by Paris Lees
I showed Mr Gallagher ma letter an’ he asked me how old Mammar Joe is. When I told ’im she’s fifty-two he went, “Fifty-two! When’s she comin’ to visit?” He’s sixty-four. ’Is wife died ten years ago. I actually wun’t mind Mr Gallagher as a step-grandad, but I reckon Mammar Joe’s had enough trouble wi’ men as it is. Uncle Andy an’ Uncle Roger, for starters. I mean honestly, as if one alcoholic weren’t enough. Then there’s Bernard. ’Er other brother. Died in a car crash. It worra twenty-first birthday present. She’s gorra picture of ’im standin’ next to it, big smile an’ hair all slicked back, car freshly polished. He looked so pleased with ’issen. Mammar Joe would never have a favourite brother or sister, but if she did I reckon it may well have bin ’im. She sez only the good get taken young, an’ only the wicked grow old. “So that bastard’ll probably live to be a ’undred.” She only swears when she’s talkin’ about Aunty Ray’s dad.
Mam an’ Aunty Ray are half-sisters. Like me an’ ma brother, Jordan. Except we share a dad. Aunty Ray still lives with ’er dad. Mammar Joe lives on a council estate. I wish I could buy ’er a nice house. Ya need to give ’em a suitable address before ya can even be considered for HDC, so she sez I can come an’ live with ’er when I gerrout. She likes lookin’ after me. We always have a cuppa an’ a cuddle. Mammar Joe loves bein’ cosy. Bein’ cosy an’ biscuits.
I feel bad about upsettin’ ’er coz I know how much she worries about me. She stays up all night when I go out. She just sits there rockin’ backwards an’ forwards on the futon, smokin’ roll-ups. She loves watchin’ old films on Channel 5. When Gaz said I cun’ go to actin’ lessons – ya can guess why – she signed the consent form an’ took me anyway. She sez, “Yer alright wi’ me, duck.” She’s never minded me dressin’ up or owt. She sez, “I just want you, ya mother an’ Aunty Ray to be alright. That’s all I’m bothered about.” I know what she means now.
Tell Me It’s Real
“If yer not back by seven on the dot, we’ll find ya an’ take ya back to prison. If ya tamper wi’ the tag or the box in any way, we’ll find ya an’ take ya back to prison. If ya get in any trouble – if ya so much as get a warnin’ from the police – we’ll find out, find ya, an’ take ya back to prison. So what are ya gonna do?” I sez, “I’m gonna be good as gold an’ be back by seven every day.” He sez, “Ya better be, if ya know what’s good for ya.” The tag’s linked to a box they’ve attached to the wall by the front door at Mammar Joe’s. Mam wanted to meet me at the prison gates, but I just wanted to be on ma own. Everyone had bin sayin’, “Just think how good yer gonna feel” an’ I did, but I were sad too coz I just wish it’d never happened in the first place.
I feel like everythin’s changed while I’ve bin away. Everyone’s obsessed wi’ R ’n’ B an’ hip hop now. No one listens to trance any more.
Tell ya summat though, next door don’t say nowt to me now they know I’ve bin inside. They don’t dare! I’m queen o’ this fuckin’ council estate now. There’s only one room at Mammar Joe’s, wi’ two wooden beds an’ a set of drawers between ’em. Mammar’s gorra bookshelf full of faded novels from the eighties on ’er side that Mam sez she should chuck coz she never reads ’em. One of ’em shows a woman on a pirate ship bein’ kissed by a man wi’ no top on. It’s called Seaswept Abandon. Other titles include Betray Not My Passion an’ The Vixen’s Revenge, which does look quite good, actually. But why would Mammar Joe wanna read owt like that?
I don’t think she’s bothered about sex. Well, I know she had me mam an’ Aunty Ray, but she’s definitely not done owt like that since i’ve bin alive. I ask ’er why she don’t get a fella sometimes an’ she guz, “I can’t be doin’ with all that. I’ve got enough problems, duck.” Poor old Mr Gallagher’ll be disappointed! I reckon she likes a flirt when she guz down the Constitutional, though. Everyone knows ’er there coz she used to work behind the bar. She guz every Friday an’ drinks lager. Mam sez that’s common. She don’t come round to Old Mother ’ubbard’s very often coz she sez it’s scruffy, an’ she lives in a nice house wi’ Bobby now. They’re gerrin married.
I don’t understand how Old Mother ’ubbard don’t wake ’ersen up sometimes. I have to shout an’ tell ’er to turn over every night! I can’t relax hearin’ ’er strugglin’ to breathe like that, it sounds like she’s gonna choke. People are so vulnerable when they’re asleep, aren’t they? It just makes ya realize how we’re just bits of flesh really. Organized meat. I lie there an’ think about ’er heart, an’ how it’s bin in ’er chest, beatin’ continuously for over fifty years. That’s longer than I’ve bin alive – longer than Mam’s bin alive! An’ how it won’t pump for ever. It makes me dead sad coz I don’t know what I’d do without’ Mammar Joe. I don’t even like thinkin’ about it.
She got me a wardrobe from IKEA while I were away an’ Aunty Ray gorrit all set up for me for when I come out. It takes up a bit of space but it’s good coz I can fit everythin’ in it. I’ve told ’er not to go through ma stuff any more though, coz she found some rude poems me an’ Lady Die wrote an’ guz, “Look, I’ve got summat to ask ya. Ya an’t got that HIV, have ya?” I sez, “Don’t go readin’ ma stuff, that’s our sense of humour.” But she worries.
Mam sez that when she were little Mammar Joe used to wake ’er up an’ take ’er out in the middle o’ the night. Apparently ya could buy fags from machines in the street back then so she’d put Aunty Ray in the pram an’ take ’em all to the phone box an’ call Mammar Molly. Mammar Molly was ma great-grandma. She died when I were little. Mammar Joe would leave Aunty Ray in the pram outside, but Mam had to go in the booth with ’er an’ she’d hear ’er tellin’ Mammar Molly that she thought ’er heart was just gonna stop beatin’. It used to really upset me mam coz she thought Mammar Joe were gonna drop dead an’ she’d just be left there.
Mam sez she should’ve bin in bed. She must’ve only bin about five or six if Aunty Ray was in a pram. But she used to take me out in the middle o’ the night to wait for Gaz to come back from the pub to catch ’im with other women. I remember ’er doin’ up the buttons on ma duffle coat one winter an’ seein’ the steam on ma breath. Mammar Joe’s still got bad nerves, she’s always sayin’, “God, gimme strength!” or “I’m abaht ready for a Valium, I am.” Apparently it calms ya down. They were dead poor when she were growin’ up. She’s got about ten brothers an’ sisters an’ apparently Mammar Molly used to make angel cake an’ cut it so thin “ya could read the paper through it”. Mammar Joe asked where ’er pet rabbit was once an’ they were eatin’ it. They’d put it in a stew.
She did it again yesterday. She sez, “I’ve found summat.” I could hear she were worried. “Is it heroin? I know it’s drugs.” She’d found ma hash. Silly old Mammar! I sez, “It’s like cannabis, ya must have heard o’ that. That not hurt nowt.” She guz, “Hash! What does that do?” I sez, “It calms ya down.” Well, she seemed to like the sound o’ that. She guz, “Ya don’t inject it, do ya?” I explain that ya just sprinkle it wi’ some tobacco an’ smoke it. She guz, “Like a roll-up?” So I sez, “Yeah. Ya can try some if ya like.” She guz, “Ner! I’m not tekkin’ bleddy drugs!” I sez, “It’s probably better than that baccy substitute Aunty Ray got ya from Holland & Barrett.”
She’s smoked since she was twelve. Uncle Andy sez when she were fourteen she took a pin an’ stuck it through the nub of a roll-up someone had thrown away to get the final puffs out of it. She liked the Beatles back then. I sez, “Mammar, you’ve had stronger cups of tea.” An’ I bet she has, coz she’s a right tea-belly, Old Mother ’ubbard. I make a roll-up an’ sprinkle a bit in. Literally the lightest dustin’ you’ve ever seen. I’ve had thicker layers of pepper on scrambled eggs.
I go first, then hand it to ’er. She guz, “Are ya sure this in’t that heroin? Coz they smoke that, don’t they?” I sez, “Maybe they do, but I’m hardly gonna gi’ ma Mammar heroin am I?” So she takes it off me an’ holds it up to the light to inspect it. I’m half expectin’ ’er to jump up
an’ flush it down the loo, but then she puts it up to ’er lips an’ takes a lil’ puff. She holds it in for a second an’ then breathes out. “Oh dear,” she guz. “I feel a bit funny.” Obviously I’ve burst out laughin’ at this point. She hands it back to me an’ sez, “Go on, that’s the end of it now. Just promise me you’ll never take that heroin. It ruins people’s lives.” I promise ’er, although I’ve always wanted to try it. Coz she’s right, people do ruin their lives for it. It must be brilliant.
One More Time
Guess who’s gone an’ got their curfew extended? I’m good, aren’t I? Told probation I wanna go back to work at Robin Hood Resorts, so they phoned Stella up. She told ’em I’m a “valued employee” an’ can’t wait to have me back. An’ they know I’ve bin goin’ to college coz they spoke to ma tutor. I sez, “Look, I just wanna get ma life back on track. I’ve got college in the day, an’ I’d really appreciate any help ya can offer.” You’d think they’d be pleased. I know a lad who were let out on a Friday an’ were back in again by Monday. They din’t even put anyone in ’is cell. Forty-eight hours. They may as well have left ’is sheets on. This woman at probation seemed impressed wi’ me though, so she went off an’ made ’er calls, an’ they’ve done it! They’ve actually agreed to it. So I don’t have to come back till nine now. The shift’s usually six till nine, but Stella’s lettin’ me do five till eight, so I’ve got time to get the bus back. Nine o’clock! That’s not bad, is it? They don’t do that for everyone, ya know.
But I’m makin’ nowt compared to Asha. She’s actually becomin’ a woman now, she’s growin’ ’er hair an’ everythin’. I sez, “How come you’ve got so much friggin’ money these days? New shoes, new clothes, taxis everywhere.” An’ they might look it, but I bet those hair extensions weren’t cheap – an’ she’s never done a day’s work in ’er life. Sez she advertises in the back o’ this car magazine called Exchange & Mart as a “transsexual escort”. She charges a hundred pounds an hour! She’s got some cheek. She’s already given it away to half of Notts, but I guess I’m no one to judge. That’s a lot though, innit? More than I make all week at Robin Hood Resorts! So I’m gonna advertise in there too. If she can do it, so can I. I thought it were illegal, but ya just say ya offer “full massage services”. People know what ya mean. An’ I’m better-lookin’ than ’er, so I’m gonna be loaded soon!
I still go an’ see Peter – he used to send me money when I were “away”, as Mammar Joe calls it. It’s a funny one, coz Mam’d go mad if she knew about Peter, but he’s not just a dirty old man, he actually cares about me. It’s wrong what he does, though. He sez I can move in with ’im when ma tag comes off, but I wanna get ma own place in town. I love Mammar Joe, but I hate ’ucknall. But I’ve gorra do it properly this time. No more gerrin into trouble. It’s time to grow up.
I hate bein’ stuck indoors at the weekends. It’s alright in the week coz I’m at college all day an’ work all evenin’, so I’m ready to come home by the time it gets to nine. But it’s ’orrible on Sat’day nights, knowin’ they’re all out havin’ fun. I’m allowed out at seven in the mornin’, so I could go an’ join ’em if I really wanted, coz they’d still be out partyin’, but it’s not the same, is it? Mind you, I’d look better than everyone else. The most excitement I get these days is racing back to make sure I don’t miss ma curfew. I sit on the bench on Titchfield Park an’ wait for the seconds on ma watch to hit eight fifty-five, then I raz it! Through the graveyard, over the wall, across the road, round the corner, down the jitty an’ up the cul-de-sac. I always make it! I like the danger. I get an adrenaline rush from it. Like when I used to run down stairs at Gaz’s, before the bell struck five.
I’m not allowed to get this tag wet so Mammar Joe wraps it in cling film when I have a bath an’ I have to leave ma leg raised out the water. She sez people use too much water these days. They only had a bath once a week when she were young, an’ a flannel wash the rest o’ the time. She still does it, she calls it ’er “ablutions”. Silly old Mammar. I sez, “Well, thank God times change coz they’d have sent me down the pit an’ died of polio by now or summat.” To be fair, I do use a lotta water. I don’t think she really minds, though.
There’s only one good thing about this estate an’ that’s Mammar Joe’s garden. We really struck lucky with it. It’s a weird shape coz of how the road loops round an’ meets the car park. Basically, she’s got all the space that was left over after all the other gardens were marked out. An’ it’s private too. One end’s all overgrown grass, with a rhubarb patch an’ some strawberries an’ that. I made a den underneath an elderberry bush once out of some MDF an’ an old cardboard box. Mammar Joe let me take a pillow an’ a blanket an’ stay out there in the summer. I’d sit there with a book an’ a torch an’ I loved it coz it was totally hidden. I think she stayed up watchin’ me till the sun come up.
But the best bit’s the secret garden. We cun’ even get into it at first. It was full o’ brambles when the council gave ’er this place, but we cut it down an’ made a pathway into the wood. She’s got an apple tree an’ five cherry trees. There’s more trees next door so it’s dark an’ cool in summer. I’ve gorra tree house up the tallest. I can see into the livin’ room from it. We’re the upstairs flat. The livin’ room’s at the back. Mammar Joe pops ’er ’ead out an’ shouts, “Ey up”, when I’m in it, although I know she can’t see me. She’s as blind as a bat. The only thing she don’t seem to have any trouble seein’ is ’er bingo card. We have fruit crumble in the summer. It’s dead easy to make. I like blackberry. Mammar Joe likes apple though. We don’t get many cherries coz the birds always get there first. Rhubarb’s ma favourite though, I peel it an’ have it wi’ sugar. I’d never buy it from the supermarket, coz I know how good it is fresh. Makes ya wonder how better everythin’ else would taste fresh. I’ll miss that garden.
Feel Good Inc.
We used to empty all the water out the bogs when I were in prison. Ya have to pump it out wi’ the toilet brush. Me an’ the lad on ma left had adjacent toilets, so if we emptied ’em at the same time, we could talk through the pipe. It stank at first – oh, it were ’orrible! – but it cleared after a bit. An’ it gets even better. Coz if the lad above ya emptied ’is, all three of ya could talk. Ya could even talk to the lad above ya neighbour, an’ the lad above ’im, an’ ’is neighbour, too – although the higher up ya went, the harder it was to hear ’em. Six cells share one pipe before it guz to the main waste pipe. An’ coz a lot of ’em shared a cell it meant that I had about ten people I could talk to at any given time. Well, in theory. It all depended on whether they felt like talkin’ when you did, but some nights we’d all stay up chattin’ for hours.
They all liked me in the end coz I used to sing an’ read ’em rude poems. If ya can entertain people in prison, yer on to a winner. It were hard to know how many people were listenin’ sometimes so ya had to be careful what ya said, an’ there were other problems too. Like, ya could only talk to the lad two cells above ya if the lad in between agreed to empty ’is bog too. An’ if ya were talkin’ to yer neighbour an’ someone else took a shit an’ flushed it, it was fuckin’ disgustin’. We had some proper laughs, though. We’d talk about our lives on the outside, an’ what we were gonna do when we got out. An’ when ya got sick of ’talkin’, ya just flushed it.
That were the first time I’d ever really spoken to straight lads without there bein’ girls there. No one would talk to me when we did sports at school. But I’ve gorra mate who’s straight now. I met ’im at Robin Hood Resorts. Asha reckons he’s gay coz he don’t mind hangin’ out with us, but he sez he’d just tell people if we were coz he’s not bothered about owt like that. I just feel like ya have to accept people at face value coz ya can’t just tell someone who they are, can ya? But she’s convinced. I reckon she just can’t stand the fact he don’t fancy ’er. I think she’s a bit threatened by ’im, to be honest. He’s a Muslim. I know. Ya cun’ make it up, could ya?
He’s from Saudi Arabia. ’Is name’s Louai – it’s pronounced “Loo-eye”, apparently, but we just call ’im Louis. He’s got long hair an’ looks like the boy from that Cheltenham an’ Gloucester advert who finds a pearl in the sea. He sounds American coz he sez he learned English at an international school, an’ by watchin’ Friends. I think that’s dead bad. It’s English, for God’s sake. They should teach people how to speak it how we speak it. Well, maybe not how we speak it – but how like posh people speak it. Like how Joan Collins talks.
I’ve got ma own place in Sherwood now. Uncle John sez I’m doin’ alright for mysen coz he din’t have laminate floors when he were ma age. He liked ma stereo an’ all. I’ve gorrit set up dead nice, an’ I keep it dead clean. I love havin’ ma own place, although I’m worried I’m gonna trip up while I’m hooverin’ or summat an’ no one’ll be there to phone an ambulance. I thought about Max the night I moved in. I never heard from ’im after that first letter. I guess it’s just never gonna be what I wanted it to be, is it? But I still love ’im. Which makes me sad, in some ways, but happy in others, coz I know it were love now. I wun’t still have these feelin’s after everythin’ that’s happened if it din’t mean owt. It did mean summat, to me.
Louis lives in Sherwood round the corner from ma new place so we ended up catchin’ the same bus last week. Awkward, innit, when ya end up sittin’ near someone ya sorta know, coz then ya have to make small talk with ’em. He guz, “Have you got any plans for the weekend?” I sez, “I’m havin’ a party, d’ya wanna come?” I weren’t actually gonna have a party till I said that, but I thought, Why not, eh? Now, I din’t know nowt about this Louis, an’ he din’t know nowt about me, so I sez, “Look, Louis, I should probably warn ya I hang about with a pretty wild crowd.” But he just laughed an’ sez he weren’t bothered. By the time he come round I’d gorra full face of makeup on an’ Lady Die had laid the bathroom mirror on the bed an’ was linin’ up some coke. Asha were kneeling beside ’er patiently, in not much more than a bra. I sez, “Hiya Lou, d’ya wanna drink? I hope yer not shy. I forgot to tell ya, I’m a transsexual.” Then I pointed to Die an’ sez, “An’ she’s a drug addict.” Asha lifts ’er head up from the mirror an’ shouts, “An’ a prostitute!”
