Little Big Love

by Katy Regan

  That someone ruffles my hair. “Hello, Jules.”

  “Jesus Christ!” It’s Jason. I nearly have a heart attack.

  “What are you doing here?” He’s out of breath and sweating, obviously midrun. He looks sort of manly and vital, eyes shiny, face flushed.

  “Oh,” I say lamely, “I was just having a nice spring walk, actually. Getting some exercise, you know …”

  “I approve. Hey, how did the big beach run go?”

  “Oh, I was like a gazelle, naturally.”

  Jason surveys me, annoyingly amused.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, just your face,” he says, chuckling to himself. “When you’re talking about anything to do with exercise … you have a specific face.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Talking of exercise … Have you thought any more about what I said about coming to the sessions with Zac, or just on your own if you want? I think it would be really motivating for him, to know you were on board.”

  I have been thinking about it. I’ve thought about it a lot over the past week. I’ve thought about what Zac has put up with these last few years: a depressed, overeating, perennially poor mother; one who loves him with every cell in her body—but that doesn’t change those facts. This was something I could do for him, for us, that would cost me nothing. And it would be with Jason—who I kind of miss, actually.

  “Yes,” I say, “I have been thinking about it, and I’ve decided I would love to. ’Bout time I got off my fat arse and did some exercise, eh?”

  And he sniggers again. I wonder why momentarily, and then the penny drops.

  “The face,” we say, in unison this time. “The exercise face.”

  17

  Mick

  I want to go back now, to the moment Liam Jones first walked into our lives. I remember it like it was yesterday, which is a miracle in itself, since I remember so little about day-to-day life around that time, living as I was in a permanent boozy cloud. But I do remember that night with razor-sharp clarity: the doors of the TC’s workingmen’s club opening with a creak audible to all eight or nine of us sitting there at the bar in a pool of evening sun, and Vaughan Jones’s lad, Liam, walking in, hand in hand with my daughter. I could almost hear Lynda’s hackles as they went up.

  It was an unusually warm Saturday in late October 2003, and my sister Kath and brother-in-law Brian were having a do for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I say “do,” it was really—as was always the case in our family—an excuse to go down the pub all day rather than for just a few hours, made legitimate by the fact that there were sausage rolls and a few sandwiches. I looked up from my fourth, fifth (I certainly wasn’t counting), sixth pint, my eyes suddenly focusing on Liam’s face.

  It was as if my mind knew this man would become something so much bigger in my life—in all our lives—than just my daughter’s boyfriend, and that knowledge somehow created a gap in those booze-filled clouds so that the sun could break through and I could see him clearly for what he was; so that I could decide whether or not my daughter needed protecting from him. That instinct to protect—so sharp when she was a newborn—kicking in even though it had been diluted over the years, in pints and pints of lager.

  Our Kath’s “do” had started some hours previously, so we were all well-oiled, but Juliet had been off doing something more interesting all day, saying she’d be bringing this new boyfriend down early evening to “meet the family.” To be honest, neither Lynda nor I took much notice. She was nineteen and had had a few boyfriends by then, and anyway, we didn’t really do “meeting the boyfriend” special dinners in our family (or in our community, I would argue). That was something that happened in films, or maybe the south, I don’t know … But here, new squeezes, be they Jamie’s or Juliet’s, simply turned up to wherever they happened to meet us first and were expected to get on with it. We didn’t ask them questions and they didn’t ask us anything either. “Talking” in social situations—unless it was banter or ordering a round or arguing—just wasn’t something we did. It was why I really struggled, at first, in AA. Telling people about myself, and listening to others do the same. Christ, it was so foreign to me.

  But Juliet clearly wanted to “introduce” Liam formally; she obviously thought he was different—special—because she waited till we were all looking her way.

  “Everyone, this is Liam,” she said then, beaming (and I mean beaming; her eyes shone). “Liam, this is my family.” She rested her head on his shoulder and pulled a face when she said the word “family,” as if to say, Yeah, sorry, but there we go, what can you do?

  “Hiya,” he said, simply raising a hand, then putting his arm around Juliet. “Nice to meet you.” He had incredible eyes; it was the first thing you noticed about him. You couldn’t not notice; they were ice blue—exactly, I’d later realize, the same eyes as my grandson.

  Nobody really said much, which was a bit embarrassing, so in the end I said, “I know you,” and I lifted my pint up as a welcome, my equivalent of a handshake. “You’re Vaughan’s lad.”

  “I am,” he said, relieved and encouraged no doubt that someone was actually talking to him, but also shifty, because he was aware of Vaughan’s reputation about the town. “For my sins.”

  Juliet chattered on breathily, telling us in unnecessary detail about their day in that way she used to, even as a little girl, before she had that sparkle kicked out of her; but I was watching him. He had lots of jet-black hair, like his dad did before it went gray, pale skin, and a tiny hoop earring in one ear. And I don’t know if it was the way he coughed, unnecessarily, into his closed fist as Juliet was talking, or wafted his T-shirt, conscious of the two patches of sweat that were blooming, just under both nipples, but I saw he was nervous, unconfident, almost apologetic. He was certainly nothing like the lads Juliet had brought home from sixth form: oozing with natural confidence. They seemed to be either total poseurs or sporty jocks.

  They went off to get a drink and immediately Lynda nudged me. “Christ, Mick,” she whispered. “What is she doing? Anyone, anyone but him.”

  “Give him a chance,” I said, mainly because I was too pissed to really formulate a better argument, even though I too remember feeling alarmed. Of all the blokes in Grimsby she chose Vaughan Jones’s son? The meathead, the troublemaker, the very person—in Lynda’s eyes—who had led me astray, even though I never needed much encouragement. “And anyway, we can’t be sure it will last.”

  But I knew. I knew already. I could sense it in the way he looked at her. There was nothing unsure about that.

  18

  Zac

  Fact: The term “Easter” comes from Eastre, an Anglo-Saxon goddess who symbolized the hare and the egg.

  Nan says Easter makes her emotional, she doesn’t even know why. She thinks it’s partly because Easter was my uncle Jamie’s favorite time of year for food and he always used to cook everyone a feast, so it makes her miss him more. On Good Friday, two days before Easter Sunday, he would cook a massive fish with one of his special sauces. (You have to put up with fish instead of meat on Good Friday to show respect to Jesus, who had to put up with being on the cross with rusty nails through his hands and feet.) Grandad said that on Easter Sunday—which is the best day of Easter for two reasons: one, you can eat your Easter eggs and two, Jesus came alive again—Uncle Jamie used to cook the best lamb you’ve ever tasted in your life. It fell off the bone on its own. The only way to get it to do that is to cook it for a really long time at the perfect temperature. Uncle Jamie was boss at cooking. I wish he was alive so he could show me his best skills. I daren’t ask Nan because I don’t want to upset her, but I bet she also gets sad at Easter because it’s about a son (of God) dying, except Jesus rose from the dead and Uncle Jamie never did.

  We’re still going to celebrate it, though. Me and Mum are round at Nan and Grandad’s today to have a special Easter tea.

  “Okay, Zac.” Nan cleaned her hands on her pinny, opened her purse, and gave m
e a ten-pound note. “Are you sure what you’re getting? Say the list back to me.”

  “Mint sauce, some more butter, cream, and a bag of Mini Eggs.”

  “Good boy. Nothing else, okay? Don’t be bringing any crisps or sweets back—I’ll never hear the end of it from your mother. And don’t be long, because we want to start eating as soon as possible. Your grandad’s going to waste away.”

  The shop at my nan and grandad’s is miles smaller than Costcutter. It hasn’t got a sausage roll counter, but it’s got a pick-a-mix and a cat called Mabel with only three legs, so if you add it all up, it comes out equal. It only takes five minutes to walk there and I tried not to step on the pavement lines to give a special good luck boost to our Find Dad mission. Yesterday, Mum told me she was going to start coming to the Jason sessions with me. It was definite evidence that she wants to go out with him again, which could ruin everything, but I couldn’t show I was upset, because I didn’t want her to get suspicious or to hurt her feelings. I just decided, right that second she told me, that we needed to “step up” the investigation (put a rocket up its bum, basically) so that we find my dad before my mum and Jason start falling in love.

  This is what I’ve worked out about doing a secret mission: you can’t avoid hurting people’s feelings on the way to getting the big surprise at the end. It’s a bit like when Aunty Laura’s mum organized her a surprise birthday party for when she was thirty. Aunty Laura asked us all to go out to the pub that night, but we all had to pretend we couldn’t—except her mum and dad. She thought nobody cared—it made you feel sick as anything inside—but it was all worth it in the end when she walked into the pub and we all shouted surprise!

  Mabel was at the door when I got to the shop. It was like she’d seen me coming down the street.

  Me (kneeling down and stroking her): “Hello, Mabel. It’s your old friend Zac.”

  Mabel: Purrrrrrr.

  Me (picking her up and giving her a cuddle): “Are you pleased to see me? I think you are, aren’t you?”

  Woman with a posh accent that was definitely not from Grimsby and should have been minding her own business: “I wouldn’t pick that cat up if I were you; you don’t know where she’s been or what she’s got.”

  People think Mabel’s skanky because she’s got three legs, but they’re just prejudiced. I respect her more, because she’s had to adapt to survive in a world of four-legged cats. It means she’s braver, even if she can’t jump as high as her friends. It’s not even her fault she’s got three legs. Her fourth leg got chopped off because it had cancer in it.

  I found the mint sauce, butter, and cream dead quickly—I now wanted to get the Mini Eggs as fast as possible, then get home and put them on the Easter cake. Me and Nan made it this morning while Mum went shopping. It’s Uncle Jamie’s own recipe from his recipe book: a normal chocolate cake but with white chocolate buttercream inside and KitKat sticks all around the sides to make it look like a fence. It’s even got an upside-down Easter rabbit that you make out of white icing and put in the middle. When we’ve put the Mini Eggs on the top, it’ll look like the rabbit has done a dive bomb into them! If the cooked cake is as good as the cake mixture (Nan let me lick out the bowl and the food mixer, as Easter is a special occasion), it will have taken over lemon drizzle as my favorite of Uncle Jamie’s cake recipes.

  I looked for ages for the Mini Eggs but couldn’t find them.

  “Can I help?” said the lady behind the counter.

  “Do you sell Mini Eggs, please?”

  “I’m sorry, love, but I’m all sold out. Everyone’s been wanting those this week.”

  I felt panicky—Uncle Jamie’s recipe said “Mini Eggs”—but then the lady had a brain wave.

  “Oh! I’ve just thought, though, we do have chocolate mini eggs in the pick-a-mix section—they’re not quite the same as the normal ones, but will they do?”

  “Definitely,” I said. The relief felt lovely. The lady gave me a paper bag, then told me to help myself at the pick-a-mix counter, which was on the other side of the shop. I was just scooping out a load of mini eggs, challenging myself to get them to slide inside the paper bag without dropping even one, when oooof! someone slammed into the back of me so hard that the scooper flew out of my hand, and all the eggs went flying.

  “Oops, sorry!” I turned around. It was Aidan Turner, with some other boys, not looking sorry one bit because he did it on purpose. “I just thought I’d do you a favor. You don’t want to be eating all those, do you? If you’re gonna lose some more of that belly?” He pushed his stomach out and rubbed it. Everyone killed themselves laughing (except me).

  “They’re not all for me,” I said, trying to pick them up. “They’re for my Easter cake.”

  “Fuck me,” one of the other boys said—it was Kai Hardy. He used to be at our school but he was in Year 7 now, even though he looked fifteen, easy. “He’s having a whole cake to himself as well as the shop’s supply of mini eggs!”

  “No, the cake’s for everyone. I made it for my mum and my nan and grandad. We’re having an Easter tea later …” Everyone just laughed harder.

  Aidan Turner was picking up the eggs off the floor but then chucking some at me. They only hurt if they hit your face. One hit me right on the nose, making my eyes water, and I wanted, badly, just to run out of the shop then. I was worried they’d think I was crying when I totally wasn’t, but I remembered what Teagan told me about them smelling fear, and also what Jason told me on our first-ever exercise session. “You’re only doing this because you feel so crap about yourself,” I said, dodging the egg missiles, while trying to rescue some from the floor and put them in my pockets. If I was going to have to make a sharp exit, it was better I had a few than none, even if they’d been on the floor. “You have to make someone else feel crap so you can feel better. You’re all just tragic.”

  “Oooh, he’s getting daring,” said Aidan Turner. “He’s giving us att-i-tude. He said ‘crap’! You want to watch it, Jabba, because we’ll rub the chocolate eggs onto your face like we did that chocolate cake if you don’t fucking shut up.”

  “Yeah, you don’t talk to us like that and get away with it, you little fat bastard,” said Kai Hardy, and he pushed me then, but even harder than the first time, so that I went flying against a shelf, banging my back hard and making some packets of biscuits fall down. For a few seconds I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I might faint, but then the shopkeeper came out from behind the till. Mabel was standing at the door, giving Aidan Turner her evil witch’s cat eyes.

  “What on earth is going on?” said the shop lady, and Kai, Aidan, and the others bent down and started picking up the packets of biscuits like they’d never done anything bad in their lives. “What have you been doing to this boy? Because he looks in pain to me.”

  That was when I made a decision.

  I could have snitched on them, but then they would have got barred and probably done worse to me when we got back to school, or even during the Easter holidays, and I needed all my energy for the Find Dad mission; I couldn’t afford to get beat up. We’d already started to go out and interview local people. Me and Teagan had a list of all the cafés to go in and check if my dad was working there and we were ticking them off—what if I got too scared to go out? I couldn’t risk it. So I just stood up straight and made myself breathe again. “Nothing,” I said. “I’m all right. I just tripped up and fell back and all the biscuits fell down. Sorry, I’ll put them back.” Aidan and his gang probably thought I was too scared to tell on them, but I was being strategic and there’s a big difference.

  It was only when I got out of the shop and was walking down the street that I realized what they’d said: If you’re going to lose some more of that belly, which meant I’d definitely lost some.

  *

  • • •

  I COULD ALREADY see Grandad smoking in the front yard as I was walking home. He gave up when I was born, at the same time he became teetotal, which doesn’t mean you can
only drink tea, it just means you don’t drink alcohol, but Nan lets him have a cigarette on special occasions. He came out onto the pavement, opening up his arms. I wondered if he knew what had happened at the shop, but how could he?

  “What’ve I done to deserve this?” I said, and Grandad smiled because it’s what he always says when I go and cuddle him for no reason.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Can’t a man just give his grandson a hug when he feels like it?”

  He held on to me for what felt like a really long time. His jumper smelled of cigarettes, but the cuddle canceled it out.

  Inside, Nan and Mum were setting the table. “Got the mint sauce, Zac? Good lad. Put that straight on the table, please.” Nan had got her fluffy yellow chicks out that she gets out every Easter, and put one for each person—including Uncle Jamie—in a row in the middle of the table. One of them has only got one eye now, but I don’t mind saying that one’s mine. I put the mint sauce out, then went into the kitchen; Nan followed me and shut the door.

  “Did you get the Mini Eggs?” she whispered.

  “Yeah,” I whispered back, holding up the pick-a-mix bag. I didn’t know why I was whispering too; whispering is like yawning—it’s completely catching.

  “Good, well, finish decorating this then,” she said, opening the tin and getting our cake out. “Put all the eggs on top and Mr. Easter Bunny in the middle.”

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “Are we? Sorry, I’ll stop,” said Nan.

  I started to arrange the eggs, trying to spread the colors out so that you didn’t get loads of yellow or blue ones together. Nan was smiling at me, but her eyes were watery. “That used to be our Jamie’s favorite bit, putting the eggs on, making sure there weren’t lots of the same color too close to each other just like you’re doing now. Mind you, it was a case of one on the cake, three in his mouth.” She laughed. “He’d have eaten half of them by now.”