Billy Elliot

by Melvin Burgess

  Out the other side – and the bastards were waiting for me. They were everywhere! I ran four or five houses down till I got to Jamie’s place, banged on the door, it opened, pushed through it ...

  ‘Go on, man!’ yelled Jamie. They were pounding at the door behind us before I even got out of the front room.

  F*** ‘em!’ Jamie yelled. I was out the back already ... and would you bloody believe it, it was washing day out there. The whole street had filled their yards with white sheets and knickers and god knows what else. I jumped up on top of the outhouse and down into the next yard and up the next out-house. I could see the police coming down one side of the street. I wasn’t far off our place. I could see our Billy standing on another outhouse shouting summat at me. I stopped and had a look around. There were coppers chasing people all over the place, knots of fighting. It looked as though the whole thing had turned into a major confrontation. Then a whole bloody battalion of them turned the corner on their horses and came galloping along towards me. I jumped down and ran through the yard but I got tangled up in a sheet. I pushed me way out of the yard, trying to get the sheet off me face, but it was wet and sticking.

  ‘Tony! Tony! Not that way!’ I heard Billy shouting at me, but it was too late by then. The sheet was sopping. I stopped, just for a second to get it loose, and I tripped up. I could hear them coming. I got back up, I tripped again, I got back up ...

  Whack whack whack whack. One two three four. They must have been taking it in turns. And that was about the last thing I knew until I woke up in the cells hours later.

  They kept me in overnight to go in front of the court Saturday morning at ten o’clock. They have special sessions to deal with us, they make so many arrests. It’s a foregone conclusion, of course. Justice? It’s not justice. It’s whose side you’re on. Whose side are you on, comrade? Ask yourself. Don’t bother asking the police or the magistrate. They know very well what they’re doing.

  They almost had to let me go, actually. The cowardly bastards must have had a go at me while I was out cold, because I was black and blue from head to foot. I could hardly bloody walk. Well, that’s usual, but they’d made a bit of a mistake when they batoned me with that sheet over my head. They hadn’t been able to see what they were doing, so they got me on the face. The side of my face was out here, black and blue, red and yellow. It was practically green in places. Christ, it was painful. It was gorgeous. Not the sort of thing they like to put up in public. If you get beaten up like that, they usually let you go rather than let people see what they get up to when they’ve got you on your own, but in my case they wanted to make an exception because of the horse’s arse. They love their horses so much, you see. In the end they decided to say that the horse had kicked out at me in self-defence. Everyone would feel sorry for the poor horse, no one would blame it. What a load of shite! But it was going to work for them, and they knew it.

  My mate Billy Watson got knocked about badly one time – they hated him because he wound them up so much, so they beat him black and blue, but they did it so you couldn’t see a mark on him. All on his upper arms, his back and his legs and his stomach. But he got back at them. He waited till they had him up in court, and while the copper guarding him was looking the other way, he wiped off his top.

  ‘This is the side of the story they don’t want you to see,’ he said. He was a total bloody mess, they’d really gone to town on him. The courtroom went really quiet. And guess what? He got let off? The coppers got prosecuted? Did they f***! He got an extra month inside for contempt of court. For taking his shirt off. You have to be dressed proper in Her Majesty’s court of law, see.

  My case didn’t take long. In and out like a dose of salts, I was. If I’d been a big union man they’d have put me away inside, out of the way. But I was just a working man with no work so they fined us instead. One hundred quid. They know we’ve no money. Just before f***ing Christmas and all. Happy New Year, you bastards! Thanks a bunch. Where were we going to find that sort of money? Eh, with a bit of luck the Miners’ Social might help us out – they do with fines quite often. But then again, when they found out why, about the horses arse, maybe not. It’s not the sort of public image Arthur Scargill likes for his boys.

  Dad and Billy came along, anyhow, to lend us a bit of support. Dad did anyway. From the look on Billy’s face he’d’ve rather have been somewhere else, but I expect Dad made him come. Dad was furious with me, I could tell, but I wasn’t in any mood for it and he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. The fact is, I was f***ed. There’s no other word for it. There was a little bit of me kept wanting to giggle because of the memory of that horse with its arse up in flames – just a little bit – but the rest of me was just f***ed. They’d done me over good and proper. I was pissed off for getting caught, I was pissed off for being beaten to buggery by the police. I’d spent a night on a concrete floor in the cells, getting woken up every half an hour for a ‘safety check’, and I’d been charged a hundred quid for doing it. I was depressed, if you want another word. I felt about half an inch tall. I felt like a piece of dirty little shite.

  We caught the bus back and came up the road with the sea at our backs, up to our road, the three of us together. I just wanted to get to bed and weep my heart out like a little kid.

  And you know what? It still hadn’t finished. There was this woman waiting there, outside the house. I’d seen her somewhere before, god knows where. She seemed to know our Billy, though.

  ‘What’s going on, Billy?’ she asked.

  ‘Please, miss, don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Our Tony was up in court, I had to go,” he hissed. “I tried to ring you, miss, but you weren’t in.”

  ‘Who the f*** are you?’ I asked her. I looked at Dad.

  ‘I think we’d better all go inside,’ he said.

  So we trooped in. I was looking at Billy. Was he in trouble? Because I was going to bloody leather him if he was. We’ve got enough on our plates without some middle-class bitch poking her nose around.

  ‘Have you been mucking around at school?’ I asked him.

  ‘Get off!’ he said.

  We got into the front room and turned to face her. She sighed and crossed her arms.

  ‘I know this might seem difficult for you,’ she began, ‘but today Billy has missed an important audition.’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t believe me ears. ‘Audition? For what?’

  ‘For the Royal Ballet School.’

  ‘The Royal Ballet?’

  I could not even begin to imagine this. Here I was, I’d just had the living shite beaten out of me by the bloody coppers, I’d been shat on by the court, I’d been without a wage for over half a year ... and oh, dear me! Our Billy was missing an important audition with the Royal Ballet School. Dear, oh, dear!

  ‘You got to be joking, though,’ I said.

  ‘I’m perfectly serious.’

  I looked at Billy. ‘Ballet?’ I could feel myself going. I was really getting ready to blow.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s not a question of sides,’ she began. But I’d heard enough. I just went mad.

  ‘Have you got any idea what we’re going through?’ I yelled, right in her face. I could see her flinch, but she stood her ground. ‘And you come round here spouting this shite. Ballet? What are you trying to do, you stupid bitch, turn him into a f***ing scab for the rest of his life? Look at him! He’s only twelve for f***’s sake.’

  ‘You’ve got to start training when you’re young,’ said Billy.

  ‘Shut it!’ I had really had enough of it. I was about ready to take a swipe at the pair of them. ‘I’m not having any brother of mine running around like a right twat for your gratification,’ I told her.

  ‘Excuse me, it’s not for me,’ she snapped. She’d gone as white as a sheet. She had every right to be. I was that far off twatting her one.

  ‘What good’s
it going to do to him? He’s just a kid. What about giving him a childhood, eh?’

  ‘I don’t want a childhood, I want to be a ballet dancer,’ the little bastard bawled.

  ‘Give the boy a chance,’ she began.

  ‘And what do you know about it anyhow?’ I mean, who the hell did she think she was? What right had she got to come in here like this, offering the Royal Ballet on a plate? ‘What qualifications have you got?’ I asked her.

  ‘I didn’t come round here to defend myself,’ she said angrily.

  ‘I think you might be some sort of nutter. I could get the social on you, yer cow.’

  ‘I think you should calm yourself down, sonny.’

  Sonny! The smarmy middle-class bitch. I tell you, I was just dying to thump someone. Dad was being his usual useless self, just stood there staring like we’d all turned into blue cheese or something. Well, someone had to tell them what was what. I grabbed hold of Billy. She took a step forward as if she could stop me, but I pushed her back. I picked him up and dumped him on the table.

  ‘Right, you want to dance? Go on then – dance! Come on. Let’s see this f***ing dancing.’

  The woman took out a fag from her coat pocket and rolled her eyes. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she hissed, like the poisonous old snake she was.

  ‘Oh, aye? Go on then. If you want to be a f***ing ballet dancer, do it! Let’s see yer. Dance!’

  ‘Don’t you dare, Billy.’

  I’d really lost it by that time. ‘What sort of a teacher are you? He’s got the chance to dance and here you are telling him not to. Dance, you little twat! No? Right, so piss off! He’s not doing any more dancing, and if you go anywhere near him again, you middle-class cow, I’ll smack you one. Got it?’

  Well, all right. I’m not right proud of meself. I could have handled it a bit differently, but you can’t blame me. Give it to her, though, she stood her ground.

  You sanctimonious little shit,’ she hissed. ‘What are you so scared of? That he won’t grow up like you to race whippets or grow leeks and piss his wages up the wall? Listen, I’ve been with him every night for the past two weeks and you haven’t even noticed, that’s how much you care for him, so don’t lecture me on working-class solidarity and the British class system, comrade. Got it? Right, so piss off yourself.’ She blew a nice big lungful of smoke at me and gave Billy a nod. ‘See you, Billy,’ she growled. And she walked out.

  ‘You f***ing bitch!’ I yelled after her. Then I looked around for Billy, I needed someone to twat, but Dad was standing in between me and him.

  Billy stuck his horrible little face round under Dad’s arm. ‘F*** you!’ he yelled at me, and he turned and ran out the house. I took a couple of steps after him, but Dad moved to one side. In the way again. Always in the way!

  ‘And f*** you too,’ I snapped. I pushed him to one side and banged out of the house. ‘I’m going down the pub,’ I said. ‘See you later.’

  You’d think you’d get a bit of solidarity in your own house, wouldn’t you? It’s them I’m doing this for, as much as meself. And if I ever catch him dancing, or if I ever see that horrible old bitch anywhere near him again, I’ll smack the pair of them till they bleed.

  ‘And here it is, Merry Christmas,

  Everybody’s having fun

  Look to the future now,

  It’s only just beg-ah-ah-un.’

  Slade

  Christmas. The turkey, all the trimmings. The crackers. The port, the brandy, a fridge full of beer. Gin and tonics for the wife. My lovely Sarah. The tree, the fire crackling, the tinsel glittering, the presents all heaped up in coloured paper. Nice and warm inside even though it’s cold enough outside to freeze your feet to the ground.

  Well, not this year.

  They had a do down the Social for the striking miners on Christmas Eve. That’s us. A nice big tree, kids running round, Christmas dinner. It was OK if you like your Christmas with about sixty other families. We had a banner up: ‘Merry Christmas. Nine months. We shall not be moved.’ Too right we shan’t be moved, we’re all too bloody cold. Then we went home.

  All it did for me – this shows you what a miserable old bastard I am – was to make me feel sorry for meself because there was so much more that charity could provide than I could. The house was as cold inside as it was out. I went in and had a cup of tea and before I knew it, I found myself staring at the piano. I should never have done it, I know that. But I just thought – well, at least I’m going to make sure we stay warm this Christmas Day. So I dragged the old piano out into the yard. It’s not worth anything, no one plays it anyhow, except Billy used to pick out a tune from time to time, but even he’s stopped lately. We’re all miserable bastards in this house.

  My dad used to say, it warms you twice, cutting wood – once when you cut it, once when you burn it. He knew about being cold, his generation, but I never thought me and my kids would have to suffer like that. Oh, aye, it’s a cold house, this one, and not just because the heating’s off. We’ve all grown cold hearts over the last months, and that’s the truth.

  I can’t imagine what it’s like for my two lads with no mother. Just me to welcome them back when they come home.

  I got the axe from the spare room and I chopped the bugger to pieces. Billy came out and sat in the snow watching me. Sarah used to love the snow. It was going to be a white Christmas. It was going to be a blue Christmas, freezing. I kept having to tell Billy to stay back in case he caught a bit in his eye. The strings were lashing around the place, pegs, bits of metal flying everywhere. I was wrecking the axe. I should have pulled all the metal bits off first but I couldn’t bring myself to be bothered.

  ‘Do you think she’ll mind?’ he asked me. I could have killed him. It was the one thing I didn’t want to think about.

  ‘Shut it, Billy. She’s dead, isn’t she?’

  I swung the axe. I could see his nan sitting inside watching. I could do without her and all. There was nothing on her face, nothing you could read anyhow. She was cracking nuts with the crackers and then lining them up on the windowsill. She can’t eat nuts, she never puts her teeth in. She hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. I thought, Lucky for her. Lucky for her!

  Well, so we had a nice fire on the day itself. Tony did the dinner, he let Billy have the day off. ‘No chores for you today,’ he said. The way he gets on at Billy drives me mad some-times, but he did his best to make Christmas a good one for him. Did all the dinner. Gave him a new pair of football boots as a present.

  ‘Where’d you get those from?’ said Billy.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Tony. He gave me a pair of decent slippers, and I didn’t ask where they came from, either. And me? I don’t do shoplifting. I got Susan Harris to knit jumpers for both lads. Happy Christmas! Nice and thick and warm. You need something like that in this house. She knitted them, I gave them. It was good of her to help.

  And then. And then. I was sitting there in my chair. We had the bits of the piano all piled up, it was warm but it gave a lousy fire, all cracking and spitting on the rug. I was watching Billy sitting there watching it burn. And I was thinking of all the things I couldn’t give him. No big presents, no bright tree, no, well, no mother. Where was my lovely Sarah now we needed her? And God knows, we all needed her.

  Tony came in with the chicken. It smelled lovely. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said. And I couldn’t help – I didn’t mean it – I burst into tears. I just sat there and wept and all three of them staring at me, but I couldn’t stop myself weeping. I let the tears roll down my face and I let them watch them rolling. I’d just had enough. I’ve just got nothing left to give.

  ‘That was a bloody awful Christmas,’ I said.

  ‘Did you not enjoy it, then?’ said Michael.

  ‘I’ve had the worst Christmas I can remember,’ I told him.

  ‘That’s not so bad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’re only twelve, so even the twelfth
best isn’t too bad, is it?’

  ‘Oh, ha ha,’ I said. I was in no mood for jokes.

  ‘Sorry.’ He stood up and stared at me with his big eyes. He looks like a bloodhound sometimes with those big brown eyes.

  ‘Here.’ He took a bottle out of his pocket and passed it to me. ‘Have some of this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cider.’

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Me dad’s got loads in the kitchen.’

  ‘Won’t he notice?’

  ‘He never notices. He has gallons. Go on.’

  I had a swig. It was sour! ‘Tastes of piss,’ I said.

  ‘You get used to it,’ said Michael. He took it back and had a swig himself.

  It made me want to spit. ‘Who’d want to?’ I said.

  ‘Well, it warms you up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  We stood there, passing the bottle from one to the other.

  ‘You could run away from home,’ said Michael. ‘You could, I dunno, join a dancing troupe or something.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Well. Maybe it’s all for the best.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you won’t have to go away, then.’

  ‘F***ing hell, Michael! Anyone would want to get away from this shite.’

  We were building a snowman. What else was there to do? The piano was all burned up already. Like Michael said, it could have made music for ever but it didn’t make heat for even one day, the house was freezing again. Me dad’s a miner and we don’t have any coal to burn. Joke.

  It was a good snowman, except he was filthy dirty. We’d rolled a giant snow tube all up and down the ginnel to make his body, and then we’d gone up the other ginnel and rolled another one for his head and stuck that on top of the first one – it was enormous, but it had picked up all the mud and dog shit and stuff, so it was filthy dirty. We patted clean snow on all over it to cover up the stains.