by Guy Johnson
You see, not only had I refrained from helping Justin out – I’d also mistakenly let him take a beating that was meant for me.
‘Right, we’re here,’ Ian said, bringing me out of my memory, bringing me back to our family task: visiting Mum.
I looked ahead. At what was right in front of me.
‘Come on,’ Ian encouraged, a hand at my back, pushing me forward.
It wasn’t a particularly cold day for February and I felt warm, almost clammy under my new parka after our walk, but I didn’t take it off. I wanted the comfort and protection it offered. Instead, I unzipped it a little, letting in some cool air, still looking ahead.
‘You did it last time,’ Della piped up, and I glanced at her, and then ahead again, at the building in front of me.
Once we had reached the crematorium, we entered and took the short cut through it, slipping through a hole in the hedge at the very back, taking us to see Mum.
Della was right, but as I stared in front of me - at the building with the bars at every window – I couldn’t help but feel afraid.
‘She won’t bite,’ Ian added, hoping the cliché would help.
Finally, I gave in, and we walked up the gravelled drive to the reception building, where we signed ourselves in.
But it wasn’t Mum’s bite I was afraid of.
It wasn’t her bite that put her in this place.
11.
The day it happened, the day Mum left our everyday lives, was like a huge crescendo. Yes, it was a day in crescendo. It started quiet enough – with a few trips and enough sparks to give it an edge, to make you a little suspicious that something was coming. A storm - a storm was coming, a fierce, seething storm that would whip Mum up and whirl her wretched remains out the door. But that was later in the day; like I said, it just started with a few hints of the bitter weather to come.
Dad was up and out early; busy that day, he had men to see about dogs, cats and the odd giraffe, so he joked.
‘A right old zoo you got going there,’ Mum had commented, as he was leaving, taking several square white boxes from the front room with him.
‘Just tortoises in here,’ he replied, with a grin. Later, being careful not to damage the boxes, I opened one: not a tortoise in sight, just some men’s aftershave and soap sets, with Burt misspelt in gold on the front. Disappointed, I went back up to my room and finished getting ready for the day.
Della had the accident with the hair drier that morning; Mum the encounter with the dishwasher. The dodgy heater from Dontask played its part in the day, too, as the wild tempest reached its climax.
The cries from the women of the house came in quick succession, the end of their sentences overlapping. It started with a puck sound; then all the lights went out and we heard a bloody-hell from Della. Jesus, bugger – from Mum, who slipped up in the kitchen, when the fuse-box blew, and fell into the open dishwasher door. She stopped her fall with outstretched palms, catching one on an upturned knife. Cries of frustration and pain echoed across the house: Bloody hell, how am I going to get my hair dry in time? Jesus, Jesus that hurts! Bloody Dad, buying us cheap crap! Will you stop that moaning, Della, some of us have hurt ourselves! It’s always about you – I’m supposed to meet Shelley on the corner in ten minutes - looking like this!
‘You alright?’ A voice spoke out in the calm - Ian’s.
‘Yes,’ I told him. When the rowing had started, I’d pulled on my old brown parka, zipped it up to the top, the furred hood cutting out some of their bickering.
‘Shall we pop to see Nan in a bit?’ he suggested.
I nodded. Nan Buckley and a plate of Rich Tea biscuits from her cupboard-kitchen was just what I needed. A bit of calm and nonsense-natter, as Nan called it herself.
‘Okay. I’ll just sort the fuse-box first.’
Ten minutes later, with the lights and associated electrics back on – Ian, you’re an angel - we left the house and headed for Beverley Courts. A flustered, damp-haired Della was hot on our heels, joining us at the top of St James Road.
‘Shelley has already gone,’ she moaned, a little out of breath from running, ‘so I might as well join you for a lecture on what it was like in the war.’
We all grinned at that – Nan Buckley did have a lot to say about the war, that was true. And despite our joy at the comment, it was no-laughing-matter, a point Nan stressed on the occasions we got the giggles.
Afterwards, we all went our separate ways: Della into town, Ian back home and me, I snuck off to meet up with Justin at the dump. But, for the next hour we stayed together - the three-of-us plus Nan Buckley.
‘Shall we get her chocolate from the shop?’ I suggested, as we continued on our way, oblivious to what we had left behind, of what would be gone when we returned home.
Back at the house, she thinks about what to do with her day, now the children and her husband are out the way. Cleaning, she thinks, knowing it has to be done, but wanting to put it off, too. Dinner, is her second thought, and it takes her out of the house, down to the shed, where the deep chest freezer is stored. Removing the few items that are on its lid – a damp picnic blanket, several tins of white emulsion – she throws back the lid and a gasp of cold air escapes from the icy chest. Delving in with her good right hand – the left is still sore from the dishwasher incident – she feels her way to the bottom and finds what she is looking for: a packet of beef sausages. They’ll defrost in time, she tells herself, hoping she’s right, as she has nothing else to serve them. She presses the freezer down, creating a paff sound as the seals connect, leaves the shed and makes her way back up to the house.
She gets as far as placing the frozen food on a plate, when she realises she is not alone. She is in the kitchen; he is standing in the doorway that leads to the back room.
‘Jesus!’ she cries, hands going up to her heart in surprise, as if she needs to keep it steady and putting her hands there will help. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Not long.’
‘And how did you get in? You’re not supposed to come here. You know that. You must leave. You need to go now! Now! What if Tony comes back? He’ll be back any minute! And the kids! Jesus, the kids mustn’t see you! You mustn’t see them!’
As she speaks, the storm has begun to rumble. For now, it is just her words, just a rising in her voice, the rhythm picking up, the panic creeping in.
‘I need some money.’
Unlike hers, his voice is calm; cold in fact.
‘I told you last time,’ she replies, trying to keep her voice level, trying to replicate his composed exterior. But it is an effort, and soon she is rushing again, a flood of words gushing out. ‘I told you, I made it clear. I’m not bailing you out again! I can’t! I don’t have any spare money. And if I did, if Tony found out, he’d kill me! So, you have to leave! Get out! I can’t have you here! Get out! Out!’
But he doesn’t move. Stands in the doorway. And he’s grinning. He’s actually grinning; mocking her fury.
A fuse goes. Somewhere inside her. Just for a second, like a switch going off and then back on again. A heart stop. Yes, her heart stops for just a second. On/off. On again.
She checks him. He still has that grin on his face.
‘I don’t know why you are looking so pleased with yourself,’ she tells him, waiting for her switch to go again; she can feel it coming, feel it flickering. ‘You’ve blown it this time. You realise? You should never have come here! So, this is it. This is the last time. I don’t want to see you again! I should never have agreed to see you in the first place! Not after what you did! So, get out! Get out! GET OUT!!!’
She doesn’t know how she gets there, how she makes it forward – maybe it was when her heart stopped again, maybe her mind had blacked out too – but suddenly she is upon him. Shouting, screaming in his face, her hands, including her sore one, are crunched to fists and she is pummelling his chest, unleashing a fury that is alien to her. He laughs throughout the attack, eventually grabbing her wrists a
nd holding her back from him.
The switch flicks again. On/off. On again. She stops, studies him, sees a change. He’s still calm, but the grinning has stopped and his eyes – raspberry-rippled through lack of sleep – are burning into her.
‘Always were a silly bitch, weren’t you? A stupid silly bitch, thinking you were something better than the rest of them. Your husband sells knock off gear out of his own front room, and you still think you’re better than the rest?’
On/off. On again.
‘I don’t,’ she managed, wincing, his grip biting at her thin wrists, feeling herself come and go, flickering.
On/off/on.
‘You don’t what? Don’t have any spare money? Really? Nothing to give? I don’t think so. This place is a small goldmine. How did I get in? Came through the front door the stupid kids failed to lock when they left. Got a good look in the front room on my way. Just had a delivery has he? Plenty of money in those boxes, I’ll bet. Plenty. So, I don’t need your cash – I’ll just help myself to a few goods.’
‘You mustn’t-.’ She tries to intervene, tries to summon her strength again, but it’s as if his vice-like grip is draining her power.
‘Gonna stop me? Really? Don’t see how. A weak, stupid bitch like you? You’ve never been able to stop me in the past! Never! So what makes you think you can stop me now?’
‘Please. Just go, just leave-.’
But he shakes his head, vehemently refusing her request.
‘Too late for that! Haven’t you been listening? It’s too late. Too late for reasoning! Reason isn’t what I need. Left it too late. I need money, you stupid bitch! And if you haven’t got any to give me, then I’ll just have to help myself to Tony’s stuff.’
On/off/on.
Suddenly, she’s on the kitchen floor, has fallen onto the black and red linoleum. He must have pushed her back, sent her flying. But she doesn’t recall. And where is he? Where has he gone?
Her switch goes again, blacking out her consciousness. On/off. On again.
He’s outside, under the lean-to. He’s going through the white boxes Tony has stored there; ripping them open, searching for something of value, something to take. She has to stop him. Tony would kill her if knew… So, she has to stop him.
‘Just stop, just put them back, just-.’
But it’s no good. He’s not listening. And he’s opening more boxes, tearing them apart, creating a mess, creating havoc. And she feels it: the storm. Rising like fury in her, the heat of fear, panic and rage roaring through her veins. Then a thunderclap leaves her senseless, knocks her out.
On/off.
On/off.
On again.
When she comes around, the scene has changed. Everything is a blur. She is slumped again on the kitchen floor. Pain is coming from the back of her head. She feels it with her right hand – her good hand – and then checks her fingers. They are covered in blood. In front of her, she can just make out the dodgy electric heater that Tony had brought home to mend. He hit me with it, she thinks, wondering where he is, what he’s managed to take whilst she’s been unconscious.
Then, just as another wave of oblivion washes over her, a face comes up close to hers and speaks:
‘Everything will be alright,’ it reassures.
On/off.
On.
Off.
I didn’t tell them this in the playground. Didn’t let Roy Fallick or Walter Smith in on this version of events. See, this isn’t the one I preferred. This isn’t the one I wanted to have to live with, it’s just the one I had to live with.
I wanted Nan Buckley back and Mum gone. It would have been better all round, easier to live with. But it wasn’t so - Nan Buckley was dead and Mum was still alive. Just.
Yet Roy and company didn’t need to know that – as far as they were concerned she had died in an accident with domestic goods, albeit they were never certain which one. And if they asked again, if they needed another macabre tale of death to keep them entertained at break-time, I had plenty more stored up. Killer twin-tubs and deathly pressure cookers were waiting in the wings. Just in case.
And as far as I was concerned, it was staying that way: I was keeping her dead. I might have faced up to the truth myself at last, but there was no need to drag others in.
No need at all.
12.
It was a lie that led to us finding out about Della’s secret. A lie she told us on the last Wednesday of the Easter holidays.
Easter had been quiet. I didn’t have Justin as a friend anymore. He spoke to me at school if he had to, but he was sullen. Not just sulking, though – it was darker than that. In silence, something was quietly building up. Come the Easter holidays, I thought he might call on me. He didn’t, though, not once. I didn’t call on him either. I hadn’t known what to expect from him or his siblings. What if he’d told them the truth: about my cowardice, about how the bullies were really after me, because of something Ian had done?
‘Tell Ian we still want that money.’
What money?
I had yet to ask Ian.
It wasn’t just that I was frightened to call round for Justin, to make the first move, or that I was afraid of the Tankard family reception – I was frightened to go out at all on my own. I couldn’t get away with it during term time, but as soon as the holidays came, I hid myself away, avoiding the outside.
As usual, our house was full of boxes. It was always worse in the holidays, particularly if a national celebration like Christmas or Easter was looming. This particular year, Dad and his Dontask colleagues had branched out – the majority of the boxes clogging up our front room had chocolate eggs in them, not electrical goods.
‘It was Gary’s idea, apparently,’ Della told me. We were in the back room, making our way through a damaged egg Dad had reluctantly parted with. ‘Building up his wedding funds.’
Della and Ian had begun speculating that, sooner or later, Uncle Gary would retract his unintended proposal or do a runner. But I knew better: I still had the envelope I’d taken from under his bed. All the time I possessed that, I knew he would keep his promise and ensure our well-meaning aunt was kept from our threshold.
If any doubts remained about the validity of the impending nuptials, they were banished by another announcement.
‘We’ve set a date,’ Auntie Stella announced, as we all sat down to a roast dinner on Easter Sunday.
It was a combined effort from both our houses: Della and Dad had formed an unlikely partnership in our kitchen, preparing the vegetables and Yorkshire puddings; Uncle Gary had cooked the beef in his ultra-modern, built-in oven, delivering it pre-carved; Auntie Stella had supplied a trifle, courtesy of Marks and Sparks.
‘Second weekend in August,’ Uncle Gary added, completing her declaration, smiling. Suddenly, it was the real thing – not just a desperate action on the part of a desperate man.
‘Lovely,’ Dad had added, slightly vacant, like he wasn’t really listening or interested, sounding a bit like Della did sometimes. ‘Ian, pass up them leftover spuds, will you?’
‘And we’ve been discussing bridesmaids,’ Auntie Stella continued and, without anyone saying a further word or really thinking about it, we all looked in one direction: Della’s.
We all held different expressions. Dad raised his eyebrows, surprised, yet there was a twinkle of pride in his eyes. Auntie Stella looked very emotional and I was expecting your-mother-would-be-very-proud to come out of her mouth any second. Gary was smiling, but it was a very neutral smile. Ian, like me, had a huge grin on his face – of the glowing, gloating kind. Della simply looked stunned: eyes wide, nowhere to run. She spoke after what seemed like a year of expressionless silence.
‘Can I choose my own dress?’ she said.
The ring of the front doorbell halted Auntie Stella’s reply: it was Beery Dave with 12 boxes of battery-operated Basil Brushes.
‘You pull on that cord and he says Dirty-Gertie-from-number-30,’ Dave explained, as Dad agreed t
o sell them on his behalf. As Beery Dave piled the boxes in the front room, a succession of muffled boom-boom-booms was set off, like a trigger of dogs barking in a kennels.
‘Don’t ask,’ Dad told us all, coming back, even though we’d heard the entire conversation. In the background, the last of the Basils’ stifled guffaws petered out.
Auntie Stella and Della had managed to agree and arrange everything whilst Dad had done his doorstep business with Dave: they would choose Della’s bridesmaid dress together.
‘Army and Navy. Thursday. You can meet me there at 1:30 – I’ll see if I can get a late lunch. Now, who’s ready for afters?’
Easter Monday was a bit like a normal Sunday: a bit boring. There wasn’t much to do: no shops were open; the swimming pool was closed; and, even if there were places to go, you weren’t supposed to go there with your friends. You were supposed to stay in and be quiet: yeah, like a normal Sunday.
‘You could call on Justin. They don’t mind round there,’ Ian suggested.
I considered saying something; explaining why I couldn’t just go round there anymore. Telling him the full reason, including the threat they had made. ‘Tell Ian we still want that money.’ I still needed to ask him about it, ask him what Justin’s attackers might have meant with their parting shot. But he got in first with another question.
‘Why did you ask me about Shirley White?’ he said. ‘What do you remember?’
So, instead of asking him a question, I answered his. I told him about the memory: of the picnic in the park and Shirley coming and sitting next to Mum on the bench. Only, Ian didn’t seem that interested: it was just an old story, a little glimpse of the past that didn’t mean very much to him. So, I mentioned her being at the dump on the day of Nan Buckley’s funeral, of seeing her near the Poultry Cross that night we went Christmas shopping, and about how she had led me to him, the day he was beaten up at the crematorium.