In Loco Parentis

by Nigel Bird

  Sheena’s there, feet up, threading beads onto a string.

  The whole time she was in my class I couldn’t get her to shut up. Always last to the staffroom I was.

  “Wow, love the hair,” she says and I’m relieved that it’s business as usual. She’s straight up onto her feet as I sit down. Comes over and gives it a stroke. Tells me all about the holidays so far.

  Emma comes over as soon as she’s switched on the coffee machine. Eases Sheena out and gives the Mohawk a stroke. Runs her fingers back and forth then lets them slip down to my neck when her children aren’t looking. She makes a noise like a human purr, as if something in her is melting too.

  I want to take her there and then, wished the kids were far away. And I remember the new me. The good me.

  “Sugar?” I momentarily kid myself she’s being endearing rather than talking about the coffee.

  “One please.” Only when I’m out. Wouldn’t want myself to become a bloater now, would I?

  The coffee’s great, not the instant I use. There’s a sprinkle of chocolate on the froth. Very homely.

  She opens a beer for herself and slouches into the wicker chair.

  When she pulls the sunglasses down from her head I see how subtly she’s made up. Her hair, the pink of the round lenses and the paleness of her lipstick match perfectly. There’s a look of a movie star about her from the days when it was all about class. I look around the room to stop myself staring.

  “Go and play,” Emma says to the children.

  “No,” Sheena snaps.

  “Just for half an hour.”

  “No,” Vince says, stamping his foot at the same time.

  “When no means no,” I say, remembering a poster on Jenny’s bedroom wall.

  Emma sits up straight. Pushes the glasses back as far as they’ll go. She looks hot and bothered, her skin reddening at the top of her shoulders.

  “Go to the living room now. Take your sister with you.” Her mouth’s all out of shape. Turned down at the corners. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her look anything but beautiful.

  Sheena stares at her mother. She’s not the brightest star in the galaxy, but she’s got roots that go deeper than most.

  It feels like I’m about to witness a battle.

  Sliding her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, Emma gives a stare back.

  I don’t know what invisible message has just passed between them. “Come on.” Sheena’s voice is high and full of warmth. He follows her without another word.

  The grown-ups are alone.

  “Is there anyone special going to this party of yours?” Emma’s voice is aloof, like me being there’s a chore.

  “Yeah, most people there.”

  She lights up a fag and I roll one.

  “You know what I mean.” I don’t. Give her a confused look. “200 miles is a long drive for a night out.”

  I light my own cigarette. Feel better with something to hide behind.

  On top of the bookshelf I notice a copy of ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee’. I lean over and pick it up.

  “Roger’s reading it,” she tells me.

  “It’s great,” I say. “ All about...” and my mind empties. I can’t think of a specific detail to mention. “...the way the Native Americans were treated by us.” I use us as if we still carry the load.

  “He told me.” It’s like I’ve been put in my place only I don’t know what my place is exactly.

  I try being a teacher. Assume the role. Put my coffee down and sit back in the seat. “So you think Sheena might be dyslexic,” I say and for the next half hour we talk about the fors and againsts. Before I know it, it’s time for me to go without us having reached a conclusion.

  Vince runs into the room. Jumps onto my lap, his knee almost catching me in the privates. He’s singing Spiderman and flicking his wrists into my face.

  I drop my cigarette into the ashtray, put my head down and hum along with the tune.

  All Quiet On The Preston Front

  I come off the motorway and the rest is auto-pilot. Bamber Bridge, Lostock Hall, Penwortham.

  When I see the beech tree spreading out across the road I slow down without thinking. I pull up outside the old house and spend a while looking at it.

  Four years it’s been. I wonder how it’s changed.

  I get out of the car and walk up to the gate. I see the place where I scarred my knee, the spot where I ruined our pup, the marks on the wall from where I scored goals in international matches.

  Don’t recognise the gate though, newly treated wood with luxury posts.

  I don’t know why I push it open or why I wander up to the door.

  Shakespeare’s head has gone, replaced by a shiny brass ring knocker. I lift the ring and give a couple of bangs.

  The lady who answers is not the one I’m expecting. Not the young thing who bought it when Mum passed away. Takes me by surprise. I don’t know what to say.

  “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.” I want to ask for a tour. To go and touch my bedroom walls. “Do you have a minute to talk about God?”

  She picks something from her teeth. Looks at it, then back at me. Turning her head she shouts inside. “Roy.” The accent’s broad. Make her sound thick. “Roy. There’s a man ‘ere wants to talk about God.”

  Through the gap I see a man get to his feet.

  They must spend most of their time round the table in there just like we did, only they don’t belong here like I do.

  Roy comes to the door, wiping his hands on his overalls. “All right mate. What can I do yer for?”

  “Do you have a moment to talk about God?”

  He looks at the woman and pulls a face at her. “Jesus Christ, Mary, what’ve I told you about opening the door to nutters?”

  I’m impressed by his technique. He pulls the woman back into the house and shuts the door in my face. I hear the lock turn in the door.

  My hand reaches up and scratches my scalp. I remember the haircut and laugh out loud, but when I stop I feel empty. Wish it was Shakespeare who was looking back at me like he used to.

  Shang-A-Lang

  “We sang shang-a-lang as we ran with the gang, doin doo wop be dooby do aye.” Col’s clinging on to me because he’s drunk himself silly. He’s too close. Shouting the lyrics into my ear, the drops of saliva raining onto me and into my pint. “With the jukebox playing and everybody saying that music like ours couldn’t die,” and I wish it was me that could die and that the Bay City Rollers never existed.

  I used to hate them with a passion for no reason I could understand other than they were Jenny’s first crush. The first time we’d seen the world differently. Her bedroom was all tartan, pearly-white smiles and tight denim.

  Dr India told me once I was jealous. “Of Woody?” I barked. “No way.” But he had a point.

  I slip out from under Col’s arm and loop his hand around Jenks’ neck. Haven’t seen Jenks since I was at school and wouldn’t care if I never set eyes on him again.

  In the toilet I meet Carl. He's clad in silver and a Gary Glitter wig.

  Always had a thing for me, Carl.

  “JC. Great night, eh?” He’s shaking himself off. I pick the urinal a couple of stalls down. Don’t want him getting too good a look.

  “Aye,” I say and try to pee.

  “Want half an E?” he asks as my stream starts. “Don’t need a whole one.”

  I think about it. Finish off and put myself back.

  I’ve just driven 200 miles sporting a purple Mohican and a dog collar to end up in a working men’s club in Ashton for possibly the worst party I’ve been to in my life. “Course,” I said, not caring if it’s a ruse to get me to give him a snog. “Good man.”

  He pulls it out of his pocket, a dove stamped perfectly into the pill. Breaks it into two and puts half in each palm before closing his fist.

  “Which hand?”

  I go for the left. It’s the right choice and I get more by far.

  We take th
em straight away. Use the beer on top of the hand-drier to wash it down and to get away the bitter taste. There’s that moment when I wonder if it’s a Paracetamol, then I decide I don’t care – worse that can happen is that I’ll wake up without a hangover.

  By the time the bar closes, I’m standing on a table punching the air singing at the top of my voice, “Do you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang...” watching Carl making a move on Col and wondering why I ever left the town behind in the first place.

  Waterproof

  We swore at the beginning of the evening that we wouldn’t do it.

  “Whatever happens, let’s not go to Raiders,” Col said.

  So Raiders it is.

  I don’t know if they know what’s hit them, Preston’s youngest and finest.

  Jesus, it’s changed since I first came. It’s warm for a start. Packed. Some of the people are smiling and they’re wearing colours other than black.

  Haven’t been for ten years. Doubtless I was in with the same gang then.

  In walk a bunch of middle-aged lads and lasses who look like they’re on a stag night.

  I’m first to the bar, eager to get rid of the dryness. My round. Seven pints of Old Peculiar.

  Beers given out, I see a jacket on the floor. A cagoule. Blue and transparent. I pick it up and try it on. Feel cool and funky.

  The warm air inside brings the buzz back to my scalp and the waves of love swelling from the pit of my stomach and pulsing through my heart.

  The music’s too loud to socialise and I’ve said enough to fill a week already. Instead, I get to dancing. Swinging my arms and bobbing up and down like I’m one of the in-crowd.

  It keeps on going like that for an age. I’m dancing and smiling and sometimes pick up another pint from the lads.

  And then it happens. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The opening bar-chords of ‘Teenage Kicks’.

  Call me romantic, but it gets me every time.

  The lads I’m with appear from all sides.

  We jump onto each other. Shout the words across the floor like we’re writing them on the spot. Come to the middle and connect.

  I don’t know how it starts, not that anybody ever did. Someone pushes someone else. Another pushes back. If they’re wise, they leave alone. If they’re pissed they take a pop.

  I see the fist in Carl’s face. We all see it.

  It’s a short arse in a leather jacket who did the hitting.

  Now his mates are holding him back as if they’re doing us a favour.

  “Bloody puff,” I see the little guy mouth. Little does he know.

  Carl doesn’t say anything. Just feels around his face to check out the damage.

  It’s not important that there’s no harm done.

  What matters is controlling the floor. Taking the centre of the ring.

  Col’s in. Bubble and Baz.

  Stan’s our secret weapon. Always was. He’s swinging his arms like a helicopter. I arrive like the icing on the cake.

  Thirty seconds of bliss it is. I catch a Goth right on the jaw. He’s out as soon as it lands.

  Short-arse is already on the floor. I throw in a kick or two. See another pair of boots join in from the other side. We do it all in time to the music.

  “I wanna, wanna, wanna hold her tight.” We’re dancing again like nothing’s wrong, shouting at each other and bouncing up and down, big drunken grins plastered onto our faces.

  The bouncers come in, too late as always, and hard enough to take us all if they wanted.

  Lucky for us it’s still Kane who works the door. His big, black head shines with sweat and he looks disappointed to see that it’s all over. Then he sees us all. Smiles. His eyes look red like he’s had a couple of smokes. He walks off with a swagger and the crowd splits before him.

  I’m getting a real buzz. The other lads are just getting up. It’s probably time they went home for bed.

  I get the urge to go and tell them so. Wait to see what the next song is.

  See Jenny standing against the wall. Soon as she sees me looking, she turns her back and walks away.

  blood, sweat and tears

  She couldn’t ignore me for long.

  It’s what families all about, taking care of each other.

  I think she had to drag me out in the end, though I didn’t offer much resistance.

  Town's mobbed. More packed than in my time. Smarter, too.

  I smell it in the air: lust, testosterone and adrenaline mix with the hair sprays and the gels and the beers. It’s a smell I love.

  Jenny holds my hand through it all. Keeps me talking and keeps me out of trouble, not that I have a problem with that.

  I need to talk. To keep my mouth moving. Soon as it stops, the dryness and the jaw clenching become intolerable.

  We wander past the shops, the station, the red-bricked splendour of County Hall, past the seedy hotels and the Mosque and eventually to the river, the giant snake that is the Ribble.

  Walking along it for a while, flanked by the water on one side and terraced housed on the other, we eventually reach Meath Road.

  Feel like I’m home for the first time since arriving.

  She opens the door and we end up in the lounge. I sit on the sofa, my head resting on the wall, legs sprawled over the end.

  There are lots of other seats in the room, but when she returns with the mugs of tea, she sits next to me, the cushions sinking and rising like a tide. I’d thought we might have managed to avoid it all, but now I see it’s going to surface if I don’t keep fending it away.

  At first it’s easy.

  “I’ll be in Reception Class next year.” The words tumble quickly out and I let them, keeping the spaces to a minimum. “Can’t wait. Not that I know how to teach them,” I say. “Haven’t a clue.”

  The tea’s hot. I can only take a sip. “Should be a doddle, though. There are only fifteen of them to start with. Don’t get the rest till after Christmas.”

  Jenny gets up to put on some sounds. She fiddles for a while, then sits back down.

  I don’t recognise what she’s put on. It’s trippy. Laid back. Brings back the warmth and the good feelings. I forget to talk and let the music surround me.

  She puts her hand on my knee. Taps out a beat to the tunes.

  Soon as I can, without making it too obvious, I stand up and take off the jacket.

  The elasticated sleeves are full of liquid. It looks like urine. I take a sniff. Stinks of armpit. A concentrated body odour with a bit of skunk thrown in. It makes us laugh.

  Standing up feels good. I like being high up. Stretch up and onto my tiptoes. Almost make the ceiling.

  “It’s great up here. Try it.”

  She puts her tea down. Tries to reach up. I watch her top rise and her jeans lower leaving a deliciously pale strip of midriff exposed, an amethyst sparkling blue at her navel.

  She’s seen me looking. It’s too late to pretend.

  “Looking trim,” I tell her.

  “I’ve been working out.” She stretches higher, revealing more skin. “Work has a gym.”

  It’s clearly working for her. Her stomach’s flat and tight. I want to kiss it.

  At some point we both reach too far, wobble and collapse into each other.

  From inside my arms she looks up. Maybe it’s the drugs, but she looks like a goddess. I try and remember the last time I saw her. Quickly try and blank it out.

  Her face gets close. She turns and rests her head on my chest. I lift my hand and give her hair a stroke.

  “Missed you,” she says.

  We start swaying to the music. It’s nice to have her close.

  “Me too.” She looks up and I see tears in her eyes.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really.”

  Her head drops again and we sway together until the urge to smoke takes over from everything else.

  A couple of smokes and a fresh cuppa later and the music’s done.

  Jenny springs forward r
ight at me. “Bumpers,” she says and sets to rubbing the wall behind me. “Fucking bumpers.”

  “I thought bumpers stopped you from swearing,” I remind her.

  “Shove the fucking bumpers up your arse. Look at the mess.”

  Turning my head I see it, like an enormous purple bruise on the wallpaper where I’ve been leaning.

  “Bumpers,” I say and burst out laughing.

  When she laughs too, I feel the warm sensation of relief build into desire.

  We’re inches apart.

  It’s too late now.

  Our lips meet and move and find a rhythm of their own.

  And I think to myself, ‘Oh God, what have I done,” before getting on with the kissing and letting my fingers stray to the metal ring in her nipple.

  mea culpa

  I can’t face telling her I’m off, so I wait until she’s out for the day with her mates.

  I’ve told her I’d cook the dinner, so I’ve bought a pizza from Booths with a ready made salad, a tiramisu pudding and a bottle of sparkly wine for her when she gets in.

  Next to the food on the table is a video from down the road. It’s ‘Gone With The Wind.’ It’s supposed to be my little joke. I hope she thinks it’s funny.

  I pack my bag, clean up a bit behind me and sit with a pen and paper.

  “Dear Jenny,” is as far as I get.

  Screwing the paper up, I throw it at the bin. And miss.

  There’s nothing to say, yet it has to be said.

  I go to the fridge. Move the magnets around.

  Find an ‘m’ and an ‘e’ and an ‘a’ and know what to write after all. My mistake, 3 letters and 5.

  The car’s parked by the river. It knows just where to go. Penwortham, Lostock Hall, Bamber Bridge, London.

  home

  Four hours is a lot of thinking time. Too much if you ask me.

  It was rattling round in my head along with the shake of the exhaust and the humming of the engine.

  Like a scratched record, my brain, the way it clicks into a thought and repeats it until I can’t bear it any more. Only difference is a record only needs a nudge to get it moving again.