by Alex Wheatle
“Okay, then,” said Susan. “We’ll have the fish tomorrow. Find something decent to eat, not fast-food rubbish. Perhaps that Wholesome Food restaurant on Spenge Court Avenue?”
“Okay, Mum.”
I followed Emily to her car, a navy-blue Peugeot 306. Daddy and Mummy must’ve given her the funds for it. I’m not gonna be a hater about that though. If I was a parent I’d do the same if I had the grands in my pocket. Once inside I sniffed the fagarette and coffee stench. Untold scarves, socks, and sneakers covered the backseat. Okay, this is a bit more normal.
Emily pushed the key into the ignition and Muse’s “Time Is Running Out” spanked out from the stereo. A tiny plastic Buddha and a baby koala bear hung from a chain from the rearview mirror. She’s an interesting chick. Not as stoosh and first class as she looks.
“My mum means well,” said Emily. “But eating her food bores me to death after a while. What do you fancy, Naomi? Pizza Express? A Kentucky? McDonald’s? Nando’s? I’ve always preferred the fries from Wimpy.”
Before answering, I scoped Emily hard. She had a neatly trimmed soup-dish haircut. A silver ring niced up the baby finger of her left hand. She wore a world of silver studs and clip-ons in her right ear. Jimi Hendrix burned a guitar on the black T-shirt she was wearing and her black jeans, splitting at the knees, were fading to gray. Adidas basketball shoes gripped her feet. She wasn’t wearing any makeup but I thought her prettiness could stir something in most bruvs’ trackie bottoms. I didn’t think she was a virgin and I guessed she didn’t know how to flick on a gas ring and brew an egg.
“Chinese,” I finally answered. “Or that Thai stuff. Always wanted to sample that. My mate Kim was boasting about her last ex taking her to eat a Thai dinner one time.”
“We’ll have to find a place and eat there,” Emily laughed. “If I come home with Chinese or Thai food, Mum will have a fit . . . I know a place.”
We drove to the Southside shopping center in Ashburton, and Emily led me to a Thai restaurant on the first floor next door to the cinema. Picking up a menu, I speed-read through it.
“What are you having?” asked Emily after a while.
I tried to remember what Kim had sunk on her visit to a Thai restaurant. “A large Coke, that chicken curry thing, vegetable rice, and those sweet dumpling ball things . . . oh and a couple of those spring roll things.”
“No problem.”
“Make sure it’s a large Coke,” I said. “Your mum hasn’t got any.”
“At least we have something in common,” said Emily. “Our addiction to caffeine. I’m gonna have a coffee.”
“Caffeine? I don’t do drugs! It’s not my game.”
The food and drinks were ordered. I sank my meal with a knife and fork but I was proper mesmerized by Emily’s use of chopsticks. “Where’d you learn to do that?” I asked.
“Backpacking in Thailand,” Emily replied. “I took a gap year—”
“What’s a gap year?”
“I finished school and got a place at uni but before I started I wanted to travel a bit,” she explained. “Mum wanted to treat me to a holiday. She had her heart set on Australia—”
“Australia! Wow! Isn’t that the place where they make I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Outta Here? Don’t watch it anymore though. It’s for kids. Australia’s ram-jammed with jungles, isn’t it? If I’ll ever get out there I’ll carry nuff bug killer with me. Mozzies scare the skin cells outta me.”
“Er, parts of it are jungle, but yep, that’s Australia,” Emily said. “But Mum coming with me would be ten times worse than a mozzie bite.”
I can’t lie, I was connecting to Emily. Maybe because she thought her mum was stone-cadonking cadazy too.
“God!” she continued. “She wanted to visit Sydney, Brisbane, Melbourne, Tasmania, and then take a plane and go to Perth. Six to eight weeks she wanted to go for. That would’ve done my head in. We would’ve ended up killing each other.”
“Wish someone would take me to Australia,” I said. “Never had a holiday, not a real one. My social worker Louise took me and my sistren Kim to Butlin’s for a weekend last year. Louise’s boyfriend didn’t like it cos Kim and me tried to catch ’em having sex. We’d crash into their room at three in the morning. They were just spooning though. I s’pose they’re too ancient to have a crotch rhapsody and all that.”
Emily giggled hard at that one.
“Don’t wanna sound ungrateful but I didn’t love it,” I went on. “The beach was too rocky, the sea was too grimy, and Louise wouldn’t let us out of the camp late at night.”
“I guess it was an experience,” Emily said. “All travel experiences are good in some way.”
I shook my head. “Trust me on this one, it wasn’t a good experience. Apart from Kim getting into a maul with another chick who at first she fancied, it was boring. The people there were lame too. My other sistren, Nats, was well upset cos she couldn’t go. Mad she was. When we got back Nats launched a cuss attack at Louise. She let down her tires, grooved her bonnet with a nail file, and liberated one of her wing mirrors. She would’ve pissed on her driving seat if we didn’t pull her away. Tried to tell Nats afterward that the holiday was boring, but she was simmering for the longest time.”
“Mum’s still planning to take me and Dad to Australia later this year,” said Emily. “If you want we can swap places.”
“Your mum that bad?”
Sweet God, please say yes. If she does, then if Louise wants me to be fostered by her I could say Susan’s own daughter thinks she’s nuts.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Emily. “She means well. But she’s a bit too much sometimes. When I finished school I wanted to go out and celebrate with my mates and Mum got upset because I didn’t want her there. She always wants to be there. Gets on my freakin’ nerves.”
“I hear you on that one,” I said. “My dad was the same. The only difference was he tried to be there but his drinking sabotaged him.”
“Last year I went to a weekend music festival,” Emily said. “She wanted to come with me and my mates to that. You wouldn’t believe the amount of arguments we had about me backpacking in Thailand. It’s not safe for an eighteen-year-old girl to travel alone! You might get kidnapped. God! She was going on every day. I don’t even think about bringing boyfriends home.”
“You’ve got a boyfriend?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? Does that mean you’ll let him paw you but you won’t let him stick his thing in you?”
Emily blushed and looked at her meal for a long second. “Er, not quite,” she replied. “There is a guy, half-
Ghanaian, half-Scottish. He’s thirty-four—don’t tell Mum that. I met him at the Mango Falls bar just off Ashburton Hill. His name’s Gabriel. I just wished he’d get his shit together. He’s a poet and a singer with amazing talent but he’s so freaking lazy. He doesn’t get out of his bed till the afternoon. He still hasn’t done his demo yet . . . He’s got an incredible bod though.”
“Thirty-four? Bit old for you, isn’t he? He’ll get gray hairs soon. You don’t want kids with gray hairs.”
“I’m twenty in a couple of months,” said Emily. “Most guys my age are so immature and don’t have a clue.”
“I’m gonna get a boyfriend when I kiss fifteen,” I said. “My sistren Kim had boyfriends when she was twelve but she was always warring and cussing with them. Maybe that’s why she ended up with a chick.”
“Oh,” Emily said.
“When I get a bruv I wanna look after him and cook his fave meal for him. Then snoogle up on the sofa and watch my fave horror films with him. We’ll have four kids. Two boys and two girls. I’ll adopt all of ’em. I’d like the oldest to be a girl so she can look after the others if something ever happens to me.”
“Having a boyfriend is not the be-all and end-all,” said Emily, sipping her black coffee. “There’s another guy who I see, a bit younger than Gabriel. Steve. He lives over in Elmers End. He’s got more money b
ut he’s a bit of a political head.”
“What d’you mean?”
Emily let out a big sigh. “He’s got a half-decent brain and spending time with him would be bliss if he stopped rabbiting on about the world and its problems. He means well but he goes on about marches and demos 24-7. He wants me to march with him and wave banners in the air like I just don’t care. Mum would love him and that’s why I’ve never brought him around. I see him when I want to see him. When I can get him to shut up, he makes out pretty good.”
“So you’re two-timing?”
Emily thought about it. She took another sip of her coffee before answering. “I suppose I am. But boodally-hoo! Why shouldn’t I have fun before I become an obedient wife like Mum?”
“Obedient? I wouldn’t complain. She’s got a neat yard, nice kitchen gadgets, untold fruit blenders, her canoe, golf clubs, her bike, and the membership of a suntan place. She’s well blessed.”
Emily chuckled. “At social events and dinner parties she plays the loving wife, hugging my dad and kissing him on the cheek, but when they’re at home, they’re always in different rooms doing their own thing.”
“They don’t have sex? Mind you, they’re way too ancient to have sex. Eeeewwww! My brain just downloaded a graphic. You wanna throw away the bed on that one.”
Emily bent up in a mad giggle. “They do . . . sometimes . . . I think.”
“At least they’re not fighting,” I said. “My mum used to fight with her . . .” I trailed off and stared at my food. I couldn’t help thinking of Mum’s ex-boyfriend Rafi, who hollered, raged, and swore in his own language at her cos she got rid of his baby.
Emily picked up the conversation. “No, they never fight,” she said. “It might liven up the place a bit if they did.”
“Have they fostered before?” I wanted to know.
“No, you’re the first. Mum’s latest project in her plan to save all the kids in the world.”
“What d’you mean?” I asked. “She doesn’t go over to those hungry countries to adopt every skinny kid she sees, does she? You know, like what pop stars do. My sistrens, Kim and Nats, don’t love that game.”
Emily let loose another chuckle. “No, not quite. Mum’s never really had a proper nine-to-five job. She didn’t really need one. Dad earns loads.”
“If my hairier half earned the grands I’d stay at home too,” I put in.
Emily screwed up her face. “In the last few years she’s volunteered at a youth club. I think she’s getting tired of it now. She tries very hard, putting her heart into everything they do, but the kids just don’t like her.”
“Maybe she tries too hard,” I said.
“The other week some eleven-year-old kid called her a frucking snobby bitch,” Emily said. “She came home and had me and Dad up most of the night talking about it. I mean, it was just a pissed-off eleven-year-old kid and she wanted to have a public inquiry into what he said. Do you think my approach wasn’t appropriate and all that. God! It drove me and Dad crazy. Now she wants to foster kids.”
“At least she wants to help people,” I said.
Emily raised her voice. “She needs to get a proper job and stop jumping from one thing to another!”
“Ain’t fostering kids a proper job? I might wanna flex that way one day.”
Emily nodded. “Yeah, it is a proper job. But you gotta want to do it for the right reasons.”
I thought of Kim’s rant the day before about poshos wanting to adopt so they can get ratings from their rich friends.
Emily shrugged. “She’ll probably want to take us bike-riding tomorrow.” Her voice was on the level again. “And if I refuse to go she’ll dump a load of guilt sick all over me.”
I swigged down my Coke.
* * *
Following a breakfast of boiled eggs, brown toast, and a couple of nibbles of the biggest grapefruit I had ever seen, Susan tied the mountain bikes inside the back of her Range Rover. She then went down to the basement and collected three red helmets. She gave one to Emily and one to me. I hadn’t seen anyone so happy since Kim jacked a brown suede jacket from a first-class store a year ago. Scoping the blue sky, Susan said, “We should make use of this day, Emily. The sky’s much clearer than yesterday. Perhaps we should drive down to the Hobbledash forest and ride our bikes there? We’ll get a lovely view. Maybe have our lunch by the lake. Just like we used to. What do you say?”
“No, Mum!” Emily replied. “It takes forever to get there. The Smeckenham Hills is good.”
“But Naomi will love the scenery down there and the cool, fresh air will do her a world of good.”
“Mum!”
Sitting in the front passenger seat, I played with the strap of my helmet as Emily stretched out in the back and napped. I closed my eyes too. On the journey, I couldn’t help but think of Tony and Colleen dancing in their front room with their Afro wigs on. I tried to hold onto that little movie in my head but Dad gate-crashed my thoughts.
It was six a.m. After scrubbing my fangs, I went to the kitchen and washed up the pots, plates, and cutlery from the spaghetti Bolognese dinner I had cooked the night before. I cleaned the top of the cooker before mopping the kitchen floor. I then stepped into Dad’s bedroom. The quilt had been booted off the bed.
Lying on his stomach with his legs apart and his forearms beneath his grimy pillow, Dad was only dressed in his boxers. I didn’t love the hairs on the back of his shoulders. The ashtray, sitting on top of the bedside cabinet, was overflowing with roll-up butts. I took it out, emptied it in the kitchen bin, and rinsed it under a hot tap. I returned to Dad’s room and searched the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the bedside cabinets, and everywhere else for any liquor. I found a quarter-full bottle of Napoleon brandy in a drawer beneath the mattress. There was a stack of unused paper cups there too. I took the bottle to the kitchen sink and emptied it. The alcohol fumes chim-chimneyed up my nose. Returning to the bedroom, I placed the empty bottle on the bedside cabinet Dad was facing. I wanted him to know that I’d been hunting for his hidden booze.
Satisfied that there was no more drink in the house, I showered and changed for school. I styled my hair into ponytails and tied the pink and white ribbons myself. I grilled myself a bacon sandwich for breakfast and hunted that down with a glass of water. Only when I had washed up the frying pan and the dishes did I enter Dad’s room again.
I slapped him out of his dreams. I brought with me his two tablets and a glass of water.
“Dad. Dad! It’s half seven.”
He rolled to the other side of the bed. He grunted and groaned and scratched his head. He slowly opened his eyes. His chin was all wire-brushy. I didn’t like the jungle on his chest neither. He focused and accepted his pills and the water. He sunk it in one gulp and belched a big belch.
“Don’t forget to take the other tablets before you eat something for lunch,” I reminded him. “There’s some cheese and cucumber that I bought yesterday that you can make a sandwich with.”
“I—” Dad belched again. “I won’t forget.”
“It’s the day of the Year Six show,” I reminded him. “It’s gonna be like The X-Factor. I’m dancing in it so don’t forget. Be at the school by three o’clock. Don’t even think about being late.”
“Of course I’ll be there, Naomi,” assured Dad. He sat up and picked the sleep outta his eyes. “Why don’t you watch TV and I’ll fetch you your breakfast.”
“I’ve already had some,” I said. “I ironed a shirt and trousers for you last night. They are in your wardrobe. I’ve also shined your black shoes. Wear ’em but try not to slash on ’em during the day. I’m not having you rolling up to my school stinking of piss! Don’t forget to trim your chin and nice up your hair before you go out. Oh, and put some funds on the electric key. There’s only fifty-eight pence on it. We’re good for gas at the moment.”
“You didn’t have to iron my clothes or polish my shoes,” Dad said. “I’ll be there . . . Now come here, give your dad a hug
before you run off to school.”
He reached out his arms, tilted his head to the side, and curled his lips into that stupid grin he had. I wasn’t five years old anymore. I looked at his hands as if they were dripping with acid and backed away two steps. At that moment I could feel his pain but I wanted him to feel mine. “Three o’clock, Dad. Don’t be late.”
I closed the door behind me.
* * *
Backstage, Pat Rogers, the cutest girl in my class, fitted on her oversized blond wig. It looked good on top of her toffee-colored face. She took deep breaths as she prepared to sing Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” to a crowd of parents sitting on Wendy House chairs in the school hall. (I liked Pat, bless her tonsils—I wonder what ever happened to her?)
Cross-armed teachers lined the sides as our nervous headmistress, Miss Amanda Compton, fidgeted in her seat in the front row. She adjusted her glasses for the nineteenth time.
Five dancers dressed in black leggings and school T-shirts, including me, were ready to support Pat’s singing. It was 3:53 p.m. Stage right, I pulled back a curtain and scoped the audience once again. There were twenty rows to check. No sight of Dad. Not even near the exits. My head dropped as I lined up with my fellow dancers. The track began to blast out from the PA system. I closed my eyes, booted my disappointment to the back of my brain, and tried to remember the choreography taught to me by my PE teacher, Ms. Gabriella Banks (my fave teacher of all time).
The performance began and Pat Rogers forgot the third line of the song. She had a serious brain freeze. Cheered on by the crowd, however, she managed to finish her tune and received a mad ovation. Dancing behind her, I didn’t miss a step. Simon Cowell and his crew would’ve had no choice but to give us top ratings. If Nan was there I would’ve got untold sticky stars. The curtain came down and we group-hugged. Ms. Banks suddenly burst into tears saying how moved she was by our dancing and Pat’s singing. It set me off.
Afterward, I wandered aimlessly backstage. I pulled off my dancing shoes and threw them aside. I found a wonky stool, sat on it, and cursed Dad with every swear word that I knew. Backstage, all eyes were on the next act getting ready: a lion-masked Godfrey Abrahams about to sing a song from The Lion King. As Godfrey mangled “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” I couldn’t stop the tears spilling down my cheeks.
