Though Tottenham has its fair share of hot-blooded, wide-mouthed young males, it’s not very often you see them in the Ristorante di Fantasia. Perhaps going for an Italian isn’t the sort of thing lads do together on their evenings off, especially when there’s a perfectly good pub over the road. However, drinking booze can create an almost bottomless hunger in many folk, and sometimes, after eleven, we get a few drunken stragglers from chucking-out time.
We shut at twelve. Usually, by this time, no sane person would enjoy serving food to rowdy pub-rejects, but (as long as they haven’t pissed all their money down the pub urinals) there’s potential for plenty of tips. The other night I was listlessly disinfecting the wine lists when this bunch of butch boys came bumbling into the restaurant. They were like a six-pack of lager: shiny, round, full of booze, frothing at the mouth, and with brand names plastered all over them.
‘Table for six?’ I said, through six coats of lipstick.
‘Yeah, darlin’,’ the six-pack chorused, spraying me with fizz. I pushed tables 1 and 2 together, so they could sit by the window and ogle passers-by.
They ordered all the meaty dishes, because they were meaty boys. I figured it’d be hard work trying to rub all their necks with my knockers, but I managed to give one of the lads’ heads a slight tit-wank as I laid down new cutlery. Suddenly, he became all happy and bashful. It’s funny – it only takes a little affection from a vaguely good-looking girl to turn a boy’s bravado to mulch. I allowed all the boys’ eyes into my blouse while I handed out the food, and I allowed all their tips into my pesto jar. Six pounds sterling in shrapnel! As the lads put their coats back on, the Ristorante di Fantasia was silent, except for the shuffle of shellsuit fabric. Malcolm and his dad were the only ones still eating, over on unlucky table 13. It’s unlucky for two reasons: it has a habit of tilting violently without warning, and it’s closest to the toilets.
With every tilt, Malcolm coughed sauce from his nostrils. After the tenth tilt, Malcolm’s dad slammed down his cutlery and stormed off to the gents. I think he resented having a son with Down’s syndrome, as if it proved his genes weren’t quite up to scratch. Nowadays, you can get a ‘combined’ pregnancy test, to tell if your kid’s going to be a mongoloid or not, so you’ve got enough time to murder them while they’re still in your belly, if you’re that way inclined. Fortunately, Malcolm seemed too doe-eyed to notice (or care about) his dad’s resentment. When I looked over, he was more interested in keeping his spaghetti on his fork.
Meanwhile, back on tables 1 and 2, the lads had successfully put on their coats, and were edging towards the door. On their way out, they all cooed, ‘Later, darlin’,’ to my cleavage, each of them desperately hoping to go home with it. My cleavage just stared back though, knackered. I was ready to call it a night myself, and tot up my tips, when I heard a grunt behind me: ‘Kimberly.’
The grunt came from Malcolm. His mouth had bolognese around it, like fluorescent orange lipstick. He flashed me a droopy grin and announced, ‘You’re my friend.’
Despite sometimes suffering from temper tantrums, people with Down’s syndrome can also be overwhelmingly affectionate. Instead of hardened, boring adult minds, their brains seem soft and untarnished by cynicism. I wanted to give Malcolm a hug, but my blouse was clean on that morning. And it was white. So, I just smiled instead, from a safe distance.
Unfortunately, the lads in the shellsuits hadn’t quite made it through the exit yet, and they were itching to ridicule someone. While copious amounts of alcohol can – like Down’s syndrome – turn your brain into that of a child’s, the lads clearly thought they were superior to Malcolm, and one of them hooted, ‘Mate, mate, mate, you’ve got no chance, mate!’
Malcolm stared back with the eyes of a lost teddybear. I could see the anger boiling in his oversized head, as he looked round for his dad, then back to his plate, then back to me and the lads. I shot them my own look of venom, hoping my eyes still looked evil under the eyeshadow, just this once. Then, I scampered over to table 13, grabbed Malcolm’s saucy face, and planted a lingering kiss on his forehead.
Malcolm looked stunned. A crumb of minced beef clung to his quivering bottom lip, like a first-time rock climber.
‘Of course he’s got a chance,’ I snapped, glaring at the lads again. ‘We’re going out on Monday, aren’t we, Malcolm?’
Malcolm nodded, completely confused. The six lads snorted and shook their heads, also confused. They had nothing more to say, stepping shamefully back out onto Philip Lane. Once they got well past the Lord Parmo, they let rip a snippet of laughter but, fortuitously, Malcolm suffered from something called ‘glue ear’, so he didn’t quite catch it, I don’t think. Instead, he gazed up at me with his shimmering moony eyes, and grunted, ‘Squeeze me.’
I couldn’t resist. I didn’t even like that blouse, anyway. I squeezed the living daylights out of him.
And the next day, I came to work wearing orange.
Even though it says NOW WASH YOUR HANDS above the sink, Paolo thinks I’m strange because, every time I touch raw onion, or garlic, or any stain, I have to wash my hands. Surely, though, there was a good reason he’d forged three Food Hygiene Stars – and I wasn’t going to risk dysentery to find out. It’s not the best workplace for a melodramatic hypochondriac. During quiet moments in the Ristorante I imagined all the pathogens cavorting on Paolo’s worktops; writhing against each other in a kind of greasy conga; chewing up filth; multiplying; farting out toxins; going up my nose, and into my bloodstream.
But everyone’s got their quirks. Paolo, for instance, keeps a photo of Marilyn Monroe in his wallet, which has a similar effect on him. He removes it about once a week, taking it into the bathroom for about five minutes before coming back out all out of puff, with a red face and glassy eyes. Then, he washes his hands thoroughly. It’s like it’s sacred or something: a magic picture of Jesus or the Madonna. But Madonna’s a different celebrity altogether. It’s Marilyn Monroe he likes.
Squawk! Squeak! Splutter!
In the Capital, the lowest forms of street dweller are pigeons, rats, and the homeless. You often see them hanging about together in alleyways or doorways, or prowling around with their heads down, looking for snacks or miracles. I used to see them as vermin, but now I see them more like fleshy/furry/feathery vacuum cleaners, tidying up all the leftover food and debris the posh people don’t want.
My favourite tramp in the borough of Haringey is an Irish Catholic called Donald. I know he’s called Donald, because his speech is always the same: ‘Hello, missus, my name is Donald. I’m not on drugs, I don’t drink – I just need one ninety-nine for a cheeseburger and chips.’
For someone who eats only cheeseburgers and chips, Donald’s frighteningly skinny. I’ve always been dubious about homeless people’s stories. Donald smells like his internal organs have been replaced with distillery instruments, and he’s got scars like a Union Jack across his face, which suggests a life spent in dodgier places than your local Burger King. He’s a charmer, though – in fact, his manners are impeccable, like he found them in a bag out the back of a finishing school.
Donald once told me he’s got a daughter called Kimberly, but I saw him the other day telling someone his daughter’s called Nicola, and some time before that his daughter was called Stacey, and another time she was Rose, and Mary-Ann, and Joanne, and she’s even been called Anastasia once. Perhaps he’s just highly fertile, though.
That Sunday, I indulged myself in another gigantic lie-in, tunnelling through dream after dream like a hound down a rabbit hole. I emerged around two o’clock with soily sleep in my eyes, and I was barely casting a shadow as I walked up to the big Sainsbury’s near White Hart Lane. I got a few bits for my tea (working alongside food had made me less enthusiastic about cooking at home – hence, my basket had in it tuna, mayonnaise, bread, butter, and a cucumber) but, more importantly, I magically turned my heavy tips from brown and silver shrapnel into crisp ten-pound notes at the Coinstar. The previous night’
s slog had earned me £33.87. I was tempted to press the DONATE TO CHARITY button, but the idea of my money being guzzled up by a bleeping machine made me feel empty. I figured my small change might make a much bigger change if I just gave it to people myself.
What’s the point in being generous if you can’t see what good it’s doing? What’s the point in being selfless when you don’t get anything out of it yourself?
Yawning, I carried the raw materials for tuna and cucumber sarnies back towards the bus stop. I was still in a daze – pondering whether I was developing an ear infection, or if it was just the way I’d been sleeping – when I heard loudly through the good ear: ‘Hello, missus, my name is Donald. I’m not on drugs, I don’t drink – I just need one ninety-nine for a cheeseburger and chips.’
I blinked. The Guillotine was getting a bit long – in fact, it was coming close to beheading me. I flicked it out of the way, then plucked the crispest tenner from my purse and handed it over to Donald. Next thing I know, he’s all over me:
‘Oh, you’re an angel. Are you sure? God bless you, God bless you,’ he squawked, before launching into a string of violent coughs.
‘Do you want a Soother?’ I asked, carefully putting down the shopping, though it still managed to keel over on the pavement.
‘Hghm?’ Donald said.
‘A Hall’s Soother. Just for your cough? I’ve got loads.’
I dipped into my Medicine Bag and took out a couple of honey and lemons for him. He coughed ‘Thanks’ at me. Then, he took my hand and planted a dry kiss on it. I laughed. I made a mental note to buy more wet-wipes.
Round about, people were staring at us, instead of staring at the bus routes, or the ground. Some of them even tutted or kissed their teeth, because they hated people without roofs. People without roofs are a menace to those with roofs; always wanting what they can’t have. Donald didn’t seem that dangerous, though, tottering off, trying his luck with one of the old dears further down the red bench: ‘Hello, missus, my name is Donald …’
I smiled as he staggered off down a street which also had a name: Percival. I dragged the Sainsbury’s bag between my calves and clicked my neck from side to side, finally waking up to the sun-struck afternoon. I felt supreme, soaking up the vitamin D, not to mention all the other vitamins already in my system. Everyone carried on staring at me, though, like I was lower even than the pigeons, rats, and the homeless.
It was only when I got on the 149 that I realised Donald had tottered past six or seven takeaways between the bus stop and Percival Street, all with the same shining slogan stuck in their windows: CHEESEBURGER AND CHIPS!! £1.99!! All the shops stared at me too, with frowning awnings.
And that’s when I realised both Donald and the bus had taken me for a fucking ride.
I was late for my date with Malcolm.
It was his idea to meet me at Tower Bridge at 1 p.m. – one of the furthest tourist attractions from the halal butcher’s. I thought I had time to nip into town beforehand – for the wet-wipes, and a new dress – but I got waylaid, fannying about in a cheerful trance, trying to help everyone out, despite their stony faces.
Kindness slows you down. Rather than steaming through the throngs of shoppers like a snowplough, I sedately slalomed between them, like a weekend skier. I still had fifteen quid’s worth of tips from the Ristorante, one fifth of which I spent on Mr ‘Big Issue please’. I helped tourists with directions in a language they didn’t understand, and I lost twenty minutes looking for somewhere to recycle all the gaudy fliers and handouts I’d amassed after one hectic wrong turn down Oxford Street.
Some people don’t understand good nature – they see it as a sign of weakness, or they’re suspicious you want something bigger in return. Or, they tease you for being ‘too good’, whatever that is. At Tower Hill I helped this lady with her pram, up the ninety-seven steps outside the Ghost Train station, and she actually got her purse out and tried to lumber me with money. I was nice, though, and threw it back in her face.
I wish I could swap my old, world-weary brain with a toddler’s. Kids have such a carefree outlook on life, because they’ve hardly even heard of death, let alone come across it. I remember seeing a dead person on telly when I was about four, but my mam said he’d just gone to sleep. God knows how he could sleep with all that red stuff coming out of his skull, though.
I was instantly suspicious of my parents from then on. They tell you all sorts of lies: your pet stick insect didn’t run away, she’s dead; that man’s not asleep, he’s dead; Father Christmas (fortunately) isn’t dead, but (unfortunately) he was never alive in the first place.
I strolled across the grandiose bridge, beneath the sky-blue walkway where prostitutes used to operate a kind of Mile High Club round the end of the nineteenth century. It took me for ever to get over the river, not just because of all the tourists, but because I ended up taking their photos for them. I had to think up what ‘Cheese!’ was in different languages, though part of the fun was getting it wrong:
‘Fromage frais!’ I said, to the ones who looked French.
‘Quark!’ I said, to the ones who looked German.
‘Smile!’ I said, to the ones I’d class as Other/Unknown.
The more I made them laugh, the better the photos. The Japs were the best – giggling constantly and putting up peace-fingers, like miniature, much cuter Yokos. I wondered if they’d go home and tell their family and friends everyone’s lovely in England.
As it turned out, though, Malcolm was in a foul mood when I turned up, ten minutes late. I spotted him sitting on the grass with his dad, to the west of the bridge, by City Hall. People with Down’s syndrome are born with long faces but, that afternoon, Malcolm’s was longer than usual. Him and his dad seemed to be having some kind of dispute.
I smoothed out my new dress and adopted a jauntier strut. When Malcolm saw me he leapt from the grass and gave me a huge cuddle, unsmoothing the dress again.
‘You’re late,’ Malcolm stated. I put my hands together in a sorry/praying position, glancing at Malcolm’s dad, whose eyes were on the river. I wasn’t sure whether to give him a hug too, or shake his hand, so I just stood awkwardly, pretending to admire the view I’d already taken twenty-seven photographs of.
‘How long do you want with him?’ Malcolm’s dad asked me, hopefully not meaning to sound like Malcolm’s pimp.
‘Er, I’m free all afternoon. I don’t mind,’ I replied, with some bonus nervous laughter. ‘How are you doing, Malcolm?’
‘Fine,’ he answered, stamping round a pigeon.
‘Do you want me to stay and watch?’ Malcolm’s dad asked, hopefully not meaning to sound like a peeping tom.
‘No!’ Malcolm shouted, clearly going through a teenage-like phase of stubborn parent-hating, only fifteen years too late. Malcolm was thirty-one.
‘Naw, naw, it’s fine,’ I said.
Nevertheless, Malcolm’s dad kept glancing over his shoulder as he waddled off towards the Ghost Train, leaving me and Malcolm to sit back down on the manicured lawn. I scooped the dress between my knees, trying to sit ladylike.
‘What have you been up to today?’ I asked.
‘Been at the Wethouse,’ he replied. At first, I had to squint to make out exactly what he was saying, though I soon got the hang of it. It was quite a choppy way of speaking, with ‘w’s where the ‘r’s should be.
‘How was it?’ I asked.
‘Good.’
Even though it sounded like an aquatic adventure emporium, the Wethouse was in fact a dismal place, from what Malcolm’s dad had told me. Apparently, you get used to the loutish behaviour of the hammered homeless folk, but you never quite get used to cleaning up their many spillages. Malcolm’s dad wanted to install en suites. Or, rather, he wanted to de-install himself and Malcolm from the Wethouse, and become a hotelier instead.
‘Everyone likes me there,’ Malcolm added with a straight face. I could imagine him being a hit at the hostel – there was a directness and dreaminess to
him which drunks could probably relate to.
I ran my fingers through the AstroTurf-perfect grass, enjoying my afternoon off. For about a minute everything was quiet, except for Malcolm’s daysnoring. Daysnoring is an affliction caused by having your mouth wide open while your eyes are also wide open. It made Malcolm sound a little like Darth Vader, or a faulty submarine sonar.
‘Do you want an ice cream?’ I asked, nodding towards the pink van.
‘Yes,’ Malcolm snapped, as if it was obvious.
I wasn’t looking forward to the masticating. Malcolm leapt to attention again, then pretended to trip a few times on his way down the giant granite steps to the van. I scurried after him. It felt strange entertaining a bloke for the first time since Stevie’s death, though it wasn’t exactly a date – I felt more like Malcolm’s parent or carer than a potential girlfriend, grabbing for his hand as he careened along the riverside. I was just trying to make the boyman feel happy.
‘Er, two Mini Milks, please,’ I said to the vendor, going for the cheap option. I swapped a pound for the lollies, then tore the wrapping off both and passed the white, worse-tasting one to Malcolm.
‘Fankoo,’ Malcolm said, which is the only phonetic representation of his speech you’re going to get.
‘You’re welcome,’ I replied.
We sat down on one of the benches, out of the way of the seagull muck. Malcolm wanted to carry on holding my hand, which made life difficult when his Mini Milk decided to start dribbling.
‘Ooh,’ was all I could think to say, watching the spunky lolly drool down the back of his hand.
All around us, the Capital was acting like it was summertime: men strutting about with bare, goosepimpled chests; women wearing sunglasses the size of flies’ eyes; flowers wriggling out of the ground; the sun licking at our lollies. It was only early April.
Kimberly's Capital Punishment Page 9