Don't You Forget About Me

by Mhairi McFarlane

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘… Curry?!’

  ‘Ta dah! … Or. That’s Amore?’

  ‘Oh, God! I can’t imagine what Tony would do to my food.’

  ‘… I can.’

  ‘Blee!’ I pause. ‘There’s no such thing as karma, is there, Rav? No one gets what they deserve.’

  ‘There’s a long answer to that and a shorter one and given you’re not paying me for this in a counselling session, I will give you the short one.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Nope, there’s no such thing as karma and people don’t get what they deserve. It’s a comforting myth to reconcile us to the savage randomness of the universe and wrongs inflicted upon us.’

  ‘Argh! Is the longer answer more uplifting?’

  ‘Yes that’s why it costs you.’

  I laugh, ring off and inhale tart October air. I don’t know why I’d still cling to the notion that karma exists, given I’ve never seen it in action in my thirty years. I should’ve let it go at the same time as the Tooth Fairy.

  14

  As warned, there is no answer at the pub when I arrive on the dot of 6.30 that evening. I breathe out dragon-smoke in the cold. Three hammerings of my fist against the door and no response. I try the handle and step inside, saying, ‘Hello?’

  The room is in complete darkness.

  ‘Hello?’ I call again, tentatively. ‘Anyone there?’

  It’s quite spooky with no illumination at all. The pubs I’ve worked in have always kept those sconces on, even once the overhead is off. The only reason I’m not tripping over the furniture in the gloaming is the street lamps outside the windows.

  A bulb switches on in a space beyond the main bar. A figure is silhouetted in the doorway to the saloon. As he steps forward, he throws more lights on.

  He’s in a black shirt covered with dust and stands looking at me, a giant hoop of gaoler’s keys in one hand. I’m eighteen years old again, and Lucas McCarthy is staring across a room, eyes penetrating, expression unreadable.

  For a moment, I can’t remember any standard British words of greeting.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Lucas says, eventually. ‘We’re closed.’

  Uh yeah I sussed that. I wasn’t about to say half of mild, thanks and can I borrow a torch.

  ‘Dev—’ I cough, nerves a-jangle, clear my throat again. ‘Devlin told me to come in, he wanted to show me around.’

  ‘Ah, right. Dev’s gone to the shops, he’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Ah. OK.’

  A strained pause as we each wait for the other to say something.

  I feel like Devlin’s bottoming, as it were, of my being here, isn’t as bottomed as I might’ve hoped. It might even be entirely unbottomed.

  I stand around uselessly, until Lucas says:

  ‘Sit down if you want. Would you like a drink? Nothing’s working on tap yet but we have stock. A Coke? It’s not chilled I’m afraid.’

  Much like me haha.

  I nod and mutter thank you and drop heavily into the nearest chair, feel the now-intensified layer of stuffy heat trapped between my skin and clothes, my nerves buzzing like faulty electrics.

  Are we going to have to make conversation? For how long? Why did I say yes to this, why didn’t I tell Devlin something had come up in the meantime? Why would I want Lucas McCarthy to be my boss, does life not contain enough humiliation? There’s an answer to this question, hovering just outside of my consciousness.

  Lucas has temporarily ducked out of sight and I glance around.

  I hear funny rapid heavy breathing panting behind me and the clatter of toenails on timber and suddenly, at my table, looking up expectantly, is the world’s most appealing, low-bellied dog. I recognise it from the wake. Its hind quarters are so hefty, when it’s sat down, it’s like it’s squatting in a puddle of a russet-coloured fur. It has kind eyes and an eager expression. The sort of dog whose face conveys HELLO I AM DOG WHO ARE YOU I LOVE YOU.

  I couldn’t be more pleased at the unscheduled canine intrusion. I am a friend to any animal at the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times.

  The dog slaps its paw into my lap, and I lift and shake it.

  ‘Hello! Very nice to meet you! Who are you?’

  It has such a friendly face it honestly looks like it’s grinning at me, and I laugh.

  Lucas reappears, with the swish and clink of ice in a metal bucket as he sets it on the bar.

  ‘Should’ve said there’s a dog. This is Keith. No allergies or anything?’

  ‘Hello, Keith!’ I cry. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Is he yours?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Petting Keith is a very welcome displacement activity.

  ‘Keith,’ I say, as Lucas puts my Coke in front of me. ‘Unusual name for a dog. Funny coincidence, the incognito restaurant critic for The Star books tables as Mr Keith.’

  I was going to carry on and explain it’s a coincidence because I’d recently met him in my last place of work, but it’s such a stupid conversational gambit, I pause, midway.

  Lucas looks at me as if I might be simple and says: ‘Not that funny a coincidence, unless you’re implying anything? I’m fairly certain this Keith isn’t a secret restaurant critic.’

  ‘Hahah, no, I just meant …’

  I trail off, as I didn’t mean anything.

  ‘Keith’s reviews would give top marks for baked bean juice on a J-cloth. He’s an eager diner but not too discerning.’

  I give a strained laugh, unsure if I’m partly the butt of the joke.

  These are as many words in a row as I’ve heard Lucas speak so far. He sounds more posh-Irish than Devlin, his accent less broad. The thuddingly obvious thought lands – he’s a total stranger. Just because you kissed someone twelve years ago, that doesn’t mean you know them now. He was a stranger back then, come to think of it.

  Lucas leans down and rubs the dog’s head. I’m grateful for the loss of eye contact and sip my drink. Lucas isn’t going to join me, it seems, still standing.

  ‘Did Dev ask you to come in for any reason in particular?’

  Argh. Unbottomed, I sodding knew it.

  ‘He’s offered me a job?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘I worked the wake, last week. We met?’

  ‘Oh, God, sorry, did we? Very busy evening.’

  Great. Having to introduce myself to Lucas for the second time. Well, third, overall.

  ‘I’m Georgina,’ I say, pointing back to pink fluff, chafing at the weirdness of him not knowing this. Or claiming not to.

  ‘Luke. Or Lucas. Whichever you prefer.’

  ‘So it’s Luc, spelled L-U-C. Like, er, Jean Luc Godard.’

  Oh, shut up, Georgina …

  ‘… I’m not French.’

  The front door swings open and Devlin appears, dragging and half-rolling a barrel inside. I could swear both Lucas and I heave near-audible sighs of relief.

  ‘You’re here! You two getting to know each other?’ Devlin says.

  ‘We’ve established I’m not a film director and my dog is not a restaurant critic,’ Lucas says, mild, but bone dry.

  ‘We’re ready to open now, got the tills working. Still a fan of the place?’ Devlin says, throwing his arms wide, and causing the barrel to wobble, and he quickly rights it.

  ‘I think, in all sincerity, it’s bloody incredible,’ I say. ‘I remember what it was like before and you’ve worked wonders.’

  ‘See, Luke!’

  Devlin pulls a Bruce Forsyth-style triumphal pose, fist to forehead.

  ‘Do you not like it?’ I say to Lucas.

  ‘I like it, I think he overspent,’ Lucas says, with his less excitable demeanour.

  ‘Pffft.’ Devlin pulls up a chair and says, ‘I’ll take you through things in a sec, Georgina. It’ll be you, me, Luke for the time being. I might have to set more on when the function room gets going.’

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘Yeah, nice size,
actually.’ Devlin whisks a piece of paper from the bar and puts it under my nose. ‘Trying to make its events quite varied, you know. Emphasise The Wicker isn’t your spit and sawdust place anymore. Kicking off with this, look … Local paper called, looking for a place to host it for free.’

  I read:

  SHARE YOUR SHAME

  Writing Competition / Open Mike Night

  Are you a writer who could use a platform?

  Read out a short piece on a weekly topic, loosely

  based around the theme of shame, embarrassment

  and general cringe. A burden shared is a burden

  halved, they say. Judges will choose the best of three

  events and winner gets a column in The Star.

  First theme announced next Friday!

  First show the Saturday after Halloween!

  ‘Open mike,’ Lucas shudders. ‘It’ll be slam poetry and men in black polo necks doing experimental comedy with no jokes. Mental New Agers asking you to try to touch your third eye.’

  He’s feistier than I remember.

  ‘No one’s expecting you to get involved. Do you know any writers?’ Devlin says to me. ‘Are you a writer?’

  This is a kind thing to say to a woman in garish faux fur who’s paid to pull pints of Stella, and I want to honour that.

  ‘Erm not really … I mean … I’d like to write, actually, but I don’t think that makes me one.’

  The grin that transforms Devlin’s face is one you can’t help but smile back at. ‘You’d be ideal! It’s for new starters! You can have time to do it during work and everything. Can’t she, Luke? We’ll easily cover for half an hour. Encourage our staff to get their faces known, help us launch ourselves into the community.’

  I laugh, nervously. Not only write, but perform it?

  And I’d thought Lucas McCarthy would be above the customer facing stuff. He would spend his time striding around in Belstaff coats, with a pack of fox hounds at his heels, carrying an oil lantern.

  Devlin turns back to me.

  ‘I’ll give people trial shifts but I won’t set anyone on permanently unless you feel you work well with them. I think good chemistry is vital. You have power of yay or nay.’

  Devlin’s head jerks up and his eyes narrow and I know without a doubt, over my shoulder and behind my back, Lucas made an: OH THE IRONY face at him.

  ‘Come on, Keith,’ Lucas says. ‘You alright to see Georgina out?’ to his brother. ‘See you Monday,’ to me, and I nod.

  This is more gracious than I expected. I sense the McCarthy brothers, despite the casual manner and attire, have quite considered manners.

  ‘You’ll get used to that surly wretch,’ Dev says, after Lucas has rounded the bar and a door has closed.

  ‘Do you both live above the pub?’ I say, to distract, as my getting used to the surly wretch is something I need to process when I am alone.

  ‘No that’s a one-bed flat, Luc is up there and I’ve rented round the corner.’

  So Lucas is the one who’ll be on site, most of the time.

  ‘What sort of things do you think you’ll write about?’ Devlin says, nodding back up towards the poster. ‘Shameful things is the brief? I’d be buggered as I’ve never done anything shameful in my life.’ He grins.

  I gulp.

  ‘Yeah, same.’

  15

  If you grow up with parents who are unhappy with each other, you accept it and work around it. You no more directly address or it or expect it to change than if your family home has low ceilings, or you live in a cul-de-sac. You unquestioningly accept your lot. The only time it spooked me was when I’d visit a friend and their mum and dad could amicably disagree without venom, or decibels. That’s possible, I thought?

  When I was small, I used to accompany Dad on his Saturday outings, no matter how mundane: DIY stores, the tip, over to his friend Graham’s, dragging round vinyl shops looking for jazz records, watching the football, to collect the fish supper from the chippy. I was never bored, I actively volunteered for service – Esther was invited at first, but made it clear it held no charm for her, compared to doing her own thing.

  I used to love staring out the car window, hopping along holding Dad’s hand, legs dangling from chairs I was too short for.

  A huge amount of fuss was made of me by cashiers and shop assistants. I was never a girly little girl, I liked trousers and sweatshirts with superheroes on them, and somehow that provoked even more cooing.

  I can’t remember how the tradition began, but every so often, Dad finished whatever the task in hand was and said: ‘Where to, captain?’

  This meant a treat. And it could be, within city limits and budget, anything I wanted. It was unspeakably thrilling. Imagine, as a kid, being put in charge for an afternoon.

  ‘Chocolate pudding … in a glass?’

  We went to a department store café, and I had a tower of aerated mousse pierced with a wafer shaped like a fan, while Dad sipped a cup of tea.

  ‘An adventure, with flying.’

  The local multiplex, Batman, and a bag of Revels.

  ‘Ice skating.’

  I did endless unsteady circuits of the rink, hired boots laced so tight they were cutting welts into my feet, while Dad read his paper.

  There was an uncomfortable adjustment period when I became too old for our Saturdays. Dad jangling his keys in the hallway, having to shout over blaring music: ‘You coming or what, Georgina?’

  Mum snapping: ‘Of course she’s not bloody going to a farm shop with you, John.’

  After the uncertain interlude where I felt too old for it, but too young to abandon it, we adapted: I went into town to shop, and when we were both done with our errands, we met for lattes and macchiatos and wedges of gaudily iced sponge cake.

  One wet-to-the-bone winter, when I was fifteen, I had a different idea. Darkness had fallen by 5 p.m., Mum and Esther were still out shopping somewhere.

  ‘Can we go for a curry?’

  Mum despised spicy food and I’d never so much as had an Indian takeaway. Dad didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘It’s Saturday. You’re the captain.’

  An adult saying yes to spontaneous fun: it felt so freeing. Mum always found five reasons to snap: ‘Another time, maybe.’ Dad understood me, and I understood him.

  We went to a place on Glossop Road that’s not there anymore. Dad perched his readers on his nose and authoritatively supervised a representative selection of famous dishes, rice, breads and some yoghurt to ‘put out any flames’.

  To this day, much as I can appreciate an upmarket Indian restaurant with lassi cocktails, colonial fans and stylish plating, what I really want is a neon sign, sitar music, flock wallpaper, sizzling Balti and hot lemon towels and tongs. It’s my Proustian rush.

  I knew as soon as I was prodding shards of poppadom into the mini lazy Susan with the sugary mango chutney and tangy lime pickle that I was going to be a fanatic.

  ‘But you hardly ever have this food?’ I said to Dad, through forkfuls of chicken tikka masala, after he’d expounded on the joys of moving on to more interesting dishes once I’d served my apprenticeship.

  ‘Your mum doesn’t like it.’

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’

  Dad smiled. ‘Marriage is compromise. You’ll understand some day.’

  ‘I’m not marrying anyone who doesn’t like curry. No way.’

  Mum usually tolerated our outings as a positive thing, but I remember that night we got back and she needed scraping off the ceiling.

  Dad hadn’t warned her, cauliflower cheese had gone to waste, our clothes ‘reeked’ and would need washing, why wasn’t Esther invited, why couldn’t we do a family dinner, how much had that cost. At first I tried placating her but when that failed, I slid off upstairs and left them to it.

  Esther was back from her first term at York, where from what I could tell she’d spent her time mixing with posher people and feeling ashamed of us. She came flying out of her bedroom and into min
e.

  ‘Why do you do this?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Stir things up between Mum and Dad? You knew she’d have a fit if you went out for dinner and you know you have Dad round your little finger and he’ll do it. Then you waltz off and leave them to a screaming match.’

  ‘I didn’t know Mum didn’t know.’

  ‘How was she going to find out if you didn’t tell her? Dad never uses that phone he has. He doesn’t even switch it on.’

  Esther had a point. If I’m honest, I did know Mum didn’t know. I knew she’d just say no, that’s why I didn’t tell her. But you don’t admit to anyone already that angry with you that you know they have a point, or you might as well lie down, like antelope with lion, and invite them to gnaw your carotid vein.

  It was in the unwritten rules of our dysfunctional unit: Dad vs Mum could always go nuclear and it was our role to act as go-betweens, to soothe and smooth.

  ‘Why was it on me to tell Mum, anyway?’ I said. Only because it was the only defence left open to me, I’d not really thought about it. Later, with Fay’s help, I would think about it.

  Esther furiously jabbed a finger downwards, in the direction of the heated voices. ‘THAT’S WHY.

  ‘… I’ve had to spend my evening eating minging cold cauliflower cheese with Mum’s blood pressure going through the roof while you’re off having fun and now the atmosphere in this house is even WORSE. Fuck you, Georgina, you’re so fucking selfish.’

  She slammed out and I lay on my bed listening to the bickering voices below. Mum’s voice carried up through the bedroom floorboards.

  ‘She’s not your plaything, to entertain you. She should be out with people her own age.’

  ‘I’m glad Georgina still wants to do things together. She won’t be here forever, will she?’

  ‘If you want a curry, you could go with Graham or some other friend?’

  ‘She suggested it!’

  ‘To please you. She’s only trying to please you and you’re selfish enough to let her.’

  This was untrue, but years ago I’d learned that when Mum weaponised me against Dad, it went very badly if I contradicted her. Dad and I, the selfish ones. Mum and Esther had decreed it.