With an expectant ‘Oooh’ from Mum and me, Mary gently places the remote on Poopsy’s rump. It’s too much. The cat stands, shakes and strops off, much to the amusement of Mum and I. Mary rants that our ‘Oooh’ disturbed the cat and therefore cost her the game. We end the evening with a ready-prepared buffet that, courtesy of Mum, appears from the never-ending fridge, and one more drink. The kind of house measure that’d see Geoff Capes off.
I come round briefly an hour later to the mutterings of my sister manoeuvring me into bed, sans boots, socks and anything I could inhale or choke on through the night in my inebriated state. My mother takes her role as a Health and Safety Officer very seriously.
‘If she pisses the bed, don’t expect me to sort it,’ declares Mary. ‘I do it at least twice a week as it is. And then there’s the kids too!’
‘Oh no, has Bill done it again?’ Mum wearily enquires.
Just to add to his charms, Mary’s wayward husband suffers from alcohol-induced enuresis. Actually, to be honest, Bill has enuresis – it’s Mary who suffers from it. At least it’s generally reserved for the hall cupboard and, luckily, has only ever been ‘number ones’. Mary was on her third hoover purchase this year. Mum had informed her under no circumstances to plug it in. Mary did once and it stank of wee, but it didn’t blow up like Mum had said it would.
Unbeknown to Mary, she had a new hoover from Mum as a Christmas present – something I had tried to talk her out of in Curry’s when I was home in August.
‘Who wants a Christmas present of a new hoover just in case your husband pisses on the current one in the next year?’ She shot me the death stare for swearing in public.
‘Mu-uum! It’s right up there with a Lily of the Valley gift set,’ I attempted to explain, to no avail. Ever practical, Mum won with a steely glare at me for my trouble and I stood there for another twenty minutes while she argued with herself whether an upright (kinder on the back) was better than a pull-along ‘jobby’ (better for stairs). Eventually, I headed to the hardware department to buy Mary a padlock for the cupboard as a reinforcement – and to make sure that she never gets a hoover again for Christmas. Mum gives me a suspicious look, as if I am trying to out-do her gift with a £3.99 lock.
Anyway, they manage to get me into bed and I hear Mum ask Mary if I’ve mentioned a boyfriend?
‘Nah. Luce by name, loose by nature,’ my sister cackles. From my coma I hear a slap and an ‘Oww’ – Mum is a perfect shot. Reactions of a cat. I make a mental note to add a slap to that one tomorrow for Mary being a cow about me. But I forget by morning.
Christmas Day arrives. Brighter than any day I remember. I groan and attempt to roll over and disappear into the darkness of the duvet. A heavy weight on my chest stops me and I open my eyes to see Poopsy staring intently at me with yellow eyes. This Taurean need-to-feed of my mother’s is most apparent in the cat – the one who lives there 24/7. Obviously, this is Poopsy’s attempt at Humanaroo. I chuckle at my own joke and stroke her soft, white head. She begins to purr. I remove her gently and get up to walk to the bathroom in my underwear. At some point in the night I have shed the rest of my clothing. I meet Mum in the hall carrying an artery-clogging full Scottish breakfast.
‘Merry Christmas poppet,’ she kisses me on the cheek. ‘Hungry?’ I am actually, I observe.
‘Merry Christmas Ma. I am, thanks. Feeling a tad rough though. I’ll just go remove this badger’s arse from my mouth and I’ll be right back.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised, darling,’ she replies with only a touch of disapproval (it is Christmas after all).
‘You always tell me that the liver is a very forgiving organ,’ I remind her.
‘Yes lass, but your liver would require the forgiveness of Mother Teresa.’
I smile at Mum’s joke and head off to de-badger.
By lunchtime, I am surrounded by discarded paper with Poopsy somewhere underneath the lot, torpedoing out occasionally. I marvel at how Mum can always get it so right. Every present thoughtfully considered and with the individuality of the recipient taken into account. It doesn’t stop her from staring at me like Paddington Bear as every piece of sellotape is removed.
‘You don’t like it,’ she informs me. ‘That’s fine, I’d rather know, I have the receipts for everything.’
‘Mum, I love it,’ I announce, laughing at her worried expression, which increases now that I’m laughing. ‘I’m only finding it funny because you’re looking at me like that. If I didn’t like it, I would say. I wouldn’t waste your money that way.’
She visibly relaxes. I’m talking money, so I must mean it. I do genuinely love it – all of it – but I also know that mentioning money when I’m broke is the best way to get that across to her.
‘Not the same without Scratcher this year is it?’ reminisces Mum.
‘Ahh no, it’s not. He was a poorly puss though.’
Scratcher, so named for his love of soft furnishings, had died in the summer. Mum and Poops still missed him lots.
‘Do you remember last year when I was writing Christmas cards by candlelight?’ I giggled nervously, not sure I was forgiven yet. ‘Scratcher flicked his tail through the candle and it set alight.’
‘It brought a whole new meaning to putting the cat out,’ Mum replied, and we both laugh.
‘You don’t think maybe that caused..?’
‘No!’ replied Mum firmly.
Tension dissolved, Mum began clearing away the wrapping paper, finding an astonished- looking Poopsy underneath the deepest pile.
I watched as Mum re-arranged the piece of tinsel around Dad’s photograph. She smiled fondly at him and stroked a finger down his face. Dad was sitting on Gran’s sofa with a can of lager in his hand and a pink party hat from a cracker sat lopsided on his head. Poor Mum found Christmas quite difficult to cope with. The photograph on the TV was the last Christmas she had with Dad. I was only a baby and Mum was pregnant with Mary when the news arrived. On 23rd December, a year after the picture was taken, a frantic call came from Dad’s boss, asking if Mum had heard from Dad? He was a long distance lorry driver and had been taking a delivery to Glasgow. It was his last drop-off before Christmas and Mum and Dad were both looking forward to two weeks off together. There had been an accident on the M8 and Dave, Dad’s boss, had put a call out on the CB to all his staff expected to be around that area, letting them know to divert to another route. Dad hadn’t responded to the call. Mum immediately switched on the radio to hear the travel news. Gran tried to stop her and insisted she shouldn’t listen. The crackling voice spoke of breaking news, of a jack-knifed lorry on the M8. Two other vehicles were involved. Mum and Gran sat quietly and waited for the police. Dave came round and joined the vigil. Head bowed, hands hanging loosely between his knees and a cold cup of untouched tea on the floor next to his cap. There was a knock at the door. They were here.
It turned out two young guys and their passengers were racing along the motorway. One had cut off the other several miles back and a chase ensued. Eye-witnesses said that Dad had desperately tried to miss them, swerving left and right, ‘til he hit the central reservation. You didn’t have to wear seatbelts in those days, hardly anyone did. The boys were fine – just cuts and bruises. Dad was killed instantly after smashing through the windscreen. Christmas was a non-event that year. Despite me being far too young to remember, Mum had felt horrendously guilty that I had a bad first Christmas and has tried to make up for it ever since. Mum put Dad’s picture down gently and walked through the living room. She stopped briefly to kiss me on the top of my head.
‘You are so like him, Lucy,’ she smiled sadly.
Later that afternoon we all congregate at my mum’s sister’s house, my Auntie Betty’s. We
arrive to a cacophony of sound. A light-hearted argument over who was the funniest member of the family was the current topic. After doing the whole rounds of Merry Christmas wishes, I join in wholeheartedly and add my contribution – my sister, Mary. After all these years
, she still cracks me up.
‘Remember how she always used to make up her own words to songs rather than learn them?’ I ask, smugly proud. Due to the fact that I had collected every issue of Smash Hits, I had the monopoly on knowing every word to every song from the 80s. Add to that the fact that I gained sound knowledge on trivia, such as what type of pants Ben from Curiosity Killed the Cat preferred, and George Michael’s shoe size.
‘I’ll never forget the time I caught her singing along to Tesla Girls by OMD.’ I double over with laughter.
‘Testicles! Testicles!’
Everyone laughs and admits that this definitely puts her in the running.
‘No, no, there’s a better one,’ I announce. ‘How about, Tonight, I Sellotape my Glove to You by Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack?’ The room explodes into laughter. Mary, even though she hasn’t arrived yet and is oblivious, is the favourite in the running.
The subject turns to the most unsuccessful family member. Bloody hell, are they planning to start a family yearbook I think defensively, knowing full well that this is my forte. The attention immediately turns to me. Silence. I wait for the tumbleweed to sweep through the family room. It’s not that they don’t know what to say, that’s never a problem in my family. It’s more that they don’t know where to start.
My Auntie Betty goes first. She smiles affectionately and says:
‘Well, not too many people start their career in a 99p shop, pal.’
‘I was fresh out of college and had yet to put my stamp on the world,’ I state indignantly, but secretly enjoying a family title of some sort. Albeit a derogatory one.
‘And besides, I think you’ll find I was the Assistant Manager of a 99p shop,’ I smile smugly. This does not carry the desired respect I crave. Laughter, yes.
‘Oh, but her love life!’ announces my Uncle Robert. ‘Now that is where your lack of success really lies.’
This divides into sub-conversations throughout the family like a game of Chinese Whispers. With the aim of the game – whispering – somewhat wasted on them.
‘James, now he was one of the worst!’
‘Nah, Sean definitely, my own personal favourite.’
‘How about Paul though? Remember that time he…’
Mary arrives. Husband and kids trailing behind.
‘Who are we talking about?’ she enquires.
‘Lucy and her crap boyfriends,’ my Aunt Sarah supplies helpfully.
‘Oh, Alfie. Now he was undoubtedly the worst ever!’ Mary smiles knowingly at me.
The room nods as one.
‘To my niece,’ my Uncle Robert raises his glass and holds it in my direction. The others follow suit, ‘The Fairy Tale Princess destined to live crappily ever after’
A round of applause.
I think I’d better explain.
Chapter Three
The Wonder Years… as in, I wonder what I was thinking? Despite the good intentions of my younger self, I have in total wasted 18 years – over half my life – on the biggest losers known to womankind. I have also lost a good few years of the 1980s to horrendously bad style. A fashion casualty, if you like. It’s also the time I took a wrong career direction; childcare – too stressful and low paid – in my opinion now. It’s also around this time I started smoking. Eighteen: you think you have it sussed, but for me, when I reflect on it now, it was the point when I made all my worst choices. Looking back, I am amazed I ever managed to even find someone who wanted to date me. These were the dodgy perm years. We all had them in the 80s. I was not alone on this. I had all mine done by a family friend’s daughter, who was a trainee. She charged £3.50 – £2.50 for the solution and £1 for her time. I grudged every penny.
I tried to keep my emotions intact, having looked in the mirror for the first time after the deed. Being a trainee in a salon specialising in blue rinses hadn’t helped Marianne’s case at all. She had blow-dried me within an inch of my life. I stared at the elderly bouffant that looked super-imposed on my teenage face. It was strangely amusing and horrific, all at the same time. If it had been on someone else, I would have laughed my ass off. But, visualising having to take shares out in Insette on a college grant of £32 per week did not help. The industrial strength 1980s hairspray was a godsend to many a teenage girl and I must certainly put up my hand to a contribution to the hole in the ozone layer, along with my childhood budgie’s fatal asthma attack. Having done the walk of shame across the street, I am greeted by Gran at the front door, buttoning her coat on her way out.
‘It’s lovely, dear,’ she says. ‘The ladies at the Stroke Club will love it. You should pop by for a cuppa.’
I head straight to the shower attachment over the bath and immediately soak my hair through. I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare, long and hard. I have been warned by Marianne to only comb it with an Afro comb. Otherwise, the curl will be damaged. Good, I think – and grab a paddle brush belonging to my aunt. Half an hour later, I am still confronted with a mass of curls. Mortified, I decide to peek round the door of the bathroom, where I encounter Robert in the hallway, red-faced and speechless with mirth, pointing silently at me. A minute passes as he runs to fetch Mary and Betty. I loiter self-consciously, may as well get it over with in one go. Apparently, I am so amusing that tears are now streaming down their faces. Eventually, Robert finds the words he is searching for:
‘Pube head!’
Profound.
The others collapse against him, nodding frantically through their laughter. It is my new name for the next two months. Actually, it’s a blessed release from ‘pancakes’ – my previous name, due to my undeveloped chest.
Anyway, back to the disaster that is my love life. The first, being Sean, with whom I lived with for almost three years. I was at college studying to be a Nursery Nurse. Oh, if only I could now talk to my seventeen-year-old self in so many ways. I was at college only fourteen miles away and therefore still lived at home. I met Sean in a student bar in Dundee. He was standing at the end of the bar smoking a rolly and leaning lasciviously towards the barmaid. A peroxide blond with a top on that left nothing to the imagination. Tight, short and what appeared to be the arse of a Sumo wrestler protruding out of the top. Yes, the early warning signs do seem to be the most correct. Something I will take years yet to learn. If instinct makes your feet want to move in the opposite direction, do please listen. I whisper to my friend, Holly, with whom I have bunked off for an afternoon of snakebite (no blackcurrant, it’s common) that I like the cutie by the bar.
‘Join an orderly queue,’ sighs Holly, tossing a glossy red lock over her shoulder and raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s Sean Taylor. Studying music, he’s the lead singer in a band – The Magic Mushrooms. Everyone and their dog fancies him. He even has a huge gay following,’ she states in a ‘the subject is now closed’ voice.
‘Are you saying I have no chance?’ I question.
‘Well, of course you do.’ She examines a spot on my chin closely. ‘I just think it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Cut out the middle man and just go spending the next three months from now bawling your eyes out and listening to your heartbreak tape whilst eating your way through an entire tin of Quality Street.’
Holly is three months older than me and therefore thinks she is much more worldly. I sulk and light up a Regal Small. I hate smoking. Again, if I could talk to me then… I do it because it gets me in with the rough mob at college. Always handy to have them on side, even if they did practically wet themselves on day two outside our college building. The ringleader, Jan, pointed at me, just in case there was any doubt about who she was humiliating, and spluttered:
‘You smoke?’
‘Have done since I was twelve,’ I lied, trying to hold in a cough.
Ignoring Holly, I take a large slug of snakebite, lean forward and shake my 32A bosom further up in its training bra and saunter casually towards the bar.
‘ID!’ barks peroxide Sumo tits.
‘Aww c’mon,’ laugh
s Sean. ‘Leave her alone Charmaine, she’s far too small and cute to pick on.’
‘ID,’ smiles Charmaine smugly.
‘No, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘I actually take it as a compliment looking young for my eighteen years. Means that I won’t look like a crack whore when I’m in my twenties.’
Sean explodes with laughter. Charmaine plucks my student card disdainfully from my hand and examines it. Even though I have checked it in various lighting since I doctored it with tippex and biro, it’s still a tense moment. Those were the days; laminated paper ID. Thanks to a friend’s ultra-cool mum who worked in an office and actively encouraged under-age drinking. Our reasoning being that she hoped other girls would get knocked-up aged 14 and have as crap a life as her. My ID was freshly laminated.
‘Fine,’ states Charmaine sarcastically, tossing it in a puddle of beer on the bar and reluctantly pouring up two snakeys.
‘Are you in College?’ asks Sean. ‘You look fresh out of Primary School.’
‘Yep, but I have a boyfriend. Don’t get too interested,’ I say over my shoulder as I walk away.
Crappily Ever After Page 3