Matthew and Jake settle quickly in Sandy’s spare room. They’re tired out and both drift off after just one story. As I close the bedroom door, Billy pulls me close in the darkness of the upstairs hallway.
“You’re still a stunner,” he nuzzles into my neck. His hands caress the curve of my back and he presses me up against the wall with his hips. He kisses me with force.
“Not here,” I giggle, gently pushing him back.
“You wait till I get you home,” he growls, and I run down the stairs ahead of him, laughing as I glance over my shoulder.
He follows, close behind, with wicked eyes. In the kitchen, Pete ladles out glasses of Sandy’s home-made New Year punch, and passes one to each of us.
“Do I have to?” asks Billy, with mock fear.
“Of course you do, mate,” says Pete, puffing out his chest and beating it with his free fist. “It’s tradition!”
We all three knock it back in one, just before Sandy hurries in to fetch more Twiglets.
“Well? How is it?” she asks, looking at our empty glasses.
“Mmm! Delicious!” says Billy, and we all nod in agreement.
“It’s the Sandy Special!” she says with glee, and she lights a cigarette at the corner of her mouth, and rushes back out with a tray full of nibbles.
“Another glass?” asks Pete.
“Not on your nelly!” chokes Billy, and he opens the fridge to fix us a proper drink.
Pete slices a lemon up for my gin and tonic, whilst I salt-edge more cocktail glasses for the guests yet to savour Sandy’s famous punch. There’s a steady stream in and out of the kitchen, but no one comes back for a second glass of the punch.
“I usually have to pour half of it down the sink,” Pete says, so that only I can hear, touching his nose with his forefinger. “But Sandy need never know.”
I wink at him, and carry on salting glasses.
Sandy returns. “Come on, Mary, love. Pete can do that. You come and mingle. Have a cheese ball or two.” She cough-laughs at this and links arms to pull me into the living room.
An over-decorated fake tree dominates one corner of the room, and there are paper chains linked from one side to the other. Tinsel is draped over every surface, and the gas fire throws out a dry heat. But it’s very cosy, and the room is already filled with guests.
“Look. Cheese balls,” Sandy says, thrusting the bowl under my nose, giggling.
I light a cigarette, and savour my gin and tonic, letting it remove the sweet after-taste of Sandy’s punch.
“Kids go down alright?” she asks, bending down to change the album on the record player. She’s wearing an orange and cream shift dress that’s way too short. But then she’s got the legs to carry it off. Her red hair is held back by a thick purple headband and her eyeshadow is electric blue. There’s something about Sandy that’s so fun, so irreverent, that I just love her more every time I see her.
“They went straight to sleep. Are you sure it’s OK to leave them here tonight?”
Sandy carefully places the stylus down at the start of the album. James Brown. “Sex Machine”.
“It’s our pleasure, love. When do you ever get a break, eh? Not off that old bat of a mother-in-law, that’s for sure. Have you seen her lately?”
I look round to check that Billy’s not within earshot. “No. I think I’ve been written out altogether. Billy pops round there every once in a while with the kids. But even he finds it a struggle. I don’t know why she’s so angry with the world. Anyway, I’ve decided to stop trying to make her like me. It’s never going to happen!”
“Her loss,” says Sandy, and she grabs my hands and makes me dance.
We dance and laugh, and she turns up the volume and we yell out the words to “Sex Machine”, and make all the movements, and before long the whole room’s dancing and fizzing with energy. Billy waves at me from the kitchen doorway. He holds up his empty glass and raises his eyebrows. I nod, and carry on dancing with Sandy. When the track ends, we flop into the armchairs and both light another cigarette. The volume of chatter in the room has increased along with the music.
“Should I circulate, d’you think?” asks Sandy, eyeing the room.
“No. Everyone’s fine. And Pete’s in the kitchen. It’s all under control.”
Sandy nods. “Jolly good show.” She laughs and gives me a little shove. She does that sometimes, to remind me that she thinks I’m posh.
“Lord luv a duck,” I say, to remind her that she’s not.
“Oi,” she says, giving me another playful push.
Billy comes, and puts a fresh gin and tonic on the table beside me. He kisses me firmly, pressing me into the armchair.
“Mmmm,” he says, smacking his lips.
Sandy’s eyes follow him as he swaggers back across the room towards the kitchen. He knows we’re watching. I smile, waiting for Sandy to say something.
“Well. You two seem to be very lovey-dovey. What’s happened?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, grinding my cigarette out in the Guinness ashtray between us.
“Well,” she says in a low voice, “it’s not that long since I had you crying on my shoulder about how useless he was. You said you didn’t know if you still loved him. Remember?”
I nod, taking a sip from my glass. “I know. But I’ll always love Billy. He was my first real passion. I’ll never meet anyone who makes me feel like Billy does. He can drive me barmy at times. But I love him.” I poke the lemon down beneath the ice cubes in my glass. “Physical attraction is so important, don’t you think? Because, even when you love someone, you can hate them sometimes – really hate them for those split seconds of rage and disappointment. But then, your attraction to one another can break through it all. And then you remember why you loved each other in the first place. Do you know what I mean, Sandy?” I drain the last of my gin and tonic.
She sits quietly, viewing the room. I look at her for a response.
“I think what you’re trying to say,” she replies, dragging deeply on her cigarette, “is that you fancy the pants off each other.” She turns to me with a serious expression, and then we both shriek with laughter until our eyes stream.
When we regain our composure, we sit without speaking for a few minutes, watching the party unfold. Billy reappears on the other side of the room, and waves to catch our attention. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes fixed on mine. Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” is playing, and as the chorus opens he starts playing his air guitar, legs set wide, his sweaty hair flopping this way and that as he mouths the words to me.
“I mean, look at him, Sandy,” I say. “He’s irresistible.”
And we laugh till our mascara runs.
Jake, April 1985
Gypsy moved in about four weeks after Griffin. When she arrived on the doorstep, she was carrying a dirty great army surplus duffel bag, and wearing a parka jacket to match. Her hair was a blonde mass of curls, and she stood there smiling her bright smile, with her thumbs hooked into her skin tight black jeans.
“Put the kettle on, Jakey, darling,” says Mum, once Gypsy has dragged her bag across the doorway. Mum gives her the grand tour, shows her my room, where she’ll be staying; Matt’s room. Looks like I’ll be bunking up with geek-boy for a while. Griffin runs around behind them, following them to each room, standing in the doorway waiting for the next move. He thinks he’s Mum’s dog now. Mum’s been working like a Trojan to get the house spotless for Gypsy’s arrival, and it looks great. She even pulled out furniture and hoovered behind. In Andy’s room, the carpet behind the chest of drawers was really damp, and when Mum peeled it back at the corner it was swarming with silverfish. They went straight up the hoover nozzle, and the window’s been wedged open to air the room ever since. When Mum and Gypsy get back downstairs, I take them their tea, then switch on the TV and pretend not to listen in.
“Sit down, sit down!” fusses Mum, pulling out the chairs, straightening the tablecloth on the fold-out ta
ble. “God, Gypsy, you look great. You haven’t aged a bit.”
“That’s one of the benefits of life-without-men,” she says, completely seriously. “No one to sap the lifeblood from you. I’m my own woman nowadays, and God, it feels good, Mary!”
There’s a pause, as Mum picks up her tea and sips it. The football results are on TV, with that boring voice, Leeds United, one – Ipswich, two. No matter what time you turn on the telly on Saturday daytimes, I swear it’s the bloody football results.
“Jakey, do we have to have that on?” Mum asks me over her shoulder. “Where’s Andy?”
“At Ronny’s,” I say, and I lean over and turn off the TV. I pick up one of Andy’s 2000AD comics to read.
“So, Mary, tell me about Billy. I thought you two would be together for ever. Childhood sweethearts and all that. What happened?”
It’s weird hearing someone else talk about Dad; and Mum’s the only one who ever calls him Billy. Mum glances at me, and talks low, indicating to Gypsy that I’m in the room.
“We just, kind of drifted, I suppose,” she says. “And I’ve been in a bad place for a while, not looking after myself, letting everything get on top of me. So it must’ve been quite hard for Billy at times.”
“But he would have stayed, surely, if he was prepared to fight for you?” says Gypsy quietly, leaning her elbows on the table, looking at Mum like an agony aunt. What does she know about any of it? “I suppose he’s got someone else?”
My stomach flips when I hear her ask this. What a cow, coming in here saying shit stuff like that to Mum. It’s the last thing she needs. She’s been fine for weeks now.
“Oh, no, no, not as far as I’m aware,” Mum smiles at Gypsy, “there wasn’t anyone else involved. Just us. He’s got a bed-sit a few streets away, so he has the boys every Saturday. Gives me a break. Except today, Billy had to work extra this morning, to get a job finished. But I think it’s working itself out, you know?”
Gypsy just smiles at Mum, a knowing look on her face. They sip their tea.
“Have you tried yoga?” she suddenly says. “No! Oh my God, Mary, while I’m here I’ll teach you – we can meditate together. It’ll change your life; it did mine. Look at my stomach.”
I look over the back of the sofa as she stands and lifts her T-shirt up, showing her lean, firm stomach. She’s well tanned, and I can see the lace of her knickers peeking over the edge of her tight jeans. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra.
“I’ve got the body of a twenty year old, my yogi says. And he’s not trying to get in my underpinning, I can assure you,” she grins, raising her eyebrows and winking at me. I look away.
“Well, if you can get me one of those,” Mum says, nodding towards Gypsy’s stomach, “I’m up for it!”
They giggle into their tea.
“Griffin! Here boy!” I call, and he comes trundling down the stairs like a flump. He runs straight to the lead that hangs on the back of the kitchen door, his tail wagging his body uncontrollably.
As I pull the front door shut behind me, I wonder if it’s a good idea leaving Mum on her own with Gypsy. She’ll be fine, I think, she’ll be fine.
I decide to take Griffin to visit Mr Horrocks. He’s filling up the crisp racks when I get to the shop. It’s about five, so there’s only half an hour before he shuts shop.
“Griffin!” he calls out when we come through the door. Griffin runs to him, squirming about on the dusty floor to have his tummy rubbed. “That’s one happy little dog, Jake. You must be doing a good job.”
Mr Horrocks seems to have perked up a lot over the past few weeks, since the funeral. He kept the shop closed for a fortnight, out of respect, I guess, but once he opened up again, he started to get back to his normal self. But even when he was closed, he kept the paper round going, so I was able to keep an eye on how he was doing. I started taking Griffin on the round with me, so he could visit Mr Horrocks every morning, and wouldn’t get too homesick. A couple of times, he ran straight out the back and up the stairs, and we could hear him whining outside the room where Mrs Horrocks used to sit. Both times, I shouted, “Griffin! Come!” as quickly as I could, because I could see it was upsetting Mr Horrocks. He tried to hide it, but I knew he was upset, because he would busy himself with something, turning his back on me so I couldn’t see his face. But nowadays he seems fine. I think he’s over the worst.
“Want a hand?” I ask him, picking up the crisp box from the floor, and throwing the crisps into the right rack. Mr Horrocks fetches a few more boxes from out the back and starts refilling the cigarette shelves behind the counter.
“How’s your mum these days, Jake?”
“Yeah, she’s really good, thanks. She’s been spring cleaning this week, cos we’ve got a visitor.”
“Oh?”
“Gypsy. She’s an old college friend of Mum’s. From art college. I don’t think they’ve seen each other since then. Just arrived this afternoon.”
I go out back, and get a box of salt ’n’ vinegar, ripping open the cardboard tabs as I go.
“How long’s she staying for, lad?”
“Dunno. I don’t think Mum knows either. Not too long, I hope.”
“Why’s that? She no good?”
“No, no. I dunno. Sometimes Mum just gets on better when she’s left alone. And anyway, she’s nicked my room.”
“I see your point, son.” Mr Horrocks carries on stacking the cigarettes. “A man needs his own space, or he’ll go insane. Well, hopefully it won’t be for too long, eh?”
“Yeah. We’re going to Aunt Rachel’s again over Easter, so I guess she’ll be gone by then. Off to practise her yoga, probably.” I pull a cross-eyed face at Mr Horrocks, and we both laugh.
“So, you won’t want any extra work over Easter, then?” he says.
“Nah. Thanks.” I suddenly remember the dog. “Oh, what about Griffin?”
“Up to you, son. I’ll have him back if you like. But, well, you can take dogs on the ferry, you know? If you’d rather have him with you?”
I think about Griffin running about over the open fields and hills around Manningly Farm, and how him and Ellie-dog would become best friends. He’d love it.
“Better ask your mum first, son,” says Mr Horrocks in a sensible voice, but he looks really pleased.
As I leave the shop to go home, I pass Mum and Gypsy on the way to the Royal Oak. She must see the look on my face, because she grabs me for a hug, and I stand there stiffly with the dog lead in one hand.
“We’re just going for an orange juice,” she whispers. “Gypsy’s on a detox.”
Gypsy smiles her white smile at me, those thumbs still hooked in those tight jeans.
“There’s a spud in the oven for you and Andy. It’ll take about an hour.” Mum kisses my cheek and carries on up the road with Gypsy and her little wiggly bum. “Don’t forget to turn the oven off,” she shouts over her shoulder, without looking back.
Dad rings us the next Saturday to tell us to come to his place a bit earlier, and to bring our coats. It’s taken a few weeks for Dad to get back into the normal Saturday routine since Mum’s got better, so we’ve only had one proper visit lately.
Andy overhears me and Dad talking about Bognor on the phone, and shouts down the stairs, “Shall we bring our trunks?”
Dad says, “Tell the daft sod it’s April, not bloody August. See you in a while, mate.”
First off we go to the cinema. Dad calls it “the flea-pit”. His folks used to bring him here when he was little, and it’s a really old and crumbly-looking building. In the foyer, there’s a glass window one side where we queue up to buy our tickets, and then another glass window the other side where we queue up and get our sweets and drinks. The woman behind the refreshments window is ancient with those weird pink glasses that fan out at the sides. She looks like she got the job here fifty years ago, and hasn’t budged since. Her old, swollen fingers are really slow when it comes to counting out our change, and she doesn’t look up or smile once.<
br />
“There you go, love. Next please.” She says the same thing to everyone she serves.
After a quick pee in the grotty bogs, we go in to get our seats. The carpet is sticky underfoot, and seems to tug at my shoes with each step. Dad wants to sit on the smoking side, which aren’t the best seats, but it means he doesn’t have to miss any of the film if he fancies a fag. The fold-down seats are made of thick, faded red velvet, and you have to shuffle about in them for a while until you can get comfy. Dad says it’s because I’m a short-arse; that my bum will disappear down the back if I’m not careful. I give him a raised eyebrow, folded arms huff, and he laughs.
“What?” I ask.
“You look like your mum,” he replies.
We’ve eaten nearly all our sweets before the film starts, and I’ve got that slightly sicky feeling you get when you eat the wrong stuff on an empty stomach. Then the lights go down and the curtains open, to this brilliant loud fanfare of music. Andy leans across Dad to give me a thumbs up. The last time we went to the cinema was when we saw Popeye, but Andy would have been about seven, so I don’t suppose he remembers much about it. I seem to remember it being a crappy film, and Mum and Dad said it went right over our heads.
Back to the Future, on the other hand, is brilliant, and really funny, and it’s great to be in a dark room full of kids and mums and dads, all roaring with laughter at the same time. I can hear Andy squealing and slapping his lap when Marty, the main character, gets into bother. In the break, Dad gives us a quid and sends us down to fetch ice creams while he has another cigarette. We haven’t got enough money for three, so I have to send Andy running back up the aisle to get more off Dad. All the kids behind me are tutting because I’m holding up the queue. It seems to take Andy ages to come back with the money, by which time my face is the same colour as the velvet seats. When the ice cream lady says, “There you go, love. Next please,” I realise that it’s the same old biddy who served us behind the sweet counter. I wonder if she runs the film projector too.
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