by Mike Gayle
In a fit of self-chastisement I threw caution and my dark blue/black-only philosophy to the wind and grabbed a couple of brightly coloured shirts that caught my eye. I approached one of the shop’s cooler-than-thou assistants who was sneering by the clothing racks. He was about twenty-one, with the body of a stick insect and wearing a shirt like the one that I had in my hands. Now, because intimidation by trendy clothes-shop assistants was a new experience for me (although, from what Elaine had told me, it was a regular occurrence in women’s clothes shops), I threw back my shoulders, sucked in my stomach, and asked him where the changing rooms were. He looked at me, his features only a notch or two down from a grimace, then shrugged and pointed me in the right direction.
I closed the curtains gingerly, removed my jacket and T-shirt, slipped on the first shirt and, in the cold light of the shop’s three-tier lighting system (position one: simulated daylight; position two: artificial light; position three: a thunderstorm), stared in disbelief at the mirror. For as long as I had known her Elaine had propagated the urban myth that clothes shops had specially designed mirrors that made customers look like beached whales. According to her, it was all part of a campaign by skinny women to take over the world. It was only now as I stood there afraid to move for fear of popping buttons off the shirt like the Incredible Hulk that I realised skinny men had some world domination plans of their own.
‘How’s it looking?’ called the assistant, from outside the cubicle.
I opened the curtain and let him look for himself. Together we stared into the mirror not quite believing our eyes.
‘Isn’t this a bit tight?’
‘It’s cut to be close-fitting,’ he replied tersely.
There was no answer to his response that didn’t involve an expletive and/or a punch in the face, so I thanked him for his time and, clutching what little dignity I had left, disappeared behind the curtain to mourn the passing of my youth.
eighteen
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Stuff
Dear Elaine
Make sure you remember to water the spider plants in the bathroom – and remember, just holding the shower head over them once a week doesn’t count. Also, don’t forget to pay off your credit card before they start charging you a small fortune in interest (again).
Matt xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Not Dad
Dear Elaine
Forget that last e-mail. Who am I? Your dad? Don’t bother to water the spider plant. Don’t pay off your credit card. Do what you want.
love
Matt xxx
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Dad!
For the record – I had already watered the spider plant but I admit had forgotten to pay my Visa bill. This is scary stuff, Matt. We’ve split up and not only do I have to remember to pay my own Visa bill but I have to miss you too. Don’t you dare stop moaning at me . . .
much love
Elaine xxx
nineteen
During my first week at home I led a double life. By night I’d hang out with Gershwin – occasionally Zoë and Charlotte too – and by day I spent time with my parents, which was a bizarre experience. I hadn’t ‘hung out’ with my mum and dad since I was in my mid-teens, and during that week I recalled with a perfect clarity of vision why this was so. Overjoyed at having me, their eldest, back under their roof and trying, in their own small way, to help me forget my current circumstances, they determined to entertain me. For the most part this meant taking me out on day trips to places they’d been to a million times before and had enjoyed so much that they saw no reason not to return.
Our first day out was to nearby Stratford-upon-Avon – which, in fact, turned out to be quite good fun. We visited Anne Hathaway’s house which my mum thought ‘a bit poky’, and then we all walked round the shops for a few hours until my dad announced that he wanted to go back to the car to ‘check something’. Permission was denied as Mum revealed that ‘checking something’ was Dad-speak for being bored and wanting a quick nap in the car. In the evening I attempted to treat them to a meal, but failed miserably.
‘You’re not paying for me,’ said my dad.
‘Why not?’ I asked, not even close to understanding his logic.
‘Because you just can’t,’ said my dad.
‘I’d die of shame,’ said my mother, with such vehemence that I was sure she was only this far (i.e. not very) from pinning me down and wrestling the bill off me. ‘You don’t want to be spending your hard-earned money on me and your dad. Put your money away. Your dad will get it.’
‘It’s only twenty-two pounds fifty!’ I protested. ‘It’s not going to break the bank. I’ll get it, honestly, it’s okay.’
I was determined not to give in on this because when they’d been to stay with Elaine and me they’d insisted on paying for everything to the point where we had nearly fallen out. With a stubbornness that reminded me of my childhood self, I forced them to let me pay. I handed my credit card to the waitress, and while she disappeared to put it through the reader I went to the toilet. I returned to see my dad sweet-talking her into taking his card instead.
A few days later we took our next trip – to the Botanical Gardens in Edgbaston, which my dad enjoyed immensely. On arrival he insisted on buying me a spider plant because, apparently, when I was a kid he’d taken me and the twins there and he’d bought me one then. It was a beautiful day and we walked all round the gardens, then had tea and scones with fresh cream in their olde-worlde Englishe Tea Shoppe. It was while my mum was trying her best to do an impression of HM Queen Elizabeth II eating a crumbling jam-and-cream-laden scone that my dad piped up, ‘Do you remember the talking mynah bird they used to have here, Matt?’
I thought hard. ‘No.’
‘You must remember it,’ he said sourly. ‘It lived in one of the hot-houses and said things like “Who’s a cheeky boy?” and “Whoops! There goes a sailor!”’
‘No, Dad. I think I’d remember something as surreal as a mynah bird that said, “Whoops! There goes a sailor.”’
My dad wouldn’t have any of it. He kept badgering me about that bloody mynah bird for the rest of the day. Sample conversation:
Him: Surely you must remember it, Matt. It was black with a big yellow beak.
Me: No, Dad, I don’t remember any mynah bird. As far as I can recall I’ve never seen a mynah bird in my life.
Him: [Tersely] You do remember it, you’re just being bloody stubborn now!
This, I now see, was the beginning of the end of the family outings, but the final straw came two days later when we attempted to go to the Malvern Hills for the day. To cut a long story short we got lost and ended up heading towards Bristol on the motorway because my dad misheard one of my directions. He insisted that I’d got it wrong and my mum just sat in the back of the car sucking a pear drop and tutting at both of us while we argued. I think that as we returned to Birmingham, sulking in our separate worlds, my parents and I decided unanimously that, although we loved each other a lot, there was such a thing as too much ‘quality time’.
twenty
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Thirty-people (as you call them)
Dear Elaine
I met up with Gershwin a few days ago. I always feel good when I see him. I always feel more like myself. He turns thirty in a fortnight but I think he’ll take it a lot better than me. I think the art of taking it well is being happy with what you’ve got. Okay, he’s not that in love with his job but he has a great relationship with his wife and the cutest
little girl. Not bad for a thirty-person I’d say. Speaking of Charlotte, I gave her the Barbie doll you’d bought for her. She loves it and now insists on calling her Elaine. I told her you look nothing like Barbie, but she wouldn’t budge. Kids, eh?
Matt xx
PS Any mail arrived at the apartment for me?
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Thirty-people
Dear Matt
Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you constantly have to evaluate/compare and contrast EVERYTHING in your life? I thought it was just a guy thing but I’m wondering whether it’s just a you thing. Your life is great! Just chill out, will you?
Elaine xxx
PS Re: The have-you-got-any-mail quip. You are joking. You never got any when you lived here!!!!!
PPS I know I sound happy but I’m not. I still miss you.
PPPS I also note that none of your e-mails so far mentioned you missing me. Which means you owe me two if I’m not going to race ahead in the ‘loser ex-girlfriend/ex-boyfriend still wanting reassurance stakes’.
PPPPS That Barbie-Elaine thing is hilarious. Everyone at work has been calling me Barbie all day. Tell Charlotte she’s gorgeous.
twenty-one
‘There you go, Matthew,’ said my mum.
I looked at the fistful of money-off coupons she was putting into my hands. ‘What are these?’ I asked.
‘What do they look like?’ she replied, in her no-nonsense manner.
I plucked one from the pile in my hand and said, ‘Well, this one’s for tenpence off Bachelor’s Cup-a-soup new country-style range.’
‘That’s what it is,’ said my mum.
‘But no one uses money-off coupons any more, Mum, it’s so . . . ‘
My mum looked at me, daring me to finish the sentence. ‘Look after the pennies,’ she said, turning me round and pointing me in the direction of the front door, ‘and the pounds will look after themselves.’
The reason for this exchange was guilt. Now that day trips were a thing of the past I was reduced to sitting around the house watching my parents work. Although my mum and dad had retired, their Protestant work ethic seemed to have quadrupled. As well as general household maintenance my dad seemed always to be building shelves for my mum. She, meanwhile, seemed always to be making twee country-style baskets of varnished fake bread plaits and flower arrangements to put on the aforementioned Dad-made shelves. They worked all the time. Like some sort of self perpetuating craft-fair industry. Work. Work. Work. This was why in my second week I volunteered to do the supermarket shopping for my mum just so I could be active too. Also I got to use my dad’s car – a pristine Vauxhall Nova. My dad loved his car; he washed it every other day, and had a tub of tyre paint that he applied once a month to keep his tyres looking jet black. It was his pride and joy. But as my mother ruled the roost in the Beckford family, even Dad’s pride and joy was at her disposal.
‘I’ll do the weekly shop,’ said my dad, clutching his car keys nervously. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘But Matthew’s already offered, Jack,’ said my mum. ‘And remember, you’ve got those shelves to finish. Anyway, it will do Matthew good to get out of the house and do something useful . . . for a change.’
I had a certain nostalgic fondness for the Safeway on King’s Heath high street, which was my destination. When Gershwin, Katrina, Ginny, Elliot, Bev and I were seventeen, every big night out had kicked off with a trip there because when you’re on a tight budget supermarket alcohol is the most effective way to replicate the sensation of downing several pints of pub-bought lager. So standing by the automatic doors at the side of the store we’d pool our allowances and Saturday-job money and hand it over to Elliot, because he looked oldest. Once inside he’d buy as many bottles of Thunderbird as we could afford and we’d polish them off on the bus into town.
During my trip to Safeway, I encountered Mrs Brockel, from number sixty-five, whom I’d known since I was six; Mr and Mrs Butler, the owners of Butler’s newsagent’s; Mr Mahoney, who was married to Mrs Mahoney, who was still my old junior school’s lollipop lady; Mrs Bates, a friend of my mum and dad who used to look after me and my brothers and sister after school, and Mrs Smith, who went everywhere in her slippers and used to be a dinner lady at my old secondary school. I wasn’t surprised to bump into all these people under one roof. Every single one of them came from a generation who believed in being born, growing up, getting married, having kids, getting old and dying, if not on the same spot then somewhere quite near it. They were precisely the sort of people who, even if they won a million pounds on the lottery, wouldn’t move out of the area, instead preferring to install the UPVC double-glazed windows they’d always dreamed of and put away the rest for a nice holiday in the near future. It was only my generation, their sons and daughters, who had come up with the not so smart idea of roaming the country in search of a better life. Having said that, I also bumped into several ex-King’s Heath Comprehensive schoolmates from my year: Alex Craven (then, the boy most likely to play cricket for England; now, guitarist and part-time drug dealer); Mark Barratt (then, the boy most likely to be a bricklayer; now, MD of his own building firm and owner of a BMW) and Jane Nicholson (then, the girl most likely to become the most beautiful woman in the world; now, part-time sales assistant in Texas Homecare).
As I left the shop with my heavy load and headed for my dad’s car I thought about New York, which now seemed a million miles away.
I thought about my job, which now seemed like it never existed.
And then I thought about Elaine – and I still missed her like it was only yesterday.
twenty-two
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
You
I miss you.
twenty-three
Today was Gershwin’s birthday.
Today he was thirty.
Today he reached the day he’d thought would never come.
And how did he want to celebrate the birthday of birthdays? With a once-in-a-lifetime hot-air balloon ride? A bunch of mates to go off to Dublin for the weekend? A surprise party? No. Ever since arriving back in Birmingham, Zoë and I had been putting our heads together to come up with ideas to make Gershwin’s thirtieth a special one, but a week after we’d booked him a surprise weekend trip to Dublin, he scuppered our plans.
‘This thirtieth birthday thing is just too depressing,’ he said on the Monday evening, a week before the planned trip. ‘A guy at work, Steve, was just telling me about his thirtieth. He came home from work last Friday night, expecting a night in front of the telly with his girlfriend, and he opened his front door to discover twenty-five o
f his closest family and friends in his living room, bags packed, ready to whisk him away to Edinburgh for the weekend! He hated every second of it. Not only did he have to pretend to have a good time on this the most nightmarish of birthdays but on top of all that they wanted to drag out the whole experience for an entire weekend.’
‘They were doing it to torture him,’ said Zoë, laughing, but when Gershwin wasn’t looking she flashed a look of horror in my direction. ‘Isn’t that right, Matt?’
‘Definitely a pure hate thing,’ I replied. ‘We’d never do anything like that to you, Gershwin. We’d do something far more devious.’
‘Like a hot-air balloon ride,’ said Zoë.
‘Or a surprise party,’ I suggested.
‘Or a weekend in Dublin . . .’ said Zoë finally.
‘I couldn’t think of anything worse,’ he said animatedly. ‘These days, Dublin at the weekend is full of nightmare stag and hen parties from England. And as for hot-air balloon rides and surprise parties – no way. All I want on my birthday is me, some good mates and a nice pub that’s not too crowded.’