by Nicky Black
Lee’s attention turned back to the top table. After introducing a couple of rather boring-looking planner types, the Director turned his attention to a young man sitting to his right, a consultant, about twenty-five, wearing a sharp, grey suit, Armani glasses and a shaggily precise haircut. He reminded Lee of the guys drinking in the bar of the hotel. Clean, educated, ambitious. Matt was his name. Figures, thought Lee, would have to be Matt or Dan or Sam. The short but smart names of the middle class.
The show kicked off with a slick presentation on a screen which Matt operated via remote control. It showed smiley, happy, virtual people in clean, tree-lined streets, pushing buggies, carrying shopping bags and talking on their mobile phones, having lovely lives. A glass, high-rise block of balconied flats, with a cafe at the base, slim people of all colours and creeds drinking cappuccinos and glasses of white wine, or working on their laptops. He talked of outcomes, of improved health, more jobs and better GCSE results. Social capital. Community engagement. A safer, cleaner, greener life for all. The residents watched, unmoving, frowning in mass concentration. The Director thanked Matt and invited questions.
Silence.
Margy spoke to Nicola under her breath, ‘Snog, marry or suck off.’ Nicola’s laugh was loud in the soundless room and she stifled it with a hand, nudging Margy to shut up. Margy grinned at her. ‘I reckon I’ve had him,’ she whispered, nodding towards one of the planners, ‘On the Town Moor. Spotty arse.’ Nicola scraped her chair slightly away from Margy who giggled naughtily, told her to ‘watch this’, then stood up, taking on a commanding air. Lee ducked down in his chair.
‘I’ve got a question,’ said Margy, tersely. ‘Didn’t you do up these houses, like, ten or fifteen years ago? I mean, what’s the bloody point if people are just gonna trash them?’
Nicola stood up to join her. They were a team when it came to slagging off the Council. ‘It’s not the houses, man, it’s the people,’ she said to assenting voices.
The voice of an old Scottish woman added to the growing mumbling. ‘When there’s scum livin’ everywhere, you cannit even gan out without thinking you’re ganna get mugged for your fish and chips!’
‘Hey!’ another voice came from the other side of the room. A tiny, thickset woman with a shaggy, plum-coloured perm, white roots and a Borstal spot on her right cheekbone. She pointed at the old Scot. ‘Who you calling scum? I’ve lived here forty years and I’m not scum!’
The floodgates were open.
‘There’s kids of five and six oot burnin’ cars!’ the old Glaswegian kept on ranting.
The Director stepped in, his hands held up in appeasement.
‘Let’s not get into a bunfight, ladies.’ Lee winced and sunk lower in his seat. The Director continued, ‘The reason we’re here tonight is to get your views on the regeneration of the area. Involve you in what’s going on. We can’t do this without the community on-board.’
Margy wasn’t one for being patronised by paper-pushers. ‘But you’re not involving us,’ she said, looking around for support, ‘you’re telling us what’s gonna happen.’
Nicola felt the soapbox under her feet. ‘And we’re telling you,’ she pointed at them, ‘there’s no point if you don’t deal with the people who come in, wreck the place, then piss off. They’re the ones who make the place crap, not the stupid houses.’
A ripple of applause from those present. She turned to sit down and noticed Lee at the back of the room. There was a moment of acknowledgement and she sat, her heart speeding up, her face red with embarrassment. Jesus, he’d think she was a right whiny old bag now.
‘All you wanna do is bring in a load of yuppies,’ yelled the plum-haired woman, turning to the consultant, Matt: ‘No offence, bonny lad, but I bet they’re paying you more in a day than we get in a month of benefits.’
And so it went on. The planners shifted in their seats uncomfortably, not used to being away from their computers and thrust out into the nasty world of actual people. None of them stood a chance.
When the so-called meeting was finally over, the consultant and Council workers huddled around the projector and laptop, animatedly talking in hushed voices. Lee wandered over to the door of a windowless kitchen, battered and musty, the overhead fluorescent light buzzing and flickering annoyingly. Inside, Nicola and Margy were pushing the tea urn back into its place.
‘S’cuse me,’ he said, making them jump and turn round simultaneously, ‘I was looking for the Gents.’
‘Other side,’ said Margy curtly, ‘but the doors are locked.’ Lee looked around him and hesitated. Nicola slapped Margy on the arm. ‘Here, he can use the office one.’
‘The office is locked an’ all,’ said Margy, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
‘Well then, I’ll get the key,’ replied Nicola, giving her a tight-lipped glare. Margy looked from Lee to Nicola, sighed and pushed past them.
‘I’ll see you the morra,’ she called, ‘and don’t be late!’
Nicola gave Lee a little shrug. ‘I’ll get the key,’ she said.
‘No, you’re alright,’ he said quickly, moving slightly in front of her. ‘I erm, I just wanted the chance to speak to you,’ he said. She cleared her throat and waited. ‘At the pub, the other night.’ Lee fished around for the right words but they weren’t coming. ‘Were you okay, after…?’
She half-smiled. ‘I’m fine, I know it was a bit mental but that’s just how it is round here.’
‘I know,’ he said almost apologetically, then paused. ‘I used to live here.’
‘Nah,’ she said, disbelieving. ‘Where?’
‘18 Elm Street.’
She smiled and looked at him curiously. ‘That’s near me,’ she said. ‘So why did you come to the meeting?’
‘Well, partly because I’ve got a soft spot for the place, partly work.’
Nicola frowned cautiously. ‘D’you work for the Council?’
He shook his head. ‘Not directly but I have to work with them.’ Nicola looked a bit confused and Lee wasn’t explaining further.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, switching off the flickering light, ‘But don’t listen to them, they tell nowt but lies.’ Lee laughed and followed her out of the room. She turned back to him as she locked the door. ‘Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve got to go.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ For a moment their eyes locked: there was chemistry. Nicola looked at his bruised, cut face and wanted to touch it, give him some comfort, then realised it was her fault he had it in the first place.
‘Can I… walk you home? Or something?’ The words tumbled out of his mouth and tailed off as he realised the stupidity of what he was saying.
Nicola felt herself blush like a schoolkid. ‘Have you got a car?’
‘I left it on the West Road. In case it got pinched,’ he joked and she laughed. ‘Cheeky,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t mind a hand with the shutters.’
Shoulder to shoulder, Lee couldn’t help sizing her up as they walked out of the community centre. She was around five foot seven, strong-shouldered and straight-backed, the cute freckles on her nose softening the sharp edges of her features. Out in the mild evening air he pulled at the creaking, rusty shutters, wondering how she ever did this alone.
‘Margy’s usually here,’ she said as if she’d read his mind, ‘and she’s a big lass.’
He laughed. ‘Your huffy friend.’
Nicola was fiddling with the padlock now – it looked giant-sized in her hands. ‘She’s just looking out for me,’ she said. He gently took the lock from her, bent down and threaded it through the bolts and snapped it shut.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied.
They started to walk along the road flanked by boarded-up properties. It was desolate apart from the dim light of a small supermarket in the distance. They headed towards it without a word.
Eventually she asked, ‘When did you leave?’
‘When I was sixteen. Had a fight with me dad and he
chucked me out.’
She sighed. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Circumstances were horrible.’
‘I bet you live somewhere nice now, though.’
‘I’m homeless,’ he said. She looked shocked: how could someone like him be homeless? ‘Technically,’ he explained, ‘moved back for the job, need to find a place.’
‘Well, don’t let the Council put you back here, we’re stuck, it’s a dump and the police never leave you alone.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a wonder they weren’t there tonight, blathering on, spouting rubbish. I hate them.’
Lee’s stomach turned a little. ‘Hate is a strong word,’ he said.
‘They’ve made my brother’s life hell,’ she said bitterly.
It was quiet for the next fifty yards until they reached the supermarket. She looked down the street at the crossroads while he looked up towards the West Road.
‘I’ll walk you down,’ he said. Nicola wanted him to, but she knew it would be reckless.
‘I’m okay,’ she said confidently as she turned to him. His eyes rested on her face for just a moment too long.
‘I’m Nicola, by the way.’
‘Lee,’ he said.
‘Thanks for stepping in at the pub, for helping my brother.’
He nodded. ‘He took quite a beating.’
‘The police would’ve just finished the job,’ she said.
Lee cleared his throat. ‘Well, my car’s just up here,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I’m…’ She pointed over her shoulder, down the hill from the fortified shop.
‘Bye then,’ he said.
He watched as she walked down the hill, willing her to turn around. She didn’t, and the world was suddenly empty. All he could hear was his own lungs pumping air in and out. He should have told her. Next time, he thought. If he ever saw her again.
THREE
The nursery was buzzing with children, parents and smiling, welcoming staff and volunteers, the smell of fresh paint and cement affirming its newness. It had taken years of petitions, letters, fighting – always fighting – to get their little ones out of the mouldy church hall and into the sort of nursery that children of more deserving areas enjoyed. Margy had led the campaign with the determination of a presidential candidate.
When Nicola walked into the brightness, flowers and bunting adorning the walls, she felt like she’d just stepped over the rainbow. It looked dazzling, and she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time: hope. It was a beautiful, crisp and sunny morning, a blessed change from the relentless rain of the last few days. The sun streamed through the high windows, slashing the light onto a sea of small faces. The children sat on the floor in rows. Some of them yawned, some looked around for their mums, some sat quietly in their too big cardigans, staring open-mouthed at the juice and biscuits lined up along the wall, waiting to be consumed if they were good.
Nicola clung to Liam’s hand and scoured the room for Mark and Kim, but she couldn’t see them. Mark was in court later that afternoon, but had promised to be there for his nephew’s big moment. She bent down to Liam. ‘Now remember to smile, okay?’ Liam nodded his reply and she let go of his hand, pointing to one of the nursery workers and giving him a gentle nudge in her direction. Liam stepped over the squirming legs of the other children, looking back at Nicola who gave him an encouraging wink.
The adults’ chairs were at the back of the room. Nicola spotted Margy with her husband, Joe, his eyes red with tiredness after a long night shift on the road. Joe was a gentle soul, his heart as big as his beer gut. Their son, Jimmy, was the double of him, wide-set eyes behind thick glasses, a jutting jaw and a tiny button nose. Margy patted the seat next to her on the front row, right next to the window. Nicola was delighted – she’d be able to see it all from there. Margy was explaining to Joe the type of glass used in the windows, the cost of the whiteboard, the length of time it took to import the roof tiles from Belgium, the energy-efficiency measures that had been built into the cavity walls. Joe nodded the odd ‘aye’ and shook the odd ‘never!’ with his head. He knew how much this nursery meant to her. He knew all too well the amount of time she had spent raising money, shouting at politicians and civil servants. Her commitment to Valley Park left little time for him and Jimmy. But he wouldn’t have her any other way. The estate seemed to be her life’s mission, and this nursery was her first big achievement. He’d never been prouder, and so he forced his eyes open and resigned himself to another hour of wakefulness.
The tiny mayor and his ridiculously tall wife entered the hall to lazy applause. Nicola could sense Margy stifling giggles, Joe nudging her in the ribs, covering his own dimpled grin with his hand. It was bizarre to Nicola to think of herself with a man smaller than her. Micky was heavy and strong, and with him she had, ironically, always felt protected. He’d been on his best behaviour lately – wasn’t spending so much time at the gym, and had even taken Michael Jnr to school a couple of times, much to the delight of their eldest son who thought the sun shone out of his dad’s arse. There was a time when she would have welcomed this change, but now it lay heavy on her shoulders as she dug deep inside herself to cuddle him back, kiss him back, enjoy the sex. She struggled to fit her arms around his bulk, his lips felt wet and spongy, and she’d taken to faking it just to get it over with.
She concentrated on the children singing a tuneless song. She looked at Liam singing the wrong words, and her heart melted. After the song was finished everyone clapped and a few of the mums wiped their eyes, others yawning with boredom, needing a fag or to get back to bed.
While the mayor started to speak about schools being at the heart of communities and children being the future, Nicola’s mind wandered. Over the last few days she’d had to shake her head free of the image of Lee, the touch of his hand on her arm and the lines of his face rippling from the corners of his mouth to the corners of his eyes when he smiled. She stared blankly out of the window. An image disturbed her thoughts, however: a woman with bleached blonde hair staggering along the street in fluffy mule slippers and short skirt, holding her denim jacket close to her chest. Nicola turned away and shook her head: surely it’s a bit late for the walk of shame, she thought. She felt a shudder run through her like an omen, as the sun fell behind clouds and darkened the room.
Liam stood shyly, holding a small posy of flowers in one hand, and clinging to the skirt of the nursery worker with the other. He looked round for Nicola who gave him the thumbs-up. He grinned, his cheeks red like apples, and his eyes turned back to the floor in front of him.
As the speech came to an end, Nicola glanced out of the window again. The blonde woman was nearer now, her steps so quick she looked almost comical. Nicola raised an eyebrow as she noticed blood running down one of the woman’s legs. She sat up in her chair to get a better view, then her stomach hit her mouth as she realised it was Mark’s wife, Kim. She grabbed Margy’s arm and Margy turned to look out of the window, too. Kim was limping towards the school, her left hand and left leg streaming with blood.
‘Oh my God,’ Nicola said under her breath.
She had no choice but to watch as Liam handed the posy of flowers to the mayor’s wife, everyone clapping and smiling. Nicola clapped along, the fear rising in her lungs like a furnace. She looked outside again but Kim wasn’t there.
‘We’ll watch him, you go,’ said Margy quietly, sensing Nicola’s panic.
Nicola got out of her seat and stumbled, stooping and apologising towards the exit. When she got there she glared with annoyance at the red ribbon across the doors, caging her in. She looked for another exit, but there were too many people in the way. The room now seemed huge and stifling.
The mayor and his wife stopped a few feet away from her to have their photo taken with a pair of scissors by the ribbon. Nicola saw Kim’s terrified, blood- and tear-stained face at the glass of the door, one side of her hair chopped off oddly. She lunged forward, tearing at the ribbon and pulling the door open. Peop
le gasped and stared, mouths gaping, straining to see what was going on. The doors swung shut behind her and, with relief, Nicola heard the piano start up and the singing begin again.
In the lobby, Nicola took the distraught Kim by the elbow and guided her to the ladies' toilets next to the reception. She could see a middle-aged secretary with glasses strung around her neck talking animatedly on the telephone, looking with horror at the drops of blood on the new laminated floor.
In the toilets, Kim was sobbing, her body bent over. ‘I just asked him…’
Nicola ran Kim’s cut hand under the tap, blood mixing with water.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, trying to stay calm. ‘Kim. Tell me what’s happened.’
The wound was deep, and Nicola thought she could see the white of bone.
‘I just asked him…. if he was gonna get ready for court.’ Kim stuttered. ‘He just went off it!’
Nicola searched her pockets for a packet of cigarettes.
‘Mark did this?’
Kim nodded.
Nicola lit a cigarette with steady hands and handed it to Kim who dropped it straight onto the floor. Nicola picked it up and held the cigarette to Kim’s mouth. She took several long, hard drags.
The secretary walked into the toilets in a flap.
‘I’ve called the police,’ she said, a little out of breath.
‘What the hell for?’ retorted Nicola angrily.
The secretary looked flabbergasted at being challenged.
‘I’m going round there,’ said Nicola, taking a long drag off the cigarette herself, then handing it back to Kim.
‘I don’t think it’s wise to go anywhere,’ said the secretary with authority.
‘It’s none of your bloody business,’ Nicola pointed at her aggressively.
The secretary grabbed the cigarette from Kim’s hand. ‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she said haughtily, holding the cigarette away from her like a reeking sock.