First published in Great Britain in 2019 by
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Copyright © 2019 Stephen Anthony Brotherton
The right of Stephen Anthony Brotherton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.
ISBN 9781913208257
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
‘For a fractured seven-year-old boy who found a way to survive.’
Contents
Freddie – July 2015
Jo-Jo – July 2015
Jo-Jo – November 1979
Jo-Jo – November 1992
Jo-Jo – July 2015
Freddie – July 2015
Freddie – July 1997
Jo-Jo – June 1980
Freddie – June 1980
Jo-Jo – April 1980
Freddie – January 1980
Freddie’s Affair – November 2004
Poonam’s E-mails to Freddie
Freddie – December 2005
Freddie – July 2015
Jo-Jo – December 1979
Freddie’s Recurring Dream
Jo-Jo’s Recurring Dream
Jo-Jo – July 2015
Jo-Jo – October 1979
Jo-Jo – August 2015
Freddie – August 2015
Jo-Jo – August 2015
Freddie – August 2015
Jo-Jo – August 2015
Jo-Jo – December 1979
Jo-Jo – April 1981
Jo-Jo – July 1983
Jo-Jo – September 1983
Jo-Jo – May 1984
Jo-Jo – July 1987
Jo-Jo – November 2006
Jo-Jo – October 2008
Jo-Jo – February 2014
Freddie – February 1982
Freddie – September 1971
Freddie – August 2015
Jo-Jo – August 2015
Freddie – August 2015
Jo-Jo – August 2015
Freddie – August 2015
Jo-Jo – August 2015
About the author
Freddie – July 2015
Jack punched me on the arm as the train sped past. ‘You scared the shit out of me,’ he said. ‘A text – Is that it? Is that all I get?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ I said.
‘You could have phoned me.’
‘It felt pointless.’
‘It is, Freddie. It is pointless.’
He started walking away from me.
‘Jack,’ I said.
He stopped walking, turned to face me and held out his hands. ‘What? What do you want me to say?’
‘I want you to help me. I need you to help me.’
*
An hour later, I was sitting in a Next bucket seat in Jack’s lounge, trying to distract myself by singing along in my head to Joan Armatrading’s ‘More Than One Kind of Love’. It wasn’t working – the volume on the Bose sound-dock was so low I couldn’t hear the words. I thought about the old man at the railway station and tried to remember the name of his book.
‘Are you going to talk to us?’ said Jack. ‘Or shall we just sit here and stare at you.’
‘This isn’t really any of my business,’ said Bob, standing up. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d like you both to stay.’
I looked past them and stared out of the bay window. A sparrow was pulling at the tiny leaves on the tall, thin cypress tree Jack had planted when he’d first moved in ten years ago. He’d fretted about it ever since, worried that the tree was too close to the house and it would block out the light. The book title dropped into my head. ‘My Face for the World to See’ by Alfred Hayes. I liked the cover. A girl asleep in bed, her blonde hair flopped over her face, a naked man standing in a doorway staring at her. I hadn’t read it.
Bob walked over to my chair, knelt down and hugged me. It felt nice, warming. I could smell his Jean Paul Gaultier aftershave. He pulled away from me and sat down on the floor. ‘Tell us what happened,’ he said. ‘We want to help.’
‘She doesn’t want me,’ I said. ‘I told her I wanted her in my life, that I’d always loved her, that I didn’t want her to go to New Zealand, but she said it was too late, that I should have called.’
‘When?’ said Bob.
‘When she went to university. She said I’d promised to call and didn’t.’
‘Did you tell her you went up there?’ said Jack. ‘That you saw her with that guy.’
‘I didn’t get the chance. She started to cry and ran into the hotel.’
‘And you just got in the car and drove away?’
‘I’d upset her. I didn’t want to upset her anymore.’
‘Hang on a bit,’ said Bob. ‘All of this is about something that happened when this girl went to university.’
‘Yes,’ said Jack. ‘Freddie fucked up thirty-five years ago and we’re still paying the price. I can’t believe you just drove away. Why didn’t you follow her into the hotel and sort it out?’
‘She’d already told me it was too late.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Jack, standing up and walking over to the window. ‘You’re doing it again. I can’t believe you.’
‘Who was this bloke?’ said Bob. ‘The bloke you saw her with all those years ago.’
‘He doesn’t know,’ said Jack. ‘He ran away then as well.’
*
Jack had made more coffee, Joan had moved on to ‘Drop the Pilot’ and Bob was still sitting on the floor next to my chair. He was holding his warm coffee mug against his cheek. My eyes fell on a vase full of daffodils on the oak shelf over the cast-iron log burner. The vase was covered in raised oriental figures in different meditation poses. It was the only ornament in the room. ‘That’s new,’ I said.
‘It’s mine,’ said Bob. ‘Mr OCD relented and let me bring a little colour into his life.’
‘Must be serious,’ I said. ‘He gets twitchy if we keep our shoes on.’
‘Tell me about it. The smell of bleach is about as aromatic as it gets.’
‘When you two have finished,’ said Jack. ‘We were in the middle of Freddie’s psychoanalysis session.’
‘I’m not crazy, Jack.’
‘Of course not. Jumping under a train is rational behaviour.’
‘I wouldn’t have jumped.’
‘You’ve always been obsessed with death, Freddie. Remember your ten best ways to commit suicide?’
‘That was just kids’ stuff.’
‘Kids play marbles, hide and seek, run about a lot. Not think about killing themselves.’
‘Only in Enid Blyton’s world,’ said Bob. ‘Is that what you were like as a kid?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He spent most of his time fancying girls. How did that turn out, Jack?’
‘We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your crazy head.’
‘So,’ said Bob, giving Jack a hard, wide-eyed glare. ‘You and this Jo-Jo had a thing when you were kids. Why’s she reappeared now?’
‘She’s emigrating,’ I said. ‘She wanted to let me know she was going away.’
‘But you haven’t seen her for over thirty years?’
‘No.’
‘And she doesn’t want to get back with you?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘You do know that doesn’t make sense?’
‘I’ve told him that,’ said Jack. ‘Why would she do that, Freddie?’
‘She’s like that. She hates loose ends.’
‘You’re one hell of a loose end, Freddie,’ said Bob. ‘Three decades worth. It can’t be that simple.’
‘What is it then?’ I said.
‘We don’t know,’ said Jack. ‘You ran away and went to jump under a train.’
Jo-Jo – July 2015
I’d finished my Jack Daniel’s, but I was still swirling my empty tumbler and staring at the Lowry picture on the hotel bedroom wall – a suited man and his two terriers looking out to sea. The toilet in the ensuite flushed and I heard the sink tap run for a moment. The door opened and Amy walked back into the bedroom. ‘You okay, Mum?’ she said, looking down at my glass. ‘Do you want another drink?’
‘I can’t believe I drank the first one,’ I said. ‘I can’t stand whiskey.’
‘I told you, it’s medicinal.’
‘I was thinking about New Zealand,’ I said. ‘Getting everything sorted.’
‘That’s easy. I’ll call Dan. He’ll make the arrangements. When do you want to go?’
‘You put on that husband of yours too much.’
‘He’s okay about it. He likes to feel useful.’ She came over to the bed and sat down next to me. ‘You’re thinking about Freddie, aren’t you?’
‘I can’t believe how long that man has stayed in my head,’ I said.
‘I think he loves you, Mum.’
‘But why am I thinking about him so much? He’s never been good-looking, his dress sense is appalling, he’s unemployable, a bit of a nervous-wreck-car-crash and his best friend’s named after a pirate. What’s wrong with me?’
‘I don’t know, Mum. I don’t get it either.’
I handed her my empty glass. ‘I think I need that drink.’
She took one of the miniature bottles out of the mini-bar, unscrewed the cap, poured the whisky into the tumbler and handed it to me. I took a gulp. It made me cough. Amy rubbed my back.
‘Thank you, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Are you sure about New Zealand, Mum, about leaving this Freddie behind?’
Jo-Jo – November 1979
Max’s nightclub. Blondie’s ‘Dreaming’ started up. I took a deep breath and walked across the dance floor towards him. I’d noticed him at the bar earlier, pointed him out to my best friend, Karen. ‘Him?’ she said. ‘Why? Look at his hair.’
‘Jet black, gypsy hair. What’s your point?’
‘He needs it cut, and his front tooth’s chipped.’
‘He’s cute. Look at that smile.’
I’d tried to meet his eyes as he’d walked past us clutching a Bacardi and Coke, but he was looking at the floor. ‘There’s no way he’s going to ask you,’ said Karen. ‘Not in his wildest dreams would he think that was possible.’
I reached him as Debbie Harry was telling everyone that dreaming is free. His mouth fell open when I asked him to dance. He looked at his mate, stared at me for a few seconds and, just as I was about to turn and walk away, he said yes. We walked under the mirror balls to the dance floor. He made a nervous joke about gangly men and disco dancing. The music changed to Dr Hook, ‘More Like the Movies’, followed by the Commodores, ‘Still’ and Exile, ‘Kiss you all Over’. I could feel his concentration, his hands barely touching my back, as though he was frightened of the intimacy, of overstepping the mark. I felt like I was made of glass. The lights came up, he waved goodbye to his mate and then walked me home, held my hand all the way, didn’t try to kiss me, waited for me to kiss him on the cheek. He watched me walk up my path and into my house, making sure I was safe. Sweet.
I closed the front door behind me and peeped through the rippled pane of glass. He was still standing under the oak tree, looking at the house. After a few seconds, he turned up his jacket collar and walked around the corner. I smiled at the collar. I’d told him it was too cold, not to walk me all the way, but he’d insisted. Lower Farm. He’d have to walk back on himself to get home. I smiled again. Really sweet.
‘Is that you, Jo-Jo?’
I popped my head around the lounge door. Dad was standing in front of the fire, hands in his pockets, his empty whisky glass on the hearth shelf. I wanted to go over and get one of his bear hugs, comfort-hugs that had kept me safe all of my life, but his woman in the park two years ago had changed all of that.
‘I’m tired, Dad. I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t go, come and talk to me.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to talk.’
‘Not about that,’ he said. ‘But I miss our chats.’
I walked into the room. ‘Is Mum okay?’
‘She’s asleep. Went to bed about nine. I watched ‘Minder’. It was good.’
I looked at the empty glass.
‘I’ve only had one,’ he said, sitting down in his cottage-suite chair, the one next to the fire, facing the telly. ‘Come and sit with your old man for five minutes.’
‘I don’t know, Dad. I don’t want us to fall out anymore.’
‘Who’s the young man?’ he said, nodding at the lounge window.
‘Someone I met at the club. Were you watching us?’
‘I was waiting for you to come back. I saw you under the tree with him.’
‘We didn’t do anything.’
‘I know. You kissed him on the cheek.’
‘Yeah, and then he went home.’
‘I didn’t mean anything. He seems nice, walking you home, gentlemanly.’
‘Unlike you, in the park, snogging your tart’s face off.’
I spat it at him with all the toxicity I could dredge up from my gut. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, stood up, turned to the hearth and picked up his empty glass. ‘I think I’ll have another drink,’ he said, walking over to the sideboard.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You probably should. I’m off to bed.’
*
I reached the landing and heard a clink of bottles downstairs. I guessed it was the whisky bottle catching on Mum’s Courvoisier as Dad lifted it out of the cupboard – her Christmas Day drink that had stayed untouched for four years. I felt guilty for snapping. I looked across at Mum’s room. Her door was open, the bedside light was on. I walked over and leaned against the door frame, looking at the lump of her body under the duvet. I could hear her gentle snore, almost a purr. I was pleased she was asleep. I wondered if her voices bothered her dreams. I hoped not – even they must need a break from their constant chitter-chatter. She’d seemed better of late, a stronger prescription dampening her split mind, but she slept most of the time now, real life unnoticed as she lay consumed with the everyday battles going on inside her head. She muttered something and rolled over under the duvet. I could see Dad’s bowl of water at the side of the bed and his ever-ready flannel on the bedside cabinet, ready for him to mop Mum’s forehead as he whispered words of comfort when it all became too much. I turned to go back downstairs, but the scar of his woman in the park came back to me. Him leaning his umbrella agains
t the bench, walking, nearly running to meet her, kissing her, holding her, laughing with her, Mum waiting for him at home. I walked into my bedroom and closed the door.
*
Two days later, Karen and I were in the outdoor of the Saddler’s Arms. One of the pub’s regulars, Ginny, short for Virginia, a Minnie Caldwell lookalike, was sitting at the two-seater table underneath the cigarette machine, sipping her stout and watching us with a knowing grin. She had a tiny little voice that you struggled to hear, but a dirty titter that gave you the impression she’d lived a life. She’d bought us a drink a couple of times, always a made-up snowball – a mixture of Warninks Advocaat, soda water and lime juice, finished off with a glazed cherry on a stick. ‘I bet you girls have the boys drooling.’ I’d told her about Freddie, our nervy dance at Max’s, him walking me home. ‘Sounds like a catch, dear. You’d best keep him. They don’t grow on trees.’
I picked up the payphone receiver.
‘Go on then,’ said Karen.
‘What if he’s not there?’
‘You can phone him back.’
‘His mum might answer.’
‘So? Leave him a message.’
‘I should have given him my number, got him to call me.’
‘But you didn’t. I don’t know why you want to call him. He didn’t do it for me.’
‘There’s something about him. Something sweet.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Jo-Jo. You’ve made him wait two days. Call him.’
I dialled the number. He answered on the third ring. The pips sounded.
I pushed in a two-pence coin.
Jo-Jo – November 1992
Saturday in Cannock. Me and Karen were standing on the top of the steps at the back of the shopping centre, looking down on the bus station. ‘This is her bus,’ I said.
‘Bang on time,’ said Karen.
‘Thank God. You know what she’s like. Let’s hope she’s on it.’
The bus came to a stop at one of the shelters.
‘There she is,’ I said. ‘Last one off as always.’
Mum stepped off the bus onto the tarmac. She straightened the collar on her grey raincoat and pulled her light-tan leather shopping bag into her body. I’d made her buy the bag on our trip to Stafford the year before – ‘It’s too expensive, Jo-Jo.’ ‘There are no pockets in shrouds, Mum.’ She stood next to the bus, looking as though she’d done something wrong, as though she was considering getting back on and going home. She saw us and smiled. We waved and walked towards her. She hugged Karen first.
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