by Clare Allan
'Trish!' she said. 'You're joking, aren't you?'
'Said she used to work with you,' I said.
'I know she used to work with me! She was a two-faced bitch, as well,' she said. 'I swear to God she slept with Dud.'
'I told her how mad you was,' I said. 'You should of heard me!' I grinned, couldn't help it.
'I'll never get out of here,' she said.
'Course you will!' I said. 'If you want to.'
'What's that s'posed to mean, "If I want"?!' she said.
'If you want,' I said. Do you see what I'm saying; couldn't win!
Poppy kept on about coming round mine. It weren't that I had a problem with having her round, do you know what I'm saying, it's just aside of police and social workers and the man come to put in the pay as you go, and the man took the phone, who I told you about, and the men from the Lease of Life Furniture Project and about twenty doctors and ambulance men, which weren't none of them sociable visits exactly, I weren't used to having company.
I'd give my flat a bit of a Changing Places over the past few months. I'd done the sitting-room walls this pale lilac colour I found in the Woolworths down by Sniff Street Tescos. I never even realised how close it was to the colour of Poppy's kitchen. Or not till I'd started anyway, which I couldn't hardly undo it, could I! I'm like 'Hang about, girl. Ain't you seen this before?' So next night when I gone round I taken a bit, just like dabbed on my inside arm. And when she gone to the toilet I had a quick check. I'm telling you; it could of come from the same fucking tin. Then of course there was all the stuff she'd give me. Like wherever you looked it was all her stuff. Not that there weren't nothing wrong with it, you just couldn't help wondering what she'd think, like if I was copying her or whatever. I don't even know what I'm saying to be honest but I can't describe it no clearer.
The night before she come I done this thing, like imagining I was her in my head and I even gone out in the hallway and that, like shutting the door and then walking in to see what she'd think first impression.
I don't think she noticed to tell you the truth, 'cause either way she said nothing. Just sat at the table drinking her wine, as I stood in the kitchen stirring the pasta, testing bits to check how it was doing.
'Half an hour should be enough, innit,' I said.
'I should think so,' Poppy said.
'I got to make sure it's cooked!' I said. The pasta come from the Turkish shop. I'd lifted it straightforward enough but cooking the stuff was something else; the instructions was all in Turkish. 'Don't want to send you home sick,' I said. 'You won't come back, will you, if I send you home sick!'
'I'm sure I'll be fine,' she said.
'Here,' I said. 'Here, have a top-up,' I said. 'I'll give it another ten minutes just to be safe.'
I needn't of worried; the pasta was good. Poppy said so herself, it was really good. I done it with tuna and salad cream. 'I can do you some more, if you want,' I said. 'It was lovely,' she said. 'But I'm fine, honestly.' 'Don't want to send you home hungry,' I said. Poppy smiled. 'It was great, but I'm fine.'
'Ain't had no one for dinner in ages,' I said. 'You get out of the habit a bit,' I said.
'I know what you mean,' she said. 'Jesus, do I! I haven't seen a friend in months!
'An old friend, I mean,' she said.
'Can I go to the loo?' she said.
'Don't have to ask,' I said. 'Through that door, on the right.'
She was out there for ever. I gone through the kitchen, done the washing-up.
Then I heard her calling. 'N! Is this you?'
'Is what me?' I shouted.
'The picture,' she said.
'What picture,' I said.
'Through here,' she said.
She'd picked up the photo off my bedside table and was stood there looking at it.
'Is it you?' she said.
'It's my mum,' I said.
'The kid,' she said.
'Yeah,' I said. 'Yeah, that's me.'
'Oh look how she's holding you!' she said.
'Is that chocolate?' she said.
'Dunno,' I said.
'Oh look!' she said, laughing. 'It's all over your face!'
She looked at me. 'Oh, N!' she said. 'Come here!' she said, and she give me a hug. 'I'm so sorry,' she said.
'What for?' I said.
She got tears in her eyes. 'Oh, N!' she said.
'S'not your fault, is it!' I said.
When we gone back through, Poppy sat on the sofa. We drunk another bottle of wine. 'What are you doing over Christmas?' said Poppy. The Dorothy Fish always closed Christmas Day, and Boxing as well and Good Friday and Easter. And every bank holiday on top. Seemed like they shut more days than they fucking opened. 'Dud's taking Saffra skiing,' she said. 'Or his parents are; they've booked a chalet. His sister and her husband are going with their little boy, Sholto, same age as Saffra. He goes to Dulwich College,' she said. 'Can you imagine? At seven!'
'Fuckin'ell!' I said.
'Last year we went to my dad's,' she said. 'I said to Natalie, "Never again!" Pam's like "Make yourselves at home. There's tea and coffee in the corner cupboard." I'm like "Oh, thanks, Pam!" Do you know what I'm saying! I've lived in that house all my fucking life, not that you'd recognise it now. That's the first thing she did was clear everything out, like everything; they hired a skip, furniture, carpets, curtains, the lot. Like one of those TV makeover shows, Changing Places, do you know what I'm saying! Like my whole fucking childhood, everything gone, every trace of my mum . . .'
I don't know if Poppy'd got a bit pissed or what. The words come spilling out like they'd overfilled her.
'I just want Saffra to know her grandad,' she said. 'Do you know what I'm saying. But he won't stand up to Pam at all. She's painted the sitting room apricot. He's allergic to fucking apricots! Before that it was lemon and before that pink; she changes it every year. Must be fifteen layers on top of Mum now; she'd paint me and Saff out as well if she could.
'That's why I came to London. I was only sixteen. My mum hadn't even been dead a year. It was all so quick. One minute she's working, then she goes to the doctor and three months later she's dead, do you know what I'm saying! Me and Dad are like, 'What happened? Where did she go?' and Pam saw her chance and stepped into the gap; by the time Dad came to she was there. Every picture of Mum disappeared. She even got rid of the cat. 'She gets asthma,' my Dad said. 'From photos?' I said. He's like, 'Don't put me in the middle, Poppy.' 'You are in the middle,' I said. 'Face facts, I didn't ask her to move in, did I?' 'She's insecure,' he said. 'Give her time.' I think what it was he was scared of being left on his own.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean to go on.'
'S'alright,' I said.
'It's just Christmas,' she said. 'Brings it all up, doesn't it?' she said.
'Dunno,' I said.
'What about you?' she said. 'What happened with your Mum? I mean I know . . .'
'Jumped in front of a train,' I said.
You could tell she was shocked.
'Mill Hill East,' I said.
'How old were you?'
'Twelve.'
'Jesus Christ!' she said.
'Yeah,' I said. 'Know what I'm saying!'
In the end Poppy spent Christmas round mine. We just drunk and watched telly and Poppy rung Saffra. It weren't nothing special, but like I said to her after, 'You know some ways, Poppy, that's the best Christmas Day I've had.'
42. How Tony Balaclava washed his hands
By February Poppy was doing so good, it would of needed a very expert doctor to tell she was putting it on. She taken to boiling the skin off her arms, pouring the water straight out the kettle, dreamily moving the stream up and down, like watering plants, as the skin slid away in sheets. She was pulling her hair out by then as well, not just the odd strand, like huge fucking clumps. Parts of her scalp shown through totally bald like the coat of a mangy dog. You wouldn't of known 'cause she covered it up with this knitted black hat pulled down over her ears and her hair,
what was left of it, hidden, pushed up inside. I never even realised myself she was doing it till I walked in her bedroom one time I was round (I'd gone in to borrow some make-up or something) and I found her in front of the chest of drawers, got this mirror on top you could turn different angles, just stood there with her hat in her hand staring at her reflection. She never noticed I'd come in at first, just stood there gazing back at herself, not happy or sad or surprised or nothing, just totally blank like it weren't her at all, like looking at a poster. I was quite shocked, do you know what I'm saying. 'Steady on, Poppy!' I said to her. 'You'll be Middle High Middle if you go on like this. Or Middle High Low at any rate. No need to overdo it!' I said. I was joking her but she didn't even smile, jumped a foot in the air and her hat back on quicker than it took to say 'Steady'.
'But I've only got until April,' she said. 'My six months is up in April, N. What if I'm still not on MAD money then? What if they kick me out?' she said. 'There are no guarantees; they got rid of Brian!'
'I know,' I said, 'Poppy. I know,' I said. 'But you got to think positive,' I said. 'Look at it this way, Poppy,' I said. 'There ain't hardly nobody left,' I said. 'If you hung in this far, must be doing something right!'
It was true there weren't hardly anyone left who'd been there from the beginning. Banker Bill sat in Brian's chair, Professor McSpiegel taken over from Michael - though Michael taken it pretty well. 'No hard feelings,' he said as he left and shaken McSpiegel's hand. Some weren't even second-floor flops. Curry Bob sat in Candid's chair; Clifton the Poet been and gone and was already back on the seventh. The only originals still left was me, Astrid, Dawn and Sue the Sticks, formerly known as Slasher Sue before she give up self-harming. Omar survived eating pic 'n' mix, used to wind Astrid up something chronic, and Elliot made it through as well, though you wouldn't of known 'cause he stayed in his locker; only opened the door for Poppy, who give him her dinner every day save her having to throw it up.
'Poppy reckons she's going in April,' I said in my one-to-one. 'She ain't though, is she, Tony?' I said.
'I can't discuss Poppy with you,' he said.
'I'm just saying,' I said. 'She ain't ready; that's all.'
'I thought she wanted to leave,' he said.
'Well she does,' I said. 'But like not till she's ready. We all want to leave when we're ready,' I said. 'But she ain't is she, Tony; she's really unwell. I don't like to think if you kicked her out . . .'
Tony didn't answer. He looked like shit. He looked like his skin gone grey in the wash. The rings round his eyes was so dark they looked bruised.
'We all want to leave when we're ready,' I said. Do you know what I'm saying, like Shut the Fuck Up!
Suddenly Tony rung this bell; it was a small brass bell on the floor by his chair. I'd never even noticed it was there till he rung it. 'Tingalingaling' and instantly, I mean instantly like she must of been waiting, in come that Beverly Perfect woman, carrying this silver bowl with a white towel over her arm. She bent down holding out the bowl, bowing her head so her pony-tail stuck up in the air like a yorkshire terrier's topknot. And I seen the bowl was full of water and Tony started washing his hands and he washed them really careful and thorough like a Brian the Butcher job. Then he taken the towel and wiped them dry and draped it back over her arm. And Beverly Perfect stood up straight and turned and was gone as quick as she come, so you'd almost of thought nothing happened at all if it weren't for the splashes on the carpet.
43. How Tony give us a piece of good news and Middle-Class Michael called a crisis meeting
Assessments was changed from once a month to once a fortnight to once a week. We sat in the common room clutching our chairs like sailors clutching the wreck of our ship, never known when the next wave was coming.
Rosetta got sectioned back on the seventh. They herded her down with the flops for her dinner. She worn a MAD nightdress flapped open up the back, shown us her off-white knickers. 'How you doing, Rosetta?' we'd say and she'd shuffle across to say 'hello' and we'd give her fags, even Astrid give her fags.
'Wesley came to see me,' she said. 'Lord knows! He's truggling! "Why did they discharge you?" I said. '"Cause you're well enough to leave! No good weeping and wailing about it; that will just make you feel even worse. You're a good boy," I told him. "Got your whole life ahead. Don't be a fool! You sort yourself!" Lord knows, though! He looked terrible. Not eating, not sleeping, all that business. He'll be back in here before long.' Then one of the seventh-floor nurses would spot her and come and fetch her back into the queue like a cow wandered off from the herd.
Sue the Sticks still seen Verna sometimes. 'But it's just so hard,' she said. 'What do you say? I mean, here's me getting all this support and Verna's got nothing. Ain't right is it? "Least you got your Scrabble, Vern," I said. I mean, what else could I say? But she ain't even doing that no more. Lost the urge, that's how she put it. "So what do you do?" I says to her. And you know what she said? "I bake cakes," she said. I promised I wouldn't say but I got to. "What sort of cakes do you bake?" I said. "Chocolate, Carrot and Lemon Drizzle." Just like that, no hesitation. And you know what she told me? Every morning, every morning, 'cept Sunday when it's closed, she's off down Sniff Street, five-thirty sharp. And you know that twenty-four-hour Tesco, right down the bottom?' 'No,' we said. 'Well, there is one,' said Sue. 'She walks right down there, miles it must be, and she buys all her ingredients, then she carries them all the way back. You know eggs and flour, muscovado sugar, caster sugar, lemons, cocoa heavy, you know; must hurt her hands. Then as soon as she's home it's straight in the kitchen and weighing and measuring and mixing them up; the chocolate then the carrot then the lemon drizzle, always that order, one straight after the other. While they're baking she goes for a run. Up Paradise Park and four times round, twenty-eight minutes exactly. Then she turns them out and leaves them to cool, while she washes the tins and the mixing bowl and the scales and the grater and the jug and stuff, really slow, like taking her time 'cause she can't do nothing till nine. At nine exactly she does the toppings, chocolate fudge with all curls of chocolate and the carrot cake icing with walnuts all round and when she's finished she clears up again, bags the leftover ingredients and takes them out to the rubbish.
'At half-nine, she says, she's allowed a slice. She can choose which cake to take it from but she tells herself after she's ate that slice, she's not allowed nothing more for seven hours. Inside of ten minutes all three cakes have gone and inside of twenty she's chucked them back up and inside of a half hour she's heading back down to Tesco's. Four times a day, she's doing it,' said Sue. 'Can you imagine? Four times a day! Two grand she told me she owes on her card. "Visa!" I said. "What you doing with a Visa?" "Dunno," she said. "They just give it to me." "You got to stop," I says to her. "Cut down at least, maybe three cakes a day." But it's the only thing gets her through, she says. What sort of a life is that!'
Not much of a life is what we reckoned, and the more we heard about the dribblers who'd left the more desperate we was to stay. No one weren't taking no chances now; we madded it up so concerted and thorough the wards looked like Sniff Street compared. Omar overdone it in fact, took all his clothes off in Relaxation, done like this headstand against the wall and sung the National Anthem. He would of gone upstairs Rhona said, if he hadn't recovered hisself so quick and decided her not to tell Tony. He would of gone up and Owen come down that was how close he come to it.
Fat Florence was s'posed to have Faith's empty chair, next to Omar Bombing, but she said she weren't moving so much as a muscle till Second-Floor Paolo been given his rightful and nobody else shouldn't neither. And she sat there besides him day after day, arms folded like huge wings across her chest, staring daggers at Poppy. But it didn't make no difference how evil she looked, weren't nothing compared to the view behind: the whole of London spread out like a giant warning.
So there we all are one afternoon, what's left of us, and the flops down the sides - disgusting they was to be perfectly honest, even Jacko the
Penguin said they made him feel sick, and he'd been a flop till the week before. 'Like vultures,' said Tadpole, 'that's what they are!' 'No self-respect!' said Curry Bob. 'Waiting to pick our bones,' said Tadpole, when suddenly there's this rolling of drums, like seriously, a rolling of drums, like 'Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!' and the double swing-doors swing open wide and three flops jump up start blasting three golden trumpets. Then in comes this man in a dark grey suit, shiny shoes, shirt, tie, everything, and he ain't so much walking as bouncing towards us, like the shit-coloured carpet got springs underneath, and he's beaming all over and rubbing his hands and looking so general pleased with hisself that the flops, who ain't got separate minds of their own, just pick up the mood like plants pick up weather, they all start up clapping and cheering and whooping till he holds up his hands and they all fall silent 'cept Schizo Safid who does this wolf-whistle. 'Thank you, Safid!' the man says, laughing. And it ain't till then, it ain't till he speaks, and even then, do you know what I'm saying, it ain't till then I got to admit what my eyes have been seeing but my brain won't believe, that this Kellogg's Cornflakes Sunshine Man is Tony Balaclava.
The flops all start clapping and cheering again and he raises his arms in a giant 'V'; his hair's different too, not a purdy no more, like all short up the sides and all smooth on the top. 'Everyone!' he goes. 'Everyone! We've just had some wonderful news!
'I've just this second come off the phone to the Ministry for Madness! [loud cheers], I'm thrilled, I'm delighted; above all I'm honoured, to be able to tell you the Dorothy Fish has been shortlisted for Beacon of Excellence status! [cheers, whoops, whistles, stamping of feet] Allow me to read you something!' he said, and he reached a hand in the pocket of his suit, pulled out this leaflet, scanned it a sec then held up a finger. 'Here we are!' he said.' "To be awarded Beacon of Excellence status [cheers, whoops, whistles, stamping of feet] . . . To be awarded Beacon of Excellence status [cheers, whoops, whistles; Tony held up a finger], an institution must consistently offer a standard of service of such a level as to serve as a guide and inspiration to others in the same field. A Beacon of Excellence [cheers, whoops, whistles] . . . A Beacon of Excellence denotes that the said institution has achieved a 'good' or 'very good' service rating in each of the five key target areas of mental-healthcare delivery. [By this time the flops was like hugging each other. Fat Cath sat back gazing at Tony, fanning herself with a blue paper towel as the tears streamed down from her eyes.] Beacons of Excellence enjoy a degree of autonomy. Freed from direct line management by the Ministry for Madness, they are able to vary staff pay and conditions . . . " In other words,' says Tony, slipping the leaflet back in his pocket. 'In other words, thanks to all of you, every single one of you here, the Dorothy Fish has been singled out as one of the highest performing day hospitals in the country! [whoop, whoop, whistle], I'm proud of the service we offer here, I'm proud of my team, their commitment and vision, but most of all I'm proud of our service users! [He started to clap, like slow and deliberate, turning each side, and behind him as well and the flops was going crazy all screaming and stamping and Fag Ash Devine thrown a pair of her knickers] Come on!' shouted Tony. 'Applaud yourselves! [and slowly us dribblers begun to join in] don't clap me; clap each other!' he shouted. 'Go on! Tell each other, "Well done!" [' Well done,' we's all muttering, Well done, well done' under our breath, do you know what I'm saying, never felt like such a fucking arse in my life, but I s'pose with everyone like doing it you stopped being embarrassed after a bit and soon we was shouting across to each other. Well done, N!' shouts Sue the Sticks. 'Well done, Astrid! Well done, Tadpole!' 'Well done you,' shouts Tadpole back. 'Well done, Poppy! Well done, N!' Poppy didn't answer, but I done for us both. 'Well done, Sue the Sticks!' I said. 'Well done, Tadpole! Well done, Professor!' I did, I give Max McSpiegel 'Well done!' And then, and then Astrid turns to me and she holds out her arms, she's got tears in her eyes. 'Oh well done, N!' she says. 'Well done. Oh N, come here,' she says. 'Well done!' and she smothers me up in this massive pink hug. Do you know what I'm saying, proper bury the hatchet time!]'