by Guy Johnson
‘We could what?’ I stuttered, my heart beating, knowing it was coming, that moment I’d been dreading. And I was all out of excuses. I’d used all my imagination and efforts in getting myself there, intending to execute a very different plan. And, worst of all, I had insisted we went up to his room. I had encouraged him; there could be little denying it.
‘Quick,’ Justin rushed, hand on his belt buckle as he spoke, ‘before anyone comes in.’ He’d unzipped his navy cords and I could see stripy pants showing through and still there were no excuses coming through my lips. ‘After three – one, two, thr-,’
‘What the fuck?’
Stevie had materialised out of what appeared to be nowhere.
‘You’ve got your nob out!’ he exclaimed, and I realised that Justin had gone ahead with his plan to reveal all. I tried not to look at it, as he quickly covered himself up.
‘Get out of my room!’ Justin cried back, but it was too late. He’d been seen; the damage was done.
‘Urgh, couple of queers in here,’ Stevie shouted, and before you knew it, whilst Justin buckled himself back up, he’d called in other residents to look at what he’d discovered. ‘They both had their todgers out!’ he exaggerated to Sharon and her boyfriend Lee, who had just turned up.
I tried to defend my own position, but no one was listening.
‘Fucking poofs,’ Lee offered to my innocent yet reddened face.
‘Did you touch it?’ Sharon asked and, just as I wondered if I was going to survive this nightmare, someone hollered life-changing words up the stairs:
‘Time to go to Crinky Crunkle’s!’
I was saved.
The Tankard siblings instantly headed down the stairs, Lee following Sharon. For just a few moments, I was by myself in Justin’s room – my window of opportunity had arrived. Without wasting a second to think, I went to the first drawer under his bed and pulled it out. And there it was, easy-as-that, on full display, like he’d not had much chance to hide it properly: rolled up and placed in his Who Shot JR mug, the hundred-and-fifty quid he stole from Nan Buckley’s Jubilee tea caddy.
‘You still up here?’ a voice called, a voice that was coming up the stairs towards me, so I slammed the drawer shut and got to my feet.
It was Chrissie Tankard. She gave me a look that said you’re-up-to-something, but it remained just a look.
‘You coming with us to Crinky’s?’
Crinky Crunkle was the fattest man I had ever seen. He was usually in the pub – the Barley Mow or Checkers being his local haunts – perched on a corner seat, taking up most of it, with a pint of ale on the table in front of him; a table that had to be pushed far forward to make room for Crinky’s enormous gut. He was like a human-sized Humpty-Dumpty; he had no waist or backside – he was just round from the neck down, with hands and feet sticking out, breaking up his planet shape. He wore these big tracksuits and big gold chains around his thick neck and wrists, like he was Jimmy Saville or something. And he smelt funny too, probably on account of it being impossible for him to have a bath. (‘He goes to the car wash once month,’ Justin reckoned, and I believed him, too, as I’d seen him heading towards the one on Oving Road in his custom made electric chair that he was allowed to drive on the pavement.)
‘Marmite,’ I’d concluded once, telling Ian. ‘He smells of marmite.’
‘Shush, you’ll be heard,’ he had told me, but he had listened, because from then on we stuck to jam on our toast.
Crinky Crunkle was somehow attached to the Tankards. He wasn’t a direct relative and he didn’t appear to work for Adrian Tankard or anything, because he couldn’t work. It wasn’t even like he bought Adrian pints or babysat for Chrissie, as he didn’t have any money and Chrissie couldn’t-leave-the-kids-with-him-as-they-didn’t-feel-safe, respectively. I overheard the latter comment one day at the pub, when both our families were there together; a rare occasion that Mum had strongly objected to and was only attending under-great-sufferance. So, I asked why – what was so dangerous about Crinky? I got a few looks from the adults, who in turn looked at each other, wondering how they were going to respond.
‘Is it in case he sits on one of them, squashes them?’ I offered as their silence continued.
‘Yes,’ Chrissie had confirmed, her shoulders starting to go, along with Dad’s and Adrian’s.
Mum had her face on that wondered what you were all laughing at.
That Boxing Day, Chrissie was attending with her children, so I guessed it was alright – she’d ensure no one was squashed, I was certain. Yellow Nanny came along as well.
Crinky didn’t live far from the Tankard house. We cut across the green to the left of their house, past the post where Tina Tankard was hanging out.
‘Prozzie!’ Justin called her, as we went by, thinking he was funny.
‘Justin!’ Chrissie scolded him, giving Tina a wink. ‘Watch your tongue, young man.’ I could feel the hard slap as her hand smacked against his arm. ‘And you’ll behave in company, too.’
Stevie-the-little-shit grinned and stuck his tongue out at Justin, glad he wasn’t the focus of Chrissie’s chiding for once.
‘And you can watch it too, you little sod,’ she barked, accompanying this with a second slap that struck the back of Stevie’s head.
Once we were across the green, it was a five-minute walk down Church Lane and then, sandwiched between the cemetery and the local dump, was Crinky Crunkle’s bungalow.
Rumour was that the dump used to be a housing estate, but it had been knocked down, as the ground was all marshy and not good for building on, but on the day they had demolished them, Crinky hadn’t been able to get himself out of his chair in his sitting room. So the demolition men had simply left his place where it was. Justin told me that Crinky’s house had something called subsidence and that eventually it would sink below the ground, taking Crinky with it.
‘Unless he’s at the pub,’ I’d proposed and Justin had agreed, and then we had debated whether the pub might sink too, given how much time Crinky’s colossal bottom spent weighing down that corner seat.
Standing outside Crinky’s house, I couldn’t see any evidence of it sinking so far, but I did wonder if it was safe, what with me and the entire Tankard clan adding to the total pressure on the foundations.
‘Come on then,’ Chrissie uttered, ushering me in, giving me no choice, and we opened the widest front door I’ve ever seen and entered Crinky Crunkle’s house.
Inside, it seemed very small compared to the outside, like the opposite of a Tardis. But that could have been the amount of people inside, or maybe just because Crinky was taking up a family’s worth of space. Or maybe it was the clutter. There was stuff everywhere.
Crinky’s bungalow had six rooms that came off a central hallway: a lounge that led into a dining room on the left, a kitchen and a bathroom on the right, with two rooms at the back, which I guessed were bedrooms. We were led into the lounge, which had a concertina door leading to the dining room. The door was folded right back, making more space, but still it felt crowded.
My eyes gazed around the room, trying to take it all in. The wallpaper in the lounge was stripy – green and cream, with thin gold strips in between. It was smothered in plates. Posh plates. The kind your nan might have, or the sort that you could get for special occasions, ordered from magazines, with foxes or the Queen on them. Looking into the dining room, you could see that he’d had to start putting them on that wall too, as he ran out of space. It wasn’t just the walls that were busy – there wasn’t much space on the floor, either. There were two sofas, one of which Crinky occupied, his feet each resting on a footstool. There was a coffee table in the centre of the room and two more chairs. And there were newspapers and magazines too; stacked in piles between the furniture, or shoved underneath. In one corner there was a book cabinet, with glass doors, but instead of books Crinky had shoved more newspapers in there.
Justin read my stare.
‘Don’t throw nothing out,’ he sa
id to me. ‘You should see the bedrooms and the garden. Full of stuff.’
‘Come on, move on in,’ Chrissie Tankard was telling me before I could reply to her son, pushing me a little further into the room and somehow we all fitted in: the Tankards, Yellow Nanny, Lee-the-boyfriend and me. And Crinky Crunkle. And all I wanted to do was sneak out, sneak back to the Tankards’ house, which I knew had a dodgy backdoor, and get Nan Buckley’s money back for her. But I was crammed in on all sides by sofas, newspapers and Tankards, with no escape route.
‘You alright, Scotty?’
It was Crinky Crunkle himself, addressing me, and I noticed the whiff of Marmite coming off him. He was gazing at me in a strange way; giving me a long, almost creepy look that made me feel uncomfortable. Couldn’t-leave-the-kids-with-him-as-they-didn’t-feel-safe flashed in my head.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he said, an air of sympathy in his tone, still staring. ‘And have you visited your mother this Christmas?’
I sensed that everyone had stopped breathing.
‘I’m going later,’ I told him, thinking that I really should. But after I’d got the money back.
‘Well, you say hello from old Crinky,’ he said and Chrissie looked at him like he’s mad. But I got it and I couldn’t help but smile.
‘I will. I’ll tell her you said hi.’
And finally he broke his gaze.
‘Right,’ Chrissie cut in, pushing me just that bit further in, ‘how about we have a drink. What you got in your cabinet, Dicky?’
And just as I wondered who this Dicky was, Crinky solved the small mystery by speaking.
‘Oh, well, just you have a look out the back. I’ve got all sorts in.’
Crinky was referring to the dining room and we were all encouraged to move on out there. It was as equally as cluttered - newspapers piled so high under a dining table that one of the legs was off the floor – but you kind of got used to it. As well as drinks, there was food laid out – not a proper spread with homemade cakes and sandwiches, but there were crisps, chocolate bars and peanuts. With Crinky’s size, it was probably the best effort he could make. I had a few peanuts, but was still distracted with making my escape. The Tankards were only intending on staying for an hour.
‘It gets crowded after a bit,’ Sharon understated, sharing a packet of crisps with Lee-the-boyfriend.
‘You really queers then?’ Lee asked me between open-mouthed crunches.
‘No,’ Justin sulked, keen, I could tell, for us all to forget the incident, particularly me.
‘You kids hogging the nuts?’ Chrissie asked, and we all laughed, seeing the joke in her timing, apart from Justin, who just pulled a face.
My opportunity to slip away came five minutes later, when Crinky announced it was time for presents. We had to move back into the lounge area and I put myself in the doorway, as near to the front door as possible. Crinky had a big bag of presents, which he somehow dragged into the middle of the room, without even getting up.
‘One at a time,’ he instructed, but the Tankard kids didn’t listen, and delved straight in, ripping paper off in seconds.
With no one watching me, I stepped back, silently opened the door and made my escape. Once I got to the end of the path, I crouched down until I had cleared the white picket fence that enclosed his front garden. Then I ran – past the church, across the green, past Tina, along the side alley of their house, pushing open the dodgy back door and not stopping till I was back in Justin’s bedroom. I pulled open the drawer under his bed, took the cash from the Who Shot JR mug, pushed the drawer back and stood up to leave, stuffing the money into the pockets on my jeans.
Then I heard three words that made my skin jump.
‘Justin, that you?’
For a second, I froze. Not knowing what to do. I hadn’t accounted for Adrian Tankard. Had just assumed he was out working for Dontask. (They expected you to work on Christmas some years, Dad could vouch for that.) Yet, there he was, sleeping off his lunch and booze session. But I couldn’t afford to stay frozen for long: the others would be back soon.
‘My piss pot needs emptying lad,’ he mumbled, and I remembered that Justin’s dad had an old fashioned china pot under his bed, to save him having go downstairs when he was desperate for the loo. ‘Boy? You there?’
I was terrified. I had broken in and was stealing from his house, after all. How would I explain that? And I knew what he was like; knew how Adrian Tankard operated. I’d seen his temper rise and charge like a rhino, battering his intended prey in seconds. I’d seen Justin and Stevie’s bruises the morning after a thrashing, so I knew he wasn’t someone to mess with.
I trod carefully back out onto the landing, onto the staircase, praying I wouldn’t make any more noise. But a floorboard creaked. And he saw me – laying in his bed, he turned, looked out through his open doorway and saw me on the turn in the stairs.
‘You?’
I don’t know what stopped me running, what kept me where I was, glued to the spot, but something did. And something opened my mouth for me and pushed a few words out.
‘I’ve come back for my Nan’s money. Justin was looking after it.’
And all he did was nod at me. Like it was okay. And that nod worked like a trigger, because all of a sudden I was running, jumping the last steps and out their back door, over the wall at the end, taking the back-route, and on my way to my next destination, not looking back once.
When I get home, Dad takes the money off me and goes out. I’m not allowed to go with him. And then he’s back again. So I know that’s it – he didn’t get to see her, he simply had time to hand over the money. And we won’t be allowed to see Nan Buckley anymore. He brought something back with him that confirmed it – the photograph of Mum that I gave her.
‘You have to stay away,’ Ian tells me, when Dad refuses to even talk about it anymore.
‘But I-.’
‘No, Scotty. You have to let it go. You have to let her go, like the rest of us have. You have to promise.’
I look to the floor, not wanting to answer, not wanting to commit to Ian’s request.
‘There are other ways to deal with this.’
I look up.
‘You can still talk to her. Nan Buckley’s still listening.’
‘Really?’
‘What do you think me and Della do on our visits?’
I shrug – I hadn’t really thought about it before. I think something over before I speak again.
‘Can we go now?’ I eventually ask.
Within ten minutes, we are all ready.
The three-of-us.
Ian, me, and Della.
Ian tells Dad where we are going and he simply nods in recognition – but he doesn’t want to join us.
‘Just make sure he stays out of trouble,’ Dad refers to me.
‘Will do,’ Ian confirms.
So we leave. In my stomach, I feel sick. Suddenly, I’m not sure I can face a visit after all, but Ian’s hand is on my shoulder, guiding me out of the door, along our road, left at the top into St James Road, guiding me all the way along the end. Then I dig in my heels, don’t budge.
‘Come on, Scotty,’ Ian says quietly.
But I’m looking right, up towards Beverly Courts, looking towards Red Nanny’s little flat, wanting to visit that version of the nan I loved.
‘You can’t,’ Ian says, reading my face and getting into my mind.
‘Come on, it’s cold,’ Della expels, impatience in her voice.
‘Della-.’
But it’s enough to get me to move – having Della back on side is important to me. So we go right, instead of the usual left and I don’t really feel a thing until we are there.
In the crematorium, Nan Buckley isn’t an old lady who paints her nails red and refers to my Dad as Anthony. She’s a little rose bush, or at least she will be when she grows a bit in the spring. We know it’s her because there’s a little plaque in front of her telling us
.
‘What was she like?’ Della.
‘Who?’ I say, pretending I don’t know, but Della just gives me a look.
I shrug, as I find the right words.
‘Nice,’ I say, thinking of my pretend Nan Buckley, back in her flat; the flat that used to belong to our Nan Buckley. And part of me curses Justin for nicking the money and messing it up; but another part of me is glad to be here, with Ian and Della, being the three-of-us, being a bit more honest.
For once.
‘I’ve brought something for you,’ I say to Rose-Bush Nan, taking something out from inside my coat and using the plaque to prop it up. Still inside the small Woolworth’s bag, I leave her the copy of ‘There’s No one Quite like Grandma’ I’d bought.
Ian and Della don’t quite know what to think, I can tell. I try to give them a don’t-ask look, and it must work, because they don’t.
‘Right,’ says Ian, eventually. ‘Whilst we are here...’
And they are both looking at me, and realise this isn’t just about visiting Nan Buckley’s rose.
They have something else in mind. Someone else to visit.
I shake my head.
‘No.’
‘Scotty.’
‘No,’ I repeat, feeling hot tears trickle down my face, tasting them on my lips, warming my face in the winter cold.
‘Come on.’ It’s Della this time, using the new hold she has on me again. ‘It’ll do you good.’
I look at her and then I look at Ian. Then I slowly nod, giving in, my body feeling like a concrete weight, wishing I still had my old, falling-apart parka to hide in, to protect me, as they both lead me towards the one place I’ve been resisting more than any other…
9.
She had been getting ready all day. Not on the outside, just on the inside. Just in her head. Feeling it all the way through her body. Feeling it all day whilst her kids were at school, her husband at...