All She Wants

by Jonathan Harvey

  There was a knock at the door and Our Joey came in looking a little shame-faced.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

  ‘So you should be. You’ve got more faces than the town hall clock.’

  ‘The town hall’s only got one clock.’

  ‘Yeah, and you’ve got more faces than it, coz you’ve got two,’ I countered, desperately trying to make my analogy work. He came and sat on my bed. I moved my feet reluctantly so he could squeeze on.

  ‘It’s just . . . Mum was getting a bit too close to the bone.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘About me. I’m sure she knows, you know.’

  ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘So why does she keep going on about girlfriends?’

  ‘Coz she thinks you’re bloody brilliant, putting your career ahead of them.’

  He stared at the carpet.

  ‘I hate this,’ he said after a while.

  ‘Lying?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then tell them.’

  He looked at me like I was crazy. ‘They’ll kick off. They’ll kick me out. They’ll think it’s not . . .’

  ‘Becoming?’ I suggested. He grinned and nodded, relieved that someone else on this planet understood our parents as well as he did.

  ‘I will tell them. One day.’

  I ducked. He looked confused. I winked. ‘Just ducking them pigs flying across the sky.’

  He slapped my ankles. ‘I will. I’ll tell ‘em. You watch.’

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to. The police told them.

  NINE

  Greg’s cousin, who Hayls copped off with at the barn dance, was called Lotan O’Grady. He’d claimed to have ended up in a wheelchair after playing on the railway lines as a kid and getting himself electrocuted. Whereas most of us thought that made him a bit of a knob, Hayls thought he was some kind of war hero, or the victim of a huge miscarriage of justice. After a few Lambrinis she had even been known to moot the idea of a conspiracy theory about the railway bosses using him to make an example of what happens when children break the rules and go against the state. God love Hayls, ever the political animal, if a slightly misguided one.

  Then one day his mum had told Hayls that Lotan had always been in a wheelchair, so she dumped him because he’d lied to her.

  ‘He can’t always have been in a wheelchair,’ I said, while Hayls cried on my shoulder in the stock lift.

  ‘He has. His Ma said,’ she spluttered between breaks in the tears.

  ‘Well, he can’t have come out of the womb in one,’ I pointed out, which mollified her.

  ‘But why did he lie to me?’ she asked.

  ‘I dunno,’ I said with a shrug.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Debs, ‘he was just trying to sound more interesting.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I ran with this. ‘Like that time you told everyone your aunty was Wincey Willis.’

  Hayls blushed, though it was hard to tell under all that fake tan.

  A week later they were back together. Hayls was very quick to inform everyone that Lotan hadn’t lied through choice, but that society had forced him to lie. None of us minded as Lotan was basically a decent guy.

  Hayls thought he was the bee’s knees and fussed over him like he was a precious newborn baby, treating the wheelchair like an oversized pram. She was forever lifting him out of it onto your couch, then folding it up with two sharp slaps and a kick and moaning about the lack of wheelchair access – even at Sandalan. Honestly, she couldn’t even pop round for a coffee without answering the first ‘How are you?’ with ‘Well, Jodie. I’m fine. But what I’m thinking about is . . . how would Lotan have made it up them stairs?’ It was enough to drive you mad. We lived in a dormer bungalow, for God’s sake! There was one step up from the drive to the front door, and she made it sound like we lived at the top of the Thirty-Nine Steps. (Even mentioning that film could send her into flights of apoplexy. ‘All them stairs?! All them stairs?! What about the poor kids in wheelies?!’) It had to be said, Hayls seemed more obsessed with Lotan’s disability than he was. He seemed to forget he was in a chair most of the time, whereas it was constantly at the forefront of Hayls’s mind, which seemed to embarrass her beloved. She was up on all the disabled jargon, too. God help you if you dared describe Lotan as ‘confined to a wheelchair’, she’d be down on you like a ton of politically correct bricks. ‘Wheelchairs are liberating, Jodie, not confining! GOD!’

  Everything came to a head for Our Joey on the night of Lotan’s twenty-first. We were all meeting in a pub called the Baby Elephant in Woolton Village, whose wheelchair access, Hayls claimed, was second to none. The Baby Elephant had always been our watering hole of choice, ever since school. There were two pubs next door to each other on the high street in Woolton, a big one called the Elephant, which was full of old crumblies banging on about the war, and a smaller more modern one next door called the Baby Elephant. Now I’m not saying they encouraged underage drinking, but the fact that its nickname was Schoolies Corner will give you some idea of its clientele. We knew we should have outgrown the place by now, but Hayls couldn’t get enough of their ramps and low-slung bars. Plus they had a disabled toilet, which Hayls had been known to police, practically glassing anyone with fully working legs who ran the gauntlet of trying to sneak in when she wasn’t looking.

  Debs had been seeing a guy called Alex for ages. He was a bit of a prick, but he was harmless enough, despite being a soldier and thus, as Debs always said salaciously, ‘a trained killer.’ Fortunately, because he was in the army he was hardly ever round, which suited me just fine. I wasn’t a big fan of blokes coming between me, Hayls and Debs, and I’d tried very hard not to overlook the girls in the pursuit of my full-blown love affair with the sex god otherwise known as Greg. Debs was good at keeping our friendship going, mostly because Alex was away a lot ‘on manoeuvres’ or ‘down the NAAFI’, but Hayls was more than happy to drop us in favour of her new cause – sorry, flame – Lotan. In fact, when we did meet up with Hayls she would either bring him with her or, if he was busy, she would come alone and talk about nothing but him. She’d say provocative things like, ‘It wasn’t till I met a paraplegic that I really understood what true love-making means.’ And then be disappointed when Debs and I ignored her and talked about the latest episode of Acacia Avenue. Mind you, she hated Acacia Avenue. ‘Where’s our visibility?’ she’d say. I really think she thought she was disabled, too.

  A small gang of us had gathered at the pub before Hayls and Lotan arrived. I only knew Debs and Alex, but I smiled overenthusiastically at anyone who looked my way as we were all going to be spending a few hours together and I didn’t want anyone thinking I was ‘that moody boot in the corner’. I glanced at my watch as Debs came back with our drinks.

  ‘What time’s your Greg getting here, Jode?’

  ‘He should be here by now, but he was waiting on a lift from one of the guys from work.’

  The pub door swung open and I instinctively looked to see if it was Gorgeous Greg. Instead I saw Lotan approaching and a small cheer went up from our crowd. The door swung shut behind him – no sign of Hayls.

  ‘Where’s Hayls, Lotan?’ Debs shouted out.

  ‘She’s just coming,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I heard it took her ages!’ giggled Debs, just within earshot of me and Alex, who guffawed into his pint.

  ‘She’s just got abit stuck on the ramp,’ explained Lotan, though none of us knew what he meant. As Lotan wheeled himself over we saw the door open again and another wheelchair came in – with Hayls in it. She was dolled up to the nines and looked slightly out of breath. Mine and Debs’ mouths dropped open.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she said fiercely. ‘Never seen a girl in a wheelie before?’

  She pushed herself over to our table.

  ‘But you’re not—’ Debs stopped herself from saying something offensive as Hayls glared. ‘You’re not disabled.’

  Hayls shook her head, sickened. ‘Can�
��t you see what I’m doing, Debs?’

  Debs shrugged. ‘Making a holy show of yourself?’

  Hayls fixed her with a look. ‘I’m challenging society’s preconceptions about disability. Get me a lager and black.’

  ‘Get it yourself,’ Alex butted in. Hayls turned a steely glare on him.

  ‘I’m in a fucking wheelchair.’

  At this point in the evening I really did think the world had stopped making sense. And it didn’t get any easier to fathom from then on in.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ever the peacemaker, ‘I’ll get her a drink. Lager and black you say?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your hearing is there? Unlike me,’ said Hayls. ‘I’ve just found out I’m deaf.’

  ‘So how did you hear what she said?’ asked Alex. It seemed like a completely reasonable question.

  ‘Sorry, can you speak up? And move your lips more?’

  ‘So what, you’re deaf now?’ I said. Hayls nodded her head.

  ‘Deaf and thirsty.’

  I headed to the bar. It took me ages to get served and eventually Debs came and joined me, ostensibly to give me a hand, but really to bitch about Hayls.

  ‘She’s off her head,’ she said.

  ‘I know. I think she’s actually mentally ill or something.’

  ‘Apparently she had a hearing test today. God knows why. And the doctor said she only had ninety-five per cent hearing in her left ear.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘She’ll be parking in disabled bays next.’

  Just then Greg arrived, looking panicky. I wanted to throw my arms around him because a) he was so bloody lovely and b) it showed all the lay-dees in the pub that he was taken. But I didn’t because he was all on edge. He didn’t bother with pleasantries and dove straight in.

  ‘Have you heard about Your Joey?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I phoned yours to see if you wanted a lift, but you’d already left and your ma was having an eppy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your Joey’s been arrested.’

  I felt my innards lurch downwards. ‘What for?’

  ‘Getting up to all sorts on Otterspool Prom.’

  ‘All sorts?’ chipped in Debs. ‘What does all sorts mean?’

  I had a horrible feeling I knew exactly what it meant. I paid for the drinks, made my apologies to Lotan and Hayls – who hissed that I was leaving because I was uncomfortable around cripples or something – and went outside, where we jumped into Greg’s car and sped away. We sat in silence on the journey home. I was dreading what I would find when I got to Sandalan. I knew that most people went to Otterspool Prom for a nice brisk walk, or to sit in its various gardens and watch the brown Mersey floating past, but Our Joey had also told me that some gay men nipped through a hole in the fence that led to the railway lines and got up to . . . well, all sorts.

  When I walked through the front door it felt like stepping into a heavy-going Play for Today from the Seventies. The whole atmosphere of the bungalow had changed. It was as if it had suddenly turned black and white. As I walked in I could tell that Mum was in the through lounge, Dad was in the kitchen and Our Joey was in his room. They might not have been saying anything to each other, but through the silence they were screaming. I could hear Our Joey pacing in his room, I could hear Dad rummaging through drawers in the kitchen and Mum was sitting, catatonic, in the through lounge.

  Greg leaned in to me. ‘I’ll go and check Joeys all right.’

  I nodded – God love him – and he disappeared into the hall.

  Mum didn’t acknowledge my arrival, she just kept staring straight ahead, her eyes on the blank TV.

  ‘I suppose you knew.’ There was so much vitriol in her tone of voice. Like I’d made him gay just to spite them. Like I’d been laughing behind her back all this time.

  ‘Mum?’ I was acting dumb. Something I was very convincing at as I’d had a lot of experience doing it for real.

  ‘I suppose you knew Our Joey is a freak.’

  ‘He’s not a freak.’

  Dad came bombasting in from the kitchen now.

  ‘Oh, and I suppose you think it’s normal to go shagging blokes in the great outdoors?’

  Things must have been bad as Mum didn’t tell him off for saying ‘shagging’. Though she did shiver like someone had rubbed a piece of ice down her back.

  ‘Well, no I don’t,’ I agreed.

  ‘Otterspool Prom!’ cried Mum. ‘We used to take you there for picnics.’ He’d clearly sullied her memory of it for ever.

  ‘What was he actually arrested for?’

  ‘Gross indecency in a public place,’ said Dad, and each syllable was punctuated with his disgust.

  ‘He wasn’t arrested; he was just cautioned. Coz of his age.’

  ‘I mean, Jeez, it’s one thing being a gay; it’s another thing doing it in a frigging park.’ Dad shook his head.

  ‘Malcolm!’ Oh, so she was getting her mojo back. ‘And it’s not a park, is it? It’s a beauty spot!’

  ‘A beauty spot?!’ I laughed involuntarily and she gave me one of her looks. It brought me up short. Time to back-pedal. ‘Well, yes, it is a thing of beauty in . . . spot form.’ God, must do better! Mum sighed.

  ‘Oh well,’ I said, trying to lighten the load, ‘now we know why he’s put his career ahead of girlfriends!’

  Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t make this about you, Jodie.’

  Why shouldn’t I? Just for one moment. Surely she could see that I was fighting Our Joey for the crown of golden child. Surely I’d be allowed some Brownie points now for being . . . well . . . normal!

  ‘The shame of it, Jodie. We had to go to the police station to get him. And he’s completely unapologetic.’

  ‘He did say sorry, Sandra.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t hear him.’

  ‘I mean, he did sound a bit sarky when he said it, like.’

  ‘Poor Joey,’ I said. Whoops, bad move. Mum jolted in her seat like she was in the electric chair.

  ‘Poor Joey? Poor Joey? What about poor us, having to go to the cop shop to fetch him?!’ Mum had been watching too many soaps and had picked up most of her phrases from them. She’d start calling me Treacle or Princess next, like Dirty Den. ‘The shame of it, Jodie. The utter shame. The way they were looking at us. Judging us.’ And she dissolved into tears, pulling a paper hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan and burying her face in it. Dad rubbed her shoulder. It was hardly the most affectionate of moves: he looked like he was rubbing something off a car-seat cover. Just then we heard footsteps coming across the carpet, and suddenly Our Joey was stood in the doorway with a bag over his shoulder. Greg followed behind him.

  ‘Don’t be a knob, Joe,’ Greg was saying. Joe? He called him Joe? I’d not heard that before.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ said Mum, sounding like all the things she hated: common, unbecoming and fishwifeesque.

  ‘As far away from here as possible!’ gasped Our Joey. He sounded like he was in an episode of Dynasty.

  ‘You’ve got nowhere to go,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Haven’t I?’ said Our Joey.

  ‘You’ve brought shame on this family, lad,’ Dad said, pointing at him. It didn’t look like a convincing move. In fact it made him look quite wimpy, even though the conviction of his words was definitely at the vehement end of the scale.

  ‘I can’t help who I am.’

  ‘OTTERSPOOL PROM!’ Mum suddenly shrieked, then cried into her hankie again. Dad rushed to rub her shoulder.

  ‘This is killing your mother.’

  ‘Then I have no choice but to go,’ said Our Joey. Gosh, from Dynasty to a costume drama in one fell swoop. I could tell Mum didn’t want him to go. Mind you, she didn’t want him to stay either.

  ‘It’s the tackiness that gets me, Joey,’ she said. ‘In a beauty spot. With a complete stranger.’

  ‘A beauty spot?’ said Our Joey.

  ‘What happened to the other fella? Was he arrested
as well?’ I asked.

  Joey shook his head. ‘He got off. He legged it quicker than me.’

  Suddenly, from nowhere, Mum said, ‘Greg would you mind taking your trainers off, please? I’ve only just had this carpet cleaned.’

  I knew for a fact she’d not had it cleaned, but when I checked out Greg’s trainees (for the first time that evening) I saw Mum’s point. They were caked in mud, like he’d been walking through a bog. He must have come straight from work and not got changed.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs McGee,’ he said as he bent down to slip them off. Our Joey sighed and rolled his eyes.

  ‘So anyway, like I said, I’m going. So . . . don’t try and stop me.’

  They didn’t. Not because they wanted him to go, but because they just didn’t know what to say. Our Joey scowled, pulled his bag closer to him, then walked out. As the front door slammed, Mum broke down again, gasping to Dad, ‘I’ve lost my baby. I’ve lost my baby boy. I don’t recognize him any more. Who is he, Malcolm? Who is he?’

  ‘Mum!’ I said, losing patience. ‘He’s still your baby boy. He’s still Our Joey. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Everything’s changed! I’ll never have grandkids now!’

  ‘Mum! I’m still here. I’m gonna have about a million kids, so that’s not strictly true, is it?’

  ‘It’s just such a shock.’