Evil Relations

by David Smith

  The winkle-pickers clunk on the stairs; we never did get round to putting a carpet down. The kitchen hasn’t changed much either apart from a lick of paint, but it feels a lot cosier with nappies and baby clothes drying on the wooden frame in front of the fire. I run the only tap – still no sodding hot water – and the arctic blast wakes me up. I comb my hair again and rearrange the quiff while another train thunders by, making the crockery clatter.

  Maureen stands at the kitchen table making sandwiches for two pack-ups, the dogs at her feet. Dad is in the living room; he and I work at the same factory in Ardwick, where he’s an engineer and I’m a labourer. At dinnertime he nips to the pub for an hour with the other engineers and I eat my pack-up on a bench in Ardwick Green opposite the hotel. I like it there.

  The kettle whistles and Maureen makes a fresh pot of tea. I hear the factory hooter calling the workers in for their shift at the foundry. I realise we’re running late, but Maureen calms me by explaining that Dad has had a word with a workmate who’s going to clock us in on the sly. I relax and sup my tea, leaning against the sink and disguising boredom as she outlines her plans for the day. It sounds like every other day, to me: a visit three streets away to her mam, a visit two streets away to Auntie Ann and cousin Glenys, and a nice stroll with Angela Dawn in her pram in Sunnybrow Park. Lovely, I say.

  Then she looks at me brightly, ‘Oh, Dave, I nearly forgot. Myra and Ian want to come round tomorrow night. Is that all right?’

  That will be all right because tomorrow is Friday (pay day), no work on Saturday, and I can get merrily pissed with Och-aye from Glasgow.

  I finish my tea and muse on how things have changed between Dad and me. I look forward to going to work with him; it makes up for a lot of the bruising we’ve dished out to each other. He slumps in his chair, thumb and finger at his temples to squeeze away a hangover. The ashtray on the table overflows, but he keeps on puffing away. Maureen brings me toast and another pot of tea, knowing how much I love our mornings, especially sitting on the settee with Angela before leaving for the factory. I tickle and play with my daughter for a few minutes and then it’s time to collect our pack-ups and head off. Maureen holds Angela in her arms and sees us off from the door.

  Dad’s first stop is the corner shop on the end of Wiles Street to buy his fags and Daily Mirror. I choose a bottle of milk from the crates stacked outside. The shop itself is so poky it can only cater for five people at a time and often there’s a queue down the street. Inside, crudely built shelves are crammed with no thought to order: baked beans next to firelighters, tights beside Spam. Potatoes bulge from the rolled-down hessian sacks in the corner and a monstrous brass till squats on the counter.

  This morning there’s only one customer in the shop: our neighbour from number 9, Mrs Reade. She stands close to the counter with her head bowed, having a whispered conversation with Mr Hodges, the shopkeeper. Dad picks up his paper from the pile near the till and automatically opens it at the racing page. We wait patiently for Mrs Reade to finish. Always a very slight lady, she seems to have shrunk further in the year that’s gone by.

  Dad asks her politely, ‘Morning, Joan. How are you today?’

  She replies in her quiet voice, ‘Fine, Jack. Not too bad, thank you.’ She gives us both an unconvincing smile and leaves the shop, clutching the bits she’s just bought close to her. Mr Hodges shakes his head and rolls his eyes in a sad, hopeless gesture that’s kinder than it looks. Then he reaches under the counter and hands Dad his daily two packets of Capstan Full Strength before opening the thick tick-book to log the transaction; the cost of a week’s living comes out of a Friday night pay packet.

  As we leave the shop, I glance quickly down the street. Mrs Reade is going into number 9, head bowed, while Maureen stands on our doorstep with Angela, waiting for us to turn the corner. She waves and shouts cheerily, ‘See you both tonight.’ I lift my hand, then turn away as both doors close.

  Dad licks the end of his stubby pencil as we walk, marking off another nag to back. I bide my time before mentioning, as casually as I can, that Myra and Ian fancy a drink at ours tomorrow night. His reaction is exactly what I expect: face contorted with suppressed anger, he replies that he couldn’t give a shit because he’s going drinking in the Hyde Road Hotel straight from work and not to bother with his dinner – he’ll bring something home from the chipper.

  We walk towards the bus stop in silence.

  *

  I meet up with Dad after work, outside the factory gates; we’re both grimy from a day’s labour but who cares, it’s Friday. Dad’s in good form: he’s had a ‘treble up’ on the horses and has a thirst coming on. Not bothering to open his wage packet, he takes a green bundle of notes from his pocket and peels off several pounds with the order to ‘pay Maureen my board, settle up with the shop and get our Angie something nice’.

  I walk the half-mile with him to the Hyde Road Hotel. As we near its Victorian bulk, we’re greeted with the heaving noise of laughing men and the chink of glasses being collected for the next round. Dad pushes open the door. The thick smell of beer and a sudden draught of Woodbines escapes. As he disappears inside, I notice that he’s got the Daily Mirror tucked in his back pocket, dirty and well-thumbed but still open at the racing page. I laugh to myself and catch the 109 to Gorton, sitting upstairs and enjoying a well-earned cigarette, glad to know I’ve got a pocket full of wages, Dad’s happy and I can have a good scrub and nice bit of dinner before the evening kicks off.

  Maureen’s left the front door open and the smell of boiled ribs and cabbage hits me as I walk through the living room into the damp heat of the kitchen. I cast my unopened wage packet onto the table along with Dad’s ill-gotten gains. Maureen calls a hello over her shoulder, as she busies herself with pots, pans and plates. She chatters away once she starts buttering slices of bread and I lie to her that it’s been a gruelling day just to get a bit of the old feminine sympathy. In a corner of the kitchen, Angela sits upright in her pram, eyes bright as pennies, dressed in pink and smelling wonderfully of fresh baby powder. She grabs at the air with her chubby little fists, trying to catch something only she can see. I laugh, amused by her determination and the way she’s sitting, lopsided but comfortable, kicking her blanket away as if it’s a whole new game. I spend a few minutes trying to sit her up straight, but her arms and legs move faster at the attention and I give up, leaving her gurgling to herself.

  At the sink I scrub, comb my hair and rearrange the quiff yet again before pulling up a chair to the table and tucking into a bloody good dinner. Life is sweet.

  Myra and Ian arrive at seven o’clock. The Morris is parked up for the night, with its white bonnet almost touching the railway sleepers at the end of the street, and the two of them walk into the house without bothering to knock. They’re always charitable visitors: Ian carries a couple of bottles of Bell’s and two or three records under his arm; Myra follows with a box crammed with red wine in an assortment of corked bottles and several Babychams and Cherry B’s. I perk up even further as we say hello, sensing a good night is on the cards.

  Dad and Maureen have shaped the condemned house into a clean, cosy home. In front of the fire where the dogs lie, we now have a lightweight settee and on each side of the range are chairs, one for Dad and one for me. Our old table, scrubbed spotless, stands in the middle of the room and against the wall is a second-hand but sturdy sideboard. Maureen’s precious Dansette sits on top of it, along with two tall stacks of records: my large collection of blues and rock ’n’ roll and her smaller set of Elvis. My wall holds centre stage, plastered from floor to ceiling with images of teen-beat cool and defiance: Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Little Richard, Sam Cooke, Jerry Lee, a very young Bob Dylan . . . Tucked away in the corner is a small group of Elvis photographs to appease Maureen.

  The girls disappear into the kitchen to fetch glasses and have a sisterly natter. Ian stands before the wall for a moment, mockingly shaking his head at my creative eff
orts, then gives a friendly tut of disapproval as he takes a seat by the fire. I’m in mischievous mood and pile the Dansette with a selection of black singers, hoping to wind racist Ian up. But this time he ignores my deliberate attempt to annoy him and sits smoking his cigarette tranquilly.

  Maureen and Myra return, sitting down shoulder to shoulder at the table to share a box of Maltesers and bottles of Cherry B. I look at Ian: he’s dressed immaculately, as usual. Cuff-linked white shirt, tie fastened with a traditional single knot and his favourite grey three-piece suit, with its two-inch trouser turn-ups. Other than my wedding tie, the closest I ever got to that kind of neatness was a Texas bootlace affair with a sliding metal knot. He removes his jacket and pours two large slugs of jugged wine. When he hands me a glass, it’s like being served by John Dillinger – he’s got the look and the waistcoat, just not the gun-holster. We settle back with our drinks before the fire and unwind quietly for a while.

  Maureen rises to prepare Angela for bed. Myra sits watching her without a word and doesn’t ask to hold the baby, or kiss her forehead. Not even a ‘Good night, God bless’; only a curious silence. Maureen passes Angela over to me for the last ten minutes of her day and I reach for her eagerly, loving to hold her as she nestles against me, snuggled up all pinkly tired and tidy, smelling sweetly of Johnson’s baby powder. Ian prods and pokes at the fire. His and Myra’s lack of attention towards our daughter doesn’t bother me; they just have different ways to us. Angela is teaching me new feelings all the time and I’m greedy to learn with her. I hold her a little too tightly, contemplating how life has altered in a year: I’m 16 now, wear a wedding ring and have a beautiful daughter. Being married suits me. The Image is beginning to feel outdated and unimportant; even the reason for the wall is fading fast.

  I kiss Angela goodnight, pass her back to Maureen and give Ian a quick grin of sheer pleasure at the joy of being a parent. He frowns at me before turning back to gaze at the fire again, lost in thought.

  Hours later, the bottles of Cherry B and Babycham stand empty on the table and cigarette smoke floats thick as a dream around the light bulb. Longsight’s cheap red wine has kicked in and I act as DJ while the girls jive together, both laughing and shrieking as they twirl and catch each other at high speed. I spin Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’ and ‘Hats Off to Larry’, Eddie Cochran’s ‘Twenty Flight Rock’ and ‘Summertime Blues’, and just for Maureen, I even let rip with Elvis: ‘It’s Now or Never’ and ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ Ian sits with his tie loosened, heavy-eyed and glass in hand, not listening to the music or the girls singing. He’s no rock ’n’ roller and he’s no Fred Astaire; he doesn’t even tap his feet to the beat. I leave the Dansette and jive with the girls until the whisky makes the floor uneven, then stagger out into the street for some air.

  I leave the door open to let out the coiling smoke and the sound of Gene Vincent giving it the old ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’. Ian follows me out into the dark, carrying the sort of whisky measure you can never buy in a pub. He puts his cigarette to his lips and his glass on the roof of the Morris, then jumps backwards onto the bonnet, long legs dangling. I lean against the wall of the house, looking up at the inky, star-scattered sky and listening to a train hurtle by, waiting for the smoke to vanish from the street. I know that train; it’s a cargo wagon full of coal. When I was a kid, I’d hide in wait with the Cummings boys for a train like that to pass, fancying ourselves as Jesse James and the Younger Brothers. Miniature desperados, we’d walk the tracks with sacks to scour the line for treasure: black gold nuggets. If a bag was too full or heavy, we’d stash it on the embankment and continue the search. Often we were chased by the dreaded railway ‘Pinkerton Men’ and would make our escape only to return later to retrieve the loot, dragging the bags up the embankment to our outlaws’ hideout – Mrs Cummings’ kitchen. I shake my head and give a half-laugh: Jesse and the James Gang in short trousers and rolled-down woolly socks. Well, it makes for a happy memory.

  Ian sits sipping his whisky on the car bonnet, watching the street corner. I notice the forlorn shapes of Joan and Amos Reade – Pauline’s parents – coming towards us on their way home from the Steelworks Tavern. I stand away from the wall, a little unsteady, not wanting to appear yobbish.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Reade.’ I speak as clearly as I can, hating the embarrassment of being wobbly-drunk.

  ‘Hello, David.’ She gives me the faintest of smiles. Mr Reade nods in greeting.

  Even through the fuddled haze of red wine and whisky, I feel uncomfortable with the raucous music pouring from the open door, but Mrs Reade is not the kind of lady to complain about anything. Her husband gives me another silent nod in goodnight and they disappear into their private silence behind the door.

  I lean back against the wall again with a sigh.

  Ian sips his whisky thoughtfully. ‘Them the parents of that missing girl?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He gazes at the railway sleepers and takes a long drag on his cigarette. ‘So, what’s the story behind that? What do you think happened to her?’

  I tell him about the rumours Pauline fell for a lad from the fairground and ran off with him to a new life, perhaps abroad. Ian pulls down the corners of his mouth and draws on his cigarette again. I add that the police came to our house, asking questions.

  A flicker of interest passes across his face. ‘What kind of questions?’

  I shrug. ‘Just what you’d expect: what sort of girl was she and was she the sort to up and leave.’ I pause. ‘She wasn’t.’

  ‘No?’

  I think of Pauline, bringing me tea and jam sandwiches on the doorstep in the rain when we were both kids. ‘No. She was quiet. Nice. Not that sort of girl at all.’ I scrape one heel down the bricks. ‘Fuck knows what happened to her.’

  Ian sits swinging his legs to and fro on the bonnet of the white Morris, downing the rest of his drink in one.

  I go back indoors to join the girls. After a while, Ian returns and fills up his empty glass. He wears a scowl and moves slowly across to the stack of discs that I’ve fanned out on the floor to play. He fumbles on the table for one of the records he’s brought and removes the song playing on the Dansette, replacing it with his own before clumsily dropping the needle. I sit on the floor, gloomy in the knowledge of what’s coming: the bloody Goons and that nutter Spike Milligan. The whisky aggravates my mood and I wish I had the sense to avoid it because it never fails to screw with my head. I sit closer to Maureen for comfort, pushing away my glass, talking to her in an effort to clear the fog from my brain. Ian and Myra join in with the Goons, hysterical with laughter and mimicking the voices on the record. It’s not my sort of humour; I just don’t get it.

  Finally, the pantomime put on by our guests ends. I clamber into my chair as Ian tops up my glass with more whisky, ignoring my slurred protests. He stumbles back to the Dansette and puts on his other record. When he turns the volume dial, the small, inadequate speaker vibrates with the pounding rhythm of thousands of stomping jackboots. A crescendo of ‘Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil, Sieg Heil’ fills the sitting room. Hitler’s voice opens out into the space left behind by the chanting and Ian’s face is animated at last.

  I’ve lost the ability to move: the drink has gone to my legs, so I sit pinned to my chair, listening to a language I don’t understand and wonder glumly what happened to ‘C’mon Everybody’. The night has lost its way. Everything is getting loud, distorted and too hot. Maureen’s gone into the kitchen for something and I wish she’d hurry up and come back. The room shrinks to Myra and Ian talking in short bursts of German. Ian frequently stabs at his knee with a bony finger to emphasise parts of the Führer’s rhetoric. Sometimes he speaks to me as if he’s a paid interpreter: ‘He’s saying this now, Dave’ . . . ‘He means that now, Dave.’ He asks me if I get it. Do I? No, I flaming well do not – it takes me all my time to decipher Ian’s own glutinous Glaswegian, never mind Hitler in full rant.

  I stare at Ian’s mouth, trying to focus on his narrow lips,
but they move like a puppet’s useless maw. I listen hard but can’t hear anything he’s telling me and close one eye in a vain attempt to control my swirling double-vision. Maureen is in the room again at least and I’m glad of that, even though she’s sitting next to Myra on the floor and talking to her while Ian carries on excitedly picking out bits of Hitler’s speech for me.

  Despite being almost catatonic with booze, I’m the only one who hears the sound of a key scrabbling at the door.

  Dad crashes in blind drunk, arse over heels, hanging onto the key in the lock. I feel myself tense up; Dad’s crossed swords with Ian before and despises him. His entrance on this particular evening will live with me for ever: he hits the floor on all fours, dropping his precious soggy parcel from the chipper. Struggling to his feet, he gathers up the wrapped fare and stands unsteadily with a crooked smile that vanishes as he takes in the situation. Hitler’s voice seems to roar from every wall as Dad slams his parcel down on the table and glares furiously at Ian.

  I think to myself, ‘Fuck, Ian’s sat in Dad’s chair.’

  Then, to make matters worse, Ian announces in a drawling Dixon of Dock Green voice that drips sarcasm, ‘Evening, all.’

  I edge forward on my seat, waiting for the explosion.

  Dad spits at Ian, ‘What the fuck are you doing in my fucking house?’

  Ian answers slowly and deliberately, gleefully aware that he only has to breathe to inflame the older man: ‘Well, I do believe, Mr Smith, we have been invited.’

  I watch Dad intently. I know his moods inside out and feel it when his rage breaks over us like a colossal, fiery wave.

  ‘I’m not having that fucking shit played in my house! Get it off and get your fucking self out after it.’