by Guy Johnson
Thereon, the party livened up a bit. Auntie Stella got a bit flustered when shoes were walked all over the cream shagpile, and tearful when a bit of dog-shit got trodden in, but people were good about the smoking and food rules. Drink of all kinds made their way round the whole house, but there weren’t many spillages.
‘Just relax,’ I heard Uncle Gary tell her, handing her a glass of something and she’d shrugged, finally giving into the spirit of what a party was supposed to be.
There was something I wanted to do whilst I was there. Something that had been playing on my mind since I’d heard we’d be going to his flat. I just needed to find the right time. I found that moment about an hour after Chrissie and Sharon arrived, when Chrissie started up a drinking game in the lounge. Everyone was quickly drawn in and distracted – Dad and Uncle Gary because they liked to drink, Auntie Stella because she was still fearful of spills and stains. Even Ian and Della seemed curious. So, with almost everyone in the lounge, playing or watching, I slipped away.
My destination was Uncle Gary’s bedroom: the big red room. Once in, I pushed the door to.
‘You gone on queer on us, Gary?’ one of his mates had said earlier in the evening, popping his head round.
‘Looks like a knocking shop in there,’ said another.
‘And how’d you know that, Deano?’ And the ribbing went from Uncle Gary to Deano Jackson, who claimed all innocence amongst jeers and shoves.
But the women liked the room. Chrissie and Sharon Tankard making particular comments.
‘I imagine you keep her happy between those silky sheets, Gary,’ Chrissie had laughed and Sharon had given Uncle Gary a look that made him excuse himself in a hurry.
I liked it too. It was strange, like a made up room – like on a stage or in a pop video. The furniture – wardrobe, chest of drawers, drawers under the bed – were all black, but everything else was shades of red. Curtains were dark red, with writing on them, like the writing we had on the calendar in the kitchen that came from the Chinese takeaway. The carpet was shagpile again, but a very deep red, like dried-up blood. A huge red paper lampshade dangled in the middle of the room, casting a warm, shadowy glow about the room. The bedding was red, too, brighter though, and silky. I lay back on it and felt it wobble, like the mattress was full of water; looking up, I saw myself in the big mirror above his bed, floating on the big silky wave.
So, I thought to myself, this is where it all happens. And then I stopped thinking, trying not to think about that and trying to stay focussed. I had come looking for something and I didn’t have long. Someone was bound to come in sooner or later.
Getting off the bed was more difficult than I thought, but I ended up rolling off and landing on the floor with a thud. For a second, I thought that might be enough to draw someone’s attention, but no one came. I listened: laughter was coming from the lounge; Chrissie’s game was still in full-flow. So, I got on with my job.
I started with his chest of drawers, checking at the top and working my way down. Then I tried the fitted wardrobes, looking at the back, feeling for anything hidden. Nothing. The bedside cabinets produced nothing either, but then I noticed the drawers under the bed.
Tony, I want one of these beds with the drawers underneath. Can’t you get us one of those?
Mum.
I could hear her asking Dad, complaining that she’d run out of places to put things.
They are all the rage.
Dad never did get them for her, but Uncle Gary had them, two drawers on each side. It was here, in the third drawer I opened, that I found what I was looking for.
In a tin. Just like the one Mum had kept all her photos in. An old biscuit tin. At the very bottom, from under all the photographs, I pulled out a white envelope.
‘What the fuck-.’
Uncle Gary was suddenly in the room and moving towards me. Almost leaping towards the tin. I was sick with fright; I hadn’t heard a thing, too engrossed in my illicit task.
‘You shouldn’t be-. Jesus, Scot. Jesus. Shit. You shouldn’t have-.’
I don’t know what I would have seen in his face had I looked in it, but I was instantly sidetracked by Auntie Stella’s appearance in the doorway.
‘Gary, what’s going on in here? What are you doing with Scot?’
She was a bit tipsy, swaying in the doorway, but she sensed something; she knew something was up. I shouldn’t have been in there. But I was and it was obvious I was up to something.
‘What have you got there?’ she asked, peering, about to move in.
I don’t know if a colour can make you feel hot by itself, but the redness of the room seemed to make me sweat, seemed to close in on me, making my heart beat faster and my mouth dry right up. Suddenly, I wondered if I was in danger. What if there was more to these people than I knew? I had a thought she might close the door. No one would have known I was in there; no one would have heard me above the raucous laughter in the lounge. What if she already knew what he’d been up to? What then? Would she help him shut me up? Did she really love him that much? Your meal ticket’s here. That’s what Dad had said and now I got it, looking around. Uncle Gary had money.
‘Gary? What’s going on?’
We were abruptly saved from Auntie Stella and my imagination, as disaster struck elsewhere and created a much needed diversion.
‘Fire!’
‘Shit!’
Auntie Stella and Uncle Gary both dashed out to see which it was - in fact, it turned out to be both.
My little accident in the bathroom’s extra loo had finally been discovered; try as we might, we hadn’t been able to clear it all out of the bum washer. This discovery was thanks to a little fire started by Sharon Tankard: she’d left a sly fag burning on the bathroom windowsill. A draught from an open window had wafted Gary’s lacy net curtains over the hot ash and they were instantly whooshed in flames. Sharon was all denials, whilst Chrissie shooed her daughter out quickly, threatening her with allsorts, but not-bothering-to-apologise-or-clean-up-the-mess – Auntie Stella, once her tears were clear.
The party ended quickly after that, everyone sensing a change in the atmosphere. Plus some of the blokes needed a pee and Auntie Stella had taken over the bathroom, trying to clear-up-what-someone-else-had-left! So, they all left to wee outside somewhere. Auntie Stella knew the mess was me, I could tell, but she couldn’t prove it. Ian offered to help, but she shooed him away, giving us both more daggered looks.
‘Don’t think I haven’t forgotten, young man’ she said, referring to earlier, in the red bedroom. I still wondered how much she’d seen and how much she knew.
We lurked in the hallway for a bit, waiting for Dad, who was in the kitchen, still drinking.
‘Can’t we go?’ I pleaded to Ian, desperate to get out away from Auntie Stella’s glaring, fearful she might say something to Dad. ‘Please.’
He slipped off quickly into the kitchen, emerging seconds later, stuffing a key into the pocket of his jeans.
‘Come on,’ he said, pushing me towards the door. ‘Della, you coming too?’
And so we left – just the three-of-us – with a farewell chorus of that’s-it, just-you-leave-it-all-for-me-to-clear-up and a glare from Uncle Gary that burned into me, even though I looked away.
Sorry, I said in my head. Sorry.
Outside, walking home, we all shared a coke, which Della had taken from the kitchen at the last minute. Getting home, it was weird. Ian unlocking and letting us in. Like we didn’t have any parents anymore.
Like they’d both died.
It made me think back to the summer before. To our last caravan holiday. Mum and Dad and how they were. Mum was gone now and Dad was... Dad was changed. Nothing had changed and yet everything had changed.
‘It’ll be alright,’ Ian said, looking at me, telling what was in my head. ‘Up to bed then,’ he added. Like he was my dad. It should have annoyed me, his being bossy, his being in charge. But it didn’t. Despite everything, I really wished it.
Red Nanny liked my telling of the party. I missed out the bits about the poo and the envelope I’d found, but she enjoyed the drama of the rest. She was fascinated by the description of the flat, and pulled a face at any mention of Auntie Stella, so I went a bit over-the-top with those bits, to get the best laughs.
With my party story finished, I decided it was probably time to leave. You had to stay for a certain amount of time, or it was rude.
‘I’m gonna go Nan,’ I told her, standing quickly and she looked up, smiling.
‘You just give my love to your mother, Sean,’ she said, following me to the door and I left without looking back.
Outside, I was a bit early and there was no Della to meet me.
Geoff was still out the front, raking leaves off his otherwise perfect lawns.
‘He cuts them with a pair of scissors,’ Nan Buckley had once claimed. ‘He’s a perfectionist. It’s that army discipline.’
I’d never seen him do it, though; only ever seen him use one of those whizzing blades on the end of a long stick.
As I waited, he nodded at me, but didn’t say anything to me this time; just carried on with his clearing up.
I looked up and down the street and couldn’t see Della, not even in the distance. So, I quickly popped into the newsagents and spent some of the money I’d earned from the visit – I bought a Look-In and a Sherbet Fountain. I didn’t like the long piece of black liquorice, but I liked the rest of the powdery sweet that filled the yellow tube. I always pulled the black stick out and tipped the sherbet into my mouth, only giving up when the paper tube got soggy and you started to get bits of it on your tongue.
Back out in the street, I looked up and down again: right was the way into town; left was the crematorium end. Heading left, I saw a familiar figure. It wasn’t Della. I checked my watch – it was one of those new digital ones, with the alarm that went off every hour with a pip. Della was ten minutes late. Maybe she had forgotten. I kept watching the figure up ahead. I hadn’t seen her since the day of Mum’s funeral. Something told me she had turned up for a reason.
Even though I’d get into trouble for not waiting and possibly cause all sorts of worry, I left the agreed meeting point just beyond Beverley Courts. I followed Shirley White down the road and onto the wasteland where we were not allowed to go under-any-circumstances-you-hear-me.
The wasteland was a big hilly area, covered in brambles and tall grass, with lots of unseen holes and marshy bits you could get caught up in. It went on forever. Somewhere in the middle – according to Justin, although I’d never found it – there was a sinking mud pit where the crematorium people put the bodies they didn’t have time to burn. I thought of the urn at home that had ashes in it and crossed my fingers.
Once on the waste ground, I lost Shirley, but I had a feeling she’d headed for the crematorium, which was right next door. It took me ten minutes to make my way through the hilly grass, avoiding falling down any holes and hoping I didn’t discover the legendary mud pit of the dead. There was an orchard of trees that separated this ground from the crematorium; no fence, just the trees. When I came across them and entered the crematorium grounds, everything changed. I didn’t find Shirley White.
I found Ian.
I found two other boys too.
I stayed where I was, just hidden in the orchard of trees. Frozen. Petrified. In my heart, I wanted to rush in, tell them to stop, pull them off. But I couldn’t. I was stuck. And I knew – knew I could do no good. I’d just get a beating too. I felt sick. Sick for myself and sick with shame for Ian.
Two of them against one. His attackers were the same age as Ian; sixteen, maybe a bit older. Shaved heads, but I couldn’t see their faces. Ian was up against the wall of the crematorium building, left of the entrance. One stood to the side of him, like a guard, whilst the other was pounding his fists into Ian’s stomach. Punch after punch after punch, coming at him relentlessly, as if from a machine on auto-pilot, not another person.
I wondered, afterwards, if they would ever have stopped, if the lady hadn’t appeared.
There was a house at the very edge of the crematorium and the woman who lived there appeared in her front garden. Either side of her was a row of young children – possibly five or six year olds – in party hats. The boy who was standing guard seemed to notice them watching. He said something to the one punching and the pummelling quickly ceased. Then one of them said something to Ian, like a warning I think, and Ian nodded, as if he had agreed to something. The lady just stayed where she was, flanked by the infant party, until Ian’s attackers drifted off – taking their time, slouching away with a swagger of slow arrogance.
I waited till it was clear and then I moved in. The woman watched me for a second or so – checking if I was gonna lay into him too – but by the time I’d reached him and helped him to his feet, she and her troupe of children had gone back inside, back to their jelly, ice cream and pinning the tail on a donkey.
‘What you doing here?’ Ian managed, wincing.
‘I followed-.’ I stopped, thinking. Should I tell him about Shirley? ‘You. I saw you up ahead.’
He looked at me, working me out.
‘I saw what happened. Sorry. I was scared.’
‘It’s ok.’
And it was. I could tell. He wasn’t cross with me.
‘Don’t follow me again, though. Okay?’
It was an odd request and I wanted to ask why, but I didn’t feel I had the right, so I just agreed.
‘And don’t mention this to Dad or Della, okay? That won’t help. Okay? I’ll sort this. I’ll handle this one.’
As we left - Ian holding his stomach, walking slowly - I realised I wasn’t the only one who had watched the beating. At the entrance, waiting for us, was Justin. He must have followed me. He looked sheepish and went to say something, but I just ignored him. So, he walked behind, following me again, as I made my way home.
‘You not speaking to him, then?’
‘No. He was with Roy and Clint earlier. Been hanging out with them.’
‘Oh.’ Ian seemed to think for a bit, then he spoke again. ‘Looks like he’s trying to hang out with you again at the moment.’
I looked back – Justin was still there, lurking behind us. I turned back, shrugged.
‘You gonna make him wait a bit first, eh?’ There was a smile in Ian’s voice, mixed with his pain.
‘Yeah,’ I said, grinning a bit. Yeah, Justin could pay for his betrayal. It wouldn’t hurt.
When we got back to our house, I went in first, checking if the coast was clear. Dad was still out and music was coming from Della’s room, so she was back from wherever she’d been. No doubt she’d be cross with me for not waiting to meet her, but I was glad I hadn’t. I was glad I’d been able to walk back with Ian.
I signalled to Ian that it was safe and he quickly nipped in, diving straight for the bathroom.
I acted as a sentry, looking out our front room window for any signs of Dad returning. Justin was out there, just across the road, waiting for me to do something, I guess. I knocked on the window and he looked in.
‘See you tomorrow?’ I said, making my mouth movements big, so he could lip-read. He nodded and then walked off.
I looked away from the window for a sec, smiling, glad to have his friendship again. Glad not to have lost that as well. Sorry for your loss. When I looked back, she was there. Across the road, standing just where Justin had been. Shirley White.
She, like Justin, had followed me home.
And, just like Justin, she was gone again in a few seconds, like I’d imagined it.
But I knew I had seen her, and I knew what she wanted me to do. I could just feel it.
‘The right thing,’ I told myself. She wanted me to do the right thing. I stayed there, thinking about Uncle Gary and what I’d found in his room. What I’d slipped in my pocket when he wasn
’t looking.
I told myself and the space left by Shirley that I’d think it over.
8.
Dad got the build up to Christmas wrong, just as he had the return to school.
We didn’t get advent calendars; he forgot about both the Christmas play I was in and Della’s stint singing with the school choir. He nearly forgot the Christmas tree, as well. Luckily, Auntie Stella came round to nosey and pulled him up on that one.
That’s how Auntie Stella got back on side; sort of.
That was the week prior to Christmas. Before that, lots of other stuff happened. More changes.
And we ended up with more loss to be sorry for.
My fault.
You can’t really put the blame on him, Tony.
Dad should have kept an eye on him.
Stay away, ok? You must stay away.
It all started because Dad still wasn’t visiting Nan Buckley, because of Ian and Della having secrets and not coming along, and because of me and Justin deciding to be friends again.
I didn’t say any of that when it happened; I just had to deal with it and accept my loss.
During the first week in December, the Christmas lights went on in town.
The year before, Mum had taken the three of us into town to see them switched on. In the centre of town, where the four main high streets met, they had put up a huge Christmas tree, with a little fence around it so you couldn’t get too close and knock it over. At eighty-thirty, the lights had flickered on and then we had all ooh’d and aah’d and then done a bit of late-night shopping. We’d gone into Boots and Mum had bought Dad a Brut soap-on-a-rope in the shape of a boxing glove, because of Henry Cooper being in the adverts and that. Then we’d gone into Marks and Sparks to get him new pants and hankies. After that, she’d given Ian a couple of quid to take us to the Wimpy, whilst she slipped off to Woollies for never-you-mind.