I take a few drags, and giggle, not because of the joint, but because I’m smoking a joint with an albino at a festival.
“She’s cool,” he says to Gypsy, and we dance. Zigg weaves in and out of us, rising up like a magician, bright and unsettling in the darkness. I see Just Jesus moving through the crowd, taking hands, blessing everyone. You’ve done me, I think, hoping he’ll pass by. Zigg’s face moons up at me, and I laugh at the sky, my head thrown back, my throat open wide and loud. When the music’s over, turn out the lights, turn out the lights, turn out the lights …
We’re swept up on a sea of good people, all good, all good. As early morning creeps in, Zigg takes us both by the hand and we run through the masses of people and out on to the open plain of land at the top of the festival grounds. I feel the dewy cold seeping into my skin, each little hair standing on end. The damp breeze clings to my face as we run, run, run. The tents and people grow sparser, and we keep going until we reach the top. Inside a large canvas tepee high up on the hill men and women lie about on Indian cushions and rugs, some sleeping, others smoking and talking in low voices. The music still carries towards us, across the fields and valleys of Afton Down. We dance and laugh, and Zigg produces a little black tin. Inside it is a fold of white paper, and inside that, three tiny purple blots of colour. Gypsy’s eyes sparkle wickedly.
“Magie, madame?” Zigg asks Gypsy.
“D’accord, monsieur,” she replies.
We each place one on our tongue, like the Holy Communion, and fall back into the darkness of the tent. We lie together, side by side, the three of us holding hands in our own silence, waiting, waiting. When Zigg kisses me with his cold, white lips, I walk to the opening of the tent and fly up above the fields and lights of the festival.
I look down at the thousands of tents below me, and the illuminated centre stage casts deep shadows and lights across the August fields. I see Gypsy and Zigg in the door of the tepee, waving and spinning in circles, their hair flowing underwater. Fireflies dart between them like meteors, and Gypsy’s tongue lashes out, reptilian, catching a bright fly in her mouth, her face aglow. The warm breeze fingers my hair, and I close my eyes to it, letting the currents guide me. Swooping lower, I see couples swaying to the rhythm, and making love on the grass. Breasts and limbs are bared, writhing in a tangle of movement, and all voices join as one union of pleasure. I tumble, on to a landing of amber-scented cushions, my braids trailing around me like a crown of vipers. Gypsy rests her hands on her knees, her wicked eyes on mine as she blows me billows of kisses, and disappears into the dark corners of the tent. When he comes upon me, that great monstrous bird, I’m willing him on, hitching my skirt high above my thighs, allowing him to tug away at my clothing with his rounded beak. His long neck encircles mine, his softly feathered sinews catching against my earlobes with a shiver. The reedy fragrance of him invades my senses, familiar and ancient. His great feathered bulk pushes at my thighs, his black eyes unblinking and hard, and as I push up against the force of him sliding deep inside me, his wings unfold majestically, beating the air with every powerful thrust of his white body.
Jake, February 1985
At her place, Sandy makes up the guest room, then leaves us in the living room in front of the telly. Neither of us talk about it, we just stare at the TV like nothing’s happened. After about half an hour, the door goes and it’s Dad. He pops his head in quickly, saying he needs to chat to Sandy and Pete on their own and he’ll be back in a minute.
They go into the kitchen and shut the door, and I signal to Andy to stay put while I sneak down the hall and listen in.
“Have you seen her lately, Bill?” asks Sandy.
“Well, not really. I mean, when I have the boys I just pick them up and drop them off. Mary and I haven’t got much to say to each other these days, you know?”
“Bill, mate, she’s not good from what Sandy tells me.” Pete sounds a bit nervous.
Dad says something, but it’s muffled and I have to press up closer to the door to hear.
Sandy’s voice keeps going in and out of focus, like she’s pacing about the room. “She’s in her bed, and Jake says she’s been there for weeks. Since New Year. God only knows … But it’s a bloody state round there … Jake’s been trying to keep on top of it, but he’s just a kid, Bill.”
Dad doesn’t say anything, but I can hear a deep sigh, and I can imagine him in there with his elbows on the kitchen table, head in his hands. I’m hardly breathing, straining to hear better.
“By all accounts Andy’s been round his friend’s house most nights for tea. Just as well, cos there’s no food in the house either … She’s not eating, and I don’t know where she’s getting the booze.”
There’s a long pause, and I get ready to run back to the living room. I listen hard.
“Oh, Bill, love! Come ’ere!” Sandy cries out, and it seems to go quiet for ages.
“Come on, Bill, mate,” says Pete, “we’ll help you get it sorted. Yeah? Come on, mate.”
And I hear the sound of Pete’s hand slapping Dad’s back. “It’ll be alright, mate. You’ll see.”
Sandy brings our shepherd’s pie in on trays, and we eat on the sofa. Pete carries in two cans of Coke, opening them for us and putting them down on the brown glass coffee table. He flicks off the TV, just as we were about to find out how much this big ugly statue was worth on The Antiques Roadshow.
“Right, boys, we’ve been talking to your dad,” says Sandy, patting the seat next to her so Dad can sit down. Pete stands at the fireplace, where Mum had stood on the night of the party. “And we think you should stay here for a bit. Not too long, just so’s your mum can get herself back on her feet.”
Dad’s busy looking at the palms of his hands.
“But who’s gonna look after Mum, then?” I ask.
“We will,” says Sandy. “I’ll go in to her twice a day, take her something to eat and clean up around the house. She just needs a bit of a rest. We’ll have her right as rain in no time, boys. Just you watch!”
I don’t know what to say. I look around at the clean comfort of Sandy’s place, and know it’s what Andy needs. But Mum’ll be in a right state when she realises we’ve gone. I just know it. And God knows what she’ll do then.
Pete’s watching me closely. “Jake, let’s try it out for one night, OK? Then we’ll see from there. Yeah?”
I nod, too tired to argue. Dad smiles weakly, and I see his eyes are red-rimmed.
“Can I go to bed now, Sandy?” I ask, and I leave my half finished shepherd’s pie on the coffee table and head up the stairs to sleep.
Early next morning I go with Sandy to collect our school things from home. They’re still in a heap on our bedroom floors from Friday night, and Sandy says she’ll give them a quick iron to freshen them up. When I go to take a pee, there’s blood in the toilet and I flush it away before I use the loo. I hear Mum coughing in her bedroom, a rattling, phlegmy cough that chills me. Sandy comes upstairs and we check in on Mum. She opens her eyes, straight at me, full of hate.
“You didn’t come. I called and called for you last night, and you didn’t come.” She says the words slowly, carefully.
Sandy sits at the edge of Mum’s bed. She’s wearing tight snow-washed jeans that I’m sure are meant to be worn by a teenager. She brushes invisible dust off her snowy legs, and gives me an awkward little smile. “They weren’t here, Mary, love. I took them home with me. Thought you needed a bit of peace and quiet? You were out cold, sweetheart, and the boys were hungry.” Sandy looks really worried, like she’s done the wrong thing.
Mum turns her face away. “I was hungry,” she mumbles.
“That’s great news, love!” says Sandy, over-enthusiastically. “I’ll go down and get you something. Bit of toast? And a sweet tea, that’ll do you the world of good, Mary.”
Sandy trips off down the stairs, and I’m left standing in the doorway.
“So did you sleep well at Sandy’s then?” she asks, without lo
oking at me. She’s holding her hand to her forehead, smoothing out the lines. “Get a decent meal, did you?” She’s like a bloody kid when she’s like this.
“You need a bath, Mum. It stinks in here.” I grab the school bags and head down the stairs.
Sandy rushes to the bottom of the stairs when she hears me coming, whispering and wringing her hands.
“She OK, Jakey? What did she say, love?” Poor Sandy, she’s cacking herself. I can’t believe how much this has freaked her out.
“She’s alright, a bit grumpy, that’s all,” I say. “Look, you carry on here and I’ll take this stuff back to your place for Andy. We’ll be late if we don’t get a move on.”
“Alright, Jakey. Good idea. What shall I tell her if she asks about you and Andy?”
“Tell her I’ll be back tonight. Andy can stay on at yours for a while, but I’d rather come back home.”
Sandy stares blankly at me, nodding, wide-eyed.
“OK, love. Whatever you think is best. We’ll keep Andy then. Yep, good idea.” She leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Have a good day at school, love.”
She gets back to buttering Mum’s toast, and I pull the front door shut behind me.
Out in the street, it’s started to drizzle. It’s that nasty wet mist that gets right into your bones, and soaks you quicker than it should. I sling the bags over my shoulder and run all the way back to Sandy’s place, up our street, down the side of the park next to the phone box, past the back garden of the Royal Oak, and up Centurion Close to their boxy house, where everything ticks along the same from one day to the next. My hair is cold and wet, and I feel it steaming as soon as I step inside their well-heated hallway. Pete pops his head out of the kitchen, pink-faced and cheerful as ever, and wearing a chef’s apron. He’s got a spatula in his hand.
“Ready for a fry-up, Jake boy?”
Andy bobs past him into the hall, rubbing his belly and patting his head, with his eyes crossed and his tongue lolling out to the side. He’s staggering about as if he’s food drunk. Annoying little git. I pretend to punch him and he laughs, ducking to one side.
“She’s having some toast,” I tell Andy quietly as I pass, and he gives a little nod.
Pete’s full of jolly banter, and it’s nice to be around him. “How many eggs, Jakey? Two? Look at that! Perfecto, monsieur, if I say so myself. Now get stuck into that, my good man! That’ll put hairs on your chest.” He slaps me on the back, and busies himself at the sink.
Andy’s hanging about the doorway, biting the corner of his thumb, frowning. He’s daydreaming. I tip my knife towards the bags dumped in the hallway.
“Get dressed, mate. We’re gonna be late.”
“Shit!” he says as he looks at the clock above the cooker, and he grabs his stuff, legging it up the stairs.
He’ll be alright, I think. Andy’s alright.
After a few days, I kind of settle into a routine with Mum. Usually, I get up, make her a cup of tea, and leave it by her bed with a couple of digestives. I discover that she’s leaving the house when I’m out, because when I get back after school stuff’s been moved about a bit, and she’s managed to get herself more booze. I’d like to pour it down the sink, but I know it wouldn’t stop her, so it would be a waste of money anyway. So, when I get home after school, I usually go up to see if she’s still here, then get myself a snack and have the house to myself. I’ve figured it’s best to leave her sleeping, because if she’s sleeping, she’s not drinking, and before you know it, she might be back to her old self again. It’s weird and quiet, as if I’m completely alone, so I can do what I want when I want. It’s like having a dead body in the house, but no one talks about it. But then we don’t really have visitors. Most nights, I pop over to Sandy’s for a bit of tea and to check on Andy. He’s fine, but he’s stopped asking about Mum, and he can’t meet my eye when I mention her. Sandy makes me up a lunch box for the next day, and I’m usually back home by eight.
This one day, I get back from school, grab a bowl of cereal, and get in front of the telly just in time for Thundercats. I love that programme. Mum comes in, looking like she’s just woken up, with a real mean temper across her face. I nearly jump out of my skin; sometimes I just forget she’s there. But now she’s up, and it’s just me and Mum, in the front room. Man, is she drunk. She’s reeling.
“Don’t they feed you at school then, my Jakey?” she slurs. She’s giggling like it’s really funny.
I just shrug. I don’t want a fight, that’s for sure. All I want is to eat my cereal and watch Thundercats. Cheetara can run at over a hundred miles per hour, and not even break into a sweat. If she wasn’t half cat she’d be the perfect woman.
Mum snatches up the mail that I just put on the little table, and she’s ripping open the brown envelopes, peeking inside without taking the letters out. She stuffs them all behind the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, and stands for a moment running a finger through the dust.
“So where’s my kiss then?” She puckers her liney old mouth. There are pillow creases up the side of her face, making one eyebrow lift up madly.
“Dunno,” I say, staring hard at the telly.
“Selfish little bugger,” she mutters, and she slopes off, out of the room, leaving me alone in Dad’s leather armchair.
They saved up for that two-piece suite, really hard, for years. It came from Morants, and they were chuffed to bits when it arrived in the big Morants van. Everyone rushed in to sit down on it, but by the time that Dad got in the armchair, and Mum was on the sofa with Matthew and Andy, there wasn’t any room for me. I was gutted. More than I should have been. Anyhow, Dad only got to sit in that armchair for a few months, before he went.
So, here I am eating my cereal, in the armchair, when Mum sticks her head back in the room and just goes off. Mad.
“Who do you think it is that goes around putting away the sugar? Mopping up your milk rings? The bloody kitchen fairy? I’m no better than a slave around here. That’s what you all think!” Her voice is posh; the angrier she is the posher it always gets.
She’s standing in the doorway, holding on to the frame, her lank, mousy hair hanging down either side of her Droopy-dog face, and she’s just yelling. I could probably slip out of the room and she wouldn’t even notice. But now I’m starting to feel mad myself, just like I didn’t want to. My cereal is soggy, what with all the interruptions, and I’ve missed most of Thundercats.
“Mum. Can I just watch this? I’ll come and clear up the kitchen in a minute. After Thundercats.” I’m counting to ten, inside my head. “I’ll even help you do the washing up from breakfast if you like?”
But then she stands right over me, blocking the telly, and starts to take the mick, you know, copying what I said, in this whiny voice, not like mine, “Muuum. Can’t I just watch Thunder-caaaattts? Muuum? Muuuuuuummmmm!”
And I can’t hold it in any more.
“Oh just fuck off, Mum! Fuck off! You’re nuts, you are. No wonder Dad couldn’t take any more of it, you fucking nutter!”
Now she’s staggering backwards like I punched her in the stomach, and she’s wrapping her skinny arms about herself, pulling her granny-cardigan closer. I can see in her face she’s getting ready to cry now.
“Jakey – Jakey? Everything I ever did was for you. You and the other two. My little darlings.” She picks at blobs of loose wool on her cardie for a bit, then looks at me sadly. “How could you?”
I know this tactic. So I’ll forgive her like nothing ever happened. But it did happen, does happen, every day. I try to talk calmly again.
“Look, Mum. Sorry I shouted. But it’s just, well, you’re always on at me. Like I’m bad all the time.”
Her face evens out, and I think it’s worked, but then she spits out the words, “You’re not that bad, I suppose – for a bloody Judas!” and I see a sharp flash of light in her dull eyes.
“What’s that mean? What d’you mean Judas?” I know what she means, know who Judas was, and I�
��m mad now. “Why do you think I’m still here, instead of at Sandy’s nice house, enjoying a fry-up every morning? Cos I thought you’d be upset! Well, looks like you’re upset anyway, so I might as well have gone! Doesn’t matter what I do – it’s all bloody wrong!”
“You and that Sandy,” she yells back, like she didn’t even hear me. Her face is red and saggy. “And Pete – and Bill – and the lot of you. Judases! I could die and no one would notice!”
Now I’m staring at her and I don’t know what to do next. I’m thirteen, what do I know? Nothing. I can’t even get a proper job. If I could get a job, I’d quit school, earn some money and get out of this dump. But there’s only one way out, and that’s Dad.
Mum’s stood up against our fireplace, rocking on her bare heels, sobbing. I try real hard to feel something. I don’t hate her. I just don’t feel anything. It’s all gone, slipped out of me and up the chimney when I wasn’t looking.
“Mum?” I say, trying to get her to look at me. “I’m gonna live with Dad. I mean, I haven’t asked him yet, but that’s what I wanna do. Live with Dad.” I’ve only just thought of this; didn’t even know I was going to say it.
Now she’s looking at me, clutching her chest, like there’s a heart attack coming, and she kind of morphs through all these different faces. She’s like one of those mime artists you get on telly; horror, sadness, anger, and then hate, big hate that’s hurtling out of her spittly, cat’s-arse mouth, in this real mean whisper.
“You wanna live with your dad, do you? Think he’d have you, do you?”
I can’t think of anything to say.
“Well, if you can find your dad, then fine, you go live with him. But I can tell you now, your dad’s not that loser that disappeared from here three months ago.” She raises her eyebrows, folds her arms over her chest. “Work it out, Jakey.”
She shrugs, kind of smiling, and turns from me, hobbling from the room like she’s just banged her head or something.
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