‘When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me?’
Annabelle shrugs.
‘When are you going?’
‘June, probably. His job starts in August. He’s basically in charge of all the projects on the South Coast. Like, he’s only thirty-one. People fifteen years older than him struggle to get to that level.’ Corina can hear the pride in Anabelle’s voice. ‘And I’ve got a place at Brighton Uni to do fine art, part time.’
‘You were always a wonderful artist.’ Beside her, on the wall, is one of the framed heads. ‘Do you remember these?’
‘I can’t believe you still have them up.’
‘Of course I do. So your dad knows, does he?’
‘He’s happy for us.’
‘How is he?’
‘Mam, things are good for me. I’m looking forward to the future. This is the opposite of that. Are you still going to meetings?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘You’re lying. Fuck this, I’m leaving.’
‘Annabelle, please.’
‘Just tell me one thing.’
‘Anything, love. Anything.’
‘When’s the race?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve been sneaking looks at the clock since I came in. You did it all the time when I was growing up, only then I didn’t know why.’
The eyes of the heads drawn by her daughter are all on her. She takes a breath.
‘It’s in twenty minutes,’ Corina says. ‘If I ring a taxi I can just make it. I’m betting the takings. Usually, I bank them every few days, but this last month I kept putting it off.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want your sympathy, but recently I haven’t been doing well. I got a letter from the housing association saying – never mind. The point is, all this stuff – all these memories – have been going round and round in my head, and I can’t stop them. I don’t know if I want to stop them. Then this morning there’s this dog, out of the blue, and I think, coincidence, really?’
‘You’re still the same, aren’t you?’ Annabelle says.
Silence again. Even Suzy keeps quiet.
‘I’d better get off,’ Annabelle says.
‘When was the last time you had your hair done?’
She glances at herself in the mirror, ‘I don’t know. A while.’
‘Come on, I’ll do it.’
‘Mam, I have to get back.’
‘Please.’
Her daughter doesn’t move. Corina feels the familiar constriction in her chest, just as she used to in those terminal seconds before a race, straddling two competing futures.
Annabelle frowns. ‘But what about your dog?’
‘I want you to be my last customer.’
Still Annabelle doesn’t move. For a moment which stretches to the horizon, Corina thinks her daughter is going to leave, but then Annabelle takes off her jacket and sits at the sink. She looks up at Corina warily, as if expecting to be the butt of a prank. ‘This will be the first time I’ve actually had my hair cut in here. You always did me at home.’
Corina rummages in a box for shampoo and conditioner. ‘And afterwards you’d jump on your dad and there’d be hair everywhere.’
Annabelle closes her eyes. ‘I don’t remember that.’
‘I do. So what’ll it be?’
‘Whatever you think.’
It’s almost twenty to nine. At that very moment, Heart of Chrome is tensed in her trap, ready to be shot into the universe.
Corina picks up the showerhead. ‘The pipes are going mental today.’
Dreamily, Annabelle nods.
But when she turns on the tap, nothing happens. Nothing but clean, warm water. So she washes her daughter’s hair.
UXO
Douglas Ward of Campbell Road
N.B. – The following is comprised of transcribed conversations conducted with several residents – or former residents – of the Burn Estate, in connection with the infamous 1993 New Year’s Eve explosion. Interspersing these testimonies are the journals of one Douglas Ward, the man who, on that very same night, came into my home armed with a kitchen knife, and spilled my mother’s ashes all over the rug.
This document exists because I believed Douglas to be the thread which would guide me not out of, but into the labyrinth of my family’s history, a history superimposed like acetate over the world I see each day outside my window. I have sensed this labyrinth my whole life, but have always lacked the opportunity courage to enter, because I know that deep in the dark of it, someone – something – awaits me.
I should acknowledge that the following does not encompass the entirety of my investigations. Rather, I have selected and arranged portions in order to attempt a narrative. My reasons for this, I hope, will become self-evident; yet this is not to say that I have in any way manipulated or supressed anything within the portions themselves. In my chest does not beat the grey heart of the censor. On the contrary, I have remained verbatim throughout, even when it has hurt to do so.
Alan Barr
Conversation with Ian Pavel. Billingham Social Club. 17th April 2016 1
1 At a loss as to where to begin this document, I forced myself down to the Labour Club to ask the older patrons whether they remembered a Doug or Douglas – I didn’t know his surname at this point – a gangling, stooped young man with dirty-blonde hair who would have last been seen in these environs in the early 1990s. Unsurprisingly, my enquiries were mostly unsuccessful, although I did drink two blackcurrant and sodas – a cardinal error for someone with a bladder the size of mine.
I visited the urinal and positioned myself an acceptable distance from the only other user, an elderly gent relieving himself in erratic spatters. During a lull in micturition, he turned to me and growled (paraphrasing): “I know who that Doug knocked about with. Little fat fella. Ian summat. Last I heard he was in Billingham. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on that cunt for twenty-five year.”
So I decided to try and find this Ian, but how? In the American procedural shows I watch, supermodel-attractive detectives momentarily click-clack computers to bring up detailed files, addresses, mugshots etc., so as to speed the story onto the next exciting scene. In reality, however, the process was exceedingly protracted as I had little more to go on than the mumbled hearsay of a man betraying symptoms of Parkinson’s, sprinkling the toes of his slip-ons with his own greenish urine.
To find Ian, then, I decided to bend the truth. I made up some notices which read:
Local Historian wishes to speak to former residents
of the Burn Estate, near High Leven.
Especially interested in anything pertaining to the
1993 New Year’s Eve Explosion.
Remuneration for genuine information.
followed by my phone number and email. I put them up in Billingham library, the local pubs and W.M.C.s, and waited, all the while chastising myself for using the words ‘pertaining’ and ‘remuneration’.
I began receiving a dribble of calls (no emails). I introduced myself as Alan Healy – not my real name, of course – and asked the caller who was speaking. If it wasn’t an Ian, I’d thank them for their interest and regretfully inform them that my project was now complete. If I’m honest, I knew the chances of such a plan working were astronomically slim, but I sleep easier with at least the illusion of proactivity between myself and the knowledge that I am orchestrator of my own inertia. So you can imagine my surprise when, after more than three months, he called. His surname was Pavel. He sounded cagey.
Ian: ‘What kind of remuneration are we talking?’
Me: ‘Well, Ian, that depends on what you know. After checking the archives, it seems that someone died when the bomb went off.
Is that correct?’
‘Aye. Doug. I knew hi
m.’
‘Would you be willing to tell me about him?’
Pause. ‘Depends. I’m a busy man. I’d like to sort payment first...’
He point-blank refused to return to the estate, so we agreed to meet in the Billingham Social a week later; another bus ride 10 miles up the dual carriageway, across the strip of scuffed pewter that is the River Tees.
Is it on? It’s like being down the cop shop, with the tape recorder and that.
It’s, ah, it’s an mp3, Ian. There’s no actual tape in it.
Call me Pav. Everyone does.
OK…Pav. Well, as I said on the phone, I’d like to talk about the New Year’s Eve explosion of 1993. You said you knew him, the man who was killed?
Doug, aye.
Doug, yes. You were friends?
Nah. I used to do a bit of driving for Tubby down the scrap yard, and he’d be lurking about, hawking bits and bobs for drink. I felt bad for the lad, so I looked out for him. What are you going to do with this tape?
Nothing. It’s just for me, so I don’t forget. Sometimes I’m forgetful.
You’re getting old. We all are. Are you writing a book or something?
I have an interest in local history. You may be aware that the estate’s being knocked down as we speak.
I’d heard something. You live there, like?
No. As I said, I’m just a local history buff. Social housing history, to be precise. But I’ll be sad to see the estate go. Once a community is broken up, the culture and stories – the oral histories – it’s all lost. I’m just doing my bit to preserve it.
Nobody in their right mind would want to read a book about that shite.
Well, like I said, it’s just for me.
I could do with another pint of bitter.
[Pause while it dawns on me] Oh, right. Of course.
[Inaudible. Time passes. Background pub chatter. I return].
You’re on the lemonade?
I don’t drink, I’ve never, ah, liked the taste. So, Ian, what can you tell me about Doug?
Well, he did. Drink, I mean. He was what you’d call a wreckhead. The kind of bloke you forget exists ’til you see the fucker picking up ciggie-ends outside the shop. He drank, and when he wasn’t drinking, he was getting money for drink. He did this through not entirely legal means. That’s how he got into trouble. I mean, if you think about it, that’s how it all kicked off.
How all what kicked off?
The bomb. Bear with me. There was this jumper, right? This awful brown and yellow stripy jumper. I can see it now. Christ.
Sorry Ian, I think you’ve lost me.
Robbing from a proper shop’s always going to be a gamble, only people from round the estate were too sackless to realise. Like, they’d go into Levis or John Lewis and start shoving stuff up their coats, in full view of everyone. That’s how they got done. That’s how Doug used to get done.
We’re talking about, what? Stealing? Shoplifting?
Aye. So I was like, to Doug, if you are going to keep robbing, why don’t you do it the other way round? Nick the cardboard tag, yeah? You know, the little cardboard tag-thing on the string? You could steal as many of those as you wanted because they’re small, they don’t have the beepy thing.
So the tags were stolen from the shops, but the clothes…?
Charity shops. You’d be surprised what labels turned up. And the best bit was them places didn’t have CCTV, or security neither. Half the time there’s only an old biddy behind the till. Easy to pinch from, you know?
Then what you do, say you’ve robbed some old Levi jeans, you match them up with a proper Levi tag and bang – people think they’re new. Even flogging them at half price [snaps fingers] you’re getting money for nowt.
And this was your idea? You were both doing this, you and Doug?
Not likely. I just suggested it to him one day, off hand, like. I felt sorry for him because he was always getting collared. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.
So you didn’t personally steal anything?
You’d never catch me doing owt that greasy. Literally the only time I ever helped him was that one night down the Labour Club. He had too much gear. He needed to get it all tagged up. He was practically begging me, because everything he did was sloppy-as. It was the drink.
And you split the money?
I didn’t need the money, son. Like I said, I did it for him. [Pause]. I should’ve had my fucking head read.
How so?
The golden rule – I told him – the golden rule was you never tagged something that wasn’t brand name. That jumper, I was like, sling it, it looks homemade. But did he listen? Did he fuck. And of course, it ended up in my half of the gear, didn’t it?
When was this exactly?
When? A couple of days before New Year, 1993. It was…ah, what’s her name? Morris Clarke’s wife [makes thumb-and-index-finger spectacles], Mrs Magoo, sitting with the acting society.
Acting society?
Something to do with the weirdos from Peel House, over on the blocks. They put plays on and whatnot. Prancing about in the rec. hall, playing make believe. Thought their shit didn’t stink. Fucking bollocks.
You’re not a fan of the arts?
Did I say that? You think I’m thick?
No, I didn’t…I mean, I believe where you come from shapes you as an artist, not, ah, precludes you from becoming one. Take Una Cruickshank 2 for example.
2 Una Cruickshank (1947-?), the Burn Estate’s most celebrated daughter. Presumably left for London at some point during the mid-1960s and is now being hailed as ‘one of the most singular, mind-altering artists of her – or any – generation’ (Stephan Santerre, In The Frame, Vol. 114 issue 5, p.55-60).
Una spent her working life in complete obscurity and it wasn’t until 1988, during the private re-development of ex-Hackney Council housing stock, that her life’s work was discovered: 1,409 paintings, all covered in an inch of dust and stacked neatly in an otherwise empty bedsit. Although mostly of fog-shrouded riverbanks (Willow Trees #1-137 etc.), in several canvases figures can be discerned – the most famous of these being the untitled work commonly known as The Green Girl, the stark, abstract Talitha (which modern X-ray techniques estimate to be comprised of upwards of two hundred layers of black paint), and finally Jean Healy Sleeping in the Reeds.
Jean Healy is my mother.
As for Una herself...her fate is unknown.
Like my mother, Una grew up on Loom Street, a street that no longer exists. It was razed as part of the Rowan-Tree housing association’s ‘regeneration’. Sometimes, at night, I go and stand by the building site’s perimeter fence and look out across where their houses once stood. In their places are new cement foundations, portakabins, diggers. I wriggle my fingers through the chain-link diamonds, striving to be even an inch closer to where they had lived their lives. Which is to say, not very close at all.
Never heard of her.3 Look, I know what real art is, right? And it sure as shite isn’t a load of snobby bitches in wigs. So we went down the Labour Club to sell the gear, and I knew that lot wouldn’t be interested, so I left them to it, started showing people at the next table. One of them pulled out the jumper. Like I said, I didn’t even know it was in there. They started taking the piss out of it, and Morris Clarke’s wife saw and was like, That belongs to my daughter. How did you get this? And I was like, I don’t know what you’re on about. See, the line we used was we had a mate in the catalogue warehouses who got all the surplus stock for next to nowt, but she wasn’t having it. Kept going, How did you get this? How did you get this? And now people were starting to look over. All her friends giving me the evils.
Then she grabbed it and turned the bit over, and of course, the name-tag’s still on where she’d sewn her fucking daughter’s name. I still remember the orange stitching. Corina Clarke.
3 How I first came to hear of Una is pertinent. Several years before I embarked on tracking Doug’s last movements, I was in the library flicking somewhat aimlessly through the stacks, killing time before I had to go home. I came upon an edition of art journal In the Frame, the one I quote in the footnote above. I had never seen Una’s work before. An entire page was given over to a reproduction of The Green Girl and when I saw it, a chill of recognition washed over me, though exactly what I was recognising was still obscure to me, as I had not then heard of the myth of Peg Powler. Transfixed by Una’s work, I devoured Stephan Santerre’s article. Imagine how
shocked I was to learn that Una had been a resident of the Burn Estate, a fact he himself had learned from correspondence with one of Una’s childhood friends.
Yet it wasn’t until writing this document that I discovered that childhood friend had been my mother. I received the letters which begin this book (Day of the Dark) in mysterious circumstances, and when I read them I was floored. Stephan Santerre – the influential art critic who had championed Una’s work ever since its discovery – was the same Stephan my mother had been corresponding with during the final year of her life in 1991!
I immediately contacted Stephan’s London offices, only to hear that he had recently passed away due to complications following a kidney transplant.
Wait, Corina? I know her.
Good for you. I fucking didn’t. I’d never met her in my life, but they thought I’d been up to no good. You know what I mean. Morris Clarke’s wife was like, This man’s trying to sell me my own daughter’s clothes! She grabbed my bags, and we had a bit of a tug of war ’til they split and all the gear flumped out, knocking drinks and ashtrays. Doug was flogging some jeans to some bloke, and the bloke went in the pocket and found an old bus ticket or something. Doug hadn’t checked them properly. The bloke started kicking off, and then the whole place went up.
Doug legged it, left me standing there like a fucking plum. I mean, what choice did I have? I legged it too – whoosh – straight out the fire doors.
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