White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  The wasteland was an unofficial dump. Overgrown with short trees and brambles and populated with broken fridges and dirty mattresses. At least, that’s what I recall with my memory. Places to hide. Places to be held. I remember going there with Justin, and his older sister, Sharon, and finding a damp pile of dirty mags dumped in an abandoned bath and being teased. But on that day, there was nobody there. Not to start with. Not until I stopped running, caught my breath. That’s when I noticed her. It took me a few minutes to figure out who she was.

  ‘It’s Scot, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling a bit, but looking sad, and then it came back to me. A name on the back of an old photograph, ripped in two; a name occasionally whispered.

  Shirley White.

  ‘You remember me?’ she added, and I nodded: yes, I did, I was certain of it, but it was a vague memory. Just fragments really.

  I kept looking at her. Long navy skirt, black flat shoes, with a small bow at the front, white plain blouse. Big curly red hair, tucked behind her ear on the left side. The sight of her had somehow sobered my feelings; stopped me running, made me think about what I was doing.

  ‘You gonna head back?’ she asked after a bit, her head bobbing in the direction I had come.

  I nodded, turned away and made my way back: through the dump, past the derelict house and onto the pavement, ready to cross the road to the car park opposite, where Dad would be about to lose his rag - his way of showing his feelings.

  Ian met me at the pavement, bent slightly, hands on his knees, breath ragged, like he’d been running too. Shirley had disappeared by then; Ian didn’t get to see her at all.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said, taking my hand, but not saying another word. We crossed the road, dodging cars as we went. Once across, Dad grabbed me in a sudden but short hug.

  The small drama was over.

  ‘You better now?’ Ian asked me later, back at the house, at the wake.

  ‘Yeah, bit,’ I said.

  Feeling my stomach rumble, I decided to get something to eat.

  In the back room, a selection of food had been out on our dining table. A spread, Mum would have said. Quiche, savoury biscuits, cheese, pickled onions still in the jar, fish paste and ham sandwiches, prawn cocktail crisps, peanuts, cheese and pineapple and sausages on sticks. A fruitcake sat in the middle of it all. Like a party. A celebration.

  ‘Of life!’ someone had slurred, raising a bottle of beer, but it wasn’t true. More lies being told. A death had occurred, not a life. She’d died; was dead. Gone. Not alive or lost or any of those other things. Just ended.

  I picked up a sandwich, but it was already curling at the edges, so I put it back. My stomach could rumble on.

  The Tankards had come back to our house, minus the controversial Tina.

  ‘She’s not house trained,’ Adrian Tankard had said, his dirty belly laugh in tow. Adrian was Justin’s dad. Chrissie Tankard – his mum - gave her husband a look. A look that could have been Mum looking at Dad; one of her silences that said it all. Which was funny, because Mum didn’t like Chrissie; hadn’t approved of her.

  You’re no different from us, Theresa Buckley! A snippet of a conversation that came back to me; one of many conversations not-for-little-ears.

  Sharon Tankard – their daughter – was attracting attention as she tried to scab cigarettes off other guests. Her parents said nothing. Adrian Tankard was too busy forcing down drinks and forcing out big hearty laughs. Chrissie, when she wasn’t giving the latter looks, was taking in our house – the house of the woman who thought she was better than her. You could tell that Chrissie was wondering where Mum got her ideas from.

  ‘Above her station,’ she’d muttered at one point, I’m certain.

  I thought of saying something, of blurting out that she was disrespectful, but I didn’t. Adrian Tankard was a big scary man, even Dad thought that, despite being in business together. And Justin was my best friend and I didn’t have that many friends full stop – so I couldn’t just attack his mum and get away with it. In any case, Justin had suddenly appeared at my side, trying to distract me.

  ‘Shall we do something?’ he asked, hands in his pockets.

  ‘Like what?’

  He shrugged.

  In mine and Ian’s bedroom, Justin went through Ian’s record collection, whilst I sat on the edge of my bed, near the door. Listening out. Ian wouldn’t be happy ‘having that poof go through my stuff,’ as he would have put it.

  Justin hadn’t been in there before – a first. He wasn’t normally allowed in our house, just like I wasn’t allowed in his, according to Mum’s rules. I watched him taking in the grey carpet and green and brown curtains. Debbie Harry was on the wall, but he hardly gave her a glance. Then he saw Ian’s 45s and he was lost in them.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said, knowing how precious Ian was about them, knowing he really wouldn’t want Justin in there, touching them. Not sure even Dad would, let alone Mum and her rules.

  ‘Let’s put one on,’ Justin said, holding up one in a black paper sleeve, no picture cover.

  Ian had a mono record player that packed up like a small briefcase. It even had a handle so you could carry it around. I did that once, pretending I was important, a bank manager or something, but I hadn’t done it up properly and the lid fell off, the arm swinging back and the needle had to be replaced. Leave it alone, right? Just don’t touch my stuff.

  Ian’s singles were in two fake-leather boxes, with a lid, a clasp and a lock. A-N in one box, O-Z in the other. I was allowed to keep mine in there too, but I only had a few and, after the bank manager incident, I was only allowed to play them under-supervision.

  Justin had picked out ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ - one of mine. Mum had liked that one; it was one of the reasons I bought it – to win a bit of favour, get on side. And to piss Della off a bit. ‘Oh, not that one! Mum! Muuuuum! Tell him to turn it off.’ The day I bought it, I just played it over and over, just as Della had with Gimme Gimme Gimme.

  ‘Give her a taste of her own medicine,’ I’d said to Ian.

  ‘Just don’t ruin the needle,’ was all he’d said in return.

  I’d managed to scratch it quite a bit by over-playing it and it jumped a bit in the middle, messing up the part where the kids sing. Justin took it off, played the b-side, but you could see he wasn’t interested any more. And it wasn’t as good – the b-side.

  ‘Where’s Tina then?’ I asked, thinking a conversation was necessary.

  ‘Dad left her in the truck,’ Justin said, working his way through O-Z again. All of Ian’s single covers were in little plastic sleeves that protected them, so there was a flicking sound as Justin scanned them again.

  The Tankards had a white flatbed that the family travelled in. I’d been in it a few times. With Tina too. And Mum had something to say about the marks she’d left on my trousers.

  It was weird being upstairs, with the wake below, bubbling away like homemade brew, about to spill over; explode into the rest of our house. (I knew about home-brew because Dad had made some bitter one year and it ruined the front room carpet. ‘Why you had to do it in there, Tony…’) I felt it all getting bigger, spilling out of our small house, like that story where the porridge keeps on coming, making its unstoppable way down the street. The smells made their way upstairs, too: smoke, drink, perfumes, sweat. And there were conversations too, just snatches - ‘To a grand lady!’ ‘The price you pay for that, though…’ ‘A quick clip, that’s all they need…’ – leaking through the doors, creeping up and up.

  Justin picked out more singles: Tragedy, Video Killed the Radio Star, Twelfth of Never – for a second I was back on that caravan holiday again. Ian was singing on the stage, dappled by mirrorball reflections; Mum in her pale blue wedding two-piece. And later: what I saw later. I didn’t mean to start crying. Didn’t realise it was gonna happen until it did. Just a few sobs and I didn’t really hear myself until the record stopped. The needle slid right across the middle of the 45 and made
me sober up. I jumped up to lift up the arm and to save the single getting scratched any further. It was one of Ian’s: he’d kill me.

  Justin looked up at me, concentrating a bit, like he was searching for comforting words. Thinking he’d found them, he opened his mouth.

  ‘Shall we get our whatsits out?’ he said.

  Back downstairs, the celebrations were overwhelming. Dad or someone got the stereo going and it was Elvis booming through the speakers. Someone else had raided the sideboard in the front room and bottles of whiskey, sherry and even advocat had been dragged through to the back, all dished out in glasses of varying sizes. Ashtrays were overflowing and crisps and peanuts were being crushed into the carpet tiles as people started dancing.

  ‘You ok?’ Ian asked me yet again, once I was back downstairs, and I instantly blushed. ‘Sure?’

  Ian had come looking for me, coming through our bedroom door just seconds after Justin had made his suggestion; saving me from having to submit a response.

  We were squashed in the corner of the back room, by the cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I said.

  He didn’t mention the singles that Justin had left across the floor, but I was certain it would come later.

  Justin had put his peculiar request in a few times before and I was close to running out of reasons not to join in. Thing is, Justin wasn’t easy to say ‘no’ to, but I’d viewed the whole thing as a game and so far I had come up with good excuses. ‘My mum’s coming in any second now.’ ‘Your sister’s in the house.’ ‘I think I heard a gun.’ ‘There’s a man in the bushes, watching.’

  I wasn’t worried about Justin being pervy. (Being one of the greatly misunderstood myself, I rarely made these assumptions about others, even when I should have.) It was just that he was so eager to get his out, I knew he’d have a big one. And I was certain I didn’t.

  ‘You sure you’re ok?’ Ian was double-triple checking, not sure how to read me on-this-momentous-day. He was still coming out with all this grown up, wordy stuff.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Ok. But after today, yeah?’ he said, just half a sentence that told me there was more to come. ‘After today, your mate keeps off my stuff, yeah?’

  I knew it would come, that he’d have something to say, but his voice was softer. Understanding, I guess. We were changing. Maybe it was just for today, but something told me it was for good. Things were different after all.

  Sorry for your loss.

  But some things were better lost, I reckoned.

  The party in-memory-of-that-lovely-woman kept on going; neighbours and friends who’d been at work popped in, bringing cans of beer. Someone brought a bunch of daffodils: Mrs Winters, an old lady with a gammy leg, who somehow did a house-cleaning round and lived six doors down.

  ‘Picked them from the crematorium,’ she said, handing them to Della with a smile. ‘Ain’t they beautiful?’

  Cherryade appeared from somewhere and then someone handed me a tenner, suggesting I got some chips or something, as the buffet was running a bit low. One of Dad’s mates. I took the money. It seemed an odd request, but suddenly I felt like chips, the smell of fat and vinegar, and a breather from all the smoke and sweat.

  I sneaked away, wanting the time alone, the freedom. Ian was busy being slapped on the back by Dad, his turn to be in favour. Della had the attention of some chap who had his back to me; I wasn’t sure who. But, no one was going to miss me for a bit, so I just slipped away to do my errand.

  ‘How about I give you a lift there?’

  Uncle Gary had followed me out.

  ‘To Harry’s chip shop?’

  I stared, blankly. Torn between a bit of time on my own, or time with Gary and whatever benefits that might bring.

  ‘A ride in my new car?’ he added.

  Not-a-word-to-anyone; that was the sort of thing he usually said. But not on that day; it just went without saying, I guess.

  It was hot in his car. I felt the heat of the brown leather seats through my nylon trousers. He lit a fag and then wound down the window, letting out some of the smoke.

  ‘Things will be different now,’ he said and I wanted to ask him: who do you think you are, my dad? But I didn’t. ‘No need for our little meetings anymore,’ he added and I understood. The little trips in Uncle Gary’s car. Our little secret, as he called it. Just between us. No one else needs to know. Putting a note in my hand afterwards. Just between us.

  I didn’t say anything and for a few minutes, Uncle Gary had sat there, pulling on his cigarette. Then, he’d stuck the keys in and revved up the engine.

  ‘Right,’ he said, throwing the dog-end out of the window like it’s a dart. ‘To Harry’s.’

  Standing in the fish and chip shop, it felt like days had passed since the funeral, not hours, not just a few hundred minutes, not just several thousand seconds. Days, longer. At the time, it didn’t seem out of place to be there. It seemed right. Just life. Just an errand; getting our tea. Later, when I think back, it doesn’t seem true. It couldn’t all have happened on the same day: the funeral; seeing Shirley White; buying chips like it’s a Friday; and then what happened when I got back. Looking back, it just seems too much, like a rush, a jumble, impossible to fit in and digest. But that’s how it all happened: that’s how it always happened. Everything at once, like a story no one believes. A tall tale. Life is a tall tale; that’s about it.

  They stared at me, the other customers. At first, I didn’t really understand. I hadn’t jumped the queue or anything. But there they were, staring and Harry began speaking. To me, I realised after a bit.

  ‘What is it you want, Scot, lad?’

  He was letting me go first. They all were. An alternative to sorry for your loss. Something worth having. Only, I didn’t have a clue what to order. I hadn’t thought it through at all, not really. I just had that lovely smell of fat and vinegar up my nose. But then time jumped again, like it had earlier that day, and I watched my order going in waxy paper bags, then wrapped in copies of The Sun and The Express. Portions of salty, soggy chips, battered sausages, battered fish, a couple of fish cakes and some wooden forks. Harry’s wife popped through to look, bringing with her a Wavy Line carrier bag, putting all the newspaper parcels in there for me. Harry refused to take the tenner.

  ‘On the house,’ he said, dropping me a wink.

  Harry’s wife handed me the bag of food, slowly, very personally, like it was a special moment. Our moment. I felt it, too. Something about her. Something motherly that drew me in. And then she opened her gob:

  ‘Aren’t you just a bit hot in that coat?’ she said. I said nothing in return and, sensing she had said the wrong thing, she tried again, only making it worse: ‘Sorry for your loss.’

  And any meaning there, any feeling, was gone.

  Back at the house, no one had been that bothered by my absence. Della and Ian made a few comments, but that was it. Nothing from Dad.

  ‘Saw you go off with Uncle Gary,’ Della teased. ‘In his flash car?’

  Ian had simply taken the bag of food from me, feeling it for heat. It was still warm, but not very.

  ‘You’ve been gone a while,’ he stated. My hands were in my pockets, feeling the money: went out with just a tenner, but came back with twenty.

  I shrugged. Nothing else was said. And Dad hadn’t even noticed. He was too drunk.

  ‘Stick them in the oven,’ Ian called to Della, as he turned from me.

  She took them with the message I’m-not-your-slave expelled in a single huff.

  Whilst I’d been out, the ‘wake’ had shifted its gears and progressed to ‘a general piss-up,’ as Ian put it. The kind of event that Mum would have tutted at, bringing it all to an end with a single glare. Only she wasn’t there to do that. So, it had carried on.

  Mum’s friends and some older relatives had more or less disappeared – including a great-aunt Sally I’d never met before (‘We really got an Aunt Sally?’ I had sniggered, thinking of that Wor
zel Gummidge programme.) The hangers-on (Dad’s phrase) were us kids, Auntie Stella, Uncle Gary and Dad’s mates: Lazy-eyed Jim, Paddy, Beery-Dave and Alfie-from-the-butchers, who had supplied a pig’s head for making brawn as a mark of respect to Mum’s life.

  ‘What’s brawn?’ I had asked, but no one answered, stunned to silence, it seemed, by Alfie’s moving tribute.

  Justin and other Tankards had also left, taking some of Dad’s beers and spirits with them, according to Dad. So, Auntie Stella had popped out to the local off-licence, accompanied by her completely sober boyfriend, to top up supplies.

  The house smelt of beer, fags and farts by then, but you soon got used to it. And when Auntie Stella and Uncle Gary came back with some whiskey, beers and several more portions of chips from the chippy, their sharp-yet-fatty scent soon took the edge off.

  ‘Stick some more songs on, Della,’ Dad had requested, and Della had instantly picked out her Abba records – not thinking, I guess – and we had Greatest Hits Volume One playing moments later.

  ‘Mum didn’t like Abba,’ I said, but no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to remember just who the party was for.

  So, I sat on the stairs, just out of sight, thinking, whilst half the neighbourhood celebrated the life of our beloved one – words of the vicar who didn’t-know-her-from-Adam – with chips, fags and cheap booze. Thinking.

  Thinking about how we were gonna have to get on with it all.

  Without her.

  At around ten pm, the first of the day’s final two dramas occurred.