501

  Monday night’s darts in December.

  The George versus the Red Lion.

  Katy.

  This evening I called in home – don’t know why I call it that because it’s not that anymore; not for me – to try and get things sorted out. Jerry says he’s getting my name taken off the rent book. I tell him over my dead body and he reckons that would be the perfect solution.

  I say, ‘For Christ’s sake, grow up Jerry.’

  He smiles his self-righteous smile and says, ‘It not me who’s shagging Johnny James.’

  I don’t bite back, don’t let myself say, ‘He’s more man than you’ll ever be.’

  God how tempting is that; instead I ask for Laura. All I get is, ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘But how is she?’

  ‘I’ve just told you. She’s fine.’

  ‘She doesn’t answer her phone.’

  ‘You can’t expect her to.’

  ‘You’re poisoning her against me.’

  He’s standing there with his ‘I hold all the aces’ expression sneered onto his face.

  ‘She’s old enough to make up her own mind.’

  ‘Fuck you, Jerry.’

  So there’s a little bit of a stand-off, half a minute of seething on my part and Jerry waiting to obstruct my next question. Then, under the newspaper on the telly-table, I can see the corner of a DVD case, or rather I can see a pair of long, bare legs with a hint of panties between them. I pick it up, read out the title. ‘“Raunchy Rena and Giant John REALLY get it on.” Still wasting your money then, Jerry.’

  ‘Someone lent it to me.’

  He’s defensive now and I’m still reading the blurb out loud. ‘“She knows what she wants and she knows how to get it.”’ Then I say, ‘Me and Johnny, we could show them a thing or two.’

  Jerry grabs my arm suddenly, viciously. He’s white with anger and his grip hurts. ‘Go, Katy. Just fucking go.’

  So I go and I’m tired now, tired of trying to sort things out and getting nowhere, tired of trying to talk to Laura to explain what she doesn’t want to understand.

  ‘Don’t even try, Mum.’

  ‘But it’s not like…’

  ‘Whatever, Mum. ‘

  She’s looking to the ceiling and stifling a yawn with her hand.

  ‘Whatever.’

  How I stop myself from taking her shoulders and shaking her, I don’t know. I want to scream at her, ‘It’s not all me, Laura. It wasn’t all down to me. I’m the one who carried you for nine months, who changed your nappy, who got up every night when you cried, while that fat, lazy bastard lay on his back snoring and farting.’

  But she won’t talk, won’t answer a question, won’t take my calls. She’s shut me out, and the worst thing is that she acts just like Jerry. She’s got that same superior, detached look on her face that makes me feel like a shit.

  Well, fuck her as well.

  There. I’ve said it, but now it’s two seconds later and I’m regretting cursing my own daughter. What kind of mother does that make me? What kind of mother would say those things?

  The kind of mother that throws away a family for a quick jump.

  Slut. Tart. Slag.

  I light up a ciggy, take a deep draw and think it’s not like that; I’m not like that. I think I’m in love with Johnny James and it’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me.

  And a voice inside me whispers, ‘Does he mean more to you than Laura? Would you give him up for Laura and go back to that existence with Jerry? Could you do that?’

  And my voice screams in answer, ‘Never. Never. Never.’

  Mum watches me put my face on before I go to darts. She watches over my shoulder in the mirror.

  ‘Any good, Katy? Did you see her?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Give her time, Katy. Give her time. Remember we used to have our little upsets.’

  I’m thinking that this is more than just a little upset but Mum’s always played things down. It was like when she left Jim/Dad (I see him in my head as that: Jim stroke Dad) she said, ‘We just didn’t get on.’

  Didn’t get on? He was a mean selfish pig who kept her short of money, short of respect and short of love. But not short of a stinging slap, a backhanded blow or a right hook.

  And he never liked me. Oh, I know I wasn’t his, but when you’re a kid you can feel if someone’s shrinking away from you, or holding you stiffly, awkwardly; not really wanting you on his lap.

  But Ellie. Now, he’s relaxed with Ellie, his real daughter. His daughter who looks like him; whom he can’t wait to hold, to cuddle; whom he gives his sly treats to. Mum knows; Mum sees. But Mum says nothing because it’ll only start another row.

  I come in from school and she’s sitting at the kitchen table crying into her hands. In front of her is a red Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin.

  ‘Mum. You okay, Mum?’

  When she takes her hands from her face there’s blood on her nose and her right eye is turning black.

  ‘We have to go, Katy,’ she says. ‘Pack a few things; only what you really need.’

  ‘Where’s Ellie, Mum?’

  ‘He’s taken her to her.’ She spits out the second ‘her’ and I don’t really understand.

  ‘Taken her…’

  Mum snaps, ‘Taken her. To his bloody fancy woman. You’re old enough to know what that means.’

  It means we’re leaving Jim/Dad and I’m glad. And then he’s not Jim/Dad anymore, he’s just Jim.

  So we go to the Refuge, me, Mum and a couple of suitcases. This building overflows with snotty-nosed kids, cowed mothers and tears for the lonely. It reeks of cigarette smoke and dirty nappies. The front door is kept locked and the fourteen-year-old me has to ask to be let out to go to school. When I come back I have to press a button, speak into the intercom and look up to the camera in the porch ceiling.

  ‘It’s me, Katy Jones.’

  The door clicks open and for three months this is my – our – home.

  I see Jim with his new woman when I’m at the supermarket. She’s big and blowsy with a couple of subdued kids, and a screech of a voice that keeps them from moving an inch out of line.

  ‘Don’t touch. Don’t look at the sweets; you’re not getting any. Thirsty? You can wait till you get home.’

  She’s got a head of frothy blonde hair and lipstick that looks like she’s cut her mouth.

  I can’t imagine her taking any knocks; I can imagine her giving a few.

  I avoid them, go down the next aisle and merge into the shoppers at the deep freezers. I study the frozen chips, the healthy burgers, the fish fingers; then I grab a bag of peas and head for the checkout.

  So why does this happen? Why, coincidentally, should Jim and his new family tag onto my queue? Why does God let things like this happen?

  ‘Hello, Katy,’ says Jim.

  We’re separated by a young man and a couple who’ve seen better days.

  I don’t answer. I keep staring ahead, willing the lady at the till who’s fumbling in her purse for her card to hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.

  ‘Not speaking then, Katy?’ Jim calls down the line.

  I do speak then. I say, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ Then in contradiction I add, ‘Not after you beat Mum up.’

  The queue have become suddenly silent and curious, and into that inquisitive silence, Jim says, ‘I did no such thing.’ In his voice is an appeal to be believed and it gives me a glimmer of satisfaction.

  Then Frothy Head, sticking up for her man, bawls out in a foghorn of a voice.

  ‘You lying little cow. Just like your mother.’ She turns to Jim. ‘No wonder you dumped her.’

  ‘You don’t know my mother.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough about her.’

  The audience are watching the exchanges like they’re at a tennis match.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk about my mother.’

  Frothy Head says, ‘You started it, mouthy madam.’

 
This is going nowhere, except giving me a hot face. So I give in, give them the game. I drop the peas on the counter and walk out. I’m around the corner before I stop, before I lean against a brick wall and let myself cry.

  I suppose that’s why I don’t hear the young man from the queue come by.

  ‘Are you all right, Katy?’ he says.

  He’s got a shock of black hair but most of it will be gone before he’s thirty.

  It’s very rare that Mum has a drink but this night in the telly-lounge, when most of the kids have gone to bed, Mum sits with the bruised optimists and the worn-out no-hopers. There’s a couple of bottles of cheap whisky and a huge bottle of Cola going the rounds while these women light up their fags, top up their glasses, kick off their shoes. They tell the tales of their life and forget about me sitting quietly in the corner.

  About ten o’clock I slip out of the room with my head full of images of fighting and yelling and cold, cold cruelty. There are tipped-over tables, smashed crockery and kids with fear in their eyes. There are wet beds and days off school and going without food. And always the shouting and the red, red blood.

  I go to our bed-sit, curl into sleep and dream that Jim is beating up Mum.

  I wake and it’s really late and Mum’s sitting, with her Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin open on the table. But it’s not biscuits she’s pulling out of the box; she’s dealing herself a hand of photographs, laying them out on the table like she’s playing Patience. It’s only after she sniffs and wipes her hand across her eyes that I realise she’s crying – crying and drunk. I’m about to slip out of bed, put my arms around my Mum, when I hear her half whisper, half talk.

  ‘If only you’d come back sooner. If only I could have told you in time. It would have been all right; I know it would have been.’

  There’s a depth to her regrets that I can’t interrupt; even the fourteen-year-old me can recognise tears for a secret.

  In the next instalment of my life we get a council house and Ellie comes back to live with us and, much to Mum’s fearful unease, Jim comes to take Ellie out every Saturday. Sometimes he’s got Frothy Head and her two kids in the car but he never once asks for me, never even nods in my direction. I know we’ve had our rows and I know what he did to Mum, but if he’d just acknowledged me, acknowledged that we shared ten years of life, it would somehow have made me significant, like I was worth something.

  ‘Just because we fell out doesn’t mean I can’t see my own daughter,’ he says to Mum. I think ‘fell out’ is a bit of an understatement and Mum says she doesn’t want any more drama, and I’m to keep my mouth shut. She tells Jim that the first sign of trouble she’ll have him in court. She also says that because Jim’s got himself a new woman he won’t pester us.

  At least she’s right about that.

  You can tell it’ll soon be Christmas because Danny’s hung a few strands of tinsel from the mantelpiece. He’s even pinned bunches of holly in the tyre that’s around the dartboard. Scottie Dog reckons he must have spent about a fiver.

  Anyway, tonight we’re playing the Red Lion Ladettes and they always live up to their name. They’re a noisy, brash fashion parade and they love a drink and they love their darts. They’re last season’s winners of the Maud Evans Memorial Cup and they’re chasing the league with us.

  On our team, Pegs is her usual nervous self, Irish is fuelling up on G and T, Maggie looks half asleep, Lena’s under too much competition from the Ladettes, Scottie Dog is down in the dumps because of her cats, and me… well, I’m starting to get used to my new life, my new man. I might try and sneak Johnny James into Mum’s tonight; she’s staying around Ellie’s, and me and Johnny are due some loving.

  Anyway we go through the warm-up and then I chuck for nearest bull. I’m only just inside the treble, though, and the Ladettes’ captain sneaks her arrow into the twenty-five. On her first throw she hits a ton and really knocks the wind out of my sails. The rest follow suit and they take the team game while we’re still struggling in the hundreds.

  I’m first on in the singles and Captain Ladette is still in good form; she hits another ton, then an eighty-five.

  Maggie says, ‘Settle down, Katy. She can’t keep this up.’

  But she does as I plug steadily away. Before every throw I take a big swig of my vodka and Coke to settle my nerves. It seems to start me working as Captain Ladette splits double eight to double four to single two: all on the wire. Then she clips the eighteen, the twenty, but not the double one she wants. I’ve got fifty-nine on the board and a slip in a single nineteen and then the tops. So it’s two darts and out.

  Captain Ladette is a bit pissed off about that and when I say, ‘You should have won that,’ she answers, ‘I don’t need you to tell me.’ All the same she buys my drink. As she should.

  Irish is next on and the Motley Crew are drifting over to see how we’re doing and Captain Ladette asks for a bit of room and a bit of hush. All the same it doesn’t stop them shouting out the scores. Pikey Pete shouts forty-three. Paddy says, ‘No. No. No. It’s forty-one. Yer see nineteen and twenty and two is forty-one.’

  Irish says, ‘Shut the fuck up and let us play,’ and they take umbrage and wander back to the bar. Jilted John says that they won’t help us again and Paddy reckons we’ve all got PMT.

  Anyway, Irish wins – she usually does – and Pegs comes up third on.

  Once Pegs is behind the oche she quickly settles into her game. This is a new Pegs; she’s calm and consistent, concentrating on every throw and not falling apart when a dart goes out of line. She’s an easy winner but she doesn’t raise a smile in victory. I get that motherly/sisterly feeling towards her again, and I want to give her a cuddle, ask her if everything’s all right, put the grin back on her face.

  The Ladettes never recover from these three games and we keep our noses in front to win the game. They leave a lot quieter than when they came in, and they also leave their sandwiches and chips which please the Motley Crew.

  Danny’s over the moon. ‘Well done, my girls!’ he says (which I resent because they’re my girls) and he pours a round of drinks for us.

  Pikey Pete asks if he could include the supporters in that round and Danny tells him to put his hand in his own pocket. Scottie Dog says, ‘Don’t encourage him, he’s always playing pocket billiards.’

  Irish laughs. ‘He must be feeling cocky then.’

  Pikey Pete, scowling, says, ‘I’ll get me own fucking beer then.’

  Old Bob, who’s not spoken all night, says, through a mouthful of cheese sandwich, ‘If you’re going up to the bar, can you get me a light and bitter?’

  Pikey Pete uses the F word again and Danny says he won’t have that sort of fucking language in his pub. Pikey Pete says he’s sorry and it won’t fucking happen again.

  I go out for a fag and look at the stars beyond the lighting. It makes me think of when I was a schoolgirl, sneaking out into the back garden for a smoke on a frosty night. I’d go behind the shed, sit on the wooden bench, strike up, shield the match in the cup of my hand, and light up. I can still savour every draw from those stolen ciggies, that stolen time. No fags ever tasted as good.

  But from inside of my house comes the sound of raised voices and Ellie’s wailing cry. So I sit out here, have another fag, feel my bum starting to freeze on the cold wooden sea. I sit until it’s all quiet in my house. I sit and smoke and look at the stars and wonder if my life will always be like this.

  And it’s not, is it? I’ve left my husband and I’ve got a daughter who won’t even talk to me. I’ve got a job that I detest and I’m thirty-five and living with my Mum. I sleep in a pull-down bed in the lounge.

  But I’ve got Johnny James, five years younger than me and darkly handsome, with eyes that can see straight into my heart. I’m thinking that tonight we’ll be lying on that pull down and he’ll be saying, ‘This bed’s too narrow, I’m going to have to lie on top of you.’

  And I’ll say, ‘Yes, please, Johnny.’

 
; I’m thinking of all this as I walk back but when I get there Mum’s home; she’s had a barney with Ellie.

  ‘Rude to me, she was. Bloody rude. Too much of him in her.’

  There’s a sparkle of tears in her eyes and it seems Jim can still hurt her by proxy.

  I go outside, light up a fag, park my bum on the garden bench, shiver, and look up at the stars. Then I text Johnny James and tell him our night of passion is postponed. He texts back that he could do with a rest, anyway; I’m wearing him out. He signs off with ‘luv x jj’ and I kiss the phone, kiss his message, kiss his name.

  And I pretend I’m kissing him.

  Back inside, Mum’s made a pot of tea and she pours me a cup without asking.

  ‘Do you want a sandwich?’ she says. ‘You’re getting too thin.’

  I take this as a compliment; Mum’s been going on lately for me to eat a bit more. But I like this new me; I’ve got a figure I haven’t had for ten years. I can go up the stairs without puffing and I can even run for a bus. I’ve had my hair shaped and I’m in a pair of skinny jeans with no belt of fat around my middle.

  So I’m nearly satisfied with myself.

  And I’m so nearly happy.

  Mum and I say goodnight and I set up my lonely bed and wait for sleep. But the late tea keeps me awake, keeps me thinking. My mind won’t close down and I’m replaying tonight’s game; then I’m meeting Johnny James and we’re sharing a smoke outside the George and he’s appraising me with those eyes: eyes that make me feel something special and make me just want to slip into his arms, into his loving.

  But then I’m a new mother tiptoeing into Laura’s room and she’s lying on her back in her cot. She looks so warm, so peaceful that I want to lift her out and hold her sleepy-warmth to me. From behind, Jerry has slipped an arm around me.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘She’s so beautiful.’ There’s a catch in his voice and his arm tightens on me.

  And after this time, after these moments of tenderness, when did it start to change. When did it all go wrong?

  It becomes one of those nights and I restlessly watch the time tick towards one o’clock. I can’t turn the telly on, cos of waking Mum; several times I’ve been on the edge of sleep and I’ve counted enough sheep to feed the bloody country. I open the window, lean out onto the sill and light up a fag. I have to stifle a cough that reminds me I’m well into my second packet of coffin nails. Then I go to the loo again, even though I have to squeeze hard to justify my visit. God, I won’t feel like work in the morning. I check the time again; the hands have hardly moved. I’ll read myself to sleep, that’s what I’ll do.