Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  Jase doesn’t let it go, like he should.

  ‘But the Rose estate? Man, someone in the council’s got a sick sense of humour to be sending him here. It’s like being thrown to the piranhas.’

  ‘This part of the Rose estate ain’t bad. They’ve put him in with the Poles and the Afghans, and whoever else has rolled over here to milk our welfare system, so aside from the odd wife-beating incident, and the cars, it’s one of the areas where everyone keeps themselves to themselves.’

  If you talk for long enough, and clearly enough, with no distraction, and pure conviction, you can stop any amount of needless digging. Even if it makes you look like a first class W to the A.N.K.E.R. It’s something I learned when Mum and Dad were at their bloodiest. Anything to stop the elephant from being in the room.

  I give Jason the bag with the balloons. Me and Moon get busy with the banners and arranging the furniture.

  ‘This is the last time, by the way,’ goes Moon, as we lug the sofa more centre-stage. ‘From tomorrow, I’m officially the girlfriend. I’m strictly by appointment.’

  She’s wearing his yellow plastic cancer bracelet on her left wrist. It legalises everything.

  I go through the top kitchen cupboards for glasses just so I wouldn’t have to listen to any more. Mum had said she’d get a pack of plastic party cups, but it’s better to be prepared. Even with a list she’s liable to flap and forget things.

  Moon had pushed the low coffee table into a corner and sprung out the camp chairs we’d brought over. Jase was fiddling about with the stereo.

  ‘This tuner is bo-lax. All I can get are the talking stations.’

  ‘Oh! No music?’ goes Moon, disappointed, like it’s her party or something.

  ‘Nada. Left my iPod at home. Anyone bring theirs?’

  Chorus of No’s all round.

  ‘It’s because we’re on the outer reaches of the Rose,’ I go, explaining the tuning, ‘it’s like being at the end of the world when everyone thought it was flat. It’s like being in Portugal or New Zealand, depending on which century you choose.’

  ‘We can’t have a party without music, boys. A party without music isn’t a party.’

  ‘I think he’s got a Bedingfield CD somewhere.’

  ‘Fuck that shit, I’d rather have the talking station.’

  ‘Jason! Can you try and start the afternoon without being so sour?’

  ‘The guy might know something about running, but that doesn’t stop him from being a giant sleazebag.’

  ‘Hype, Jason. Spin.’

  ‘Spin, my arse. Tell that to V. He had him running about in the rain last week ’til he was soaked through. What was it you were wearing, again?’

  ‘Vest and shorts.’

  ‘You see, vest and shorts! So you ran in vest and shorts until everything was see-through. Does that sound normal to you?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. We were running out of time, and we had a lot of exercises to cover.’

  ‘Stop stirring, Jason. I think Casey’s all right. He helped me out the other night when he didn’t have to.’

  ‘Your mini-meltdown at midnight. When you needed a lift home from the station. I heard.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the sarcasm in your voice, Jason, only your deep concern. So let’s just give him a chance, eh?’

  Moon was throwing a couple of those big paper serviettes over the coffee table as she played peacemaker, placing the glasses and plates on top.

  ‘It’s all about dressing the table. The RottweilerTM taught me when she hosted a couple of parties for the Lib Dem candidate, Peter whateverhisnamewas. “A tablecloth will transform a table,” she’d say, “or at least a couple of napkins, if you’re pressed for time and don’t have the desired facilities.”’

  ‘So your mum’s become a one-woman finishing school?’ I go. ‘What happened to Oxford?’

  ‘Of course I’m going to Oxford, that’s a given. But she wants me to be a lady too.’

  Me and Jase giggle like idiots.

  Bedingfield is found and chucked on. We put the garage track on loop, ’cos that’s the only one we can stand. We perch across the stools and sip the last of Moon’s Tango from the rinsed-but-not-dried glasses. No one is keen to sit on the sofa.

  ‘Remind me why we’re doing this again?’ goes Jase.

  ‘Because it’s Casey’s birthday and he deserves to have some kind of party. If it was left to him, he wouldn’t tell a soul, and it’d go unmarked.’

  ‘Imagine how you’d feel if no one knew about your birthday. Wouldn’t it make you feel lonely? Gwyn went round one year saying that birthdays were just a Western extravagance, and that, as she was no longer a child, she didn’t want to celebrate it. But on the day, she was still gagging for her cards and presents and a piece of cake.’

  ‘Sounds fucking brilliant. No obligations, or having to fix your face when presented with cheap useless shit you never even asked for.’

  My phone goes.

  ‘I’m coming up the stairs,’ says Mum, ‘so get the door open. I don’t want to have to set down all these bags just to ring the bell, and then have to pick them up again.’

  I want to tell her that she could use her nose or her forehead the way paraplegics do, but know when to keep it zipped.

  Mum’s brought most of Tesco with her.

  ‘It’s too much,’ I say, ‘you’ve spent fortunes.’

  ‘Don’t make a song and dance. Most of it’s on offer.’

  Once unpacked, the table groans under the weight of crisps, nachos, chocolate cornflake treats, cupcakes, cold sausage rolls, hot turkey twizzlers, cheese and tom sandwiches, egg sandwiches, baby Yorkshires, crudités, dips, hummus, salad, mini muffins, mini quiches, apples and satsumas. It was the kind of display you want to show any passing alien: this is the food of our people, come taste.

  With the balloons up in each corner of the room and flanking the banner (fixed, refixed, and fixed again) across the doorframe, Bedingfield turned up to seven, everything feels right. Party in waiting.

  Mum and Moon took the stools, leaving me and Jase to stand around the place, unsure whether to lean against the wall or kneel at their feet like lapdogs. We held our glasses clumsily. There was much watch-fiddling on Mum’s part, followed by tutting, followed by discreet snacking.

  ‘He’s cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he? You know I’m not staying long, as I’m meant to be going out with Mike.’

  ‘That’s a shame, Vivienne. You could have brought him to the party.’

  Mum laughed as if the likelihood of that suggestion would kill her.

  Her eyes had been taking in every inch of the place since her arrival. Her training as a district nurse taught her not to turn her nose up, as on a day-to-day her workplace varied from Edwardian mansions on the Downs to caravans on the industrial estate. Her job was to dispense care to whomever required it and not necessarily to pass judgement on how they lived, except in cases where it had an impact on health. I knew that Mum prided herself on her ability to take her kit bag and go anywhere and make herself welcome. Still, she couldn’t escape the pull of her two strongest genes: Jew and Bexhill. She could hide it from Moon and Jase, who were unschooled, but not from me. The tiniest pinch across the bridge of her nose, a tick repeated every few minutes as she came across something else she found distasteful: an absence of skirting boards, the dull sheen on the carpet, the lack of furniture, the thick balsa doors that looked faintly institutional, the smell, one that was unapologetically male, which permeated every room, a window-sill free of any birthday cards other than the ones that we’ve brought. Far from being angry, as I should have been, I knew I’d only giggle if our eyes crossed to share her secret assessment: what a loser, what a dump.

  It was the first enjoyable thing that we’d shared for several days – a little piece of nastiness at Casey’s expense.

  We got the bell because I still had his keys. Whilst Mum went to answer the door, I left them on the corner of the table, betwe
en the French Fancies and the Turkey Twizzlers. The music was loud-ish, but we could still hear their voices as they spoke in the corridor. Mum had her work voice on, which meant, as friendly as she was being, he was one step removed from her. No matter what part Casey played in my life, he’d always be an acquaintance, a contact, nothing more. He could help me win the Olympics and she’d still shake his hand like a stranger.

  Moon and Jase moaned the moment she left the room.

  ‘She didn’t bring any wine! What’s going with that?’

  ‘I only said I’d come if you got a couple of bottles in!’

  ‘As if that was ever going to happen,’ I go. ‘This is the real world, guys, not some fantasy free-for-all. She isn’t going to leave us with a load of alcopops to get pissed whilst we’re in suspicious company.’

  ‘So even you are calling him suspicious now,’ said Moon, suddenly suspicious herself. ‘’Cos if that’s the case, I don’t know what we’re doing here.’

  ‘I mean, suspicious ’cos that’s what Mum thinks, in spite of all the good intentions. Casey ain’t guilty of nothing. I’d trust him with my life, you guys.’

  ‘That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?’ goes Jase, the most nervous I’d seen him looking in a long time.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, ‘’cos it’s true. Just spend an hour or so with him, alcohol or not. You’ll see.’

  We’re all on our feet and gravitate towards each other, until we’re standing in a line facing the door to greet the reception party; like a trio of waiting diplomats from Planet I’LL KICK UR ASS.

  43

  When Mum and Casey re-enter the room, she already has her coat on. Guest arrived, time to piss off. She pushes him towards us like we’re playing Tag Team.

  I’ve been waiting so long my mouth shoots off ahead of itself.

  ‘Casey! Happy Birthday! I know technically it isn’t your birthday, because the actual day is on Tuesday, but Happy Birthday! D’you like it? Do you? Really, we should have had one of those Happy Birthday songs to play on your entrance, like maybe that Stevie Wonder one, ’cos it’s classic and not too cheesy, though it would have most likely been the Fiddy Cent one, where it just goes on about it being your birthday and everything, but we didn’t get it together in time.’

  Everyone looked at me as if I were a mad person, not getting that this is how me and Casey talk – all the time.

  Casey took in the table, the balloons, the banners, Bedingfield on loop, and his house-guests, and his eyes were moist.

  ‘It looks like you’ve done a pretty cracking job to me, young Turk. It’s a blessing, truly it is.’

  Over his shoulder I could see the younger guests rolling their eyes and making faces.

  He shakes everyone’s hand, including mine, distantly and self-consciously. Even before he’s got through the procession, all ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Moon Jones’ and ‘Ah, yes! Jason, SIR, the rock n roll rebel!’, Mum’s vanished; partly to do with the countdown to Mike, and partly to do with a major decrease in patience. On her days off I think she takes exception to wheeling the patience out when she really doesn’t have to.

  Casey’s been to the gym or somewhere whilst we’ve been balloon-blowing and party-planning. Scrubbed up a treat. Hair still damp, and curly and tight, still too short for a full comb, but forced into something resembling a side parting, a definite shift to the left in any case, clean-shaved, skin rosy and scrubbed. Out of the tracksuit and into cargo pants and a white polo shirt. I’d never seen him look smarter.

  First impressions: if you saw Casey looking like that in the street, you’d think manager, David Lloyd Centre, or maybe Head Lifeguard if he was ten years younger. But I’m not malicious in my appraisal, the way Moon and Jase are. I’m just absorbing their judgements so that Casey doesn’t have to. I’m a big brown sponge who mops up the bad energy so that you can only see the good. If I were a wire, I’d be Earth. Ask anyone.

  He pulls a bag from one of the lower, more voluminous of the cargo-pant pockets.

  ‘I stopped at HMV on the way up. Thought you’d want something a little more feel-good than my usual selection.’

  He handed the bag to a dumbstruck Jason.

  ‘Pop-Dance Hits? You think we like Pop-Dance Hits?’

  ‘Also, don’t get too excited. I’ve got you some beers. Just some light beers, ’cos I don’t want to get into any strife with your folks. Just, seeing how you’ve gone to so much trouble for me, the least I can do is give you a little something in return.’

  The scorn plastered across Jase’s face immediately vanished on mention of the B-word.

  ‘Mate, why didn’t you say so sooner? Go get them from wherever they’re hiding. A couple of those, and I’ll be happy with your Pop-Dance anything.’

  By the time CD 1 has finished and CD 2 begins to creak into motion, all party activity is at its peak. Moon hasn’t been eating, so the 0.25% of alcohol in her system is determining her every action; still straight-edge, but no longer horizontal, a degree or two above terra firma. Turfing Casey from his favoured spot, she’s dancing on the sofa to an audience of three. It’s some cheesy mix of ‘Crazy In Love’, which she’s claimed to have always hated, in spite of the tribute to Beyonce that now twists and shakes before us. Jase, after looking delighted, then uncomfortable, then bored, disappears to the loo for a smoke. Casey looks bemused, with thoughts like ‘Do people really dance like that?’ crossing and criss-crossing his face as he struggles to follow the variety of moves.

  Which leaves a two-horse race. In normal circumstances, i.e. if we were in my bedroom or hers, I’d be up there joining her, bus’ing my head up, throwing my set around like Jay Z. I’m not as keen to do that in front of Casey. Also, I haven’t had my 0.25% of alcohol to sozzle my inhibitions.

  ‘It’s a party, guys. Come on! Get up here!’

  We stay grounded and wait for the show to end, which is about ten minutes later when Moon throws up due to motion sickness (the spins were crazy, bra), or the cupcakes, or the 0.25, or maybe just a combo.

  I’m not smug. I just know that all straight-edgers shouldn’t get so carefree with their drink. It only leads to trouble.

  Casey takes it all in his stride, making her a slice of toast and giving her weak, sweet tea, but Pop-Dance Party does lose its earlier euphoria and becomes more subdued after that. We sit in our circle like a bunch of old women and pass the sausage rolls.

  ‘Did you not have any mates you wanted to ask down?’ goes Moon, when she gets her voice back. ‘A crowd is always good for a party.’

  ‘A couple of my muckers from the church I go to said they’d try to make it, but y’know, sudden commitments and all that. I’m quite happy with the crowd I got here, to be honest. I think we’re happening enough without the addition of more cautious influences to cramp our style.’

  ‘If you say so,’ goes Jase.

  The buzz from the door forces everyone to check themselves; that maybe Casey had invited friends who’d be mad and funny and show us that he wasn’t all loner and grudge.

  It was a pizza boy. Brendan had sent his apologies with a twenty-inch American Hot with extra mushrooms.

  ‘I didn’t even know we’d invited Brendan,’ said Casey, dumfounded. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘I just thought you might appreciate it, now the dust has settled. Should have known he couldn’t be bothered to make the effort.’

  ‘Let’s not discount the pizza, though,’ said Jase, grabbing the box and inhaling the contents like some deranged knicker sniffer, ‘seeing that it’s here, and hot and everything.’

  ‘I would never have thought to appease a no-show by sending a pizza,’ said Moon, thinking aloud, eyes lighting up with possibilities, ‘but the more I think about it, the more I like. Pizza is good.’

  ‘Let’s open presents. Presents is better,’ I go, hating the idea of being palmed off by that dry-skinned snake, and them falling for it. I clap my hands to break the mesmeric hold of melted cheese, jalapeno and g
round beef.

  Casey tries to hide his pleasure, but is useless at it, a thick smile spreading like an oil slick across his cheeks and raising all the muscles across his face. For a moment he looks almost normal.

  ‘You can’t have got me presents after everything else you’ve done. It’s too much.’

  ‘Shut up and take it like a man, C. It’s your birthday, innit. Expect presents. It’s the law.’

  I’d asked all guests to come up with a present to the value of five pounds. I would have said a tenner, but you only do gifts for a tenner for someone you really like.

  ‘It’s manners,’ I’d explained to the disbelieving. ‘You can’t go to someone’s party and not bring them a present. It’s really rude.’

  One of the disbelieving asked whether a punch in the mouth could be considered a gift, or maybe pissing on the TV.

  ‘You needn’t be so generous,’ I said. ‘Something that comes from a shop will do fine.’

  We got our shit together and assembled. I was first and last in line, so to speak, presenting Casey with Mum’s gift, which she had neglected to put forward in her rush to leave: a white orchid in a square cut-glass vase from Tesco. She’d wanted to go for geraniums, which is what she gives to any old dear on her rounds that she gets friendly with. Bribes them with flowers so that they produce their stool samples without any fuss. The conservatory was full of geraniums for shitty occasions. This wasn’t right for Casey. I pushed her for a slightly pricier option.

  ‘I know he looks like a sad figure, but he’s a man about town. A player on the scene. You wouldn’t give a Premiership footballer a fussy old trail of greenery.’

  ‘I’ll decide what I think is an appropriate gift, thank you very much. I’m not going to break my habit of giving plants just because you think he’d rather have a bottle of overpriced aftershave. I always give plants, Veerapen. It’s what I’m known for.’

  ‘She says it’s for colour. Said it’ll brighten up any room, or something. Just be sparing with the water. They hate it, apparently.’

  Casey handled the plant uncomfortably, struggling to take off the yellow ribbon that had been affixed with some kind of gum glue around the top of the vase. He got halfway, before feeling the weight of collective eyes on him, and gave up, placing it on the table amongst the food, the bow at the front falling low like some slapper who’s showing you what’s under her skirt.