by Dave Cousins
Mum told me once that when she’s been drinking for a long time and then stops she feels terrible. It’s like the flu, but much worse—and it lasts for days. The only cure is to have another drink. It works like a magic medicine—a few swigs and the pain goes away, just like that.
I fetch a glass from the kitchen and go over to the wardrobe. Mum’s boots are still standing up in the corner. I hesitate, then reach inside and pull out the bottle of SavaShoppa Scotch whisky. Whatever it takes … isn’t that what I promised? I make sure the neck clinks against the glass as I pour.
‘Mum.’ I lean over and waft the whisky towards her. ‘Have a drink. It’ll make you feel better.’
The shape in the bed doesn’t stir.
‘Mum! Please.’
I listen to the distant babble of the TV, while the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifts into the room. Fat lot of difference that will make if Mum won’t get up.
Finally the twist of bedclothes rolls towards me and Mum’s face, shiny with sweat, squints out through a letterbox of duvet.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Her voice is thin as burnt paper.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You—giving me drink.’ Her eyes roll towards the glass. ‘You hate it when I drink.’
I shrug. ‘The social worker’s coming. I need you to get up.’
My hand is shaking, sending ripples across the surface of the whisky. Then Mum reaches out and takes the glass. She holds it for a moment, staring into the liquid glowing golden in the sunlight, then drains the lot in a single gulp—and shudders.
‘I don’t deserve you,’ she says. ‘I don’t deserve either of you.’ There are tears in her voice. I feel like I did all those years ago with the pigs, like I should put my arms around her or something—but I hesitate, and then the moment’s gone.
‘We can help you, Mum,’ I mumble instead. ‘We can help you get better.’
She nods and looks down at the empty glass.
I pass her the bottle and she pours another measure, downs half of it, then refills the glass. If she carries on like this, she’ll be drunk by the time the social worker gets here. But it’s too late now. It would be like trying to take a bone from a pit-bull, getting that bottle back.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, reading my face perhaps. ‘Just enough to get me through—yeah?’
I nod.
‘Go on then!’ says Mum. ‘Get lost while I get changed. Unless you want him to see me like this.’
I’m in the kitchen when the buzzer goes. The flat shivers as the sound dies away.
‘Mum! He’s here!’ I knock on the closed bedroom door. ‘Mum? Are you ready?’
Her answer is too muffled to tell what state she’s in.
The buzzer goes again.
‘I’m going to let him in.’
I walk down the hall to the front door and pause, my hand hovering over the latch.
Last chance to run. Over the roof and down the fire escape. We could still make it …
But I’m tired of running. Sometimes you have to stand up and fight. I glance back over my shoulder, and there they are: the massed ranks of my army, watching me from their doorways—a woman who can’t get out of bed without the help of SavaShoppa Scotch whisky, and a six-year-old boy who thinks he’s Scooby-Doo.
I give them a thumbs-up and open the door.
Our Friendly Neighbourhood Social Worker is called Chris. His face has a creased, weary look. He smiles and shakes my hand. I look round for Mum, but her bedroom door has closed again.
‘Mum’s just …’ I shrug. ‘She’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Great!’ says Chris, following me down the hall. ‘You go to Hardacre Comprehensive don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ I’m wearing my school uniform—Mina thought it would give the right impression. For some reason I decide to wave my tie at him.
‘I was talking to …’ he frowns, ‘Mr Duncan?’
‘Buchan.’ A warning light blinks on in my head. How many people has Chris spoken to? How many lies am I going to have to remember?
‘Um … do you want a coffee?’
He looks surprised. ‘Yeah! That’d be great. Thanks.’
We hover outside the kitchen looking at each other. I don’t really want Chris to see we haven’t got a kettle, in case this is on the list of Essential Items for a Safe and Suitable Home—but I’m not sure I want to leave him alone with Jay either.
Chris makes the decision for me. ‘I’ll go and wait in the front room, shall I?’
‘OK.’ I can’t exactly say no.
I’m just wondering whether I should call Mum again, when the bedroom door bursts open and she appears in the hall.
She’s wearing her interview suit—grey pinstriped skirt and jacket, black tights and a white blouse. She’s done her make-up and put on a pair of high-heeled shoes. She looks … almost normal. A bit over-dressed perhaps, but it’s a magical transformation from earlier.
‘What?’ says Mum, shrugging.
‘Nothing. You look nice.’
She raises an eyebrow and looks past me towards the front room.
‘Is he here?’
‘Yeah. I’m just making some coffee.’
She nods and glances back into the bedroom.
‘You go ahead—I’ll bring it in,’ I say, before she changes her mind.
‘Yeah.’ Mum takes a deep breath. ‘Right. Here we go then …’ She pauses. ‘Laurence … I’m not sure I can do this.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ I smile, hoping she can’t see how hard my heart is hammering through my clothes. ‘Just be … friendly.’
Mum pulls a face, then nods. ‘OK.’
‘Mum.’
She looks at me.
‘Thanks.’
She nods, half smiles, then totters down the hall towards the front room.
I pour the water into the mugs and stir, wishing that my hands would stop shaking.
‘Do you want another coffee?’
‘No, I’m good thanks, Laurence.’
‘Cake?’ I thrust the plate of Bakewell tarts at him.
‘Still OK with this one thanks.’
I’m beginning to think Chris is all right. He’s nothing like the woman with the clipboard from The Dream. In fact he doesn’t act like a social worker at all—
But he talks like one.
‘You’ve not been at school for while?’ He smiles as he says it.
‘I was ill. We both were.’ I nod towards Jay, who is watching TV, oblivious to everything.
‘Sorry to hear that. How are you feeling now?’
‘Fine. We’re going back to school today.’
‘Excellent.’ Chris scribbles something on his pad, but I’m too far away to read what it says. He turns to Jay.
‘And you’ve been poorly as well then, James?’
Jay stares at the TV.
‘Jay!’ I hiss.
He looks up.
‘Are you feeling better now?’ says Chris.
Jay seems surprised to see him there—he frowns, then nods. ‘Oh yeah, I’m fine.’
‘You were too poorly to go to school though?’
Jay shrugs.
‘I don’t think he remembers much about it,’ I tell Chris, before Jay says anything incriminating. ‘He was pretty much out of it for a couple of days. Didn’t know where he was. Being sick and stuff, you know.’
‘Oh, yeah!’ says Jay. ‘I was sick in the telephone box and in … that other place.’ He frowns. ‘With the nice lady. When we had to run away with the envelope so she couldn’t give me a T-shirt.’
My heart stops.
‘Really?’ Chris looks at me.
I force a laugh. ‘Jay was sick in this shop, and the woman went mad, so we just legged it!’ I shrug.
‘Where was Mum while all this was going on?’ He looks across to Mum, sitting rigid in a chair, clutching at the arms like she’s afraid if she lets go she’ll spin off into space.
I answer for her. ‘At
work.’
‘Where do you work, Mrs Roach?’
Mum looks at him.
‘An office on the industrial estate,’ I tell him. ‘She’s a cleaner.’
‘And at the chip shop,’ says Jay.
‘Two jobs then.’ Chris puts his pen to work again and turns to Mum. ‘That must keep you busy?’
Her eyes have gone glassy and her hands are trembling.
Come on, Mum, don’t lose it now!
Chris is watching her, his pen hovering above the pad on his knees. There’s a crumb of pastry from the Bakewell tart trapped between the wire binding holding the pages together. I tell myself that if the crumb doesn’t drop, we’ll be OK.
Mum blinks. ‘Yes, two jobs,’ she says.
Air rushes into my lungs.
‘I need two jobs to pay for this place and keep food on the table. It’s not cheap feeding these two you know.’
Chris nods. ‘Tell me about it! I’ve got two lads of my own, not much older than Laurence here.’ He smiles.
Here it comes.
‘So you’re out at work a lot of the time then?’
I knew it. Act like we’re just having a nice friendly chat …
‘Not that much!’ Mum’s voice has an edge to it now. ‘They’re not on their own for long if that’s what you’re getting at? Anyway, Laurence is perfectly capable of looking after James for a few hours!’
Chris raises his palms. ‘I’m sure he is. I’m not getting at anything, Mrs Roach. Nobody is accusing you, or the boys, of anything.’
‘Well somebody must be, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?’
It’s like Mum’s suddenly woken up. She reminds me of Jay—that same belligerent it’s not up to you expression.
‘It’s that nosy cow downstairs, isn’t it? I know it was her, so you needn’t bother lying.’
I wish she’d shut up. She’s going to ruin everything.
Chris sighs. ‘I take it you’re not on particularly good terms with Mrs Ellison.’
‘You got that right!’ Mum snorts. ‘She’s been trying to get us out since the day we moved in. Didn’t like it—me being a single mum. You could see it in her face, the stuck-up old cow!’
‘Old cow!’ says Jay.
For a second Chris looks surprised, then he laughs. You can see him trying not to, but he can’t help himself.
Mum stares at him, black-eyed, ready to explode.
Then, out of nowhere, she starts to chuckle. You can feel the tension escaping, like the room has stopped holding its breath. Until Chris looks at his notebook again.
‘Mrs Ellison mentioned a flood … and a fire? She seemed to think the boys were here on their own when these incidents occurred.’
Mum looks at me.
‘There wasn’t a fire.’ I try to put as much disbelief into my voice as I can. It’s easier now. I get the feeling that Chris doesn’t think much of Nosy Nelly. ‘I was making toast and it set the smoke alarm off—that’s all.’
Chris nods and makes a note. ‘Glad to hear you’ve got smoke alarms. And the flood?’
Nelly will have told him what happened. He’s probably spoken to that bloke who was with her as well. Better to tell the truth or he’ll think I’m lying about everything.
‘We left the plug in and the sink over-flowed. It was an accident. Anyway, it was only a bit of water, not a flood! She made out like her whole flat was under water!’
‘Yes, I must admit I wasn’t overwhelmed when she insisted on showing me the damage.’ Chris shakes his head. ‘It’s not as if we don’t have enough to do without wasting time on petty complaints.’
He closes the notebook. ‘Well, that about wraps it up, I think. If you wouldn’t mind just letting me have a quick look around.’
The flat looks a lot worse than I’d hoped. You can tell Chris isn’t impressed.
‘How long have you been here?’ he says, stepping out of the bathroom, where Mina’s blue toilet liquid has only partially masked the smell of damp and wee.
‘Nine months, give or take,’ says Mum with a shrug.
I switch on the light in the kitchen, and a cockroach scuttles across the newly washed draining board, then disappears behind the sink.
‘What was that?’
‘Just a beetle,’ I say quickly. ‘We get them sometimes.’
‘Beetles?’
‘Yeah.’
Chris walks over and peers down the crack between the wall and the sink. ‘Are you on the housing list?’ he says, craning his neck to see behind the cooker.
‘No,’ says Mum.
‘You’d be high priority you know. Single parent, two kids. I’ll have a word with one of my colleagues in housing.’
Mum looks at him. She doesn’t like being on lists. She doesn’t trust colleagues in housing. But for once she doesn’t say anything.
Chris opens the fridge door, and I’m glad I listened to Mina when she suggested we should get some food in. Luckily there was some money in Mum’s bag, so I went down to SavaShoppa and stocked up last night.
‘This must be your room,’ says Chris, crossing the hall.
‘Yeah, mine and Jay’s … we share.’
He nods. ‘I like the stars.’
‘Yeah, Mum put them up. They’re real constellations.’ I point up at the ceiling. ‘That’s the Plough … and that one’s Orion … only some of them fell down.’
His eyes are everywhere, scanning the room for reasons to take us away. Then he looks at me and smiles, and there’s an expression on his face that I can’t quite read.
‘Nice room,’ he says.
Chris is packing up his stuff, washing down the last of his Bakewell tart with cold coffee. Just a few more minutes and he’ll be gone—and I might actually be able to breathe again.
Jay is still watching TV—now in his usual position, upside down on the floor with his legs up on the settee. His trousers have slid down to his knees, revealing skinny white calves and a purple bruise like a dirty handprint.
Chris spots it the same moment I do. He puts down his mug and leans over the chair. ‘That’s a nasty looking bruise you’ve got there, James. How did that happen?’
Jay looks up at Chris and frowns. He seems surprised to see the bruise. He shrugs.
‘I did it when I bit the man to save Shaggy.’
I stop breathing.
‘What?’ says Chris.
‘Scooby-Doo,’ I croak. ‘We were playing Scooby-Doo. I’m Shaggy, he’s Scooby.’
Chris stares at me.
‘Velma was there as well,’ says Jay. ‘The whole gang!’ He grins and turns back to the TV.
My mouth has gone dry. ‘He must have bumped it when we were playing yesterday,’ I manage. ‘He crawls around a lot … you know … pretending to be a dog.’ I shrug, but it’s hopeless. We’re doomed.
Chris frowns and looks at each of us in turn: Jay, with the purple bruise like a tattoo saying battered child; Mum, by the window, cornered and ready to fight; and me—grinning and nodding like an idiot, because I don’t know what else to do.
‘You know, my brother used to do that! Pretend he was a dog.’ Chris smiles and shakes his head. ‘He used to sleep in a basket on the floor at the end of his bed. Drove our mum potty!’ He laughs. ‘He works as a dog handler for the police now! Loves it!’
I nod and smile and try to swallow the lump lodged in my throat.
Finally, we’re at the front door.
‘Well, good to meet you all.’ Chris holds out his hand and we shake. ‘Back to school this afternoon?’
I nod.
‘Good lad! I’ll be checking!’ He grins and turns to Mum.
‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Roach. All right if I pop back next week?’
‘What for?’ Mum’s eyes flash.
‘I might have some good news for you.’
She shrugs.
Chris smiles and waves as he crosses the landing. ‘Take care now,’ he shouts, as Mum closes the door and leans back against the wood.
‘God!’ she says, closing her eyes. ‘I need a drink.’
I can’t get out of school fast enough. I shouldn’t have let Mum talk me into coming back this afternoon. She’ll be gone when I get home, I know it.
I’m halfway across the playground when I spot her—standing on the pavement outside the gate, smoking a cigarette. She’s changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and a pair of dark glasses.
‘Mum!’
She smiles and drops the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it with the toe of her trainer. ‘I thought I’d come and meet you,’ she says, pulling the gold envelope from her bag. ‘What d’you say we go book ourselves that holiday?’
‘Yeah …’
‘I was just sitting at home,’ says Mum, linking her arm through mine,’ and I thought, This place is a dump! My boys shouldn’t have to live in a place like this! And then I found the envelope—the holiday you won for us. And I thought, That’s what we need—me and my boys—a holiday! Some time away from this place.’ She indicates Hardacre with a wave of her hand, and beams at me.
Hardacre Holidaze is at the very top of the high street, severed from the rest of the town by the bypass road. All the shops up here have a dusty, abandoned look about them, like blackened toenails waiting to fall off. The blue sign above the travel agent’s window, with its palm trees and cheerful yellow lettering, shines out from the gloom.
We wait to cross the road and I remember something important.
‘Mum! When we go inside, don’t say I won the holiday. You have to tell them it was Dad.’
‘What?’ She frowns.
‘I had to pretend I was him. You had to be eighteen to play.’
‘But why your dad? Why did you have to pick him?’
‘It had to be somebody with our name.’ I shrug. ‘I’m sorry.’
I push open the door, triggering a burst of Hawaiian music, and we step across the threshold into a fake tropical paradise. There’s a photograph of a deserted golden beach filling one wall—with the words Not just a holiday, the best daze of your life! emblazoned across a cloudless blue sky.
An orange-faced woman, dressed like an air hostess, glides forward to greet us.
‘Good afternoon. How can I help?’ Her teeth, when she smiles, are so white I’d swear they actually light up.