by John King
Mango smiled.
‘You can’t beat family,’ Ken said, putting his arm around Mango’s neck. ‘Family values, Jimmy. Look after your own and you won’t go far wrong. That’s the problem with this country. Too many selfish bastards only thinking about themselves.’
Mango nodded. His uncle was right. He’d finished his sausage roll and leant forward for a couple of egg sandwiches. Stella had her head on Ken’s shoulder. Mango smiled at Ken and Stella and said he was going outside for some fresh air. Ken asked whether he was okay, because he was very quiet, are you alright son, except Ken was Jimmy’s uncle, not his son. He was fine. Just sad. It was natural enough. Mango went out and sat with his back against the wall, by the door, below a slightly-open window. Someone had put on a CD. Irene always said she wanted music after her funeral. That she didn’t want people to be sad.
‘Irene loved John Lee Hooker. We should put some of his stuff on instead of this rubbish. She was mad about his music. She never could stand Elvis you know.’
‘Strange that. I thought everyone loved Elvis.’
‘Not Irene. John Lee Hooker was her favourite. Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee were up there as well. Muddy Waters and Blind Lemon Jefferson. She loved the blues.’
‘She didn’t like Elvis at all? What about Gene Vincent and Jerry Lee Lewis?’
‘No. None of them. She said it was watered down English folk music. She’d go to a session in an Irish pub if she wanted to listen to native music, but she preferred the blues.’
‘Why do you think that was then? We all liked Elvis when we were young.’
‘Wasn’t black enough.’
‘Elvis wasn’t black at all. He was a white boy. A truck driver who loved his mother and decided to surprise her with a record.’
‘I know Elvis wasn’t black, it’s the voice I was talking about. He sounded black but his face was white. That’s why Irene never liked him.’
‘But if he sounded black then why didn’t she listen to him.’
‘Because he wasn’t black enough. He was copying the originals and Irene didn’t like that. She thought it was wrong nobody would listen to black music unless it was sung by a white boy.’
‘Everyone likes Elvis.’
‘Irene didn’t.’
‘Everyone except Irene then.’
‘Pete didn’t. He hated Elvis.’
‘I don’t remember that. Did he really?’
‘All the kids his age did. The ones who liked punk hated Elvis and the Rolling Stones and the Beatles.’
‘I can understand the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, but Elvis? How could they hate a dead man?’
‘He wasn’t dead then, was he? Not at first anyway. They said he was fat and old and that his money was as bad as how he looked.’
‘That’s a shame. I liked Elvis. Still do in fact. I was playing that Twenty Best collection I got for Christmas last night. You know, I never think of him as being old or fat. I always see him as a good old boy. Some kid in his pick-up truck driving along just minding his own business eating peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches.’
‘I don’t suppose they cared once he died.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Punks.’
‘They died, did they?’
‘I suppose so, or at least the ones with spiky hair, but I mean the punks, or at least some of them, probably wouldn’t have cared about Elvis if he’d been dead at the time, but then he died and they forgot about him I suppose. Now all you see is pictures of Elvis when he was young. It’s like Marilyn Monroe. Once they’re gone, you want to remember them at their best, don’t you? No kid’s going to pay good money for a picture of Elvis with a massive beer gut and side burns. You can go down The George if that’s what you want.’
‘Why do you think Irene liked blues so much then? I always found it too slow.’
‘It was in her blood maybe. I don’t know. Everybody has their own tastes. Human nature. Suppose it would be a bit sad for right now, when I think about it.’
Mango listened to the conversation. He could smell cigarette smoke and hear a pop tune he didn’t recognise. The voices drifted away and he found himself listening to the song. When it stopped there was a lull, the sound of people talking rising up to fill the gap. The music restarted, this time low and respectful. Mood music that was trying to shift everyone sideways. Irene had told her family they should have a party and get pissed when she died. That’s what everyone was going to do.
‘I remember when we were kids. When the school got bombed and Irene was upset about it and started crying. She was the only one who did that you know, because the rest of us were chuffed. She loved her lessons. Especially geography and art.’
The voices had returned.
‘It’s a shame they closed it down, isn’t it?’
‘No they didn’t, they repaired the school. It didn’t take the teachers long to get us back in our classrooms again. They were dedicated.’
‘They closed it last year and shifted the pupils. A cost-cutting measure.’
‘Do you remember when Irene and Ted got married? I’ll never forget that day. She was so drunk by the end of the reception that he had to carry her to the taxi, never mind through the front door. Mind you, Irene did like a drink. She lived life to the full, didn’t she? Always laughing and enjoying herself. Nothing was ever too much trouble.’
‘Salt of the earth, Irene. She had a good run, though sixty-nine’s still a bit young.’
‘At least she lived that long. Some don’t, you know. She’s alright where she’s going. She was a believer. Mind out, here comes Ted.’
‘You two alright?’
‘Fine, Ted, fine. How about yourself?’
‘Bearing up.’
There was a silence and Mango leant his head back straining to hear what was being said.
‘Poor old Irene. She was the best woman ever walked the earth. We had a lot of good times and that’s something to look back on and smile at I suppose. I’ve got lots of memories and everything, but God knows what I’m going to do without her. I can’t believe she’s dead. It’s like this person is with you most of your life and then she’s gone. And there’s nothing you can do about it. I’m going to miss her so much.’
There was another silence and Mango felt awkward. He wanted to move away from the window but was stuck. It wasn’t right sitting there listening to other people’s conversations.
‘Come on Ted. It’s alright. I’ll get you another drink. Come on mate.’
Someone seemed to have turned up the music. Not a lot, but enough. Mango could feel the vibration moving up his spine. The walls of the flat were thin. Right along the nerve endings into his skull. He tried to concentrate on the good and the positive. He thought about his car, the power and the glory of the Jaguar. Named after a wild cat, a killer, fleet of foot and lithe of form. It was the first time he’d made the connection. Of course, the jaguar was covered in fur and had a mind of its own, while his Jag was a brainless machine built to obey orders. Jaguars could shift a bit, because he’d seen wildlife programmes on the telly with all kinds of big cats running down gazelles, or whatever it was they ate.
‘Give her another half hour and I’ll get her up,’ Mango’s dad said. ‘She’s gone back to sleep again. She’s had a bad shock. We all have. Except with her she just goes and gets pissed.’
‘Never mind. Let her sleep.’
Mango couldn’t place the voice. It was a man. That was all he knew. It was the music distorting things.
‘I don’t know what to do sometimes. I mean, the boy’s gone, but there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about Pete. Where he is and whether he’s still alive. Sometimes I think he’ll turn up one day, and the next moment I know there’s no chance. She’s been drinking all these years and it doesn’t do any good. It doesn’t solve anything and she only feels worse the next day.’
‘Maybe she’d drink anyway. You don’t know. Everyone has their crutch. She must get something ou
t of it, otherwise she wouldn’t do it, would she?’
‘I know all that, but it makes her unhappy. The more you have, the more you want.’
There was silence and Mango reckoned the two men had moved away from the window. Maybe he should talk to his dad about Pete. Funny thing was, he’d never really gone into it with the old man. At least not for a good few years. He couldn’t remember. The door opened and Jackie came outside, surprised to see her brother sitting there on his own. She shut the door and lowered herself down next to him. She was average-looking and a bit shabby the way she dressed. Her appearance was okay now, but she needed to take more pride in herself. She wore cheap clothes and cheap perfume. Everything about his sister made Mango think of cheapness.
‘You alright, Jimmy? You’re very quiet. That’s a nice suit you’ve got. Irene liked black suits.’
Poor old Jackie. Working in the baker’s earning three quid an hour.
‘I’ll miss Irene. We used to meet up every Thursday dinner time in The Bull for a drink and a chat. We took turns buying each other sandwiches. She was so happy all the time. Whenever I was feeling miserable she’d cheer me up. Just being around her made you feel better somehow. She never seemed to worry about anything. Not that she didn’t think, but she never let things bother her. She always told me that life was too short. That one day we would all be dead. Now she is.’
Mango had never known Irene and Jackie were close, though she went along with Irene and his mum to the bingo sometimes. He didn’t know a lot about his sisters really. He’d never liked them much. He stopped himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, it was something else. He didn’t know them. At least not as grown-ups. It was his fault. They’d done nothing to him. But he remembered them going on and on when Pete went missing, crying and worrying, while he suffered in silence. They were common as well. He hated the thin walls of the flat and the cheap perfume they wore.
‘Auntie Irene was one of the best. It’s strange how it’s always the good people who die, isn’t it? You’d think it would be the other way round. It’s like Pete. He was a good person, what I can remember about him. Not that he’s dead. I don’t mean that at all, but, well, you know what I mean don’t you? I didn’t mean he’s dead. I know he’s not.’
Mango knew what Jackie meant. She was right as well. Maybe she wasn’t as thick as he’d thought. Just because she worked in a baker’s. Perhaps she enjoyed it. He’d ask her.
‘I always liked baking. Mum will tell you that. It’s fine. They’re good to me there and I can walk to work. I know everyone who comes in and we have a laugh. The pay could be better, but that’s the same for most people. At least I’ve got a job and that’s more than a lot of people can say. You’ve got to be grateful for what you’ve got. There’s no point wishing for things you know you’ll never have.’
It wasn’t the same for her brother. Her poor, hard-working, loaded brother. He knew that the pressure was on and if he messed up one day he’d be out on his ear. There was no generosity at WorldView. There was no real happiness there because you were only as good as your last deal, and there was a balance sheet in operation that once it shifted away from the black spelt trouble. There was no room for passengers because the rewards at the top were good so you didn’t want to fall off and you gave more and more of yourself. Every morning Mango had to haul himself out of bed and get dressed, and drive through the greatest city in the world to the greatest multinational, in his eyes anyway, and the best reward he had (and he almost wanted to grab one of his colleagues and shout it in their face), the best reward was that he’d sent Irene off in a top-of-the-range box and paid for the drink and spread afterwards. It was the first time he’d put decent money into his family, and it was all for a woman who he’d never really known, not properly, not like poor old Jackie who was rich in a way because she got to go down The Bull with her aunt who made her happy. Mango had never known that his chubby aunt with the dyed hair had gone to a school that had been bombed during the war and had grown up liking John Lee Hooker, that old blues man in the beer adverts.
‘I didn’t tell you, Jimmy,’ Jackie was saying, looking away from her brother, then staring into his eyes. ‘I’ve been seeing this bloke for three months and he wants us to get engaged.’
There was a silence. He had never really seen his sister’s eyes properly and they were brilliant blue and sparkled as though made from stained glass, burning with a light that seemed to come from inside her skull. It was frightening. He wanted to look away. Mango thought he should say something, but didn’t know what. Why was she looking at him like that, as though she could read his mind but still wanted approval?
‘What do you think, Jimmy? I mean it’s not a long time, is it, three months, but we get on well and he treats me like I’m special, which I know I’m not. I mean I’m not good-looking and I’m not clever—I don’t think I’m thick, but not really smart. Thing is, he treats me like I’m special and he makes me feel good. That seems like enough for me. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
Mango was confused. Why was she talking like this? Why was she slagging herself off? Why had he never noticed the blue eyes that swamped her clothes and perfume and made a three-quid-an-hour job in the baker’s unimportant? He slagged her and Debbie off in his head, he knew he did, but that was because he was a wanker and those kind of values rubbed off after a while working at WorldView. You couldn’t help but be affected. It was the price you had to pay, selling yourself, a prostitute in an Italian suit. It didn’t mean Jackie had to think like that as well.
‘I mean, yes, I do know. Give it a few more months and see how things go and then, why not? If that’s what you want then get engaged, or don’t waste any time, go and get married now. You don’t have to ask me. What do I know about it?’
‘I just wondered what you thought,’ Jackie said, smiling and holding her brother’s hand, and Mango was so surprised that he didn’t even have time to feel awkward.
Jackie was off on a marathon sprint telling Mango how she’d met Dave when she’d been out in the West End one night with her mates and he’d been very polite and he’d phoned her up and they’d gone to the pictures together and he was very proper and they went out again to a pub in Ladbroke Grove and then for a pizza and he lived in Westbourne Park and was a mechanic and did alright for himself, and everything had gone on from there. They got on fine and he was very respectful and he reminded her a bit of Will because he was thoughtful and kind but not poofy or anything like that, and would you meet him one day? Of course I will, and Jackie threw her arms around Mango and gave him a hug and he felt a tear in his eye but luckily she didn’t see because she was on her feet and going inside saying she was going to tell Dad about Dave now she’d told Jimmy, and Mango felt honoured that he was the first to know. Or at least the first of the two men.
Mango closed his eyes and leant his head back. He dozed a bit, but it was a shallow rest, thinking about his sisters. Family was important. He felt sad and happy at the same time. He was glad Jackie had spoken to him. Pete was gone but Debbie and Jackie remained.
It was getting dark. Mango wondered how long he’d been sitting outside. Nobody bothered him. He thought logically about the girl last night and tried to work out why he’d gone back to King’s Cross. It was far easier picking up the phone and calling for home delivery. The girls were women and in far better shape, though they had a confidence about them that put him off a little, but there again, they weren’t as stroppy. He felt better with call girls because somehow it all seemed more above board and business-like, and they came recommended by the chaps at WorldView. Their bodies were often tanned and usually toned, and the extra he paid for his sex was made up for by the gear they wore. They were clean. The street-walkers were full of disease, but he’d gone back to King’s Cross because the girls made him feel important. His car was better than those of most of the other punters and he could be generous. He was helping put food in their mouths while the call
girls were earning big money and probably servicing far more important clients than the likes of James Wilson. But never again. He was finished with all that. He was second in the Sex Division, but if the proper rules were applied he still had to get off the mark. The others didn’t know so it would never really matter, but in this brief moment of clarity he admitted that it was pretty sad finding himself behind Balti and Harry. They couldn’t even be bothered, not really anyway, preferring to dedicate their attention to the finer things in life.
‘Why don’t you come inside Jimmy?’ his dad said, standing over him. ‘You’ll catch a cold out here. Come in and have something to eat and a proper drink. You’ve been out here on your own for ages.’
‘Alright. I was having a think, that’s all.’
‘You know what they say about too much thinking. It’s not good for your health. Look at me. Never had a thought in my life and it hasn’t done me any harm.’
They both laughed.
‘Here love, fill a plate for Jimmy will you?’
Mango watched Debbie load a paper plate. He was feeling better. It had done him good being on his own.
‘You heard about Jackie’s bloke then?’ his dad asked.
‘Sounds alright.’
‘You think so? Good. That’s what I thought. As long as she’s happy. That’s what’s important.’
‘A bit early to get engaged, but give it a few months and why not? Suppose you’ve got to let yourself go sometimes.’
‘Exactly what I thought. She told me you’d said that. Sound advice. Get him round and see what we think. If he fits the bill fine, if not we’ll sort him out. Only the best is good enough for my daughters.’
Mango saw Jackie and Dave sitting on the Wilson couch, lights dimmed and a spotlight shining into their eyes. The interrogation team wanted to know about Dave’s background. His schooling and certificates. Whether he’d done well at university and served his country. How he would develop the family estates and his views on the encroaching environmental lobby threatening the local hunt. There would have to be blood tests and a line of heredity drawn back at least two hundred years. After all, the Wilsons didn’t want poisoned blood seeping into the family line. They themselves didn’t have certificates, medals, estates, and like every normal human being they hated bloodsports. They had fuck all in fact. But that didn’t mean they lacked breeding. Far from it. They were keen on breeding. At least Mango was.