Home Girl

by Alex Wheatle

  “Must’ve been tough,” said Tony.

  I shrugged. “That’s how the flow in my house went.”

  “Did you have time to play? Time to do normal things?”

  “What’s normal?” I replied.

  “Go out to the park, have friends, go swimming, shopping—you know, normal stuff.”

  I gave Tony one of my hardest corner-of-the-curb glares. “Are you taking the piss?” I spat. “How was I s’posed to do normal stuff when I had to look after Dad?”

  “I didn’t mean . . . Sorry, I should’ve realized.”

  Grown-ups! Sometimes they can be so dumb.

  I dropped my harsh tones. “That’s all right,” I said.

  Tony cleared his throat. “What I was trying to say was that I never did normal things with my dad.”

  “Did he love his liquor?” I wanted to know.

  “Er, yeah, the odd drink. Dark rum and Coke. The odd beer. Nothing more than that . . . except at weddings.”

  “Then what are you bitching about? At least you had a dad who was sober. That’s a win.”

  “Er, yeah, I was lucky,” admitted Tony. “But he never . . . he never took us out to the park, the fun fair, day trips to the beach, you know, that sort of thing. He never even came to watch me play cricket for my school. I was the captain! He would just go to work, come home, eat his dinner, and put his feet up. He didn’t even ask to see any homework. For the rest of the evening he would just sit in front of the TV reading his newspaper. We only heard him when he shouted at us for playing too loud. That was my dad.”

  I side-eyed Tony like he was the most spoiled kid in the world. “Boo bleedery hoo!” I mocked. “If I had a violin I’d play you the longest solo. Be careful, somebody might wanna make a film out of your hard-curb life story.”

  Tony couldn’t block his chuckles. At least he can take a joke.

  “Did he give your mum funds to buy the food and make sure your gas and electric wasn’t deleted?” I asked. “Did he buy you your school uniform? Did he go to the post office and pay the council tax? That’s what I had to do. If he did, you had an up-to-spec and fit-for-use pops.”

  Tony thought about it. “I must sound pathetic to you,” he said. “He paid for all those things you talk about. Mind you, if I kicked out my shoes he’d let the whole house know about it for days, and the next-door neighbors. My mum would get so mad with him cussing me that she would give me lickings just to make him shut up.”

  I thought about my own dad. “That’s one thing my dad never did to me,” I said. “He never licked me once. I used to hit him though when he wouldn’t get up.”

  “Sometimes Colleen does the same to me,” Tony laughed.

  “If . . . if he hollered at me to stop I knew he was all right,” I went on. “I hated watching him lying down so still . . . I used to think he was dead. I don’t love scoping dead people . . . except in horror films.”

  I thought of Mum.

  “Must’ve been tough,” Tony said.

  I shrugged.

  There was silence for the next five minutes.

  I hope he’s not one of those leaky-eye sorts who bursts into tears at any sad story. That’ll be mega awkward.

  “Anyway, what free time I had I spent in the park,” he finally said. “I developed a love of greenery and trees. My brothers and sisters thought I was weird. I joined this cub group in Ashburton and I would go camping with them in the summer.”

  “What? In tents? In a field?”

  “Yeah, in tents. In a field. That’s where people usually go camping, Naomi.”

  I pulled a face. “No way anybody’s gonna get me sleeping in a field. Torpedo that! Where did you shit?”

  “During the day we’d look for a public bathroom or a restaurant.”

  “What about at night?”

  “Er, in the woods, I suppose.”

  “Eeeewwww! Gross!”

  Tony busted out giggles again. It took awhile for his humor to get on my radar.

  “I need to ask one of the staff to give me a report on what happened yesterday,” he said.

  “Nah, you don’t have to go in,” I said. “I’ll get it and bring it home.”

  “You sure?”

  “What? You think I’m too dumb to ask for a report?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then I’ll get it.”

  “Okay, make sure they put it in an envelope.”

  Five minutes later, Tony dropped me off. “I’m finishing early today so I’ll be back by three thirty,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll see you then.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “Yeah, and you have a good time with your mud and trees.”

  Tony chuckled and pulled away.

  A mad rush of fear grew in my chest and up through my throat. In my inner vision, I saw Cass and myself in a stone cell without any doors and windows. There was no escape. A low ceiling forced us to crouch. Her fists were bigger than the belly of a fat snowman. No one to save you now, you white piece of shit! Not acting black now, are ya? I’m gonna pull those braids outta your scalp and choke your white neck with ’em. She dynamited a fist against my jaw.

  “Fruck school!” I said to myself.

  I quick-toed to the nearest newsagent and juiced up my Oyster card with the ten pounds that Tony gave me. I bought two Twirl chocolate bars and a can of Coke. I parked myself on the grass that fringed the main road, nibbling my choc bars. There I sat deciding how to rock my day. I switched off my phone and watched the traffic flow by as I enjoyed the hit of chilled Coke. I gotta do something about this addiction, but not today.

  I came to a decision. I stood up and stepped to the bus stop. I caught a bus to the East Ashburton train station and treated myself to a hot chocolate in a nearby coffee bar. I felt all adult and first class alongside the Formula One–buggy mummies and suits. Maybe I should’ve asked Nats and Kim to come with me. But they might not have the funds for the fare. And besides, even if Kim does have some money she’ll only spend it on cancer sticks, makeup, or some top that tickles her fancy in a charity shop.

  I took a short train trip to Woodside Bridge.

  Emerging from the station, I rolled down a side road that led to a grimy housing project. I entered a corner shop and bought another can of Coke. I didn’t love the suspicious eyes on the other side of the counter trailing my ass. “I’ve not come here to jack anything!” I barked.

  The watchful eyes focused on somebody else.

  I checked my surroundings. It hadn’t changed much. The same stinking little shops selling bread past its sell-by date and an untold amount of international phone cards, the same mums bitching about topping up their electric meter keys while buying packets of fagarettes and celeb mags, the same dog owners allowing their ugly hounds to brown-slime the pavement.

  Not trusting the elevator, I made my way to the third floor of a council slab. I could hear the reversing and whirring of a truck somewhere behind the block. I passed a black cleaner on the balcony. I didn’t think he loved his day. He was wearing a yellow Day-Glo top, gloves that coulda kept an Eskimo’s digits warm, and black stomper boots. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he greeted me with a smile.

  “All right, monsieur,” I replied.

  Smacking the letter box of the last door along the balcony, I rubbed my hands together to keep them warm. I heard footsteps approaching. I knew Nan was checking to see who her visitor was through the spyhole. “It’s me, Nan!”

  Keys rattled in two locks before the door opened. Wearing a Dean Martin T-shirt, brown cardigan, jogging pants, and red slippers was my eighty-three-year-old great-grandmother, Primrose Burton. “Naromi! What wind has blown you here then?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t seen ya for a while,” I said. “Wanted to see how you were. Thought you could do with the company. Any crime in that?”

  “Oh, not at all, Naromi.”

  “My name’s Naomi, Nan.”

  “Naromi, Naomi, whatever it is. Anyway, it�
�s a joy to see ya. A mighty joy.” She gave me a nice but weak hug. “Come on in out of the draft.”

  I followed Nan’s slow steps into her small kitchen at the end of a short hallway. The stench of old tea bags, piss, and furniture polish polluted my nostrils. I sat down on a wonky wooden chair at the small kitchen table and took in my surroundings. The fridge still had the same postcards stuck on it that I remembered when I was knee-high. They were sent from Brimton Bloats, Morthcore Palace, Pickleness Sands, Dunweir Broads, the Isle of Chark, Lewesborough Flats, and Headington Gramley. The cooker had an old-school, dented, whistle-blowing kettle sitting on it. Blu-tacked around an old Tony Curtis calendar were pictures of Princess Diana. There was a small pine shelf with framed black-and-white family pictures and souvenir tea saucers standing on it. I recognized Mum and Grandma. It still made me sad when I realized I’d never see ’em alive again.

  An energy-saving fork-shaped lightbulb showered a weak yellow light and a broken cobweb clung on for sweet life to a high corner of the ceiling. In the middle of the kitchen table stood a pile of opened letters and bills.

  “I’m just about to have my crumpets,” Nan said. “That’s how I start my day. Do you want any?”

  “Nah.”

  “Excuse me!”

  “Er, oh, sorry. No thanks, Nan.”

  “That’s better. Good manners doesn’t cost anything. It’s nearly half past ten, Naromi, so when I finish my breakfast, I’ll be off out.”

  “It’s a bit chilly out there, Nan.”

  “My heating is set to go off at half past ten so if you wanna spend time with ya old Nan you’ll have to come with me to the library.”

  “The library?”

  “Don’t knock it,” Nan said. “I used to go to the coffee shop and ask for a mug of hot water. Always looked at me funny, they did, asking me if I’d like to try fancy coffees I can’t even pronounce. So I thought blow ’em and their look-down ways! I’ll find somewhere else. The heating makes me feel snug in the library. I’ll read the mags till noon.”

  I watched Nan drop two crumpets into the toaster. “So how’re you getting on?” I asked.

  “Oh, by and by. At least I’ve got my health. That’s all what counts. Mildred downstairs, always in hospital she is. If it’s not her legs it’s her arms, if it’s not her arms it’s her tummy, if it’s not her tummy it’s the arthritis playing up, if it’s not that there’s something wrong in her head. Always something wrong in Mildred’s head. That’s what loneliness does to ya, I suppose. I dunno why they bother sending her back to her flat. They might as well keep her in, poor dear. She likes her own bed, you see. But, by and by, I get by. Have to thank the Man Upstairs. Gracious He is. Sure you don’t wanna cup of tea? Did I ask if you wanted crumpets?”

  “No thanks. I’ve got my Coke.”

  “Still drinking the Coke? Your mum should’ve never given it to ya when you was a nipper. I didn’t know she was putting that in your bottle. Someone should’ve said something. You’ll be all gums and tongues next time I see ya.”

  The crumpets somersaulted out of the toaster and Nan buttered them with shaking hands. “Are you supposed to be here, Naromi?”

  I shrugged again.

  “You’ll get me in trouble again. I don’t want the nosy people turning up at my door. You know I don’t like the nosy people in my flat. A thousand questions they ask. It’s like being on Mastermind when they’re around.”

  “What’s Mastermind?” I asked.

  Nan shook her head.

  While sinking her crumpets, she picked up a small flask on top of the fridge and poured milk in it. She topped it off with three drops of brandy before screwing the cap on and shaking it. “Keeps the cockles warm,” she smiled. “When you’re old enough you can join your old nan for a drink—that’s if the Man Upstairs gives me a few more years.”

  “Never drank brandy, Nan. Never drank anything. I know what it can do to ya.”

  I thought of Dad.

  Nan gave me side-eye. “It only turns into Beezlebub juice if you drink too much of it.”

  I wondered who Beezlebub was when he took a piss behind the bike sheds. Or maybe it was a cartoon character.

  I wanted to change the subject. “You get lonely living on your own, Nan?”

  “Me? Lonely? That’s what they all say! Mildred’s forever asking me to come with her to the social club. They do all sorts of things, she says. Pottery, needlework, painting, learning, dancing, and how to use the laptop wotsit. But the thing is, Naromi, it’s all old people doing it. Why do they always think I wanna see old people all the time? I like to see young’uns too.”

  “You still forgetting things?”

  “I’m afraid so. I keep forgetting to go to the bloody toilet! But I haven’t wet myself for a day or so. Embarrassing it is. Now, wrap up, Naromi, time to go out. It’s ten thirty.”

  I watched Nan wash up her plate and soon realized what a struggle it was for her to move her fingers. “Let me do that, Nan.”

  “No! I’m not a . . . what do they call it? I’m not a carrot! If I stop doing things for myself then I’ll become a carrot. If I’m not careful, there’ll be a pride of donkeys at my front door. You don’t want that for your old nan, do ya?”

  “No, Nan.”

  She pulled on a pair of sneakers, tied on a headscarf, and put on a pink overcoat—well, it was pink a long time ago. She placed her flask in the left coat pocket and shuffled out. She bent in the breeze. I followed her out, making sure she had her keys before pulling the door shut.

  The library was a fifteen-minute trod. It was obvious that the staff who worked there all knew my nan. Grabbing three celeb mags, she found a chair near a radiator and read. Every five minutes or so, she sampled her flask. I hoped I didn’t have to carry her out.

  Wandering around the library, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I decided on a graphic magazine and pulled up a chair next to Nan.

  “Mr. Swales doesn’t seem to be in today,” she said.

  “Mr. Swales?” I repeated. “Who’s he when he scrubs his fangs in the morning?”

  “You’ll like him, Naromi. It’s always a joy to see him. Big shoulders, nice smile, wavy Greek hair.”

  “Wavy Greek hair?”

  “Blacker than black, by and by,” Nan said. “And kind of curly like the hair on a Greek statue. You ever seen Greek statues, Naromi? A beautiful joy they are. They even carve out the naughty bits. You wouldn’t know him but Mr. Swales reminds me of Victor Mature. He was in Samson and Delilah. Lovely shoulders he had. I’m telling ya, Naromi, fifty years ago I would’ve gave him the eyes and a bit more if he took my bait.”

  Monkey in the pigsty. I don’t wanna think about Nan having sex. Have to change the subject.

  “How long are we staying here, Nan?”

  “Till lunchtime. In the meanwhile, can you do a favor for your old nan?”

  “What d’you want me to do?”

  “Go up to the counter and ask if Mr. Swales is in today.”

  I smiled and bounced up to reception. An Asian clerk in a pretty pink hijab was stamping a book as I waited patiently for her to look up at me. She had kind eyes.

  “Is a man called Mr. Swales in today?”

  The clerk gave me a long, funny look, and then her gaze turned to Nan, who was draining her flask again. She switched back to me with an oh you poor thing look. Social wankers were expert at it. “Mr. Swales left us well over a year ago,” she said in a near whisper. “We tried to tell her once but Primrose got very upset. Can . . . can you tell her he’s on holiday or something?”

  I turned around to look at Nan; she was flicking through her second magazine. “I’ll tell her something.” I returned to sit beside her. I couldn’t think of what to say.

  “Is he on a tea break or having a pee?” she asked.

  “No, Nan. He’s . . . he’s on holiday.”

  “Oh, I see. Wonder where he’s gone. Probably to where his people come from, where they have black wavy
hair and nice broad shoulders. I hope he remembers my postcard. But that’s a shame he’s not here, I really wanted to introduce you to him. One of these days I’m gonna invite Mr. Swales around for tea and crumpets.”

  I didn’t leak another word until I had flicked through my magazine.

  “Nan?” I said. I placed the magazine on the empty chair beside me. “The Man Upstairs? Is He still looking out for me? D’you think He’s still blaming me?”

  Nan pointed a bent finger at me. “Now, I don’t wanna hear that kind of talk, Naromi,” she said. “I told you once and I’ll tell ya again: you weren’t to blame.”

  “But my mum—”

  “She wasn’t well, Naromi. She had depression. Had it for years she did. I suppose she did her best to hide it from all of us. It was a shock to us all when we found out she was on more tablets than dear old Mildred downstairs.”

  “I still feel bad about it,” I said.

  “Have any of those nosy people been in your ears?” Nan asked. “Telling you something different? If they have, I’ll be up in their faces. Never trusted ’em, coming to my front door with their fancy pens, fancy forms, and fancy phones.”

  “No, Nan, it’s just sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, I wonder if your Man Upstairs, you know, blames me. I could’ve saved her. She was taking the longest time in there. If only I checked.”

  “He’s your Man Upstairs too,” Nan said. “Gracious He is. He doesn’t blame you. Don’t worry your little cotton red heart, Naromi.”

  “My nightmares are all red, Nan. I wish they would stop. I wish I could stay with you.”

  Nan took another glug from her flask and busted out chuckles. Her laughter turned into a chesty cough. “The nosy people will never allow it,” she said. “And if I had to swear to the Man Upstairs I would have to agree with ’em on that score. I mean, I forget things every day. It’s a wonder that I remember to wake up. Only yesterday I couldn’t find the gas card to put in my meter. On my dressing table it was, and I was turning the kitchen upside down. There were pots and pans that I forgotten I had all over my kitchen floor. I couldn’t boil water for my tea and it hurts my hands to wash the dishes in cold water. Can you imagine that? Daft as a woolly sock on a hamster I am.”