by Frances Vick
She was a fixture at Deep Focus, not drifting in and hanging around like so many others, but actively, vehemently present. With her degree on hold, she was already promoting gigs around the cheaper venues, or at the university where she could get a good rental rate. Bands on Deep Focus were automatically steered towards her to get a gig. Her influence didn’t stretch much beyond the city yet, but she was only just 20. At some point, she knew, she’d move into band management as well as promotion. At some point she’d move away from here all together. Mother wanted her to go into PR – “You’d be putting your skills to good use darling; you’d make some money too” – but Lydia had a genuine love of music, a real passion for it. She wasn’t especially discerning – in her record collection Bad Brains would be next to U2, Rush beside the Minutemen – but her enthusiasm was one of the things that made her so attractive, so unusual. It was easy, when she was younger, to recast that humourless self regard as admirable confidence and determination. People liked her because of the strength she exuded, and the favours she could grant, but no-one ever truly found Lydia lovable; they found her admirable, and for a time she didn’t notice the difference.
One morning, arriving at Deep Focus to collect some flyers, she found the building locked. A van door slid open and slammed, and Carl came trotting round the corner, with a huge set of keys. He avoided her eyes and smiled mutely at the ground when she tried to make small talk. His hands, turning the keys, shook. They walked through the dark building together, putting on the lights and checking the answering machines. Carl’s tangled hair fell into his eyes while he was struggling to pull out the box she needed from an overfilled cupboard, and, with the sort of peremptory gesture that was typical of her, she smoothed it away so she could see him more clearly. She saw startled blue eyes ringed with sleepless smudges and eyelashes like fine, dark spokes. She saw a blush spreading across taught cheekbones, and bright teeth glinting in a nervous smile. She saw his straight brows, the shredded, red mouth, and he was the most beautiful thing.
“Where do you live?” she had asked, and smiling, he’d thrown his arms wide, meaning Here, I live here. He was like a boy who had been left to bring himself up far from civilisation, in the woods maybe...a faun-like beautiful boy. Such a beautiful boy. That blonde hair like a tangled halo, that pale, flawless skin. His skinniness was beginning to merge into sinew after a few years now of loading vans, carrying equipment, earning calluses, the odd scar, the marks of a life led. She saw the sudden shaking, worse in the morning, or later after no sleep. The long, finely shaped fingers, with one flaw, a crushed and twisted tip to the left thumb – explained sometimes as an accident, sometimes as his own fault and once as a result of his dad slamming it in the door. On purpose? Surely not. And Carl gave a shrug, a nod and a smile that could have been interpreted any way you wanted.
They were together in the empty building for two hours. Lydia talked, and Carl stared at her face without saying much of anything. Sometimes Lydia would ask him a question and he would respond, but haltingly, as if he wasn’t used to using his voice. How old was he? A smile. Where was he from? A lot of places, but here for the last three years. Before that? A smile at the floor and a shrug. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to say. How did he know Freida and Ian? From gigs. He had a friend who had been here for a long time. He’d introduced them. What do you want to do? What do you want to be? And then a look without a smile, a direct look from a face that seemed older, grimmer, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then she heard him say something that she remembered later as, “Needed.” They sat on Freida and Ian’s scarred desk and gradually lapsed into silence, holding hands, and Lydia felt – complete. A weird feeling, like she’d come home. Like she’d been missing something and had never known it until it came back. Carl’s warm hand in hers, the dented thumb awkwardly stroking her knuckles, the quiet soft rasp of his voice, it all felt – it all was – right. And she thought, I am for you, I will help you, and we will be together.
In her memory of that year, it always seemed to be summer, or cosy delightful winter. She spent more and more time at Deep Focus, becoming closer to Freida and Ian, who drew her into their Committee for the Preservation of Carl. He became the focus of so many well meaning interventions, late phone calls and hasty, worried conferences, and was particularly close to Freida. They could often be seen huddled conspiratorially by the photocopier or sitting on the back stairs sharing a beer. Sometimes Carl would be murmuring something that made Freida laugh, and sometimes it would be Freida who was whispering something urgent to Carl, her lips angled to the back of his ear because Carl rarely looked anyone in the face. He would stare at the floor, making it hard to work out if he was listening or not. He slept either in Freida and Ian’s van when it was warm, or on a mattress in the basement when it wasn’t. He had his pick of leftover t-shirts, which he always wore with the same jeans that had ripped and ripped again so that Freida would have to patch them weekly – eventually Lydia took over this chore. He never seemed to notice what he was wearing, if he was tired, if he was hungry. He had to be reminded to clean his teeth, to take his medication, the physical things didn’t seem to impinge on him at all – he lived entirely for Deep Focus, and in his unobtrusive, persistent way, he became indispensable. Freida needed him as a confidant; Ian as a gofer, a driver, an acolyte; Lydia, increasingly, as her foundation.
When someone converts to a new religion they achieve – however briefly – a kind of ecstatic calm, and being with Carl had this effect on Lydia. She seemed quieter and more considered, though in fact she was merely preoccupied. Sometimes, when she arrived at the offices, Carl would already be up having coffee with Freida. They felt like a family; they’d sit on the back steps, smoke and chat, listen to demos and eat toast. Then Carl would wander off to do his chores, and Lydia and Freida would get down to the serious business of fine tuning their care strategy.
“Carl needs to take his medication in the morning,” Freida told her. “He really shouldn’t drink – oh a beer or two won’t do him any harm, but he can’t take more, so he needs reminding of that. Once in a while his mum will call. Take a message and say that he’ll call her back when he can – don’t ever just pass the phone to him. We did that once, and it was...oh, it was just awful.”
“And his father?”
“He doesn’t know he’s here. Him and the mum aren’t in contact so he won’t find out that way, but sometimes Carl will get the idea that he wants to call his dad. Watch out for that. If it happens it happens when he’s had too much to drink or he’s tired. He gets twitchy when he’s tired, you’ll have to look out for that too. I don’t think he has the dad’s number but just in case, try to get him on another topic until the mood passes.”
“Is dad so bad?” Lydia was used to a soft, indulgent father.
“He’s pretty bad,” Freida twisted her face, “I’ve never met him of course, but the things Carl’s told me have been...bad. Quite abusive. He’s ex-army you know. A drunk. Wanted Carl to be just like him – lots of shouting, punishments. Didn’t like Carl being ill – well, not ill, but, you know. Took it personally. I don’t think they’ve seen each other in years, but whenever we’ve spoken about him you can tell that he’s still scared of him.”
“Are there any other brothers or sisters?”
“A half sister I think. Older. A lot older by about 15 years or something. He sometimes talks about her, but I’d tread carefully with that too. That all involves Miriam, his mum, and she’s – tricky to handle. Look, you’re not going to get all of it from Carl, he just won’t open up, but it’s only fair that you know some of this stuff. It will make it easier for you. Once Miriam knows that you’re with Carl she’ll get in contact with you. She’ll be very nice at first – she is nice, or can be...I don’t know, but she has a bad effect on Carl. She’ll try to get you on side and then use you to get close to Carl – she needs someone to drink with and to get money from. I mean Carl doesn’t have any money, but he a
lways makes sure that when she asks for cash he can give it to her. I don’t – but that’s all over with now, you don’t need to know that.”
Freida trailed off confusingly. She lit a cigarette and continued, “I hate saying this Lydia, but there’s a chance he’ll try to get money out of you, and that’s not his fault, it’s all about Miriam. He lived with her when his parents split up, until he was 12 or something. And then something happened – I don’t know what – and he had to go and live with his awful dad instead. Whatever it was that happened – well – Carl feels bad about it. Guilty. And so when his mum pops up being nice he leaps all over it and doesn’t notice when she stops being nice and starts being manipulative. It’s tragic really. He’ll do anything for her. Like a kind of penance. I do think, I really do think that she loves him. But her needs override his if you know what I mean. She’s not caring. She’s not a caring person. And he so needs someone to care for him. The epilepsy – Miriam doesn’t believe he has it, so if he’s with her she’ll actively encourage him not to take the medication. It’s hard enough to get him to take it in the first place, without seeming, you know, like his keeper or something. He forgets. Lyds, you have to be prepared to work very hard to protect him against all this – all this stuff. It’s a big job, but then he’s still so young and you’re so capable that I really really can’t think of anyone else who could do it.”
And so the job of shielding Carl Howell from a harsh world passed from one woman to another.
Miriam hovered on the edges for months. Sometime Lydia caught the end of phone conversations, and sometimes came across letters written in an ambling scrawl across novelty note paper. “...you no that your the best thing that ever happened to me and I couldn’t do without you. I’m so proud of you and your career and the life you’ve made. Even when you was a baby I new you was going to be important...” And at the end of each note there would be either a pitiful admonishment for not sending money, or dignified thanks for sending money. Carl got some kind of salary from Deep Focus, but it couldn’t be much. When she asked him why Miriam needed money, the answer was always opaque: Miriam didn’t need it, it was for Aunty Rosa. Aunty Rosa? Her sister, sister-in-law? Miriam needed the money to pay off fines; lend to a friend in trouble; pay off an old lady’s gas bill. What fines? What friend? What old lady? But Carl would only offer a thin smile and look down at his shaking hands until the questions stopped.
They finally met by accident, at Deep Focus. Carl was in the van with a woman wrapped in cardigans and cigarette smoke. Lydia knocked, and Carl opened the door to let her in, but made no move to introduce her to the woman who was busy digging around in her handbag, pulling out tissues, till receipts, and broken lighters. Her fingernails, Lydia noticed, were beautifully shaped and well cared for, an odd conclusion to the squat, twisted fingers, now pushing a fresh cigarette into a smeared mouth.
“You’re looking at my hands,” the woman exhaled, “I had the most beautiful hands. People said they were like a model’s hands. And in fact, I was a hand model. And a croupier. You need good hands if you’re a croupier. But all that dealing – hard work it is, dealing – ruined them. Arthritis.” She offered her hand to Lydia with queenly graciousness, “I’m Carl’s mum. His proud mummy!”
Lydia saw Carl shift and frown. Lydia gently shook Miriam’s hand and got a hearty squeeze back.
“I’ve heard all about you, and let me tell you it’s all good. It’s all good. And I want to thank you for looking after my boy, because he does need looking after. And God knows I haven’t been able to do it. They wouldn’t let me do it. I’ve been put on the sidelines. And it’s a terrible place to be, on the sidelines, watching your only child – well your only son and sons are special aren’t they? – be turned against you...” – A tiny groan from Carl – “...Yes! Yes! Turned against you. Because addiction is a terrible thing, Lydia, it’s a disease. And although I’m rid of it now I try to help others – others to...” she trailed off confusedly.
“And where do you live?” Lydia’s voice sounded impossibly upper class to her own ears.
“I’ve got my own house now. They give you that if you’re in need. And I am, what with this,” Miriam thumped at her chest, “and these,” she rapidly wiggled her fingers. “You’ll have to come for a visit. There’s quite a few of Carl’s old friends, aunties and the like, who’d be happy to meet you, especially if you bring the prodigal with you. You’ll have to drop in.” Carl had ducked his head as low as he could and his hair covered his face. Lydia gently touched his knee and he took her hand, squeezing it spasmodically.
Miriam was still talking, her voice climbing the class ladder and getting louder at each rung, “And, son, I’d like to thank you for the loan of £30.” She thrust a handful of notes at him, “Here it is back, like I promised you, because when I make a promise I keep it. Only there’s a fiver or so missing because I had to keep some back to put in your contribution to Aunty Kathleen’s party.”
Lydia glanced at Carl, who looked blank. “Party?” she asked.
“Oh Carl, you can be so...naughty, forgetful. He does it on purpose I swear. It’s his Aunty Kathleen’s party on the 5th. We’ve got it all set up, all the family will be there. All the old crowd. Got the big room at the Fox till midnight” – Carl still looked blank – “YOU KNOW THIS!” shouted Miriam with sudden violence, and then, just as suddenly, gentle, “You know this my darling, because we spoke about it last week. And you said you’d come along with the lovely Lydia so we could all make her acquaintance” – and Carl smiled – “There. I told you he knew. Sometimes that boy...he does it for attention. You know. God love him.”
Miriam began to make a series of heaving shuffles sideways, “I’ll have to keep a tenner,” she reached out for the notes still in Carl’s hand and took one, “because now there’s the two of you coming.” One last shuffle and she was at the door, fiddling with it, and swearing under her breath until Carl opened it for her.
In the silence that followed Lydia tried hard not to ask questions, knowing how counterproductive that would be. You got more out of Carl if you let him say what he wanted in his own time. “She seems nice,” she allowed herself eventually, and Carl, sighing, tapped her hand indicating that they should go inside.
Over the next two weeks, Carl went through a series of brave advances and sudden, spooked, retreats. There were days when he would answer questions about his family – his mother’s side of the family – easily and with humour, even, at times, with affection. One afternoon he showed Lydia a photo of a small boy, a younger Miriam and a frowning man standing next to a caravan on a desolate beach.
Lydia gazed at the boy’s blurred urchin face, “It’s you! Weirdly you haven’t changed. Oh my God, you haven’t! And is this your dad?” And as Carl’s smile became hazy, she knew that she’d said the wrong thing. She didn’t get any more information that day.
Sometimes he wanted to go to the party. Sometimes he was adamant he wouldn’t go. Sometimes he affected to have forgotten about it. The phone calls from Miriam increased, as did the little notes. Carl borrowed some money from Lydia, swore to pay it back, and did, early. She assumed that it was for Miriam, but didn’t ask. She thought about telling Freida about it, but decided not to. Freida would worry, she’d try to talk to Carl, give him advice, and Carl hated that. No. This was between Carl and Lydia. And if she could help him help his mum, well, that was a good thing, surely. Miriam was almost like a child herself. The whole scenario made Lydia feel mature and bountiful, and she enjoyed the frisson of immersing herself in the exoticism of the working class. She had begun to really look forward to the party.
6
That evening, Lydia dressed with unusual care. Piling her dreadlocks on top of her head, pencilling her eyebrows, she selected the tights with the most holes, the t-shirts with the most artful rips, all to intimidate and impress Carl’s relatives, making them see how much he had moved beyond them. She anticipated the girlish admiration of his little cousins. She�
�d let them touch her hair, tell them that girls could dress any way they wanted and still be attractive. Lydia would be someone they’d remember, an exotic influence. Lydia’s excitement transferred itself to Carl, who allowed himself to be slightly styled – a smaller t-shirt; the more artfully patched jeans. And then it was time to go.
Standing together at the bus stop, she realised that she rarely saw Carl outside of Deep Focus or her bedroom, and it was a novelty being together on a Saturday night, with normal people – dating couples, gangs of girls and half drunk office workers. She enjoyed the journey too, until the familiar landmarks disappeared, passengers from the centre got off and were replaced with a different type of person – very young mothers with too many kids; loud and unpredictable groups of men. Victorian buildings in various stages of disrepair slid past the scarred windows, followed by estate after estate, settled in their concrete nests, like decaying fortresses. While Carl lapsed into Zen-like silence, Lydia thought, this is where he’s from, these are his people.
The Fox was a low, sprawling prefab of a pub, purpose built for the estate. Like many housing schemes conceived in the 60s, it had all the amenities that upper class architects assumed to be essential to the urban poor: a pub, a bookmaker’s, a post office, a chip shop. They walked through the dank underpass that led from the bus stop to the estate, and Lydia took a deep breath as Carl led her through shadowy high rises, to the pub at the centre, and into a big room with a lot of clashing patterns on the walls and carpets. Terraces of men watched football on screens dotted about the cornices. The barman pointed them towards a bouquet of drooping balloons tied to the back door near the toilets.