The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  I could see his girlfriend stood outside Smith’s and looking in the window. She was really pretty. She looked like somebody he must have met at university.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said. And then he cleared his throat and looked somewhat sheepish. ‘I just wanted to … I mean …’ He turned round, checking that his girlfriend was still out of earshot. Then he lowered his voice and he said, ‘You know that … erm … years ago! You know when we were at … remember all that stuff … at the canal … with Albert Goldberg and those others?’

  I looked at him then, properly, for the first time. And I was suddenly glad! Even though it was after all this time and it was too late to make a difference now, I was still glad that Geoffrey Weatherby was trying to own up and sort of say he was sorry about things. Once upon a time he’d been my all-time best friend. And I’d never wanted him to be the bastard he’d become; the one who’d ripped up our secret document and never ever talked to me again. And that’s why I was glad.

  ‘Well the thing is,’ he said, ‘when we were kids, I always meant to say … you know … I always wanted to tell you, really … that I thought they were all bastards, all those others, Goldberg, Duckworth and Kev Cowley … I thought they were real shits the way they all left you to it and let you take all the blame.’

  He nodded. And even reached out as if to touch my arm, before stopping and drawing back his hand, saying, ‘I just wanted you to know that. I thought they treated you really badly, those guys.’

  I just stared at him!

  And tried not to vomit at the putrid whiff and the sickly sweet stench of his patronising cant. Suddenly I knew why the smiles of the homeless people and beggars cannot conceal the hate in their eyes as you hand them your money.

  I watched him as he went back to join his girlfriend and the two of them moved off through the Arcade. She turned round and glanced back over her shoulder, looking at me as she laughed at something he was telling her.

  And I didn’t care! I didn’t care about any of them. Because I had something that none of them could ever have. That’s why I could just ignore them.

  I carried on to the music shop, to buy a new set of strings.

  They didn’t matter. I could even sort of feel sorry for them. I’d have hated to be like them, like any of them, with their cars and their careers and their Saturday night clubbing it; their crap CDs and student railcards, I hated all that. That’s why I didn’t care and never wanted anything that they had.

  Apart from a girlfriend!

  She looked really nice, Geoffrey Weatherby’s girlfriend.

  But even that didn’t matter.

  Because I had something that was nearly as good as having a girlfriend. I had something that none of them others would ever have; I had you, Morrissey. And that’s why I loved it so much, being in my bedroom in Failsworth, waking up in the morning and seeing you there on the walls. I’d lie there in bed, before the getting-up time, looking at every single one of the posters and pictures and record sleeves of you and The Smiths, all of them making me feel warm and lovely and reminding me how much I was a part of something. That’s why I loved it.

  And now?

  Now I’m here, Morrissey, like a displaced person, huddled in a wooden shelter, looking out across the sea. Here!

  I’m HERE, Morrissey! Two miles down the road from Grimsby.

  And a million miles from home.

  He always said, my Uncle, he said, ‘Well, it’s not as if you do fuck all else, is it, except sit around in that bedroom of yours, playing your records or your stupid fucking guitar. So it’s not as if you’re giving anything up, is it? You never go out. You never do fuckin’ nowt, so what have you got to lose? It’s not as if you’re living any sort of bloody worthwhile life here in Failsworth, is it?’

  And I never even bothered trying to tell him, Morrissey; because how could he ever understand, that unfortunate uncle of mine; how could he have comprehended that I was never ever ever just doing ‘fuck all’.

  I was being a Morrissey fan!

  Twenty-four hours a day, every day of the week, that’s what I was doing! I was listening and reading and thinking and dreaming. And writing. All day long, in my lyric book. Writing my words and my songs and my ideas and thoughts about you, Morrissey, and The Smiths. And other things too, things about my Gran. And even some things about myself.

  I was never an ‘idle tosser’. I was busy, all the time; busy being myself. Because that’s what you’d allowed me to become, Morrissey, myself. And I loved it. Knowing I was all right. Knowing it was perfectly, absolutely, one million per cent positively all right, to not be normal. That it was even better than that! That it was the best thing of all, the brilliance of not being normal.

  And that’s what I’d seen, Morrissey, when I’d looked up at the telly screen and seen you for the first time; seen all that sublime not normalness of you.

  There, on the telly in our front room. And I didn’t even know who you were. I hadn’t ever really listened that much, to pop music. I’d never heard of The Smiths. But I sat spellbound on our settee in a jumbled state of ecstatic serenity as you sang ‘Half A Person’, ‘Cemetery Gates’, ‘The Boy With The Thorn In His Side’; and in the wave of recognition that swept over me, I suddenly knew that I am known! I understood that I am understood.

  It’s just that nobody else seemed to understand!

  My Mam was always saying she was fed up seeing me sat around the house and doing nothing and wasting the most precious time of my life.

  She said, ‘It’s like you’ve never really done anything since you came out of hospital, Raymond. And I always thought, I thought that once we were living back here in Failsworth again you’d start to come out of your shell and buck your ideas up.’

  That’s what my Mam was always saying. She always thought that.

  As soon as we’d moved back to Failsworth, after they’d prosecuted the little girl’s father and locked him up and nobody could blame me any more, my Mam thought we could just go back to the beginning and start all over again. I think she wanted me to go back to becoming the boy I’d been meant to be. Only I couldn’t. Because time had moved on. And I’d become a different boy instead.

  I tried to tell her though, about how she didn’t need to worry about me. Because I was perfectly happy.

  And I was, Morrissey, after that day when I’d discovered you, I was always happy after that. Even when I found out that I’d left it really really late and The Smiths had already broken up, I was still happy, because I’d found you. I don’t mean I was frivolous happy; not jumpy-up-and-down stupid happy, frivolity-fuelled fun-filled happy, not that. It was real happiness, Morrissey; a calm and quiet happiness deep down inside of me. It was like being a kid and having the loveliness of catalogued comics all over again.

  I wasn’t being a ‘bone idle bastard’!

  I was being a Morrissey fan. And being myself. That’s why I went and found it, Morrissey, stuffed under the stairs where it had been for months and months, neglected, forgotten. I’d even thought about dumping it or giving it away because whenever I’d caught sight of it, all it had ever done was remind me of my time in Swintonfield. And so it had stayed there in the cupboard under the stairs: the guitar, along with my Star Wars stuff, my cobwebbed comic collection and all the other things I’d grown out of; all that stuff which seemed to belong to a person I could barely remember.

  Now though, now that I’d found you, Morrissey, now that I’d started learning from you, even beginning to try and make up songs of my own, finding that guitar in the cupboard beneath the stairs, pulling it out from under all the junk and the don’t-know-what-to-do-with bits and pieces, it was like digging up a priceless piece of long-lost treasure.

  And I hadn’t even wanted it!

  I’d told him, John the Gardener; I’d gone to find him and tell him I wouldn’t be able to play for him on the guitar any more; or drink the lovely sugary tea with not much milk; or sit there on summer afternoons, listening to the warm
wind in the branches of the big chestnut tree. I’d told him I was being discharged. And if I’d known, Morrissey, if I’d known who he really was then I might have understood the look on his face when I told him that. I thought he was ill at first. I thought something had snapped inside of him and he was having a heart attack or something. Because just for a moment, his face creased up with pain. And he whimpered out this sound that I’d never heard him make before, so I couldn’t even translate it. And even though I didn’t know why, I could see what sort of a monumental effort it was for him to summon up a smile and ruffle up the hair of my head as he made the choking growling sounds that I did understand; and I knew that he was telling me, ‘Good! Good, I’m glad you’re getting out of here. And going home, where you belong.’

  The next morning, the day I was leaving, I woke up on the ward and it was there, by the side of my bed, the guitar. And I didn’t even want it!

  But I knew I had to take it.

  And when my Mam came to collect me and asked where I’d got it from, I told her it was from the gardener. And I said we’d have to go and see him before I went home; go and see him and thank him. And say tarar.

  But, of course, when we got there, he was nowhere to be seen. The hut was empty; like it always was, whenever I was with my Mam.

  I wonder what he would have been like, Morrissey, if he’d heard me play it properly? I don’t mean brilliantly, Morrissey, because I’d never be able to play the guitar brilliantly, not like the genius Johnny Marr. But I learned enough, Morrissey. After I’d rescued it from under the stairs and polished it up and got new strings, I practised and practised every day, my fingers aching and stinging in agony from making the shapes and pressing the strings; until gradually my fingers became supple enough, the tips grew smooth and hardened up and I could press the strings and play the chords without feeling any pain.

  Then day after day, from listening and listening over and over again, I worked out the chords to ‘Handsome Devil’, ‘Back To The Old House’, ‘Ask’ and ‘Panic’ and ‘Cemetery Gates’; and ‘Please Please Let Me Get What I Want This Time’.

  And it was like I had, Morrissey; like I had got exactly what I wanted; because I’d found a way of being me.

  And that’s why they didn’t matter, the Darren Duckworths and the Kev Cowleys. That’s why I could carry on without caring about the Geoffrey Weatherbys. And the girlfriends that I didn’t have. It didn’t matter. Because I had a way of living.

  Until!

  Last night, Morrissey, when he picked me up in the silver Mercedes, I couldn’t believe it was possible. It should have been the lift of a lifetime, really. I’d never ever met a real American person before. And I’d certainly never ever met a middle-aged person who knew almost every lyric from every track on The Smiths’ Singles cassette. He said it was his son, back in New York, that’s who’d first introduced him to your music. And that’s why he’d stopped for me, he said, because normally he would have thought twice about picking up a hitch-hiker at that time of night. But then he’d seen my tee shirt and recognised Edith Sitwell. I hadn’t even been hitching. I’d just been sitting there by the petrol station.

  And then I’d heard this voice saying, ‘Hey, kid! You need a ride?’

  I looked up and saw him standing there by his car.

  ‘Where you headed?’ he asked.

  When I told him Grimsby, he said, ‘Come on, you’re in luck.’

  He said the place he was staying was a few miles south of Grimsby and so he could easily drop me off.

  I know, Morrissey! I know I should have been ecstatic at getting a lift like that. Especially when I was sat there in leather-seated, air-conditioned luxury, gliding down the motorway in that big silver Mercedes with the glorious sounds of The Smiths’ Singles pouring out from every speaker. It should have been brilliant. But it wasn’t. He was really nice, the American man. It wasn’t like he was pretending, like a vicar or like those teachers who pretend to like music that’s far too young for them and so they end up being the most excruciatingly embarrassing form of subhuman life that’s ever been known. He wasn’t like that at all, the American man. Because it was like he understood, like he really understood everything about you and your lyrics, Morrissey. He said that sometimes he could hear a line of yours and it would reduce him to tears, the way that you could capture the ‘strange joy of heartache’. And sometimes, he said, the ‘sheer audacity of a Morrissey line’ would momentarily rob him of his breath.

  That’s why it should have been the most magical lift I’ve ever had, Morrissey. But it wasn’t. Because with every track we were getting nearer and nearer to my destination. I think the American man must have known. Because he stopped talking to me, like he understood.

  And it was like you understood, Morrissey. Because every line that you sang, it was like you were singing it for the very first time; and singing it just for me; like you knew that finally this was it, that there was no more getting out of it, no more putting it off. And this time I really was going to Grimsby! Going to work. Growing up!

  I looked out of the window, saw the lights of Scunthorpe flickering in the distance, across the fields. With every mile, I felt it growing heavier, the weight of where I was going to; the weight of all I was leaving behind. The weight of what I was about to do.

  I’m sorry, Morrissey!

  I don’t want you to think of it as a betrayal. See, what you’ve got to understand, Morrissey, is that in a place like a building site, you’ve got to do everything you can just to survive. You see, they wouldn’t understand, Morrissey. You’ll always be there in my heart, inside of me, Morrissey. It’s just that … on the outside …

  It doesn’t mean I’m no longer a fan or that I don’t respect and care for you as much as I’ve always done. All it does mean, Morrissey, is that I’m just trying to get by without being mocked and made miserable and being griefed-up all the time.

  And that’s the only reason I agreed, Morrissey. That’s why I let my Mam get them for me, the black vests! She got them from the Army and Navy, along with the jacket, the builders’ boots, the stonewashed jeans and the grey slacks and vee-neck jumpers for the nights and weekends, when I went out with my new friends!

  My Mam said they really suited me, the black tank-top vests. She said I’d grow into them, once I started building up my muscles and filling out a bit. And with the jeans, she said, the jeans and the boots and the tank-top vests, I could almost be taken for a young Bruce Springsteen.

  ‘And a person like that,’ my Mam said, ‘someone like Bruce Springsteen, he’d never look out of place on a building site.’

  Morrissey, I’m sorry!

  That’s the real reason I ate the chicken!

  So I could try and start getting used to it. So that I won’t seem different; so I won’t be out of place any more.

  Morrissey, it doesn’t mean that I’ll have forgotten you though. Even if I do end up looking ordinary and normal, even though I might have to listen to unforgivable things like U2 and learn how to tell jokes and talk all that shag-brained sort of stuff that only men can do, I won’t ever forget you, Morrissey.

  I know you’ll think I’m letting you down; and letting myself down.

  Last night, when I was in the silver Mercedes, I even felt like I was letting the American man down. There he was, thinking he was talking to a real Morrissey fan. And all the time I knew I’d soon be swapping my Edith Sitwell tee shirt for something else. All the time we’re driving along with your sublime singing filling the air; and in the back there’s my bag, with my brand new costume of ordinariness and normality. And it’s like I’m betraying everything. That’s why I just stared out of the window, staring at the blackness; then watching Immingham, as we passed it by, all lit up like a spaceship in the night. Then back to the blackness, punctuated only by the motorway signs, the one that said Welcome to Grimsby – Food Capital of Europe. And the other one saying Grimsby City Centre 5 miles.

  I stared at the outskirts, the shutt
ered-up shops and retail outlets; the neon signs and the sodium lights, deserted bus stops, theme pubs, houses, petrol stations, the hoarding boards for flights and beer, bras and fish fingers, pickles and pensions, films and cars. I stared at the gates of the schools and the playgrounds, the office buildings, the depots and yards; the signs for the docks, the museums and ferries; and one sign by the side of the traffic lights that said Fish Dock Number 9.

  And next to that, tied up with string, a yellow card with a black arrow pointing and underneath, the mud-spattered lettering that said Cinema Complex 200 yds. All Contractors’ Vehicles MUST report to Site Office.

  That’s what I was looking at when the car started slowing down and I heard him ask, ‘This place you’re staying – what was the name of the street?’

  I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket again and told him, ‘Slinger Street.’

  ‘You have any idea where it is?’ he asked.

  I shook my head. ‘I just know it’s somewhere near the docks,’ I said.

  He nodded, looking out the window, as he brought the car to a halt. ‘Well, I guess this is the dock area,’ he said, ‘but I don’t have a clue where this Slinger Street could be.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘you don’t have to take me any further. You can just drop me off here and I’ll find it.’

  He frowned, looking a bit dubious. ‘You sure?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘I’ll ask somebody.’

  I started getting out of the car. Then he got out and said, ‘You know it’s real late. How can you be sure there’s gonna be people to let you in once you find this place?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘they know I’m coming. My Uncle arranged it.’

  He started nodding. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but you look after yourself.’

  Then as he was about to get back in the car he stopped and said, ‘So, what’s your name, kid?’

  When I told him, he said, ‘Well, it’s good to have met you, Ray. By the way, I’m Ralph, Ralph Gallagher.’

  That’s when he reached out and shook me by the hand. And I thanked him for giving me such a brilliant lift. ‘I didn’t know’, I said, ‘that such a mature person as yourself could be a Morrissey fan.’