Once Upon a Time in England

by Helen Walsh

  ‘It’s not punk, Ellie!’ he screamed, although he couldn’t be entirely sure if he knew what punk was. ‘It’s not for everyone!’

  Ellie ignored him, snapping her pelvis as though working a hula hoop.

  ‘For God’s sake, Ellie. At least get it right. That’s not even an Ant move.’

  ‘Yeah, it is a-Antman move! You’re just jealous because you haven’t got a pirate hat. Everyone knows that’s what the real Ants are wearing!’

  ‘’Scuse me, real Antpeople come up with something original.’

  ‘Hah! At least I’ve not bought my costume,’ she hissed back. ‘I’ve pieced mine together!’

  Vincent stepped back, winded. Wounded. He looked at his little sister, jacking madly along with the studio audience, and shook his head. So soon, so soon. Was this really the kind of pantomime that Antmania had been reduced to? Christmas-cracker hats and cardboard swords? Last week it seemed as though he was the only boy in town who’d even heard of Adam Ant. Now this – one TV appearance and already the movement had reached its nadir. He wanted to snap the elastic on his sister’s hat; with its smiley skull and crossbones and cheap gold cardboard, that hat seemed to flag precisely the moment where the movement had turned on itself. He was all for going back upstairs and taking off his make-up, but again that sense of guilt prevailed. He watched the cameras pan across a sea of flailing arms and plastic muskets, fastening on the snarling face of his idol, Adam Ant, lit up in a shower of gold and scarlet light bulbs. How could he abandon him now in his hour of need? It was simple – he couldn’t. With his credibility in danger of being sabotaged by little sisters all over the country brandishing weapons made from cereal boxes, Adam needed the likes of Vincent Fitzgerald like never before. First thing tomorrow he was writing to the fan club to strategise their rearguard action.

  Sheila came into the lounge grinning and seemingly in mild shock. Vincent turned, grateful for an excuse to miss Ellie’s last, triumphant chorus of ‘Antmusic’. Sheila flopped down on the sofa. She grinned over at Vincent and nodded ‘aah’ at Ellie’s clumsy dance routine. Vincent arched an eyebrow. ‘What’s happened, Mum? Good news?’

  ‘Well – not really. But yes. I suppose so …’

  ‘What then?’

  She beckoned for Vincent to come and sit next to her. ‘So. You know the nice lady who you see me talking to sometimes? When I pick you up from school?’

  Vincent’s heart sank. He knew exactly who she meant. ‘Mrs Cohen?’

  ‘Liza. Yes. Lovely lady …’

  Vincent wanted to tell her; how lovely could a lady be who brought her piggy little daughters up to scratch, bite, tease, punch, snitch, lie and kick? He looked into his mother’s eyes – and he knew he couldn’t do it to her. She had that enchanted, faraway look he only rarely saw in her these days. He didn’t know what brought it on, or made it go, for that matter. All he knew was that, sometimes, his mother was on top of the world – and this was one of those times. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Well …’ She puffed out her chest as she let him in on the news. ‘Liza has asked me to host the next fund-raiser …’

  ‘Fund-raiser?’

  ‘Yes. What’s so funny about that?’

  ‘What’re you raising funds for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she giggled. ‘Forgot to ask her!’

  Vincent tried to keep the scowl out of his voice. ‘Well. It’ll be some good cause, I’m sure …’

  As excited as she was at the fun and hard work that lay ahead if she were to repay Liza’s faith in her, even Sheila couldn’t have missed the hurt in her son’s face. She wrinkled her brow and touched his leg. ‘What is it, baby? Hey?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He looked away from her, out of the window. The rain outside, of which he’d only been faintly aware, rose to a roar. Vincent chanelled everything into just keeping his breathing regular. He was all too familiar with this sensation, and knew how it would end up. Whenever he felt wronged he couldn’t speak without bursting into tears. He couldn’t let that happen. Not now. Not over the Cohen sisters. He composed himself, swallowed his anxiety, set his shoulders straight and started to feel he might be OK.

  His mother’s face softened into a smile. She walked her hand towards him along the ragged polythene that still clung to their settee and ran her fingers along his cheek. He turned his face away, eyes troubled. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. Tell Amah!’

  Penned in, his teeth started to chatter as he built himself up into a state. ‘I can’t,’ he cried, jumping up and standing in front of her, wronged and betrayed.

  She tried to smile and cajole her way out of it. ‘Come on …’ She patted the seat next to her. ‘Tell Amah what’s eating you.’

  Furious, he pointed a finger in her face, hoping and praying that the words wouldn’t come. They came. ‘You should know without me having to tell you,’ he spat. ‘You’re a crap mother.’ And with that he flounced out of the room. Never one to miss out on a drama – and the potential lure of a conciliatory treat – Ellie joined the show of strength and stormed out in his slipstream.

  Sheila was gazing absent-mindedly at the TV when Robbie arrived home. She started when he walked into the lounge, saw the time on the wall clock, jumped up and apologised. ‘Robbie! I don’t know where the time’s gone! I’ve not even put the oven on.’

  Robbie gripped her gently around her shoulders and pushed her back into her seat. His eyes were squiffy, his voice mellow and he wore his careless, drowsy, four-pints glaze. Yet there was more. There was something different about Robbie, something beyond the half-drunk figure that rolled home most evenings, equally ready to squabble or chatter. Tonight, he seemed … high. She’d heard a lot about drugs and addictions, but surely not her Robbie? He plonked himself down next to her and focused woozily somewhere in between her eyes. ‘You,’ he said decisively, ‘are not lifting a finger!’

  Sheila felt too sapped by the evening’s events to question either his mood or his motive, but it planted something unpleasant deep within her. As though sensing her unease, Robbie hauled himself up and went into the kitchen, keeping his back to her questioning eyes. He dug around and, pleased with himself, retrieved a heavily stained menu from under the bread bin. Ellie appeared at his side. Robbie scooped her up and sucked her whole ear into his mouth. He kissed her on the tip of her nose then pulled back to get a proper look at her. Her eyes were spring-loaded like she wanted to tell him something.

  ‘Hello, little smasher! Who loves you, hey? Who loves ya, baby?’

  Her face buckled. ‘Vincent sworn-ah!’ she said – and promptly forced tears.

  Robbie shushed her, kissing her forehead. ‘Hey, little fella, shush-shush! Tell me …’

  Manfully, she quelled her sobbing shoulders and looked her father in the eye with full melodramatic confusion. ‘He said a very wrong word.’ She paused, sticking the knife in with exquisite timing. ‘To Mum.’

  Robbie bit back a smile. With Ellie still wrapped around his waist, he reached down into the fridge and retrieved a can. He measured its temperature against his cheek. ‘Did he now. Well we can’t have that sort of nonsense going on, can we, poppet?’ He put her down and stepped into the living room, snapping back the ring pull.

  Ellie poked her head around the doorjamb then scurried back into the kitchen. She paced the floor restively, nipping her inner lip with her lower teeth. When she could stand the tension no longer, she ducked under the kitchen table and huddled herself in a cosy ball against the radiator, safe against the maelstrom that would follow. Now she’d set things in motion, she was eager to distance herself from the action.

  Robbie sat down, casting his eyes over the menu out of habit rather than curiosity. He knew what he’d be having. Duck. He licked the icy droplets off the side of the can and ventured a glance at Sheila. She was looking at him funny.

  ‘Go on, then. What’s he been up to? Our Vincent?’ He slurped on the can and passed her the menu. His mouth had a sneering curl to it which she did not like
. She knew how much it would please him to be able to reprimand their son for something worthy of the name – to have the neighbours knocking at the door, dragging their bloodied sons with them. But Vincent’s bad behaviour rarely ventured beyond putting his light back on after bedtime, or forgetting to flush the toilet or, worst of all, picking at his food. She wanted to tell Robbie what had happened, but only as a way into the bigger issues. Liza. The curry evening. Her life outside Hayes Close.

  Sheila pored over the menu. She wasn’t hungry, but the roof of her mouth now tingled in anticipation of spice. These days, takeaway tended to mean something from the chip shop, or a tea-time special down at the Little Manor – scampi and chips, chicken in a basket. Tasteless cardboard, whatever name they gave it. She knew he’d started drinking after work – but that drowsy, dreamy face he was wearing took her back to their early days of courtship. She wasn’t inclined to quiz him though – not tonight, and it just wasn’t worth it, anyway. She opted for the chicken satay, by no means her favourite oriental dish, but without a doubt the hottest. She ordered some prawn crackers for Vincent too, in the hope that the spicy aroma might lure him down from his sulk. The breaded chicken fillet and the glass of dandelion and burdock she’d left outside the bathroom door had not been touched last time she looked, and there was still no sign of him coming out of there.

  Robbie dialled up the order, adding a half duck and beansprouts for himself, then settled on the floor in front of the fire, pulling out tobacco and papers, and started to build a rollie. Sheila watched him with mounting suspicion. He only ever smoked outside – even in the fiercest scourge of February he’d go out back, squat down on the cold concrete and nurse his dirty habit in solitude. The kids were well aware that their father smoked – they smelt it on his breath and sometimes the wind kicked up his long-dead butts and spat them across the lawn – but Robbie was always at pains to stress to his children that smoking was bad for them. For him to light up right here could only mean his mind was elsewhere. Sheila brought two weary hands to her face and tried to rub loose some of the anguish that was tightening it to tears.

  ‘Oh Robert,’ she sighed. ‘There’s something wrong with Vincent.’

  Robbie looked at her, serious for a moment. ‘How like?’

  Sheila felt a slow wave of guilt for the panic strafing her husband’s eyes. She’d made it sound more grave than it was, but she had his attention now, and she didn’t want to lose it. ‘Just lately, I don’t know, he’s receding even further into himself. He’s so uptight …’

  Robbie looked relieved. His attention had already wandered back to his tobacco and papers. Sheila felt a staccato stab of anger. She strived for his attention once more.

  ‘He’s been wallowing there in the bath now for hours. I left his tea outside the door for him. Not touched it. Stone cold. I’m telling you, Robbie, something’s not right.’

  Robbie jumped to his feet, flushed, his nose wrinkling up with anger. ‘What? He’s not eaten his tea? Vincent!’

  His shoulders squared for confrontation. Sheila felt an awful clawing in her tummy. She’d played this one badly, and it was only going to get worse. ‘Robbie! Robbie! Please don’t! Leave him …’

  He swung round in the doorway, his face puce with rage. He pre-justified his actions out loud. ‘We’ll see about letting his tea go cold.’

  Sheila made a feeble lunge, trying to pull him back into the room. He shrugged her off.

  ‘The big Mary Ellen. You need to toughen up, you! Taking his fucking tea up to him …’ He stormed out of the living room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  The pounding of her father’s feet on the stairs dragged Ellie out from under the table. She came running into the lounge and took flight in the hot ravine of her mother’s breast. Sheila pulled her baby in close, wrapping her hands around her little ears. Ellie began to sob. As the evening’s drama lurched towards its conclusion Ellie wished more than anything she could wind it back. She didn’t mean it to happen like this.

  Vincent was wallowing in the bath, in the mellow dark, thinking about things. All sorts of thoughts skittered across his consciousness – clothes, records, Matt, Mum, the Cohens, school. In particular, school was on his mind. School was hell – it was purgatory – but he was used to it and, like a gazelle in the wild, he was skilled in avoiding his hunters. At worst he’d been kicked, punched, bitten, slapped, tied up and, once, last week, tortured with cigarettes and matches. In a way, it seemed normal to him or, if not exactly normal, it was easily explained away. He could make sense of it. Only the Cohen girls seemed to actively hate him. But how could he tell Mum that? She positively idolised Liza.

  He checked on his wrist to see how the blistering scab was coming along – he’d suffered worse from being tied up so tightly, although the flame on his palm stung for days afterwards. All of this he took as par for the course, and took it easier for the knowledge that Ellie was sailing through school unscathed. He topped up the tub with more hot water. Every time it started to cool, he’d pull out the plug with his toes, let the tepid water drain off, add more hot and nimbly replace the plug. But now the pipes were reverberating with a stentorian drone that told him the tank was dry, and the bath was dangerously full.

  It was this spectacle that greeted Robbie as he barged the bathroom door open, snapping the flimsy lock: his son, almost wholly submerged in an overflowing bath, face streaked with gold flecks and runny mascara, humming to himself as he stared up at the ceiling.

  Vincent, ears deliciously warm and pulsing under the water, didn’t hear his father come in; didn’t hear his shouting or his feet on the stairs. He didn’t hear any of it, just dimly registered the vibration of the door banging against the bath. Only the sudden snap of the light and a vague sensory perception sat him up. He blinked at the sudden flurry of movement; through weak, squinting eyes, he just about made out his father’s vermilion hair. He felt out along the rim of the tub for his glasses, causing a great slosh of water to crash onto the floor. He managed to locate them just as they were flung into the water by the force of the mighty crack of a hand slapping his wrist. Another blow got him hard and fast across the cheek. He ducked down into the water so Robbie couldn’t hit him again, the violent flailing of arms and legs heaving another great torrent of water over the side of the bath. But this just enraged his dad further. His huge hand delved down into the bath water and dragged Vincent up by the hair, up and over and right out of the bath. He stood there dripping, shivering, both hands clamped pathetically over his privates.

  Blinking and scared, Vincent still hadn’t worked out what he’d done wrong. He’d been in trouble for using up the hot water before, for filling the bath right up, but nothing like this, ever. He could feel the rancid paste of his father’s beer breath, hot on his face. He could hear the vicious squeaking of the mirror being rubbed clear with a bare hand. But he couldn’t see a thing. He could just make out the bleary outline of his father’s arm groping around in the water – then he handed him his glasses.

  ‘Look at yourself!’

  Vincent was dimly aware of Ellie crying downstairs.

  ‘Just look at you!’

  Vincent pushed his nose right up against the mirror, right into the naked leering truth of his reflection. He let out a nervous laugh. He looked like a painting that Ellie might bring home. The steam had fleshed his eyes out into two kohl bruises and the sticky gold lipstick now clung to his lips like a second mouth.

  ‘Do you want me to start dressing you in a skirt as well, hey? Is that what you want?’ His dad let go of his head with a final thrust and stood back, panting. ‘That what it is, hey? Put on your mam’s make-up and …’

  The injustice of it, rather than the violence, got to Vincent and he felt the onset of tears. He couldn’t speak. His throat, swollen and sore, throbbed harder with each breath he snatched. He hung his head low, and his glasses slid down his soapy face and onto the floor. He felt puny – squalid and ridiculous; a skinny, pathetic, found-out nude
, shivering in shame in front of his father. He turned away, seeking his freedom by looking elsewhere, finding his own spot.

  Robbie snapped off the light and went to his bedroom.

  Twelve

  After Sheila had seen Ellie and Vincent off to school she took a bus to Lymm. She sat at the window, her eyes slatted against the pale November sun, thinking it all through. Vincent had stayed in his bedroom this morning till he’d heard his father’s car pull away from the drive. She’d taken his breakfast up to him. He’d managed a conciliatory smile. Without having to say a word, she knew intuitively that he didn’t blame her. Robbie, in comparison, was unaccountably chipper, almost as though it hadn’t happened. He even promised them the rare treat of a pub supper out in the country. Whether this was a sop to his conscience or an olive branch held out to Vincent, she couldn’t be sure, but she felt the same queasy foreboding she’d felt last night when he’d come through the door with that dreamy look about him. Something had caused this shift in constitution and she ached to know what – or who – was responsible.

  The bus deposited her outside the ancient parish church – even that seemed hunched against the cold. Closest to its banks the dam was frozen hard, with odd plaques of ice slopping on its surface and the old willows lapping at its edges dusted with a silver sheen of frost. It was postcard pretty, just like the paintings in her school back home. Without permission, but knowing he’d never miss it, she’d brought Robbie’s Instamatic to snap some scenes for Rasa. Now she’d found her brother again, she was making up for lost time, getting together a package of news and photos and little treats. Just inexpensive little things – clothes from the market for his kids, a packet of Hamlet cigars, Club biscuits. But as she framed and snapped the idyllic English winter scene, the thrill of the venture was at once weakened by the thought of Robbie. She still hadn’t told him about Amah. The right moment had not presented itself the evening she’d received the letter, and in the days that followed, Robbie’s drill of rolling in squiffy-eyed and sloppy from booze had acted as a bulwark. Yet it was more than that. Most of the time Sheila was able to keep a handle on her grief. The sheer, surreal distance between the world Rasa wrote of and the here and now of her life in Warrington enabled her to hold it off, push it far, far away. But the moment she drifted, dropped her guard, the stinging reality of Amah’s death would pounce on her unbidden, eliciting a truth that left her cold and hollow. The fact was that more and more Robbie was seeking to efface all traces of the life she’d lived back home. It had come to such a pass that she could barely mention KL these days without him looking betrayed and bustling the conversation elsewhere.