“Who’s Monty?”
“The dog. A Westie with an identity crisis—thinks he’s a pit bull.”
“Ah. I understand now. He ran off when she went to the corner shop.”
“Congratulations,” George said, “you have completed your first lesson in Mancunian.” He filled up the three cups with water, the tea bags bobbing to the surface. “A couple of other things you should know,” he continued. “The ‘Paki Shop’ has never been run by Asian people. I think the current lot are Polish. Whatever, it’s just a figure of speech—shorthand for the ‘open all hours local convenience store’. Secondly, there’s no coffee, because it’s too expensive.”
“Right. Got all that.”
“And she’ll no doubt tell you all about Julian in a minute. He runs the hairdresser’s next to the ‘Paki Shop’ and is as gay as a daisy. The rest of the shops are shut now. Anyway, she thinks the sun shines out of Julian’s you-know-what.”
“I did wonder what she meant by ‘another one of them’. Does she know about you?”
“Yeah, and she doesn’t care. She says it how it is—Pakis and woofters—but it’s not meant in the way you’d think. The gay community in Manchester isn’t a new thing, she says. Lots of the men where she lived were gay and had their own places to meet long before the trendy bit opened in the city. In fact, the only people she really doesn’t like are straight men.”
“Because of your dad?”
“My dad, her dad, most of the men around here. They’re all the same.” He didn’t get any further than this, as his mother shouted from the living room.
“Oy. Don’t you be bummin’ in me kitchen. I keep me food in there.”
George shook his head. “She doesn’t.” He beckoned Josh over to the fridge and opened the door. The light didn’t work, but he could see that it contained only a carton of milk and a tub of margarine. “And for the record, the only person I ever brought home was Jono, from number thirty-four, and only because his mum was a smackhead, I mean heroin addict.” George took the milk out and sniffed it cautiously. She’d obviously bought more, because it smelled fresh enough. He poured some into two of the mugs of tea and looked to Josh to see whether he wanted any, as he rarely drank tea, and when he did it tended to be Earl Grey or the herbal stuff. Josh nodded.
“I wasn’t going to ask about your past conquests, by the way.”
“You know pretty much all there is to know. Kris, Jono, Kris again, a couple of one night stands at college, Sam—that’s for another time—and Joe.” George fished out the tea bags with a spoon and held up one of the mugs for Josh to take. It was the tiniest flicker, hardly noticeable at all, but he saw it. “Are you bothered about Joe?” he asked.
“What?”
“The flash of the green-eyed monster.”
“Damn. I tried to hide that,” Josh blushed.
“Well don’t,” George chastised gently. “So?”
“No. Not Joe. Sam. You’ve never mentioned him before.”
“It’s a long story, and not a good one. And yes, before you say anything, Joshua, it is complicated, which is the only reason I said it was for another time. OK?”
Josh nodded his acceptance, even though he was still fighting the jealousy within. George tutted.
“Just drink your tea and forget about it for now,” he said, thrusting the mug at him. Josh took it and tried to do as he’d been told. He glanced at the tea and wrinkled his nose.
“There’s nothing wrong with the milk,” George restated, taking the lid off the carton again to double check. It still didn’t smell sour. He went over to the fridge and took out the margarine tub. It was rock-solid and covered in ice crystals. “It’s frozen,” he said, checking the temperature dial. It was on the highest setting and he turned it down, making a mental note to ask his mother why. He deposited the milk and picked up the other two mugs, taking them through to the lounge, Josh trailing a step behind.
“Ta, love,” his mother said, taking her tea and shoving her old empty mug across the cluttered table with her foot. Josh observed the appallingly worn old slippers, holes cut in the sides to allow her bunions to protrude, and followed them upwards: the brown pop socks, rolled down to her ankles, men’s grey jogging pants, baggy, off-white t-shirt, and finally the rollers.
“Grown an extra ’ead again, have I?” she asked him with a twinkle in her eye that was pure George. Josh smiled. He was feeling a little less awkward, now he had some understanding of where he was. The people with whom he came into contact on a daily basis used words to convey how they felt, and to fill voids. Those words, as George had told him so many times, were nothing more than cleverly measured bullshit, thought up by the middle classes in an attempt to convince the listener that regardless of how it looked from the outside, they too were suffering. His surgery and the work he did there were of no relevance to this world and he felt like he had stumbled into a different reality. It was a real effort to stay grounded, because the researcher in him was desperate to step back and observe these phenomena from afar. That’s how they all did it—the sociologists. It would be easy to detach himself from this experience. Easy, but wrong. This wasn’t some nameless ‘ethnographic insight’; it was real life, and it was George’s.
The sound of scratching at the door broke Josh out of his trance, and George went to let Monty in.
“It’s rude to stare y’know,” George’s mother remarked without taking her eyes from the TV.
“Sorry,” Josh mumbled. “George looks a lot like you.”
“Course he does, you daft bat. I’m his mother. D’you not look like your mother?”
“I don’t remember. She died when I was little.”
“Ahh. Fuckin’ shame, that is.”
Monty trotted into the living room, head up, ears pricked, stub of docked tail vertical and stiff. He stopped in front of Josh and started to growl, slowly backing off, the growling getting louder.
“Shut it, Mont,” George’s mum ordered. The little dog wandered off behind the sofa, still grumbling and very disgruntled, then suddenly appeared next to Josh’s end.
“You’re sitting in his spot,” George explained.
“Oh.” Josh shuffled along.
“Don’t fuckin’ move, just for the dog,” George’s mum said, still watching the TV. “Christ. What a soft shite.” She patted her lap. “Come ’ere, Mont.” Monty prowled past the sofa, glancing up sideways at Josh, and jumped onto the arm of the chair.
“I turned the fridge down,” George said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It backfired somewhat.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“Because the milk was frozen. Why was it turned up so high?”
“It’s broken, that’s why. You always have to bloody interfere.”
“You need a new one, I keep telling you that, but…”
“There’s nowt wrong with it, if you keep the fuckin’ thing on full.”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
“You fuckin’ won’t.”
“I’ll do it when you’re at work. Then what you gonna do?”
“Throw the fucker out the window, that’s what I’ll friggin’ well do.”
“Mam, come on!”
“Enough!” She turned and glared at Josh. “Brought you along for moral support, did he?”
“No, err…” He looked to George for assistance.
“Drink up,” was all he said. Josh did as he was told, appreciating the coldness of the milk, as it had cooled the tea quickly, and they were done in less than ten minutes.
“Right, Mum.” George leaned over her chair and kissed her cheek. “We’re off. See you in two weeks.”
“Why not next week?”
“Going away tomorrow.”
“So you’re not staying for tea?”
“No. Got to pack still.”
“Right, well you best hop it then. I think I’ve got some of that tinned spaghetti shite in the cupboard anyhow. Have a good time and behave.”
“Bye,” Josh called.
“Ta-rah, love,” she said. He followed George out to the door, but just as he was about to step outside, she called him back. He was horrified. George shrugged to indicate he had no idea why. It looked like he had no choice in the matter: he went back to the living room and stopped just to the left of the chair, Monty growling and every so often flashing his teeth. George’s mum put her hand on the little dog and glanced at Josh, then returned her gaze to the TV as she spoke.
“He thinks he’s a big hard man, my Georgie, but he’s a soft lad. Got a big heart, he has, and doesn’t think to hide it. So you look after ’im, right? Or I’ll break your fuckin’ neck. Do you hear?”
“I hear.”
“Good. Now fuck off.” Josh didn’t need telling twice. He almost ran back out to George and didn’t care any more that the corridor stank of piss, nor that the lift clanged dangerously, nor that there was a strong probability his car was now resting on bricks. He was glad he had come, but he was absolutely overjoyed to be going.
When they got back to the car (still with its four wheels attached, although some young lads with skateboards were taking more than a passing interest in the petrol cap), both of them fell into their seats, and Josh put his foot down as hard as he dared without risking damage to his suspension. Only when they cleared the final row of maisonettes did either of them speak.
“What did she say?” George asked.
“She said I had to look after you.”
“OK?”
“And a bit more besides, but that was the gist.”
“She likes you. She didn’t mention Julian, so she must do.”
“Yeah. I like her. She’s…”
“Don’t you dare say ‘down to earth’!”
“I wasn’t going to.” Josh drove on, processing all the new information tumbling around his mind.
“What were you going to say, then?” George asked after about five minutes.
“I was going to say she’s made me appreciate just how lucky I am. I know that sounds really condescending, and it’s not meant to be. Seeing the way she just gets on with it, with no complaints…”
“Ha! She’s no stranger to moaning, when the mood takes her.”
“But that’s just it. She’s got plenty to moan about, unlike those bloody awful people who pay so they can come and dump their meaningless woes on me. They don’t know the half of it and neither do I.”
“And Josh finally gets a social conscience.”
“Hmm. Don’t you worry about her not eating and stuff?”
“Yeah, but what’s the point? She’ll eat if I cook something, which is why she was pushing for us to stay for tea, or dinner, whichever you want to call it.”
“Was she?”
“That comment about the spaghetti. She tries to make me feel guilty, and it works every time, because I’ve been thinking maybe we could have stayed a bit longer ever since we got in the lift.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to stay. It’s tough watching her struggle on, but she won’t accept help from anybody. She’s got her cleaning job in the primary school and her housing benefit. That’s it. She won’t take any money off me. And she still won’t bloody move out of that flat. I swear one day she’s going to burn the place down. It’s probably why the council have stopped hassling her—it’ll save them having to pay for the demolition.”
They’d arrived back at the house and remained in the car for a few minutes more, while Josh surveyed his own little corner of leafy suburbia through fresh eyes, and George continued to beat himself up over his mother’s spaghetti remark.
“I suppose we should go and pack,” he said finally.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:
LIGHTS, CAMERA
Jess wasn’t going on the holiday. She’d reached the decision during the wedding reception, when everyone was ignoring her, and she could totally understand why, but how could she explain? Rob wanted to keep the full extent of his heart condition to himself, and whilst he hadn’t sworn her to secrecy, it was more than apparent that he didn’t want her to tell the others. When Eleanor lambasted her on Friday, she was desperate to share all that Rob had told her since the reunion, because the stress of keeping it to herself was immense. Much as she was attracted to him, the time they were spending together was for his benefit more than hers, and when he was finally gone, she’d be able to tell them the whole truth. She only hoped it wouldn’t be too late to save her friendship with Andy.
Unbeknownst to her, Kris was on his way round right at that moment. He would arrive to find her sitting on the sofa, stilled by indecision. Should she unpack the suitcase, or not? Kris knocked on the door and waited. This wasn’t his idea; it was Dan’s. They needed to get Jess out of the way, he said. Andy was still spoiling for a fight and was insistent that he was going to the house to get his things. How long Dan could contain him, he didn’t know, but something needed to be done, and Kris was the only one talking to her. So, here he was, knocking for a second time, having seen her through the window when he arrived, and as reluctant to be here as she was to let him in. She relented on his third knock.
“Hi,” she greeted him, her eyes ringed with last night’s mascara and sleeplessness. “Come in.” Kris stepped inside, noting the open suitcase in the lounge, the piles of clothes half-packed or half-unpacked; it was impossible to say.
“How are you feeling today?” he asked. A stupid question. He could see the answer right before him.
“Like shit,” she said, and sat with her head in her hands. He watched her cry from across the room. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to have any part of this. But Dan had said it was essential.
“Hey, come on,” he tried, a little more sympathetically than he’d intended, which was a good thing. He sat beside her and put an arm around her. She collapsed against him, her body shuddering with each sob. It was unusual to see Jess in such a state. She was always so together. He waited, said no more, patting or rubbing her back whenever it seemed appropriate to do so. He didn’t want to be here.
“If I tell you something,” she gulped between rasping intakes of breath, “will you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Erm. I guess?” he agreed, quite sure as he did so that the promise was destined to be broken at the first opportunity that presented itself.
Jess sniffed and wiped her eyes, leaving black trails on her sleeves. She steadied herself, took a deep breath, and began.
“Rob’s got a serious heart condition. He’s on a waiting list for surgery, but it could take months, and he doesn’t have that long.” The sobs erupted again. Kris put his arm back around her. He still didn’t want to be here, but at least he was beginning to understand why she had acted so inconsiderately over the past week.
“That must be very hard for you,” he said, once again impressed by how genuine he sounded.
“It is,” she gasped. “He loves me.”
“And you love him, I understand,” Kris said. He’d been here for ten minutes already. How on earth was he going to turn her from gibbering wreck to someone who would consider leaving the house before the next ten had also ticked by? That’s all he had.
“The thing is,” she continued, “I don’t love him at all. I care about him and find him very attractive, but I don’t love him.
“Oh.” Kris stopped patting her back. “So you’re doing this for him?” She nodded and sniffed. Well, he thought, that makes it quite admirable then, even if she has trampled all over her best friends along the way.
“And I can’t go on the holiday, because…” The sobbing again, for goodness’ sakes! And now the long sniffly silence. “Because he might…” She didn’t get any further than this, and Kris finished the sentence in his head.
“But he might not,” he reasoned. “Then not only will you have missed out on a holiday for
no reason, you’ll have probably lost Ellie’s friendship for good. Listen.” This was it: not the ideal moment, and if he’d been going from a script instead of improvising, he’d have hoped for a more convincing build-up, but he had just nine more minutes. “Let’s go for a walk.” She didn’t protest. An encouraging sign. “Maybe stop off for some lunch and a drink somewhere, get you out of this place for a while.” And out of Andy’s way, he added silently.
“I don’t know, Kris. I’m in no fit state. I haven’t showered. I’m not even dressed.” Cue blubbering, interspersed with snotty sniffs. Time was ticking on.
“I’m not suggesting we go to a five star restaurant, just a pub lunch. Throw on some old jeans and you’ll do just fine.” Eight minutes and counting.
“Oh, I just…”
Tissue: she needs a tissue. Kris searched the room frantically. No tissues left! He ran upstairs to the bathroom and grabbed a length of loo roll.
“No excuses,” he said, shoving the wad of toilet paper at her. “Come on. You can cry on my shoulder, or we’ll talk about something else entirely.” Seven minutes.
She blew her nose and sighed. That was a good sign, surely? She was about to rally, but…no. More blubbering.
“Come on, Jess,” he said gently, although behind the scenes the director was cursing her for turning it into a melodrama. “Go put some clothes on. I’ll wait here.”
Finally the gasping chugged to a halt. She wiped her nose and peered at him through her hair. He pushed it from her face and nodded encouragingly. Six minutes.
“OK,” she said at last. She hugged him. He felt such a fraud.
“What’re you waiting for? Chop chop!” he said. This really was pushing it to the wire, and he had a feeling that even slinging on a pair of old jeans was going to take an awful lot longer than five minutes. Jess went upstairs. Kris took out his phone and typed frantically.
Give me 10 more mins if u can
Much banging about overhead. The flush of the toilet. Brushing of teeth. A slammed door. More banging and then footfall on the stairs. Thank God. They were playing in extra time now.
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