“So that’s Stu, is it?” says Mum. “Your dad says he works with Pete down the haulage yard. Hasn’t he got a boy your age?”
“Yeah. But Malcolm lives in Southsea with his mum. Stu had to get a smaller flat near here when they split up. Bit like Dad I s’pose. Actually, I ’aven’t seen Malc for a while.”
“Haven’t, Jake. It’s ‘I haven’t seen Malcolm for a while’. Well, it’s nice that your dad’s got a pal to have a drink with, I guess.” As we walk on, she looks over her shoulder, back towards the pub. The doors are open, and the sounds of the party spill out into the cold street.
Andy’s been getting on my nerves all afternoon, asking me what I’m going to wear, if I’m gonna dance, if I think I’ll be able to stay awake till midnight. He’s such a prat. Sometimes he’s just a stupid little kid who doesn’t understand anything. “You’re so un-cool,” I told him. “Super-geek.” He stood in the doorway and stuck his hand up his jumper and made a fart noise under his armpit. I went for him, but he legged it out the back door before I could clout him.
“You got your dancing shoes on then, Jakey?” Mum asks. She looks really pretty tonight, with sparkly makeup and glittery earrings.
“Yeah, right,” I reply, rolling my eyes at her.
She laughs. She’s got a bag full of drink with her, for Sandy and Pete, and she’s made a Coronation Chicken too. The bottles clink against the Pyrex dish with every footstep, and I’ve got this urge to grab the bag off her, rearrange the bottles inside so they don’t make that noise. At home, the booze is kept in a high cupboard above the cooker in the kitchen. The cupboard has got one of those stiff doors that pops open when you pull it, with this really clear click-clack sound. Sometimes at night I can’t get to sleep waiting for the click-clack to be over and done with. It goes click-clack-clink-clink. Then I can sleep.
“I think there’ll be quite a few other kids there tonight. You’ll have a good time – have the run of the house probably. While we’re all dancing downstairs! It’s been ages since we last saw Auntie Sandy, isn’t it?” I haven’t seen Mum look forward to something so much in a long time.
“I wonder what time Dad’ll get there,” I ask her.
“No idea. I expect he’ll be having a drink in the Oak. He never was one to arrive at a party without a couple of pints inside him first.” She looks serious now, and changes her tone when she sees me frowning back. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that – it’s a free country!”
When we get to Sandy’s door, we can see lots of people milling about through the windows, and over the wide-open door is a handmade banner that says “1985! HAPPY NEW YEAR!” We go straight in without knocking, passing some kids on the staircase who I don’t know. They stare at us. One of them is a girl, maybe a couple of years older than me, and the other is a lad about Andy’s age. The boy’s a bit of a Casual, dressed in burgundy and grey, with his thin hair slicked back, and the girl has heavy black makeup around her eyes, and strawy back-combed hair. They’re each holding a can of Coke, and they look really bored. I feel embarrassed about my un-cool clothes, and think about my tenner for the sales.
“Mary!” screams Sandy, when we find her in the living room clutching a bowl of peanuts. “And your gorgeous boys! Come ’ere, you little heart breakers! Give us a kiss!”
Sandy – Auntie Sandy as she likes us to call her – plants a huge wet kiss on my cheek. She smells of powder and perfume and gin.
“Look at you! It must be a year since I saw you last! How old are you now?” She’s saying these things about how grown up I look, but she’s hunched down on her heels talking to me like I’m a toddler.
“Thirteen,” I smile politely, my face burning.
“Thirteen! I would’ve said fifteen, easily!” she says, with a serious face that I don’t believe, then she goes through the same routine with Andy.
Andy and me stand there like lemons until she’s finished mauling us. Apart from the two on the stairs, there don’t seem to be any other kids, and I’m starting to regret agreeing to come.
“Mary, love – it’s been too long, sweetheart!” Sandy’s hugging Mum again, whose carrier bags are clinking clumsily as she hugs Sandy back. “Know how long I’ve known your mum?” she asks us.
We shake our heads.
“What, sixteen years, Mary?” She looks at Mum.
“More like seventeen. I was just about to have Matthew when we moved here.”
“He never is seventeen?” screeches Sandy. “And where is the handsome beast, then?”
“What, Matthew?” asks Mum, suddenly pale.
“He’s travelling,” I say.
Sandy turns to me with a big smile.
“In Germany, I think. Then on through Europe,” I add for authenticity. “I think.”
“Well, who’d of thought it?” says Sandy, looking as proud as if it had been her own son off discovering the world.
Mum puts her arm around my shoulder, the colour returning to her cheeks. I can’t help but stare at Sandy as she beckons us to follow her towards the kitchen. She’s nice enough, but a bit rough. She wears really tarty clothes for her age; I mean she must be at least forty. Tonight she’s got on a short black leather skirt, with sheer black tights and stilettos, and a purple top with long flapping sleeves. Her perm’s really fuzzy, and she smokes like a chimney. I remember her babysitting for us a bit when we were little, and she’d always stop sunbathing out in the back yard and play with us if we asked her to. One time, I was trying to make a Lego house, and one of the windows wouldn’t stay in. It took ages, but Sandy took off all the top layers, then fixed the window in place and rebuilt the top. When she’d finished, she sat down and had a fag in front of Emmerdale Farm, and I had a custard cream and a glass of milk.
“Come on, boys,” she says, after she’s put the Coronation Chicken in the kitchen and ladled out a glass of punch for Mum. “I’ll take you upstairs so you can meet the others.”
The kids from earlier are gone when we head up the stairs behind Sandy. Her skirt is way too short and I can see right up between her legs. I don’t want to look, but I can’t help it, and I’m wondering if she’s wearing any knickers under her see-through black tights. The backs of her calves are huge and muscly, even though her ankles are bony and thin. Mum waves from the bottom of the stairs, then turns to go through to the party.
Sandy smiles over her shoulder at me, before calling along the hall, “Shona! It’s me, love! I’ve got a couple more here!”
Black-eyes girl opens one of the bedroom doors, and looks at us coldly. Shona.
“Shona’s my niece. Shona, this is Jake, and this is Andy. You look after them? Show them where everything is? And you know where we are if you need us, don’t you, love?” She quickly fondles the back of my neck and then leaves us on the landing, face to face with scary-girl.
Shona nods her head for us to follow her, and she gives us the tour of the upstairs. Sandy and Pete’s own kids have all left home now, so it seems really big for just the two of them.
Shona cocks a thumb at a closed door. “That’s the bog.” Then along the landing, another cocked thumb and a stern face. “Sandy and Pete’s room. Off limits.”
We turn the corner at the end of the corridor, to find another row of doors. She thumbs the first one. “Music room. That’s where we are. Then there’s the TV room. Bathroom. Snog Room.” At this, she turns and looks at me for a reaction. “Do you know what the Snog Room is?” She’s got her hands on her hips now, facing us. I reckon she could get a part in Grange Hill, talking all sarky and full of it.
“Well, I can guess, I suppose,” I mumble.
“Well, you’d be right. There’s quite a few of us here tonight, and if anyone wants a bit of privacy, that’s where they can get it.”
I try to avoid Shona’s eyes.
“And nobody tells that lot downstairs,” she adds with a touch of menace.
Andy’s eyes are wide and unblinking. Black-eyes laughs and squeezes his cheeks between
the palms of her fingerless-gloved hands. He looks like a scared guppy.
“Don’t worry, baby-boy. You don’t have to go into the Snog Room unless you want to. It’s not that kind of party.”
She smirks, pleased with herself, and takes us into the music room, where a bunch of other kids are lying about on bean bags and cushions. There are piles of albums and a record player, and a tape cassette on the side. Loud music fills the room, and I recognise the track playing from George’s collection at Manningly Farm.
Shona thumbs at us. “Jake. Andy.” I wonder what she’d do if she lost her thumbs. The other kids all nod hello to us, and one smiles.
“The Cure?” I say, as I flop into a spare bean bag. Thank God for George and his excellent record collection.
“Yeah,” says Shona, without looking at me.
“Cool,” I say, and we spend the next hour going through music sleeves, comparing our favourite bands and tracks.
Shona keeps raising her voice, trying to get the attention of the older boys, but they’re not interested. There’s a small bunch of lads of about sixteen, who all seem to know each other, and keep themselves to themselves. Luke, the Casual, turns out to be Shona’s younger brother. Despite his dodgy choice in clothes, Luke’s alright, and he and Andy go off together to the TV room to see what’s on. There are a few younger kids running about in the hallway, and now and again they pop their heads in the room, then run away looking scared. I remember that feeling when I was little, thinking how grown up the older kids seemed, spying on them at the same time as staying out of their way.
Shona leans backwards and sticks her hand behind the Flower Fairy curtains to drag out two cans of lager held together by their plastic loops.
“Want one?” She pulls the ring on hers and takes a swig, eyeing the older boys in the opposite corner. One of them glances at her, then takes a swig of his own can and carries on with his conversation.
Shona wriggles back in her bean bag, adjusting her baggy black skirt around her like a parachute. Her cardigan flops off to one side, showing a pale freckly shoulder and a white bra strap.
“I nicked them,” she says. “The beers. I nicked them off my dad as soon as we got here. That’s the good thing about being a Goth – baggy clothes. Loads of places to stash stuff. Beer, fags, gear. No one’s any the wiser.”
“Oh. Are you a Goth then?”
“Durr. Why else d’you think I’m dressed like this, straight-boy?” She’s shaking her head, snuffling into her can. “S’pose you’re gonna ask me if I’ve just been to a funeral next? You might as well. I hear it about eighteen times a day anyhow.”
And I was worried about Andy embarrassing me.
“Act casual,” Shona tells me when she sends me in search of more cans. I don’t even want any more, but she obviously does.
The clock in the hall says quarter past ten, so it’s nearly two hours till midnight. I wonder if Dad has got here yet. There are loads of people here now, although most of them I don’t know, and most of them seem pretty drunk. I squeeze through the kitchen and spot Stu at the sink, cracking ice out on to the draining board. If Stu’s here, Dad must be somewhere nearby.
“Stu!” I shout across the crush of people.
He looks over his shoulder, dropping the ice into a tumbler. Clink-clink.
“Jakey, mate! How’s it going? Wondered if you were about, somewhere or other.”
He pours a large slug of gin on to the ice, making it turn clear and liquid and gleaming.
“So what’ve you been up to then, Jakey?”
“Not much,” I shrug, “listening to music, having a beer, you know.” I don’t know why I said that. “Malcolm here?”
“No – he’s at his mum’s tonight. He’ll be over to mine in the morning. We’ll be going over the rec for a kick about if you wanna come?” He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a big bottle of Schweppes tonic water. Mum always says it has to be Schweppes. The others are cheap tasting. A bit like fake Coke. Or fake ketchup. There are some things that you can’t compromise on. Stu twists open the lid and the fizz escapes over the top like a fountain. He pours the tonic water into the glass, then sticks the bottle back in the fridge and pulls out a can of lager.
“Dad here yet?” I ask, but I’ve kind of worked out he’s not.
“No, not yet, mate. He was getting another in at the Oak when I left. Shouldn’t be long.”
I’m still standing by Stu, leaning on the sink, watching him pull the ring on the lager. He catches my eye and grins, leans back into the fridge and pulls out two more.
“Stick ’em up your jumper and get up the stairs pronto,” he says in a low growl, like a soldier to his comrade. He nudges me off, winks, and I leg it to the foot of the stairs.
As I get up a few steps, I can see Mum in the living room. From my dark spy point, I stop and watch, as she stands at the fireplace, laughing and bright. She’s got a couple of men standing to one side, Sandy to the other. Stu goes through with the drinks, and one of the men moves aside to make room for him. Mum takes the glass from Stu, raises it to the group and they all do the same, clink, cheers, drink, smile.
I wish Dad was here to see how pretty she looks.
Mary, February 1967
He’s not their kind of person. I can feel our differences hovering above the dining table as we move to an awkward rhythm. Billy’s wide, rough fingers are clumsy around the silver knives and spoons, and I’m sure that Mother has laid out courses of cutlery just to test his breeding. I see her watching his movements, checking to see which knife he chooses. As she studies his discomfort, the twilight catches his skin through the polished window panes, and the reflection from the silverware dances under his chin. He shines like a heavenly host, fixing me across the table with his brown gaze. Mummy can’t take her eyes off him either.
“So, Billy. How long have you and Mary been courting?”
He smiles at me, as I cut across him, “Mum, don’t interrogate him. He’s only just got here!”
“It’s a harmless enough question, Mary. And, darling, you know how I hate it when you call me that.”
Billy looks at me, as if for permission to answer. I shake my head in resignation.
“It’s been the best part of a year, hasn’t it, Mary?” There’s a phoney twang to his accent, which I despise instantly. He’s picking up his h’s.
“How nice,” says Mummy, cutting into her smoked salmon. “I’m surprised Mary hasn’t brought you back before. I mean, London’s not that far is it, darling?” She looks to Daddy for an answer.
He agrees, and carries on eating.
“Sauce?” she asks, passing the Royal Doulton jug across the table to Billy.
He takes the jug, a closed-mouth smile on his face. A man of few words, she’d say, by way of insult. When he lifts his eyes to meet mine, I’m caught off-guard by the kaleidoscope of colour that radiates from him. I want to climb on my chair and cry out to them all, “This man is so good, can you not see it?”
Mummy looks along the length of the table, to where Daddy sits in the opposite head position. The four of us are posed like little figures in a neat Victorian doll’s house.
“Well, it’s certainly good to have you home, Mary. Isn’t it, Charles?”
Daddy looks up, slightly baffled. “It’s delicious, dear,” he smiles. “Isn’t it, Mary?”
Mummy glares at him. Billy tries to keep his expression neutral. And I’m dying inside, embarrassed by this odd couple who raised me. Mummy frowns at Daddy again, like a prod.
“Right,” he says, as if suddenly awoken. “So, what do you do, young man?”
Billy straightens in his seat. “I’m a carpenter.”
“Fine profession. Jesus was one,” says Daddy. He’s an atheist. “What d’you make? Cabinets? Churches?” He laughs at this, looking around the table for encouragement.
“Mostly doing up old buildings. I’ve been working in London Bridge for two years now, and the work just isn’t drying up. It pays well
too.”
Mummy gives me a knowing look, which I ignore. I pull a large fish bone from the corner of my mouth and make sure she sees me place it on the edge of the plate.
“The owner is some Egyptian feller. Never seen him, but the money comes in, regular as clockwork, every week. And it’s all rent-free.”
“So, you have a flat in London? Lucky lad. Gold dust.” Daddy is wiping his chin with a napkin as Mummy clears the starter plates away. “But of course, you should be investing that money of yours in your own property. That’s where the real money is. But I don’t need to tell you that, Billy. You’re in the property game yourself, of sorts.”
Billy nods silently, and rearranges his cutlery.
“And Mary. How’s the painting going? Got anything worth hanging over the fireplace yet?”
“No. Not a jot. Everything I paint is rubbish. God only knows why they gave me a place at St Martin’s.” I pull a face at him, and he taps his nose and points his finger at me. “Perhaps I should have gone to secretarial college, like Rachel?” I add with pith.
Daddy slouches further into his seat. “Not at all, darling. Not for you. You’ll be a great artist yet. Won’t she, Penny?”
Mummy doesn’t answer, but places another plate on the table in front of me. Boeuf bourguignon, with fresh vegetables. I smile up at her, but she doesn’t see.
“My favourite,” I say, as she sits at the table.
“I know, dear,” she replies, passing the wine bottle down the table.
I top up our glasses and pass the bottle to Daddy.
“Cheers,” he says as we raise our glasses.
The rest of the meal passes in reasonably good humour, and Daddy has opened another bottle by the time we get on to dessert. After a few drinks, Billy has loosened up, and Mummy has thawed out a little.
“It’s a beautiful house, Mrs Murray. Who does your interior design?” He smiles charmingly.
Mummy flushes, taking another sip from her wine. “Interior designer! You’re teasing me, young man! I do it all myself. Don’t I, Charles? Charles?”
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