Hetty: An Angel Avenue Spin-Off

by Sarah Michelle Lynch

  I arrive before her. Figures, though. She has kids and a sodding truckload of paraphernalia to carry around. Her eldest Emily, who’s three, will be in nursery today (fingers crossed). I guess she’ll be bringing along the other drool machine, however.

  When she arrives without airs and graces, I watch her unpack the buggy in a fairly flustered manner. I mean I know I’m family, but she could at least say hi before she hands me her kid, six-month-old Rupert.

  “I am so not happy with you,” she spits, finally.

  I nearly stand up because she keeps pressing her foot to the lever which collapses the buggy but she’s so angry, she can’t concentrate and get it right.

  Oh… she’s pissed at me. Now it all makes sense.

  “Nice to see you too.”

  The kid goes goggle-eyed when he realises he’s been given to me and reaches for my hair, yanking hard.

  “Oww. Rupert. Bad boy.”

  The six-month old shows me a tiny smile and I groan, trying not to smile back.

  While Liza finally folds up the pram which comes complete with an entourage of teddies, I put Rupert on my knee and let him put his podgy fingers around my larger ones.

  Sodding twenty-three and married already. Where does the time go?

  “How’s Gage?” I ask her.

  “Don’t ask me about him. I’m mad with him, too.”

  “What’s he done now?” I try not to sound surprised.

  She’s a madwoman, this one. Five foot nothing and she scares even me, sometimes. I think it’s becoming a mother, brings out the ferociousness in a person.

  “I took Rupert to his swim class last night, gets home… He’s got three mates round, beer cans, everything, pizza boxes. So I chase upstairs, put the baby to bed, and as I’m cleaning up after Rupert’s feed, Gage’s dickhead mate Chaz clocks me with my tit out on his way to the bathroom. And we both know how gross Chaz is. I was furious and screaming, it was a bloody good job Emily was with her granny last night.”

  Chaz is the kind of guy who’s never had a girlfriend but has had numerous encounters otherwise. And also has a massive stash of porn under his bed. He’s the sort of guy you’d love to bust for a bag of weed or something.

  “Ohhhhhhhh. Mummy’s mad.”

  “Yes, I’m mad.”

  “Well I ordered for you, so it’ll be here in a jiffy. Did you hear that Rupey? Mummy’s drink will be here in a jiffy, making it all better.”

  She grinds her teeth, in a state of utter non-negotiability.

  I don’t want to remind her that I warned her about this. I did warn her they were too young and he was too immature. But they were head over heels. And now she’s woken up to a guy who’s happy to let her take all the responsibility.

  “You need to talk to him and tell him exactly how you’re feeling. It’s gonna do you no good bottling it all up.”

  Nice advice. Non-judgy. Quite proud of myself for that.

  She pouts and her round cheeks are still furiously red. She can barely even look at me. I know if she does, she’ll start crying. She’s fighting to keep it together.

  In a squeaky voice, she asks, “Did I make a mistake?”

  Looking down at Rupert who’s chewing hard on a teething toy now, I reply, “This little man could never be called a mistake, nor could Ems, but Gage however, jury’s out sis. He’s surrounded by other single guys. But beyond that, he should know to respect the home he’s building a family inside.”

  Gage is a promising rugby player with Hull FC. He’s built like a rhino, a prop forward. They got together at school when they were seventeen. Liza’s a petite girl but she’s wildly intelligent and very big-chested. I wonder why he wanted to marry her…

  “Saying goodbye to your childhood can’t be easy.”

  She looks at me with such sad eyes. “It’s not. I’ll never not have responsibilities ever again.”

  “But you’ll have your babies.”

  “Yes.” She manages to smile and her pretty face shines almost as much as her brown hair, glinting against the sun streaming in through the windows.

  I used to pick on her because I thought Jules liked Liza better than me. Maybe she did like Liza better. They’re both into books and stuff, which figures. I’ve always been more into sport and clothes. Oh and fags and booze (although I quit fags while I was training for the police). Maybe I’ll start smoking again. Or maybe I’ll keep doing what I do most nights – walk past the bars and passive smoke other people’s unwanted fag smoke.

  “Earth to Hetty!!” Liza calls, and I realise our drinks are here.

  “What the f–” I appear to have ordered the equivalent of cake on speed.

  “I’m trying to lose weight!” she snickers.

  I cover Rupert’s ears. “Fuuuucccck ittt.”

  We dig into our freak shakes. I mean, who knew? I thought they’d be normal…

  She bites her way through donuts and brownies and so many layers, not once asking me about my problems. It’s okay, though. I forgive her baby brain, but more than that, I don’t want to talk about my problems.

  This is who I am. I’m the girl people come to. I’m the one you dump on. I’m the strong one who smiles and makes your day better. And I’m the one who goes home to a house-for-one, with no cat, no messages or cards from a parent waiting for me – nobody to pick me up.

  But that’s all right.

  I decided long ago never to be a victim. I am strong.

  After we’ve each gained ten pounds in pure fat, Liza and me hug it out on the street outside the coffee shop and I watch her walk off with her pram and her kid, who’s now yelling and bawling because he’s tired and grouchy. Mummy needs to get out of the house – but it comes at the expense of taking the kid out of his routine. I do and don’t envy her, besides I’m far from equipped to be a mother.

  A tap on the shoulder makes me turn around.

  “Oh…”

  “Walk with me,” he says, and I see the strain in his face.

  He hustles me towards the community centre nearby and we go inside, straight into his office downstairs.

  Shutting the door, he says, “Take a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  He perches his bum on the edge of the desk, arms folded. A part of me still thinks Jules could have done better than him. World-weary is what I’d describe him as. And a bloody saint.

  I try not to glower but I can’t help it. He looks ready to accuse me.

  “If you’re sure about leaving my employment, I’ve got a letter here outlining your final pay et cetera and a reference should you–”

  “You shouldn’t… didn’t…” I don’t know what to say.

  He’s still got his arms folded. “I’m not an arsehole. I might look like one, but contrary to the façade, I’m really not.”

  Warrick and his jokes…

  He looks like he wants some explanation from me but I don’t have anything good to say. Just excuses…

  “I have a lot to figure out. I had everything riding on it. Everything.”

  “I understand–”

  “No you don’t, Warrick. None of you do. Liza’s got her babies and her shit-for-brains husband. My uni friends more or less all have jobs now. Jobs they wanted. I don’t have anything but me.”

  “Yeah and why is that?”

  “Nobody gets what it’s like to be me, that’s the problem.”

  Warrick tries to stand and move closer, but I back away. I don’t want him in my space. He respects that and perches back on the desk again.

  “What did they say, about why you didn’t get in…?”

  I grimace. “More or less said I’m too creative, something like that.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “I’m underdeveloped as a person. Too academic.” I shake my head. I was in loads of clubs at uni… I bossed the social scene as well as my exams.

  “Here was your first job, right?”

  “True.”

  I never did a paper round. Never did
bar work or shop work. Never had to. Neither did Liza. Her parents have a chain of chip shops and they pay other people to work in them. Her parents fostered me until I was 19.

  “So maybe…?”

  “Already way ahead of you, Warrick.”

  I snatch up the letter and reference from his desk and only catch a few words of what he’s written, but I know he’s done a good recommendation for me.

  “This is kind of you, Warrick.” I’ve always called him Warrick. Rick seems too casual for my liking, too much like what Jules calls him at home.

  “Nah, just the right thing,” he says.

  I stand in the doorway and look over my shoulder. “Thanks for this and for giving me a job. I mean, being your dogsbody wasn’t all it cracked up to be, but…”

  “You don’t need to say–”

  “Hey,” I cut him off, “just allow someone to say thanks.”

  “Okay.” He puts his hands in his pockets.

  “I like you Warrick, but I don’t love you. I don’t know why.”

  He chuckles, hard. “Sorry for stealing her.”

  “S’all right.” I nod in his direction. “Anyway, I’m gonna need a bit of space for a while. But you don’t have to worry. I’ll be okay…”

  “…and you’ll…”

  “Yes, I’ll call if I need anything.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  I smile and catch a glance at his face. He’s smiling too but in his eyes, he looks worried.

  I walk away with tears lodged in my throat.

  I hate him because he’s the only one who sees the real me.

  And he knows I’m flailing.

  SITTING at the kitchen table back home, a blank notepad in front of me, I’m thinking of my next move. I scribble down options, listing them:

  1) Become social worker (did get distinction in degree, top two or three percent).

  2) Get any old job (could become painter and decorator, but will pretty much wreck my knees).

  3) Reapply to police whenever they next recruit; or try other constabulary.

  4) Sleep forever in big bed (rather comfy option).

  5) Go travelling i.e. take a gap year like the rich kids do. (Jules travelled but only because she was running away.)

  6) Become busker (got guitar grade two, that counts right?)

  7) Could sleep forever be listed twice? I think so. Okay, scratch that. Maybe… choose another career?

  8) Become babysitter for Liza while she conquers the world. Also train her caveman husband.

  9) Become guinea pig for science, or something…

  10) Give up pride and go back to work for Warrick.

  The least appealing option to me is the first. I swore I wouldn’t go into social work. Every social worker I meet is either apologising on behalf of their profession, overworked and underpaid, or high on ignorance and medicating on wine (nightly).

  The truth is, I cannot see myself being anything other than a policewoman. It’s what I really, really want. I need it, in fact. So I have to do something that will put me in a better position to get in next time round…

  11) Become a volunteer (have money so will be okay for a while).

  MY SEARCH FOR volunteer work in Hull produced a long list of possibilities. The top of my list was volunteering for the City of Culture 2017 team, standing in the street and giving people info about the various events.

  Now I’m doing it – I’m actually here in the city centre, standing around in a bright-blue, all-weather jacket, freezing my tits off.

  Someone comes up to me, an aged but classy lady. “I’m awfully lost. Can you tell me where Middleton Hall is? I seem to have lost my map.” She doesn’t sound like she’s from round here.

  “It’s at the university madam, would you like some help getting there?”

  “Oh…” She looks consternated. “Is that far?”

  “It’s a few miles. There’s a bus… or plenty of cabs in front of the railway station. That way…” I point, and she nods.

  “I think I’ll do that. I don’t want to miss out on Simon Callow. I follow him everywhere, you know,” she says with superiority.

  “Have a great day.” I wave her off and she seems to get a spring in her step, the closer she gets to her beloved Callow.

  Warrick’s son from his first marriage spots me and comes over, all flushed and acting weird. I have this affect on the opposite sex, it seems.

  “All right,” is his greeting, “what’s going on?”

  “Thought I’d help out.”

  God, this is going to get back to Warrick now, isn’t it? I have to quickly make the conversation all about Joe.

  “How’s university going? First year, aren’t you?”

  “It’s great although people don’t get why I don’t drink. I’m getting some flack for it.”

  I stare at him, bamboozled. Then an old memory returns, reminding me his father had a drink problem, his mother also.

  “Fuck ’em, Joe. As long as you’re happy with what you’re doing.”

  “So…” He shuffles on his feet, hands in his pockets. “What’re you doing later?”

  I laugh at him but he looks upset. “You are cute Joe, but a woman like me, I’m not the woman for you. Besides, what happened to that girlfriend of yours?”

  He’s more than cute, I’ll admit that to myself. He’s drop-dead in a totally understated way, as if he’s Warrick 2.0, an upgrade with younger features and bloody great big dimples that deepen when he smiles that gorgeous grin. Not to mention he has a lot of dark scruff and very long hair, so long he has to tie it back.

  “Didn’t work out.” He shrugs, looking at the floor, all sort of melancholy.

  “I see.”

  “I wasn’t meaning like a date or anything,” he says, still blushing, “just see a film or something.”

  “Your dad would kill me, then kill you, and Jules would probably smear my entrails on the pathways of the Avenues…”

  He laughs raucously, eyeing me when he feels brave enough to. I just dyed my natural ash-blonde hair rainbow blue (matching my outfit). It starts dark blue at the roots, slowly getting brighter until it ends up light-blue at the ends. Notwithstanding this, I get a lot of attention anyway. Not always the right attention.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say slowly, “why don’t I come to one of your student nights out, and we can not drink together, take the heat off you. And if any of them ask why we’re not drinking, I’ll explain with my fists.”

  He chuckles again, his broad chest and shoulders shaking. Shit, have I given him false hope now?

  He looks a lot like Warrick, even has that damned curly hair, but Joe’s more closed up whereas Warrick’s more open about his own foibles. I don’t know him that well but Joe’s… Joe. And I don’t think he could possibly begin to imagine what it’s like to be with a woman like me. He’s young and well, I don’t know… I don’t understand why I’m making a big deal of this inside my head, except, well… maybe I have always sort of fantasised about his hair, which is longer, thicker and darker than his dad’s. Don’t get me wrong, I have never, ever thought about Warrick sexually. But Joe… there’s something that makes him different to his father. I expect that’s because he’s half his mother’s…

  “I’ll text then,” he says, shuffling off.

  “Oi,” I holler, and he turns and looks over his shoulder at me, “you were brave asking me out. I’m just warning you, I’m not your girl Joe. You could do better.”

  He smiles. “We’ll see.”

  I watch after him for a while, before handing out a few more events booklets to people passing by. He’s three or four years younger than me and a baby, in my eyes. He hasn’t known the things I have. God though, he is super cute and buff. So buff. Jules told me Joe was in football training until he decided his route was academia instead.

  I have a couple more hours of this before I get to my next posting of the day, back on the Avenues.

 
IT’S my first time here when I arrive and the two ladies look at me as if I shouldn’t be here. I’ve changed out of my Culture uniform, had some lunch at home, and now I’m here in torn jeans, Prada t-shirt and Doc Martens. “Ladies, you’re expecting me. I’m Hetty.”

  “You’re Hetty?” They look rather shocked. Both are mid-50s no doubt, run ragged by this place, and it appears their wardrobe has been taken right off the racks in here.

  “I’m Hetty. I’m here to help.” God, this had better get me a place in heaven.

  “You’re our lifesaver!” one of them says, leaping forward, “I’m Jan, and she’s Floor.”

  I look at her. “Floor? Like, the floor?”

  She laughs and when she opens her mouth, there’s a Dutch accent. “Very common name where I come from.”

  “I can’t call you floor. Middle name?”

  “No middle name.” She stands, hands together, ankles crossed, very proper and poised.

  “I’ll figure out a better name in time.” I begin parading the shop and they look astonished to see me in their shop. It’s true, I never buy second-hand. Don’t know why. Just… always been able to afford new.

  “Mind if I shift a few things? Nobody can see what you’ve got. And St Patrick’s Day is coming up… all the other shops have window displays in green. Unless you’d rather look ahead to Easter instead?”

  “Be our guest,” Floor says, and I look at her closely. She actually does look like a floor, if that’s possible; her clothes are just as bland. It must be true what they say about people becoming their jobs.

  “I’ve got loads of stuff at home I don’t wear anymore. Since I quit smoking I’m a plump size twelve, although that’s only the butt. The boobs I’m still working on.” I actually am like a lollipop except for this massive ass I have to cart round. Well, it feels massive, anyway.

  Floor bursts out laughing, no doubt she’s very worldly and liberal coming from Holland, but Jan sort of snorts before going into the back, shouting, “Tea, Hetty?”

  “Milk and one sugar, babe.”

  After a moment, Floor summons the courage to ask, “So, why are you here?”

  I give her a sharp look and she takes one step back, seeing something in my eyes.

  “Something fell through for me recently, so I’m just trying to stay busy. Thought I had it all figured out. Turns out I have nothing much figured out at all. I’m a bit lost actually.”