by Guy Johnson
It started quietly: a gentle knock at the door and the quiet tones of a female in uniform. Della had answered the door.
‘We just need to speak to your father.’
‘Dad, it’s the police!’ Della called out and, watching from my position at the bottom of the stairs, I have never seen Dad move so quickly. With the bulk of a rhino and the speed of a cheetah, he took just seconds to get himself from a chair in the back room to block the frame of our front door.
‘What business have you got coming round here on a day like this! Leave me and my family in peace!’
Everyone in the back started to move immediately, quickly, but in a pattern, like they’d rehearsed it. Or like a board game, everyone going round, taking their turn, not jumping ahead, but calm, polite, with a purpose. The back door was opened and Dad’s old mates left swiftly.
‘Looks like an elephant has sat on it,’ Auntie Stella had said, looking at the abandoned, crumpled room.
The small drama continued at the other end of our house.
‘Mr Buckley, we really need to talk. I appreciate that it’s a-.’
Whatever the policewoman had appreciated at that point was never heard, as Dad slammed the door in her face.
‘Mr Buckley! Mr Buckley! Will you please open this door? We need to you come with us.’ Her voice had got louder, then trailed off at the end. Reckon she knew: knew it was wrong to be there, on that day, whatever he knew, whatever he’d done.
Dad stayed where he was, on the other side of the door. We looked at him and at where he in turn was looking: at the white boxes stacked up in our front room.
He nodded at us and we knew what he wanted us all to do. Then he opened the front door, and slipped out, shutting it instantly behind him.
‘I’m coming,’ he said, his voice muffled, and minutes later we heard a car roll away from out the front, Dad in it with a couple of coppers.
It took us just fifteen minutes to hide the boxes away – they weren’t heavy.
‘Kettles and toasters,’ Uncle Gary explained, helping out, as we put them in wardrobes and under beds; as we’d done before.
Business as usual. Only it wasn’t, was it? Not on that day. It was in our faces: mine, Ian’s, Della’s. In Auntie Stella’s pursed lips that were silently blaming Uncle Gary. You and your dodgy deals, her face said, bringing the police round here on the day of her funeral.
‘How were we to know?’ he pleaded, later, once the cover-up operation was complete, embarrassed that she might just be right.
They were in the front room, which was empty bar the usual stuff you’d expect to see: the mustard carpet with the leafy pattern, the green sofa and chairs, the stereo in the corner.
‘The boxes were here before it all happened. We just haven’t been able to shift them. Tony’ll be alright, I’m sure.’
Auntie Stella was looking through the curtains, as a car drew up. It wasn’t Dad. She turned, glared at Uncle Gary, and saw that I was watching.
‘Bed for you, Scotty,’ she said, coming towards me, shooing me up the stairs. ‘You too,’ she called out to Della and Ian, who obeyed with sulky huffs. ‘Your Uncle Gary’s in charge, whilst I go down the cop shop and sort your father out.’
We didn’t go straight to bed, despite Auntie Stella’s ruling. We didn’t tell Uncle Gary we were ignoring it, but he soon realised, when we all came back down the minute she had gone.
‘You kids do what you need to do,’ he said, flatly, acknowledging he had no jurisdiction with us, despite Auntie Stella’s parting statement. Mum was lost and Dad had gone off with the police. Leaving-us-to-it was probably the best approach.
Della and Ian started cleaning up, and Uncle Gary soon joined in.
‘You helping, Squirt?’ Ian asked, but didn’t wait for my answer.
I just stayed in the front room, appreciating it for its original purpose. What Nan Buckley would’ve called a parlour. The front parlour.
‘Anthony, why do you put all that stuff in the front parlour?’ I could hear her now.
Thinking of her triggered something. I started to recall another get-together. A Christmas, at 45 Victoria Avenue.
We had a full house: the five-of-us, Nan Buckley, Auntie Stella and Uncle Ashley. (‘Why’s he been invited?’ – Dad. ‘Shush, Tone, they’ll hear you. Stella reckons he’s the one!’ - Mum. ‘Be like the last one, then?’ – Dad. ‘How long does one have to wait for a sherry these days, Anthony?’ our nan.) As well as Uncle Ashley, we were also expecting a visit from the Queen of Sheba. This was according to Mum, who was fretting about ‘where was she expected to put her Majesty.’ Dad saw offence in this comment, but in the end the Queen of Sheba didn’t come at all – it was just our nan.
‘You can have the Queen’s place,’ I said to her and she’d tried to smile sweetly at me, but you could tell she didn’t quite get it.
The front room – the front parlour – had been cleared out for Christmas day. In fact, Dad had been instructed to keep-it-clear-in-the-run-up-or-else! But it wasn’t any less crowded, as the tree had to go in the there too: a big white fake one that hit the ceiling. It was new.
‘Did it fall off the back of a lorry?’ Mum had inquired, looking it up and down when Dad had brought it home.
I had a look myself, but couldn’t see any damage.
‘Looks like it came from a shop, Mum,’ I reassured her and Mum had given me her look that meant oh-very-funny.
The tree had silver tips so it sparkled even before we had decorated it. And once we had decorated it – smothering it with streams of red and blue tinsel and five boxes of ancient baubles that Mum appeared to have had since she was a kid – it could have been any colour. We draped three different types of lights around it – multi-coloured lanterns that were the size of a small fist; plain white ones, which Mum thought were tasteful and we thought boring; and illuminated Father Christmas heads, which were my favourites.
‘Lovely,’ Mum had said, but not in the way she usually said it. ‘Lovely.’ Bit like the way she said ‘right’ or ‘now.’ Like we hadn’t quite finished, like there was something left to do.
By Christmas Day, the floor space that Dad had cleared of his livelihood was covered again, as presents from various friends and relatives had begun to arrive. By then, you could see the white of the Christmas tree again, as there were fewer decorations on it; the Christmas Fairy, Mum insisted, had been to borrow some of our tinsel and share it with poorer families.
‘She’s taken our lights as well,’ I’d added, noting that only the tasteful/boring ones remained in place.
‘Oh dear, I’ll have to have a word,’ Mum had said, trying to hide a smile.
Dinner was planned for two in the afternoon. By then, Dad had been to the pub and back, grudgingly taking Uncle Ashley with him. (‘What’ll I say?’ he had moaned to Mum. ‘Shush. Just talk about football, or something.’) Nan Buckley had drunk enough sherries to put her to sleep, and was snoring and perping, which made us all laugh, including Mum, as Nan Buckley was a proper lady when she was awake.
‘A duchess,’ Dad used to say, making Mum’s eyes roll.
‘Who are you, Ronnie Kray?’ she’d say and laugh, and you could see Dad get narked. Nan Buckley was no laughing matter.
But she was quite posh and proper. Even Mum agreed. ‘Your nan thinks she’s better than us,’ she once said, confirming it for me.
This particular Christmas followed the pattern of previous years: up early, Santa presents at the end of our beds in old pillowcases, TV in the morning, rumours about the Queen of Sheba, followed by Nan Buckley’s grand arrival instead, kids helping Mum, whilst the men and Auntie Stella went to the pub. You sure I can’t help, Theresa? The men and Auntie Stella coming back tipsy, Mum’s last minute panic in the kitchen, and then the perfect dinner was served. After that, it was Top of the Pops, The Queen’s Speech and Jim’ll Fix It Christmas Special, followed by an afternoon snooze, tree presents before tea and then more food – hot mash, cold meats and pickl
es.
The only difference to our routine that year happened on the doorstep: part of a history of small dramas that settled themselves on our threshold.
We were in the middle of dinner when the bell went.
Ian had answered, then called back for Dad’s assistance.
‘Oh, Anthony, who is it?’ Nan Buckley had asked, sitting up taller, preparing herself for company.
Dad hadn’t replied. He looked briefly at my Mum, and excused himself from the table.
‘Coming, son.’
You couldn’t hear what went on - Dad had closed the door to the porch, and kept his voice low. But, from where I was sat, I could see the glass of the porch door and a movement of colour through it. A blue shirt or coat, if I recall. And, when the conversation was over, and the door opened for a second, a glimpse of a face: the pale skin, the blue sunken eyes.
‘They not coming in then?’ Nan Buckley inquired, disappointed when Dad and Ian returned without any additional company.
‘It wasn’t who I thought it was,’ Dad answered, looking around the table at our faces, taking longer as his eyes stopped at Mum.
But I knew who it was. I knew who wasn’t welcome. I knew who left that look on their faces, especially on Ian’s.
Jackie.
At midnight, Uncle Gary insisted we finally went to bed. We were so tired that we didn’t disagree. Despite that, none of us fell asleep for long and I woke up just a couple of hours later, when I heard Della leaving her room.
‘They’re back,’ she whispered, on hearing me get out of my bed.
She was two steps down the stairs when I caught up with her. We crept the rest of the way together, quietly, taking slow steps so we wouldn’t be heard, unlikely allies in a silent, secret mission – to find out what had gone on.
The final drama of the day was about to unfold.
They were in the bathroom.
Auntie Stella and Dad.
Uncle Gary had gone.
Downstairs most of the lights were out –the kitchen ones were on and a light and noise was coming from the bathroom. The door was pushed to, but not closed. As we got closer, crisps - from the knees-up earlier - crunched under our feet and we slowed down, treading more carefully, but we still weren’t detected. We stayed just inside the back room, with the length of kitchen separating us from Dad and Auntie Stella.
Dad was making a moaning sound.
‘For goodness sake, Tony. Keep the noise down.’ Auntie Stella.
I pulled a face at Della, but she was concentrating; I could see that clearly, even in the half-light.
‘Jesus! Careful with your hands!’
‘Tony, keep it down. We don’t want to wake the kids. You could do without explaining this one away.’
‘Della-.’ I went to ask, but she shut me up with an abrupt: ‘Shush. Just listen.’
So I did, confused, wondering. Thinking of all those carry-on comments over the years. Auntie Stella’s Mini jokes and Dad’s brushing against her. Thinking, thinking. Hoping. Hoping I was wrong and that this wasn’t the funny business Mum had accused him of over the years. Hoping there was an explanation. Hoping there were no more dramas to overshadow this big day.
‘Della, do you think-.’
She raised a hand, signalling me to remain quiet.
‘Just listen, Scotty. OK?’
So, I did – we both did - and the drama unfolded differently.
‘Those are nasty cuts, Tony. Jesus. What you gonna tell the kids?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You’ve got to tell them something.’
‘I’ll tell them it was the police, ok? Jesus!’ Another moan came from Dad, followed by a series of winces. I knew that sound and I could smell something too – a smell I knew from cuts, sores and sheer terror – TCP.
‘Nearly done. Ok, that’ll stop it going bad.’ A few sounds filled an otherwise silent lapse of time – a cap screwed onto a bottle top, bathroom cabinet doors being closed, a tap running water over hands. ‘There. OK. I’m gonna head off.’ A kiss – we heard a kiss, but it was clearly on a cheek. No funny business. ‘So, you’ll tell the kids it was the police. Ok, I’ll go along with that, if that’s what you want.’
‘I can’t tell them the truth.’
‘No, you can’t have them knowing that. Can’t tell them the whole truth.’
‘It’s gonna be hard enough as it is.’
We went to slip away, but Auntie Stella momentarily revived their conversation.
‘Can’t believe she’s back, Tony. Can’t believe she’s back.’
We listened, waiting for Dad to respond, to say more, but he kept it simple.
‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing a deep long sigh, before he added: ‘She’s better off dead, though.’ A silence fell between them, like there was nothing else for them to say. I could hear his hand rubbing his end-of-day-stubble, making that scratching sound. ‘Right,’ he added, abruptly breaking the lull. ‘As agreed. Police did it. Ok?’
‘Ok?’
And with that, we had slipped away, silently, back to our beds before they came out and found us.
In bed, I lay there, thinking about it all.
Going through all the dramas, all the actors trying to hog the limelight: Auntie Stella with her short skirt and Ocean-liner hat; Tina Tankard coming to the funeral; Justin in my bedroom; Shirley White at the dump, hiding when Ian arrived. What had Auntie Stella said? ‘I can’t believe she’s back.’
And the weirdest thing was, that despite the funeral, despite Dad being picked up by the police, I felt an odd sense of happiness.
Felt a small a small curve work at my lips, creating a smile there.
4.
A week after the funeral, Dad brought home a big square box and placed it on the kitchen side. He said nothing, but made a big show of what he did, making sure we all noticed; making sure we all wondered what was in it.
‘Don’t really care,’ Della had insisted, shrugging, walking off, but I wasn’t fooled. No one was. Because when it finally came to opening the box, she was there with the rest of us, for the great unveiling, as Dad had called it.
He even got Auntie Stella round for it.
Dad and Auntie Stella stuck to their story about him being beaten up by the police.
‘Couple of coppers whacked me,’ he said, pointing to a scratch just above his left cheek at breakfast the next day. ‘But it’s worse than it looks.’
Auntie Stella had stayed over in the end, and was in the kitchen, frying breakfast, wearing Mum’s dressing gown. Nothing was said about that.
‘You gonna sue ‘em, Dad?’ Della asked, looking straight at him, catching his eye.
‘It’s worth thinking about,’ Ian insisted, and for a moment, I wondered if he knew. If, like us, he had been hiding in the shadows, listening. Only we just hadn’t seen him.
‘I think your father’s got enough to deal with at the moment, kids,’ Auntie Stella interrupted, coming in with two plates of bacon and eggs, and I saw a small shift in Dad’s face, like a flicker of relief. ‘Right, who has tea and who has squash?’
‘Tea,’ said Della, pushing her cup forward, looking at me. I haven’t forgotten what we heard, her face told me. We’re gonna find out what’s really going on. I smiled. I liked our little secret and what it had begun to do: overnight, it had changed something between us. I couldn’t quite nail it down, but something was different.
Two days later, she even invited me into her room - something she hadn’t done since the caravan incident. Della’s was at the rear of our house, tucked behind mine and Ian’s.
‘Were you really looking at me?’ she asked me, calling me in just before my bedtime. ‘At the caravan, last summer.’
I shook my head. ‘I was trying to wake you. To tell you something. Thought it would work.’
She stared at me, thinking, putting it together, seeing if it made sense. ‘Why?’
‘Can’t tell you now.’
She gave me another look: she only h
alf-believed me, it said. Still I couldn’t tell her all I had seen. I’d sworn to Ian I wouldn’t tell a soul. And what if she didn’t believe me? What if she just laughed and, worse, thought I was simply making up sick, twisted stories. I couldn’t risk it. We would just be back where we’d started, like the secret we shared about Dad didn’t exist. And anyway, once I’d told someone else what I’d seen, it would have to be true, no going back; whilst I kept it to myself, there was still a chance it was just me - that I’d got it wrong; that it hadn’t happened. It struck me as a good way of dealing with the things you didn’t like: pretend they hadn’t happened. At least, that’s how I saw it then.
‘I can’t tell you. Sorry.’
‘Okay.’
That was it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. She still didn’t entirely believe me, but it felt like her not-believing-me had lessened a little – that’s the nearest it got.
Back then, it was more than enough.
‘Are you ready then?’
Dad; a week after the funeral, his bashing forgotten – or so he thought – standing in the back room, with a pair of scissors in his hands. The big white box had been moved onto the dining table, which had been dragged out from the corner of the room; both its wooden leaves up, like it was a big occasion. The box had strips of white, brittle plastic round the outside and Dad began to cut through these.
‘Here we go!’
We had been speculating about it all week.
‘Reckon it’s a new stereo, a stack system.’
‘A new TV.’
‘What if it’s a dog?’ Ian and Della had reverted to their usual partnership of sniggering when I said this.
‘A dog?’
‘Right!’ said Dad, the plastic white strips cut away, the brown sticky-tape ripped off and the box open. He reached inside and pulled out a big black metal box.
‘Another TV,’ Ian said, but he was wrong.