Blockbusters and Bob were all Blockbusting away without us,
doing the hand-jive and being unbearable. And doing it all without me and my Mam.

  ‘Raymond,’ I heard him say, ‘nobody’s going to shout at you.’

  I carried on staring at the telly. My Mam came and stood in the doorway of the kitchenette and dabbed at her eyes with some kitchen roll.

  ‘How could you?’ she said. ‘How could you do that to me? I loved him, I did. I loved that lad!’

  She started crying again. And I wished I could cry myself. But I couldn’t.

  ‘Raymond, I’ve been having a long chat with your mum,’ Mr Wilson said. ‘She’s been telling me about some of the things that went on before you moved here to Wythenshawe.’

  I just nodded and carried on staring at the soundless Blue Peter.

  ‘Like the … like the time the policemen pulled you out of the canal,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that, Raymond?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘And this, erm … thing about you being … what was it, Raymond … the wrong boy, was it?’

  I just shrugged. It was funny on Blue Peter because they were launching another appeal, getting the kids to send in their jumble so that the homeless persons would be warm in winter. I hoped they didn’t end up with too much jumble from Marks and Spencer’s or the homeless persons would all be telling the Blue Peter presenters to fuck off. And they don’t like homeless persons doing that sort of thing, not on Blue Peter.

  ‘I was very interested, you know, Raymond,’ he said. ‘Yes. Very interested indeed when your mum told me about that, erm … wrong boy episode. And this, erm, this … Malcolm character, Raymond. I find that, erm … intriguing, Raymond. Very intriguing.’

  I just carried on staring at the telly. But my Mam said, ‘If you’d heard him, Mr Wilson! If you’d heard the way that he did Malcolm’s voice … I swear to God, Mr Wilson, you would have believed him yourself. You would have sworn that Malcolm really was real.’