Recently, Mr Horrocks asked if I could spare a whole Sunday to help him with a stock-take, and he’d pay me time and a half. I jumped at the chance – I’m saving for a midi system now. I know it’ll take ages and ages, but I want my own record player and albums like George’s got on the Isle of Wight. So, I arrive at 7.00 a.m. in my scruffy gear, like he told me, and we get started as soon as we’ve had a cup of tea and a rich tea biscuit. There are sheets and sheets of paper listing the items, and we have to count up what we’ve got on the shelves, what we’ve got in the stock room, and what we’ve got on order, writing down the numbers in all the right columns. It’s pretty easy, but you have to concentrate to get it right, so we don’t talk much. The blinds at the front of the shop are kept down so that people don’t think we’re open, and the sunlight stabs through the edges of the windows, cutting across the lazy dust clouds that we make as we work.
Griffin lies in one of the little puddles of sunshine in the middle of the room, getting up once in a while to sniff my feet and beg for a pat. Then he goes back to his sunny patch, bothering the settled dust as he goes, and curls up there like a little mop-head on a spot-lit stage. It’s calm, like an old library or bookshop, and you can smell heavy paper and wood and pencils and the peel of varnish. Every now and then, Mr Horrocks clears his throat or scratches his beard with the end of his pencil, and you can hear every movement: the scrape of shoes on the concrete floor, the clink of pickle jars returning to the shelf, the rustle of crisp packets counted in and out of cartons. At ten, Mr Horrocks says it’s time for a break, and we go out back to put the kettle on. He reaches up to one of the stock shelves and brings down a packet of Mr Kipling’s Fondant Fancies.
“Remember to make that one less on the stock list,” he says. When I’ve eaten one, he tells me to have another. “You’re a hard worker. Better keep you fuelled up.”
I bite the chewy bit off the top of the cake, then scoop out the fakey cream with my tongue. We never have these at home. The sponge is all light and airy and the sweet icing sticks to my fillings.
“So how’s your mum doing these days, Jake?” he asks, pouring himself another cuppa.
“Yeah, she’s OK,” I answer, wondering what he knows about her.
“I’ve heard she’s not been well since Christmas,” he adds, and I stop eating, as my stomach bunches up.
“Oh, that was nothing,” I tell him, concentrating hard on digging deeper into the sponge. “She was just a bit, you know, under the weather. She’s getting better.”
I can sense Mr Horrocks opposite me, leaning up against the big chest freezer, sipping his tea.
“You know, it’s a great help having you around, Jake. I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”
I smile, and look away, embarrassed.
He goes on, “Mrs Horrocks, well, she’s not been well for a long time. She gets confused, you see. One day she’ll be just like the young Marcie that I married forty years ago; full of life and energy. Then the next she’s like this puzzled old woman I don’t even recognise.”
He looks tired. I’m uncomfortable, don’t want him to go on really. Want to get back to the stock-taking.
“It’s hard looking after someone like that. But you do it because you love them, I suppose.”
I nod, pushing the rest of the Fondant Fancy into my mouth. A little bell rings out from upstairs, and Mr Horrocks leaps to his feet.
“That’ll be Marcie. Better go see to her. On you go, Jake, back to work.”
I dust the crumbs off my jumper and pick up my clipboard, pausing as I hear his voice from the top of the stairs.
“Hello, dear,” he says, “shall I sort your cushions out for you? There – look – it’s Sons and Daughters – your favourite!”
I carefully push through the beaded curtains into the front of the shop, feeling sneaky for listening in like that. I wonder if Mrs Horrocks is lying in bed or if she’s up and about. I think about the cup of tea I’d left on Mum’s bedside before I set off this morning, and I wonder if she’s drunk it or if it just went cold. I wonder if she’s got up yet.
We work on through the day, only stopping for a sandwich and a pee. Just before five, Mr Horrocks says we’re done, and he goes off to the till to work out my wages on his notepad. He stuffs it into a little brown envelope and writes the amount on the front. As I’m about to leave, he fetches down another box of Fondant Fancies and hands them to me with my envelope.
“For your mum. Tell her you did a good job today, Jake.” He rests his hand on my shoulder like he does when he’s giving me instructions. “We’ll see you in the morning for the papers, then?”
“Thanks, Mr Horrocks,” I say, and he bolts the door behind me as I go.
As I walk away, I glance over my shoulder and see movement in the window above the shop front. There’s an old woman leaning against the glass, with the nets pulled to one side. She looks slow and sad. But then she smiles at me, and raises her hand in a little wave.
I smile back, and wave, swallowing down my sudden tears. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.
When I get home, Sandy’s there, scrubbing out the oven.
“Oh,” I say, when she looks up.
She looks embarrassed. “Oh, hello, sweetheart!” She’s wearing this mad, lacy pinny over the top of her velvet track suit bottoms. She must have brought it with her, because it’s not Mum’s. She gives me a peck on the cheek, and a little stiff hug.
“Hello, Auntie Sandy,” I say. I can’t remember when she last visited. It must be years.
“Just popped in to see how your mum was, as I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks. Well, she seemed out of sorts, so I thought I’d give the place a bit of a spruce up.” She wrings the dishcloth in her hands. “You alright, love?”
I nod, and try to avoid her eyes, because she’s doing that concerned thing that really annoys me. She’s done a good job of the kitchen, and the taps sparkle for the first time in years.
I drop the Fondant Fancies on to the worktop. “She up yet?” I ask, as I open the fridge door to see what there is.
“No, love. I brought round a few bits and pieces, Jakey. There’s some milk and bread, and I thought you and Andy might like a shepherd’s pie, so that’s it over there under the tinfoil. Shall I put it in the oven now, love?”
I nod, and head off to find Mum. The rest of the house is quiet; Andy must be out and about with one of his mates. I tread up the stairs as softly as I can, like she’s a sleeping baby who shouldn’t be woken.
The darkness from her room spills out into the hall. As I stand in the doorway, I can see her, where she’s been for the last two weeks, lying curled up with her face away from me, her lovely glossy hair now matted and dull on the pillow. Sandy’s put a fresh glass of water on the bedside table, along with a Woman’s Weekly magazine. The room smells stale and biscuity, so I go to the window and open up the top pane. It’s starting to get lighter in the evenings now, and the sun’s only just gone down behind the buildings opposite. The cool air slips through the open window and over my face.
“’s that you, Jakey?” Mum asks drowsily.
I turn from the window as she stirs in her covers, rubbing her swollen eyes with the heels of her hands. I go to pass her the glass of water and my foot clips an empty bottle, sending it spinning into the corner. She takes a weak sip, and puts the glass back on the side.
“C’m here, darling,” she beckons, patting the bed beside her. The smell of old gin reeks off her now that she’s moving.
I stay standing. “I’ve got to go find Andy, Mum. I think he’s at Ronny’s. D’you want anything?”
“Jakey, come on, sweetie. I need you to come here and sit with me. Please? My boy?” Her whole face looks puffed up, her eyes full of tears, her mouth down-turned in a spoilt sulk. I think I hate her. I’m not sure.
“How about a boiled egg? You always like an egg when you’ve been under the weather, don’t you?”
Mum flops back down on to her
pillows, turns her face from me. I go and sit on the edge of the bed like she wants. I can hardly bear to touch the sheets she’s been sleeping in. Everything feels dirty and damp. She rolls back over to face me, reaching out to take my hand.
“Good boy, Jakey. I love you, you know? Now, you know where my purse is?”
I’m so tired. I can hardly hear her words, but I know what she’s saying. She’s gone into these bed episodes before, but this one’s gone on and on with no sign of ending. I drop her hand and go to the doorway, looking back at her stuffed into her covers.
“Mum, there’s no money left, and I can’t get you anything. The money ran out last week. We’ve been eating the last of the cereals for supper all this week, Mum, and we’re just about out of them now. It’s just as well they’re giving us those poxy free school dinners or we’d starve to death! And you want me to go out and get you more gin?” She’s turned away from me again, wishing me gone.
“Mum! You’ve got to get up! You’ve got to get up!” I grab at her feeble wrist, tugging her up from the tangled mess of bed. “Mum! That’s enough now! Get up!”
I’m tugging and wrestling with her and she’s mumbling, “Bugger off, Jakey, leave me alone, won’t you?”
Sandy’s up the stairs in a flash, pulling me into the hallway, leading me down the stairs by my hand as I look back over my shoulder towards Mum.
Sandy hugs me to her in the kitchen, rocking me, poor baby, poor baby. Her tears bounce off my hair and down my cheek. I can’t speak, can’t cry, I just press my cheek into the sparkling, hard brooch pinned to her chest, encrusted with a thousand orange diamonds. The sharp pain of it feels good, and bright, and the pieces of light dance at the side of my eye.
Andy’s key turns in the front door. And then he’s in the kitchen doorway, and I’m looking back at him, and Sandy is standing there with tears on her cheeks, and his terrified face says he thinks it’s Mum, really thinks the worst. And for the first time, I see he’s not just a little kid, I see that he gets it too.
“She’s just asleep, Andy!” I shout in a high screech that doesn’t even sound like me, but he bursts into tears anyway. He stands there, pale and thin and crying and alone. And Auntie Sandy hugs him up, and she cries enough tears to make up for me.
I flop into the armchair and wish I could just sleep, doze off into a deep, deep sleep, and wake up again when it’s all over, when everything is back to normal.
Mary, August 1970
When I arrive at the ferry port, I see Gypsy waiting by the ticket office. An army surplus rucksack lies on its side at her sandal-clad feet, and ribbons weave through the plaits in her hair. She resembles a little sun nymph, smiling at everyone who passes her on their way to the boat. The bright sunshine catches her bare arms, which are slight and tanned.
She sees me approaching, and she jumps up and down on the spot waving her hands in the air. “Mary! You came!”
We hug, and Gypsy squeals, standing back to inspect me better. Her face curls into a frown. “Where’s all your stuff? You’re not backing out on me, are you?”
I clutch my shoulder bag, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Of course not! The forecast said it’s going to be hot this weekend, so I packed light.” All my bag contains is a toothbrush, knickers and a jumper.
She claps her hands together, a happy nymph again. “Good planning. I might go on somewhere else after this, so I’ve stuffed my life into that rucksack. Not sure where I’ll go yet. Might even travel round India, if the mood takes me. Remember Sass and Jojo at St Martin’s? Well they’re off to a Buddhist retreat in a couple of weeks, and if it comes off, I’ll be with them. Buddhism,” she rests a hand on my shoulder, “you know, Mary, Buddhism can change your life. It did for Jojo. She’s the most chilled woman I’ve ever met, since she found Buddhism. So. How did Billy take it?”
We join the large crowd heading towards the pedestrian entrance to the ferry, and the sun’s rays beat down on us, hot and dry. Groups of travellers herd this way and that, some excited, others seeming in no hurry to go anywhere. Busloads of hippies gaze out of windows with hot, sweaty faces, waiting for their drivers to board the next boat. Many more are on foot, pressed together beside us. The ferry staff appear stiff and disapproving, and the man controlling the pedestrian gate stands with his hat firmly in place, his head held high as he ignores the jostling of the foot passengers. I’ve never seen so many men with long hair, so many smiling and bearded faces, so many bare midriffs. The women are all beautiful in their own ways, every one of them open and vital. The smell of pot is strong in the air, reminding me of the decadence of art school and life before now.
“Billy doesn’t know yet,” I shout over the crowd noise, holding on to the chipped handrail as I climb the metal stairs behind Gypsy.
“Know what?” Gypsy shouts back, looking at me over her shoulder. When we reach the deck she grabs my hand so we won’t get separated. “Look, there’s some empty seats at the end of the deck.”
We run, so as not to miss out on the remaining bolt-down deck seats, a row of painted metal chairs which look like they belong in a bus shelter. The metal feels hot on the backs of my knees. Gypsy rummages around in her bag, pulling out two apples and handing one to me. She takes a loud bite from hers. “Billy doesn’t know what?”
“That I’ve gone. I didn’t tell him. I just went when he was at work.” I’m shocked myself when I hear the words out loud, and I feel suddenly sick.
Gypsy turns to me with mock surprise, instantly becoming the wicked Gypsy I remember from college. “Well, Mary Murray, you dark horse,” she says, using my maiden name. “Won’t he go mad? Oh my God! Well, tough if he does, because you’re here now!” She slaps her little brown knees in delight, and takes another loud crunch from her apple.
“I’ve left a letter waiting for him when he gets home from work. And I dropped Matthew at his grandmother’s. I’d never have got away otherwise. And it’s just a weekend.” I can imagine him now, reading the letter, rubbing his stubbly chin, wondering if it’s a joke. “His mum’s always complaining she doesn’t get enough time with the baby. So, she’ll be happy at least.”
Gypsy giggles into her wrist, and gives me a nudge. “To think of you, an old married woman. With a kid! God, it’s wild, man!”
A tall thin man with long grey hair and a plaited beard walks along the deck, taking the hands of each passenger in his. “Bless you, child,” he says to each, and kisses them on the forehead before passing on to the next one. He wears a white feather boa wrapped around his waist, strangely absurd against his bedraggled disciple robe. A few people move from their seats with suspicious unease, whilst others seem unsurprised when he approaches. When he takes my hands he says, “Be free,” and he plucks a downy white feather from his boa, and presses it into my hand. It sends a chill of exhilaration down my spine. The man passes along to the next passenger.
“He thinks he’s Jesus,” whispers Gypsy. “He’s at all the festivals, blessing everyone, and everything. In fact, I don’t think he’s even got a proper name. Just Jesus.”
“Just Jesus,” I repeat, enjoying the sound of it in my mouth.
Gypsy glances along the row of passengers towards the robed man. “Yeah. Just Jesus.”
“Hallelujah,” I say, and we laugh like schoolgirls.
We relax on the deck, feeling our skin singeing in the sunshine, safe in a crowd of happy people. The party atmosphere grows and sways as the boats and masts of the Isle of Wight become clearer, and the harbour of Portsmouth fades away.
It’s late on Saturday night, and we’re dancing arm in arm to The Doors. There’s been an electrical fault, so the band are playing in near darkness, enhancing the eerie quality of the music. We’ve been drinking cider since we arrived at midday, and my skin glows hot from too much sun. Gypsy’s been braiding my hair, in tight furrows that run from my forehead to the base of my neck. My exposed skin feels alert and sensuous. I’ve been kissed by men, complete strangers in kaftans and waistcoats, and to
ld by Gypsy to enjoy the moment, to chill. This afternoon, she reached out towards me as we lay dozing on the grass, catching the string of my tunic between her fingers like a butterfly. The cheesecloth cotton fell open between my breasts. When I awkwardly tried to gather it back up she said, “Leave it. It looks good a bit lower. Less uptight. You can’t see anything anyway. It’s a bit more alluring, that’s all.” She smirked and undid her own shirt one button more. I lay on my back squinting at the too-bright blue sky, and three swans flew past, high above us. “Swans,” I said, and Gypsy just laughed.
Now, Jim Morrison’s curls glimmer from the shadows of the stage, and his voice hums through my ribcage. I think I’m in love, and I’m happy that my shirt is undone.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a white face appears between mine and Gypsy’s. “Babe, who’s your friend?” His accent is American, nasal.
“Zigg! You genius! How’d you find us? Mary, this is Zigg – from St Martin’s. Genius!”
Zigg stands with his hands on his hips. In the night light his skin is translucent pale as if lit up by the moon. His neck is long and elegant, and his white hair grows away from a high forehead, feathering down to his shoulders. He wears a white bed sheet like a cape.
“You two stand out from the crowd, Gyp. It was easy to find you, babe.” He kisses Gypsy but keeps his eyes on me, smiling knowingly. “So, you’re Mary, then?”
“Isn’t it a bit dark for sunglasses?” I say, sounding prim. “It’s nearly midnight.”
He fingers the little round glasses, which are perfectly black. “I’m albino,” he says, and he passes me a joint.
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