White Goods

by Guy Johnson

  Then it all speeded up. Very quick. Like it was urgent. Like it was life or death.

  ‘Scotty was looking for a snack and knocked the salt out of the cupboard,’ Ian told her, which was partly good, because she instantly believed him. It was the sort of thing I was famous for (Mum), though I was certain I hadn’t been on the telly or anything because of it. The bad bit was that Auntie Stella instantly tried the stew. ‘You little bugger,’ she cried, gagging, running to the sink to spit it out.

  ‘Who’s a little bugger?’

  Our dad. Stood in the frame of the open back door. Swaying. Swaying quite a bit.

  ‘I said, who’s a little bugger?’

  Later, when I stopped being sick, Della and Ian came to see me. I was in bed. Still fully clothed, but with the covers pulled right around me. I really missed my coat then. I needed its safety, its smell, its warmth - that was like something magical I couldn’t describe or ever replace. But Auntie Stella had taken that with her washing and interference.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ian said, coming and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘It seemed like a good cover up. I never thought she’d react like that. Never thought Dad would, either.’

  ‘How much did he make you eat?’ Della piped up.

  I couldn’t answer; just the thought of the endless bowls of salty stew our Dad kept serving me up to learn-me-a-lesson made me want to heave again. He hadn’t believed it was an accident for one single second.

  ‘Dad’s not himself, Scot,’ Ian said, as if apologising. ‘He’s missing Mum and he got himself a bit drunk.’

  ‘Again,’ Della added, looking directly at me. ‘We’ll get rid of her, Scotty,’ she promised me, like now it was even more important. Like Auntie Stella had done this to me – not our dad.

  Much, much later, when we were all supposed to be asleep, and when he’d had enough time to drink plenty of coffee and think things over, Dad slipped into our room. Came over to me, stroked my head, thinking I was asleep. But the smell – the stale, beery breath, the unwashed hum of his body – would have been enough to wake me, in any case.

  ‘Sorry, so sorry. I’ll do better, Theresa. I’ll do better.’ He was talking to our mum I realised. ‘I’ll make it all up to them.’

  I don’t know whether I meant to speak, but it just came out, without me really thinking.

  ‘Will you?’ I asked, half mumbling, and a little frightened, wondering how he might react. He had scared me that night – his rage, as he’d forced the first few spoons into my mouth, the rounded metal catching against my teeth, my gums, the back of my throat.

  Dad seemed surprised, and I expected a shouldn’t-you-be-asleep? Or maybe even a reprise of his fury.

  Instead, he simply said:

  ‘Yes, I will. You’ll see. Now, back to sleep.’

  Dad kept his promise. He started making an effort and presented me with what he called a bloody-big-gesture a day or so later. But this gesture of his didn’t make up for everything. We still had to get rid of Auntie Stella. And we did - eventually. Two weeks later, Auntie Stella packed her bags. It wasn’t Della or Ian who achieved this, however. It was me, all on my own.

  Auntie Stella went back to relying on Marilyn after the stew incident. She didn’t hold much of a grudge, either, eventually accepting – at least on the surface of things – that it was a genuine accident. This made Dad appear even more guilty for making me eat so much of the salty muck, but Della reckoned Auntie Stella knew the truth; she just didn’t want to rock the boat too much, as she had it cushy with us. Della saying rock-the-boat made me think of the big hat Auntie Stella had worn at the funeral. Then I thought about how Mum hadn’t really been gone that long and how we were all carrying on okay. That made me a bit sad.

  ‘You alright, Scotty?’ Ian asked, reading my face, I guess.

  I shrugged a shrug that said sort-of.

  ‘Dad’s still drinking isn’t he?’ I asked.

  ‘A bit. But he’s just sad. He’s just not coping well without Mum.’

  ‘It’s no excuse, though, is it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Ian agreed and then he paused, thinking for a second. ‘School starts soon. He’ll have to be fine by then.’

  School: Ian would be in sixth form and I’d be starting the second year at high school.

  ‘Hope so,’ I replied, but I wasn’t certain. Wasn’t certain our Dad would sort himself out. Wasn’t certain I cared, either. We were kind of sorting ourselves, or so it felt. The-three-of-us. Maybe we didn’t really need him.

  We were in the kitchen: Ian making tea, me eating jam on toast, standing up. Ian was right – it was the last half of the summer holidays and school was only a fortnight away.

  ‘So,’ Ian started up again, breaking my reflection. ‘You out with Justin today?’

  ‘Probably,’ I replied, taking a final big bite of the jammy toast, thinking it was good I didn’t have to lie about spending time with my friend anymore. At least, not to everyone; I was still cautious about mentioning it around Dad.

  We went to the swimming pool again, but I did a deal with Justin from the outset – a Texan Bar when we left and a coke and pancakes at the Wimpy afterwards, if he stayed in the shallow end with me.

  ‘Deal!’ he agreed, and we set off, a sad looking Tina giving us her eyes, as we left Justin’s house without her. ‘I told Sharon about the police and she told our dad,’ he explained, as we walked off. ‘So Tina ain’t allowed out anymore.’

  There were no dramas this time at swimming. No Roy Fallick, no me panicking, no Justin just leaving me, no Disney towel incidents, no what-you-fucking-staring-at stuff. I saw Russell, but he just nodded, didn’t come over. I wondered why he wasn’t friends with our Ian anymore, but didn’t dwell on it.

  At the end of it all, I found a cubicle to change in and Justin took the one next to me. All was going well, but it didn’t last. I knew it wouldn’t. I got us both a Texan Bar and then we headed towards the Wimpy. We didn’t make it there, though. Something – someone – intervened.

  The Wimpy was on our way home. I’d been there a few times. Mum would take us there when we had to go into town for new shoes and stuff, as a treat for all-our-patience, which she said in a funny voice that indicated she didn’t quite mean it. It wasn’t that much of a treat, though. It had red plastic seats that your legs slurped against if you had shorts on and the tables were always a bit sticky. Still, Mum let us eat the sugar cubes if we were particularly good. I liked dropping them in my coke, but always got my fingers smacked for being disgusting-and-common when I did that.

  Justin and me were just outside the Whimpy when we saw them. Them. They saw us too, and came over: Roy Fallick and another older lad. Like us, they had wet hair.

  ‘Saw you queers at the pool, splashing around like girls,’ Roy said, smirking, looking at the other boy for approval. His friend was taller, thinner, our Ian’s age. ‘This is my brother,’ he added. ‘And he can beat you both up.’

  The brother looked shifty.

  ‘I ain’t your brother. Not yet,’ he corrected, kicking Roy gently in the back of the legs, probably wondering whether he really could have the both of us. I couldn’t fight and Justin fought like a girl – but at least he could fight, all the same.

  ‘My dad’s marrying his mum,’ Roy continued and I wondered why he was telling me. He was even being quite pleasant, for Roy Fallick, anyway. ‘So, I’ll have a dad and a mum again,’ he bragged and suddenly I got it. I knew where this was going. ‘What happened to your mum again?’ he said and then he laughed, looking at his not-quite-brother again, seeking his agreement, but the second boy didn’t look back.

  ‘You can fuck-off,’ I said, only I didn’t; I just said it in my head, staring into the ground, controlling my anger, knowing it would get me nowhere. Roy wasn’t someone I could say that to and walk away unscathed.

  ‘Ain’t that Dodgy Gary’s new car?’ Justin said randomly, suddenly distracting us, breaking the discomfort. He was right: at the traffic lights
, near the crossing that led to home, Uncle Gary had stopped in his brand new Cortina, the bright orange body-work attracting our attention. It was like the colour of a lollipop. Mandarin, he’d called it.

  ‘Scot!’ Justin cried, as I abruptly dashed off, leaving him with Roy and co, heading like a lightning strike towards the car before the traffic lights could change.

  The thing is, I’d had a brainwave: seen the most obvious answer to all our problems waiting at the lights, puffing on a fag. Thank you for pointing it out, Justin Tankard!

  ‘Uncle Gary,’ I said, breathless, as I clambered in the back of his car, using the familial tag on purpose. ‘I need a favour!’

  ‘Jesus!’ he cried, and the cigarette jumped from his mouth, landed in his lap, creating a smell of burnt ironing, as it sizzled a hole in his nylon slacks. Beige nylon. The burnt iron smell reminded me instantly of my purpose: getting rid of Auntie Stella. Cars started to beep: the lights were green again and Uncle Gary was still flapping with his fag. Eventually, we started moving.

  ‘What kind of favour?’ he asked, trying not to sound annoyed or edgy, because it was me asking. But I could tell he was both.

  ‘Well,’ I began, wondering just how I was going to start, and what I was actually going to ask...

  It took a few days to happen.

  At first, I thought he’d bottled it. Changed his mind. He kept telling me it was a lot to ask, that it was pushing things too far.

  Even for you, he told me. But he came good, all the same.

  I kept it all to myself. I didn’t let Della or Ian know what I was up to, and, since Dad had made me eat so many bowls of the salty stew, they hadn’t insisted I join in with their attempts to get rid of Auntie Stella. In fact, for fear of similar punishment, they seemed to have all but given up. Della was still a bit rude, and Ian kept up the belching and blowing off, but that was hardly the campaign that both had promised. Still, I reckoned I had a corker, one that wouldn’t make its way back to me and one that was permanent. Well, almost. It wasn’t like Uncle Gary was gonna kill her; least, I hadn’t asked him to go that far.

  It happened on a Wednesday, the very last week of the holidays. Just after tea, which was something-and-chips from Harry’s; whatever you wanted. So, that lovely holiday smell of vinegar, salt and hot fat on newspaper had filled our house, putting us all in a good mood.

  It was Della who went to the door. She came back to us with a weird look on her face, the one she gave you when she thought you were a pervert or not quite right in the head.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, keeping her face on, looking at Auntie Stella, who had her teeth around a battered sausage. We’d already had lots of jokes about that between her and Dad – Oh, bit of a mouthful you’ve got there, Stel! – with eyes rolling from Ian and Della. I’d started rolling my eyes too when these things happened, although I still wasn’t quite sure what was funny or what was just plain embarrassing.

  ‘Me?’ said Auntie Stella, putting her plate aside.

  ‘Yeah, you,’ Della replied, testing to see if she could use a cheeky tone in front of our Dad when he was preoccupied with fish-in-batter. She could.

  ‘Tony,’ she said, giving Dad a nudge as she got up out of her chair, ‘I’ve got company, do up your fly.’

  As we listened to what happened next, I couldn’t help but smile to myself. The others just looked perplexed, like they couldn’t quite work out what was happening. I knew, of course; Uncle Gary and I had already come to an agreement. Only, he seemed to go a bit further than I’d expected.

  ‘Stella, I was wondering if you would, well…’ Uncle Gary was a bit hesitant, stumbling over his words, building up to a big question. ‘What I’m trying to say is, well, Stella.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Will you m-.’

  That was as far as he got, because Auntie Stella was suddenly gushing, crying and screaming, even though he hadn’t finished his sentence.

  ‘Oh Gary!’ was the general gist of what then came out of her mouth, along with: ‘Oh my God!’ Sometimes mixing it together: ‘Oh my God Gary!’ And her voice went a bit higher, bit shriekier than usual, making us pull faces, as the shrill squeal hit our ear lobes.

  ‘What’s the idiot done now?’ Dad mumbled, eventually coming to his feet, taking steps towards the front where all the action was happening. We followed him.

  Auntie Stella was holding a thin bunch of flowers in one of her hands and had a huge grin across her face. Her teeth caught the light and seemed to sparkle. Like a diamond, I thought to myself, which turned out to be apt.

  ‘We’re getting engaged!’ she announced, still grinning at us, unaware of the paling effect these words had on her doorstep suitor. ‘We’re getting married,’ she added, in case we still had any doubts, tears of joy staining her face with dirty mascara tracks. ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’

  Yes, it is, I thought to myself, looking at Uncle Gary, who looked like he was going to be sick.

  ‘And I’m going to move in too!’ Auntie Stella added - the cherry on the cake - pushing past us with her flowers, heading to Mum and Dad’s room where all her stuff was.

  ‘What? Now?’ asked Dad, stepping back, giving Uncle Gary a nod of approval. I’d expected Dad to be a bit disappointed. But he wasn’t. Maybe we’d got that bit wrong? ‘Super. Be nice to have my bed back.’

  ‘Yes,’ Auntie Stella replied, making her way up the stairs. ‘Why wait?’

  Uncle Gary continued to look grey, as he hovered in our porch.

  Thank you, I mouthed as we all turned to go back in, whilst Auntie Stella packed up her stuff.

  Uncle Gary just nodded.

  ‘He looks a bit shell-shocked,’ Della muttered to Ian.

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’ Ian replied and they both laughed.

  ‘You gonna come in?’ I asked the man of the moment and Uncle Gary finally spoke.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ and with that he seemed to liven up, as if he was just getting used to the announcement.

  ‘Better open some Asti!’ Dad cried from the kitchen, distracting me from this observation. Seconds later, a celebratory pop cracked through the atmosphere.

  Once they were gone, I sat on our front steps, looking down our road. It was getting chilly, summer nearly gone for good again. It was getting darker earlier, too.

  I glanced back inside our porch, looking at the hooks where we hung our coats. Looking at the big gesture Dad had made after making me sick with the stew. Here you go, he’d said to me, handing me a big Millets bag. Just what you needed, eh? It was a new parka coat: navy, metallic blue, with a big fur hood, and plenty of room to grow into. I hadn’t worn it yet. Hadn’t found the right moment to break it in. Just hung it up on my peg in the porch.

  With the chill coming that night, I could have pulled it off the peg and put it on. Zipped it right up, with the hood up, so you could just about see my face behind the circle of fur that surrounded it. But I didn’t. I left it hanging there.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Ian, joining me out the front, wondering where I was, referring to the extra room we now had in our house.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed, still looking down the road, at the now empty space where I’d watched Auntie Stella disappear in Uncle Gary’s Mandarin Cortina, trying not to think about his face when I thanked him.

  Later, much later, I thought back to that day. To one moment in particular. Leaving Justin with Roy and the older boy. You see, it was the start of something; the start of trouble. What if I hadn’t run after Uncle Gary’s car? What if I’d stayed? Guess Auntie Stella might have become our new mum. So, we were saved from that. But something else happened instead. It was like we had swapped one bad thing for another. For something worse.

  Sometimes, I just wanted to take it back. Change what I did. Maybe I got out of the car and went back to Justin after my chat with Uncle Gary? Or maybe I just waited till I got home and asked Ian to show me where Uncle Gary lived on the estate instead? But you couldn’t change some things, could you? You had to live with ho
w things were.

  You couldn’t change what you’d done or what had happened. Just like you couldn’t bring people back from the dead. No matter how much you wanted to.

  Could you?

  5.

  A week later, the summer holidays were over. We were back at school and everyone – kids, teachers, parents in the playground - wanted to hear about Mum.

  Tell us what happened, Scot!

  Is it true the police came round?

  Tell us again, Buckley – tell us how it happened.

  Dad had forgotten about school – about what you needed, about the trip into town a week before it starts to buy new shoes, new uniform, new pants, new socks, and new pencils, pens, rulers and pencil case. Della needed a new calculator this year. Nevertheless, he forgot it all.

  ‘Your Auntie Stella was gonna do that,’ he told us, as if it was nothing to do with him at all. ‘We’ll have to sort you out at the weekend.’

  He’d forgotten about packed lunches too. It’s not that we couldn’t make them ourselves; it’s just there wasn’t very much to go in them.

  ‘Here’s some money for crisps and that,’ he offered when we moaned, his voice heavy with sighs, as if we were expecting far too much.

  So, my trousers were a bit short, my pencils stubby from last year’s sharpening and I had Marmite sandwiches and three Mars Bars for lunch. But that was the least of my worries. The questions were my big concern – they wanted to know; they wanted the detail.

  Is it weird, having no mum?

  Do you get to stay up later?

  Do you miss her?

  Tell us again – how did it happen?

  Yeah, Buckley, tell us what happened!

  Eventually, I answered their questions.

  It was quiet the day it happened.

  No real noises in our house. No music. No Della playing Abba to get up Mum’s nose. No Della, full stop. No Ian. No me, either. We were all out.