‘For what?’
‘For everything you do for me. Everything you’ve done. I’m a surly cow, I know. But I do appreciate it.’
She looked as stunned as if I’d come in with a severed head and swung it around, getting blood all up her beloved Artexing.
‘Have you been drinking?’ she whispered.
I shook my head. Though, truth be told, we had shared a bottle of Lambrini in the organ loft.
‘Drugs?’
‘No!’ I scoffed. Chance’d be a fine thing.
‘I know a lot o’kids your age don’t half experiment with that Mary-Joannie.’
‘It’s marijuana, Nan.’
‘I don’t mind you pronouncing it, as long as you don’t inject it.’
‘You smoke it, Nan.’
‘Or that.’
And then she looked back at the telly, and turned the volume up. But I didn’t care. At least, for once in my life, I’d said how I felt. She looked back suddenly.
‘What’s in the Kwik Save bag?’
‘Ingredients.’
‘For what?’
‘A cake?’
She looked incredulous. ‘You’re making a cake?’
I nodded. ‘It’s Jocelyn’s birthday tomorrow. Me and Adam are gonna surprise her.’
Nan appeared to mull this over. Then she jumped up, invigorated.
‘I’ve got a Noah’s Ark cake decoration transfer somewhere.
You get mixing and I’ll find it.’
My heart sank.
Jocelyn was fifteen the next day. The cake could have been stunning, if I’d been left to my own devices. It was a chocolate cake with a buttercream filling – so far, so good – but the top was a bit of a mish-mash of styles. As well as me icing HAPPY BIRTHDAY on it, Nan had insisted I use the Noah’s Ark transfer, so that was unattractively squashed underneath the lettering.
‘What’s the boat to do with?’ Adam asked when I showed it to him in the sweet shop that morning.
‘Oh, that’s . . .’
Dorothy peered over. ‘Is it the Love Boat?’
‘No, it’s Noah’s Ark.’
‘Oh.’ Dorothy sounded surprised. ‘Is she into the Old Testament?’
‘Not really. I just . . . thought it was unusual,’ I lied.
‘Well, it’s a bit late to take it off now,’ Adam sighed as he clipped the lid back on the cake tin. We had planned to go over to Jocelyn’s house really early before she set off for school on the Wirral and surprise her with it, before heading on over to see Mark with some provisions for the day. We set off, but just as we were stepping foot out of the door Dorothy called my name. I looked back. Adam huffed, wanting to get off.
‘It’s just . . .’
‘Mother, hurry up!’ Adam hissed. Gosh, he could be rude sometimes.
‘Well, Enid Dunn said she seen your dad. Getting a take-out at the Bridge.’
The Bridge was a nearby pub, situated, appropriately, on the bridge into town.
‘It must be that lookalike again, Dorothy.’
She nodded, but looked unconvinced. ‘Just thought I’d say.’
‘Come on, Kathleen.’ Adam dragged me out of the door.
‘Did you get Mark anything?’ he asked as we strolled along.
‘A bag of cheese and onion crisps and an Um Bongo. From my packed lunch. How about you?’
‘Some liquorice torpedoes and a tin of Spam.’
‘Is there an opener for the tin?’
‘It’s all-inclusive. Oh, and a Tunnock’s teacake.’
‘Oh, I love them.’
‘I know. He’s living the life of Riley. Here we are.’
When we knocked on Jocelyn’s front door we could hear her mum in the hall on the phone. We could hear the words, ‘Yes, our teasmades are of the highest calibre, Madame’, spoken in Jocelyn’s mum’s thick Sierra Leonean accent. It always made us chuckle. Then we heard her stop talking and approach the door, calling, ‘You have got a bloody nerve, young lady!’
And then she opened it. And looked quite surprised to see us standing there.
‘Hello, Mrs McKenzie. Is Jocelyn in, please?’ Adam said, all sweetness and light. Like we were overzealous Jehovah’s Witnesses.
I held my cake tin up. ‘We’ve brought her a cake for her birthday.’
Jocelyn’s mum looked like a rabbit in headlights. She looked back into the hall and we heard a door slam loudly. Was Jocelyn there? Why wasn’t she coming to the door? Jocelyn’s mum looked back to us, and smiled thinly.
‘It is her birthday, isn’t it?’ I bleated.
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘Is everything OK, Mrs McKenzie?’ Adam reached out and touched her arm.
She coughed and spluttered a bit, then said, ‘Jocelyn did not stay here last night. We had a bit of a row. She went to stay at her cousin’s in Toxteth.’ Only the way she said it sounded like Tox-DEATH.
I found it unnerving. And I immediately smelt a rat.
Was she lying? Why did I get the feeling Jocelyn was there? Someone was there that she didn’t want us to know about. But why would she make up the story about Toxteth?
‘But I will take your cake, and give it to her later. You are good people.’
‘Thank you, Mrs McKenzie,’ I said, handing it over.
‘If only she was more like you. So thoughtful. So kind.’ She stroked Adam’s arm. ‘You are like my albino son.’
‘Ah, thanks, Mrs McKenzie.’
I waited for her to bestow a heartfelt compliment on me. But she just gave me a bored smile, then stepped back and shut the door.
Adam and I looked at each other, and as we did we heard some sort of row going on inside the house. Jocelyn’s mum was arguing with a man. Which was odd in itself, as no men lived in that house. Was that why Jocelyn wasn’t there? Did her mum have a new boyfriend, and Jocelyn didn’t approve? Jocelyn could be such a snob.
‘I don’t believe a word of that,’ I said to him.
‘I know. Me neither.’
‘Who’s that fella she’s rowing with?’
Adam shrugged.
‘Like your nan said. She was a bit of a goer in her day.’
And we chuckled and hurried away from the doorstep.
As we walked round to the church, I had an increasing sense of foreboding. Adam chirruped merrily away about not realizing how big Jocelyn’s family were, and second-guessing what the row might have been about. As we turned the corner and hit the wasteland on which the church sat mournfully in the corner, I began to feel I didn’t want to go inside. But Adam was bounding ahead. And I always followed, even if this time I did so reluctantly.
‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘About this row! What d’you think they were arguing about?’
‘I reckon she’s got a new fancy piece, and snobby Jocelyn was slagging him off,’ I proffered. Adam shrieked with laughter, loving the scandal of it all.
And then I saw it. Up ahead at the church.
A side window, a vestry window opened. And Jocelyn climbed out.
‘Adam, look.’
I nodded towards the church. He turned and looked. She didn’t see us. She was stood with her back to us, and she started straightening her clothing. She even seemed to readjust her knickers.
‘What’s she doing?’ asked Adam. His voice was monotone. Like he already knew the answer.
And then she leaned in to the window, and Mark leaned slightly out of it. And they stood there for what felt like eternity, hugging.
‘Something tells me,’ said Adam, ‘she never stayed in Toxteth last night.’
London, 2015
I wake up in a bed I don’t recognize, in a room I don’t recognize. My head hurts. But this feeling is familiar. The sore throat, the repugnant taste in my mouth. I am fully clothed. My coat lies on the floor. I panic. Sit up. My bag is nearby. I climb out of bed and look inside. My purse and keys are there. My phone – where’s my phone? I see that it is charging ne
ar the window. Did I do that? Someone else must have. Who?
This is a nice room. In other circumstances, I’d enjoy it. I just don’t know whose room it is. I try to remember where I was the night before. I have no recollection of going to bed.
Then it hits me. Jocelyn’s funeral.
Oh God, did I cop off? Have I had sex? They say that death and sex go together, the ultimate celebration. But I am fully clothed. Thank God for that.
I climb out of bed. No obvious injuries to legs, I feel no pain there, so hopefully I didn’t fall over.
I open the white curtains. This room is upstairs. Below me I see a tiny but picture-perfect garden, and some decking. A shed at the bottom of a path. A rainbow flag in the window of the shed.
So far, so gay.
And a child’s bike, and . . . oh, of COURSE!
I must be at Adam and Jason’s. That’s something of a relief. But.
Oh God. Oh God, I must have got hammered, and they brought me home because I couldn’t explain where I lived enough for them to put me in a taxi.
This whole room is white. Thank God I wasn’t sick all over it. I notice a half-drunk glass of red on the bedside cabinet, red rings surrounding it where it’s been moved. And an ashtray with two cigarettes in it. Eurgh. Someone’s been smoking inside. In my room. Disgusting. Then I recognize the taste in my mouth. It must have been me smoking. Even more disgusting.
I check my phone to make sure I’ve not called or texted anyone while drunk. It’s half nine in the morning. I’ve not made a call since yesterday morning, or sent a text. I do have a text from the cab company, though, from six yesterday evening, saying the taxi was outside the pub.
I check Twitter and Facebook. I’ve not drunkenly ranted on either, so that’s good too. This could be a lot, lot worse.
Except that Adam has seen the state I get into.
That is less good.
Oh fuck.
I bet he and Jason had a massive row about it. I bet Jason was all, ‘Your mate’s pissed, I’m going to bed.’ Hopefully Adam defended me. Hopefully my ‘grieving’ was enough to excuse it. Hopefully they’ll assume it was a one-off . . .
Panic grips my throat. I can’t leave the room. I sit on the bed instead, which is when I notice the bottle of Evian under the bedside table. I grab it, unscrew the top and glug it back.
That’s better. At least I didn’t reach for the glass of red.
My tongue feels too big for my mouth. My mouth feels too big for my face. My brain feels too big for my head. I am an ogre. Everything is too big.
I wonder what I was saying to Adam last night. This is the problem when you have no recollection. I like to think I’m a nice drunk, a happy drunk. I hope I didn’t say too much about Jocelyn. I hope it was one of those drunkennesses that result in me going catatonic, unable to speak. I hope it didn’t make me garrulous and gossipy, eager to spill any beans. I hope all beans were safely kept in their tin.
But Adam always did like a gossip. I put it down to growing up in a sweet shop, where every visitor brought fresh news.
I see Mark suddenly, disgusted with me. ‘You’re slurring your words; go to bed, woman. You can’t speak. Fuck’s sake.’
I push the memory away. It wasn’t last night, was it? This isn’t his new place? No. That’s an old memory. An ancient one. I’ve had a few sleeps since then.
This is a really lovely room. It’s so much nicer than my own. For a second I fantasize about moving in with Adam and Jason. And then I realize I don’t actually know for sure this is Adam and Jason’s place. This could be anyone’s – anyone who’d have a rainbow flag in their garden shed. And a kid’s bike and a mini trampoline. It has to be theirs. It has to.
Someone taps on the door.
‘Hello?’ I call out.
The door opens, and Adam comes in. He’s dressed in a dressing gown and is looking sheepish.
‘How’s the head?’ he says, and comes and joins me on the bed.
‘Shocking, I can’t believe how pissed I got last night.’
‘Join the club.’
‘I don’t remember going to bed.’
‘Neither do I.’
And all of a sudden I feel relief. Like a boil has been lanced. It rises through me like euphoria. We both got in a state and that’s OK, because Adam can’t be an alcoholic. He can’t be. The law of averages decree that. Oh, this is wonderful news.
‘Jason says we were dancing round the living room to Kajagoogoo.’
‘Oh God.’
‘He went to bed and left us up chatting.’
‘What was I saying?’
‘I’ve no idea! There’s the remnants of a Chinese on the coffee table. I don’t even remember ordering it.’
‘Where is Jason? Is he cross?’
‘Nah. Gone to work. Oh God, Kathleen, I feel so much better that you slept in your clothes and don’t remember going to bed.’
‘I know. What are we like?! Oh God.’ I suddenly realize something.
‘What, babe?’
‘We didn’t wake Denim, did we?’
‘No, the nanny had him back to hers last night.’
‘God love the nanny,’ I gasp. Even though usually I am quite critical of anyone who has a nanny. Especially if you’ve adopted. Why have a dog and get someone else to bark for it?
God, my analogies are shit today.
‘Looks like we’ll both have to go to rehab next time!’ he chuckles, and I smile tightly. I wondered when he’d bring that up.
Adam’s house turns out to be in Kentish Town, in a twee little side street of workman’s cottages that they bought for a song ten years ago but is now probably worth about two million. We make bacon sandwiches and take them into the garden to eat. Two big mugs of builder’s tea, a few Beroccas and some amazing moisturizer he’d found in America later, and I am starting to feel almost human again. Almost.
‘Oh well,’ he says, sounding sleepy as he screws his eyes up against the sunlight, ‘does you good to have a blowout every now and again.’
‘Exactly!’ I say, as if this is rarer than a blue moon for me.
We sit in silence for a while. Then he suddenly says, ‘Hey. Kathleen.’
‘What?’
‘Kajagoogoo.’
And we both fall about in hysterics.
‘Have you got things to do today?’ he asks, as if a plan is forming.
‘No.’ Well, at least for once I’m being honest. ‘Why?’
‘How d’you fancy a walk up on the Heath? Get some fresh air.’
As always. Adam leads, I follow.
I have a luxurious long hot soak in his bath before putting on yesterday’s clothes and we walk arm in arm away from Kentish Town up towards Hampstead Heath. We pass an entrance to an underground wine bar that Adam informs me used to be ‘a very busy cottage’. Maybe my brain’s on a go-slow today but I have to get him to remind me what a cottage is. I blush when he tells me and he pokes me – ‘You’re still wet behind the bloody gills, Kathleen!’ – and we laugh, though I am embarrassed. I want him to think I’m a woman of the world now. I’ve seen so much more of life than when we used to hang out. I’d like to think I’m unshockable now. But I guess, in his eyes at least, the die is cast.
When eventually we hit the greenery of the Heath we take the path to the top of Parliament Hill and look out over the breakfast bowl of London.
‘I suppose once upon a time we’d’ve been able to see Harmony Heights from here. You can see everything else,’ I say, and he nods.
‘It would’ve been over there. By Trellick Tower.’
‘That’s where Jocelyn lived,’ I say.
‘Poor cow.’
‘Did you ever go?’
And he pulls this face that most certainly doesn’t answer the question. It can be read as ‘I couldn’t be arsed.’ It could also be read as ‘I did, but I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Did you?’ he asks.
I do a similar grimace, which he accepts. God knows wh
at he thinks.
There’s so much I want to say, but I don’t know if I should. Stuff I know that would show I’m anything but the naive little schoolgirl still; but for some reason, I hold back. Some secrets are best kept that way. And they don’t all show me in the best light. Not when I think of everything I’ve kept hidden.
But surely I should be able to be honest with Adam. He’s one of the few people I know who I’ve been close to for a long time. Everyone else in my life comes in and out like the figures on a cuckoo clock. But although he’s standing near me, I fear there’s a chasm between us. I don’t want to leap across it. Not yet. Not till I know it’s safe.
We move to an empty bench and sit down.
‘Why d’you think she became so angry?’ he asks.
I shake my head. It’s a tough question, and there are so many answers. My hangover hasn’t quite subsided enough to go into too much emotional territory. So I just reply, ‘Maybe we all get angrier with age.’
‘We’re looking fifty in the face, kid,’ he says, pulling a face.
‘Oh please. It’s five years off. Let’s just pretend we’re early forties for now.’
‘Forty-fabulous,’ he says, and I smile. Then he corrects himself, ‘Forty-fierce.’ And he holds up his hand to high-five me. I oblige.
I hate high-fiving. It feels so American, so teenage. And it makes me feel like I definitely am staring fifty in the face. Or down the barrel of a gun.
‘D’you think Ross was serious about us helping him sort out her stuff?’
I shrug. ‘Probably. I thought it was a good idea yesterday.’
‘And now?’
‘Not so sure. It’s easy to feel closer to someone when you’ve just been to their funeral. But I think the more time that passes, the more the distance will set in again. And it’ll just feel weird.’
‘I know what you mean.’
We sit in silence for a while, drinking in the view. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to leave, but I also don’t want to move. It’s the oddest feeling. An inertia. An antipathy. I want Adam to leave, but at the same time I don’t want him to go. Maybe I’m going mad.
‘I feel so numb,’ he says after a while. And maybe that sums it up. Maybe he feels the same way as me. I don’t expect him to want to be my best friend, or want me to hang around; I’m sure it’s appealing to spend time with the past, but equally appealing to push it away.
The History of Us Page 7