Coming Clean

by Sue Margolis

  The BBC and Channel 4 hadn’t made contact—at least not yet—but as Huck said, bearing in mind he hadn’t expected anybody to take an interest, two hits out of four was pretty amazing.

  After fifteen minutes, a waiter finally showed us to a table. “It’s so good speaking to people like Greg and Judy—and you, of course,” Huck said. “Most people are so hard on the kids we try to help. They think the poor should be able to pull themselves up, but hardly anybody understands that poverty isn’t simply about bad housing and going without stuff. It’s about going without love. It’s about going without respect. It’s about not being valued. It’s about being raised surrounded by violence and abuse.”

  I was enjoying listening to him. He spoke with a passion that drew you in. There was something enormously sexy about that.

  “So, changing the subject,” he said, “how are things at work? Do you think this strike is going to happen?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, picking up a menu. “Unless Shirley Tucker Dill does a U-turn, which seems highly unlikely. What with everything else, it’s a pressure I just don’t need right now.”

  “Meaning that you’re still struggling with the breakup with Greg?”

  “Actually, it’s something—or rather someone—connected to the breakup rather than the breakup itself.” I hadn’t meant to tell him about FHF, but despite having off-loaded to Annie, and later on to Gail, I was still fuming.

  We ordered some samosas and chana chat to start, followed by chicken ginger and lamb keema. The waiter brought us some glasses and a bottle opener and Huck and I started on the Cobra beers we’d bought on the way over. For the next fifteen minutes I knocked back the beer and let rip about FHF while he listened, his expression alternating between amazement and concern.

  “How do you get through to somebody like that?” I said finally.

  “I’m not sure you do. She’s a controlling, spiteful woman with a bee in her bonnet about her superior mothering skills. Wouldn’t surprise me to discover that she was actually a pretty crap mother.”

  “You reckon? Funny, the thought never occurred to me.”

  “A great intellect doesn’t necessarily equal a great mother. I wonder what she’s hiding.”

  I decided that I had monopolized the conversation for long enough. “So, how’s it going living back with your mum and dad?”

  “To tell you the truth, it’s getting pretty unbearable. They’re both retired, so I’m all they’ve got to focus on. I’ve started flat hunting, but on my salary there’s not much I can afford.”

  A thought immediately occurred to me. “Don’t suppose you fancy renting my attic room. If we vote to go on strike, I’ll be desperate for some extra money. It’s pretty big and it’s got an en suite—admittedly, it was installed in the mid-eighties and I accept you might be put off by brown porcelain and imitation gold taps …”

  “Say no more. It sounds perfect.”

  “But you haven’t even seen it. You might hate it.”

  “OK, so when can I come around?”

  “Well, right now it’s full of junk. Why don’t we say Monday night? That’ll give me time to have a clear out.”

  “OK, you’ve got a deal.”

  • • •

  I spent all of Sunday dejunking the attic room and doing my best to make it look presentable. I managed to disassemble the baby cot that Amy and Ben had both used, ditto the high chair. It was a struggle and I strained muscles I didn’t know I owned doing it, but I just about managed to find space for them, plus the baby bath and the playpen, in one of the eaves’ cupboards. That done, I bagged up the rest of the stuff that was lying around the room. This included piles of old clothes, books, board games and a foot spa (unopened) that Val had bought me five or six birthdays ago.

  I cleaned the en suite—the imitation gold taps cleaned up rather well, actually—and vacuumed and dusted. Because we’d only ever used the room to store junk, it contained no furniture—not even a bed. I decided that if Huck wanted to take it, the simplest thing would be to order everything online from Ikea. It would be here the next day.

  I’d just put the last bag of rubbish out for the bin men when Greg called. He wanted to know if it would be OK to bring the kids home a bit later than usual. He and FHF had taken them to the science museum and they’d only just gotten back. “Roz and I are about to start dinner. I should get the kids back to you by nine.” So they not only spring cleaned together, they cooked together. Greg really had changed. When we were together, he’d gone through a phase of cooking (and causing chaos in the kitchen) if I was going to be home late, but it had never been an activity we shared. As I imagined them chopping and slicing and sharing a bottle of wine, I couldn’t help feeling jealous.

  Any other time, I would have told Greg not to worry about feeding the kids and would have suggested he drop them back so I could cook them dinner. Tonight, though, I was so knackered that I was grateful for some extra time to myself. All I wanted was to soak in a hot bath.

  “By the way,” he said, “re Roz’s last e-mail to you …”

  “Greg, if you’re going to start making excuses for her, I don’t want to hear them. Roz has attempted to undermine me for the last time. I meant everything I said to her. If I get the slightest hint that she is pressing Amy for information about her sexuality or trying to advise or influence her, I will stop her and Ben coming to stay. Is that clear?”

  “You won’t have to do that,” he said. “I’ve dealt with it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That’s my business, but suffice it to say the situation has been resolved.”

  They’d clearly had a massive fight. Finally he was standing up to her.

  “Whatever,” I said. “But I’m telling you—one more incident like this and I will be speaking to my lawyer.”

  “Like I said, it won’t be necessary. And I’m sorry.”

  I was suddenly aware of how miserable he sounded. I almost asked him if he was OK, but I decided against it. I wasn’t about to interfere in his relationship with FHF. Like he said, that was his business.

  • • •

  First thing on Monday morning, Des popped his head around my office door. I was in the middle of reading a letter from James Harding. This confirmed that the management’s backing for Shirley Tucker Dill was unequivocal and unanimous. “We have every confidence in her ability to take Coffee Break forward and would urge you to offer her your full support. I don’t need to remind you that failure to do so will jeopardize the future of the program and put jobs at risk …”

  “I take it you’ve seen this,” I said, directing him to a chair.

  “Yep, and here’s where I’m at. I think that you should have one more go at taming the shrew. Assuming that fails, we take a vote on whether to go on strike.”

  “Bloody hell. You mean today?”

  “I mean now. I think her time is up.”

  “But do you really think people will come out in favor of strike action? Granted, we’re all furious and frustrated with STD, but I don’t think anybody’s got the stomach for a walkout. Maybe I should go and talk to James Harding?”

  “Uh-uh. He’s totally under her thumb. I’ve had dealings with Harding. He’s essentially a decent bloke, but he’s the type who enjoys being told what to think. The man’s letting STD walk all over him. You’ll get nowhere with him. Here’s the thing: if we walk, they’re left with dead air to fill. STD can offer as much money as she likes, but no freelancer who values his or her career will dare to cross the picket line.”

  “But what if James Harding decides to cut his losses and pull the show?”

  “In that case, we admit defeat, get down on our knees and beg him not to. Then we go back to our jobs, toe the party line and get very, very miserable.”

  “That’s assuming Harding doesn’t ax the show anyway, just to be vindictive.”

  “You’re right, it does,” Des said. “Striking is a risk. But the way I see it, we can’t just sit back and l
et Coffee Break be killed off without a fight. We need to have a go at saving it. At least then we can look back and say we did our best. I know people are hard up, but I’m pretty sure that going on strike for a few weeks isn’t going to ruin anybody.”

  I said I wasn’t so sure.

  “And there will be strike pay. It won’t be a lot, but nobody’s going to starve.” He paused. “But before we decide on anything, you need to have one more go at STD. Will you speak to her?”

  I said that I would. There was nothing to lose.

  As I walked into her office, STD leaned back in her chair, her face one great big sphere of smug.

  “Good to see ya, Soph,” she said, pushing her specs onto her head. “So, you and your cronies have finally seen sense. No need to grovel. I’m prepared to go easy on you. And there are no hard feelings, at least not on my part. I guess the best woman won.” She offered me a seat, but I said that I would rather stand.

  “Shirley, I’m not here to tell you we’ve backed down. I’m here to try to persuade you to start negotiating with us.”

  “Sophie, we’ve had this conversation. Are you deaf? I’ve told you, it isn’t going to happen.”

  “Then you leave us no alternative.”

  She let out a laugh. “What? I don’t believe it. You lot are going on strike? You don’t have the balls.”

  “Actually, we do have the balls. The point is we would rather not take strike action if it can be avoided. Shirley, please will you rethink your position?”

  “At the risk of repeating myself … there will be no negotiation.”

  “And that’s your final word?”

  “It is.”

  “OK, I guess there’s nothing more to be said.”

  “Let me tell you, Soph, you are making a big mistake taking me on—a big, big mistake.”

  I made my exit through the open door that connected with Wendy’s office.

  “I got all that,” she whispered, unable to conceal her glee. “Bloody woman’s a monster. I’ve had enough. If there’s a strike call, count me in.”

  • • •

  Half an hour later we were holding a staff meeting in the canteen. I spoke first to say that I’d just had a conversation with STD and that she was adamant there would be no negotiation. The mood was angry and frustrated, not least of all because nobody could afford to strike.

  Then Des got up to rally the troops. Coffee Break was an award-winning national institution, the jewel in GLB’s crown. He urged us to think about the good it had done, the campaigns the program had launched, the opinions and lives that had been changed. We couldn’t go down without a fight. It was unthinkable. The vote was carried—but only just. Those of us who voted in favor hadn’t stopped feeling petrified about striking; we’d simply allowed ourselves to be “rallied” and voted with our hearts.

  • • •

  I decided to call Greg right away. I was dreading having to break the news to him, but he needed to know that for the foreseeable future we would be down to one income. He reacted just as I expected.

  “It’s actually going ahead? Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is all I need.”

  “What? Like I do need it?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Greg, I know you’re angry, but this isn’t my fault.”

  “Of course it isn’t your fault. Did I say it was?”

  “No, but you sound like you’re blaming me.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. But I’ve got all this other shit going on.”

  “What shit? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  I was pretty sure that he was talking about him and FHF. My guess was that their fight had been pretty major. He must have read her the riot act about her e-mail. Then she hit the roof.

  “But what are we going to do for money?” Greg said. “We’re on the edge as it is. We can’t go begging to our parents—it’s so bloody undignified at our age. And there’s no way I’m touching the kids’ school fees fund.”

  “I agree, but for the time being let’s just try not to panic. Des is convinced that management will cave in after a couple of days.”

  “Well, he’d better be right. That’s all I can say.”

  I decided there was no point saying anything about renting the attic room until Huck had agreed to take it.

  • • •

  The last thing I wanted was for Amy and Ben to start worrying about money—so far Greg and I had been careful not to share our financial concerns with them—but since I wouldn’t be going to work tomorrow or the next day or probably for many days after that, I felt I had to tell them what was going on. Amy asked if she would still be able to go on her school field trip. Ben wanted to know if he could still have a birthday party. Despite not having the foggiest idea where Greg and I were going to find the money, I reassured them on both counts. Satisfied that their needs would be taken care of, they asked no more questions and carried on as normal.

  When I raised the possibility of taking in a lodger and that I’d met somebody who might be interested in taking the attic bedroom, the kids seemed delighted. Ben liked the idea of having a man in the house again because it meant there would be somebody to protect us from burglars. Amy asked if he was any good at math. “I could really do with some extra help. You’re hopeless and Dad’s so bad at explaining things over the phone.”

  Huck took about three seconds to decide that the room was perfect. We sealed the deal with a glass of wine at the kitchen table and I introduced him to Amy and Ben.

  “Huckleberry’s a weird name.”

  “Ben, please. That’s rude.”

  Huck smiled. “Yes, it is a bit unusual. My mum and dad named me after Huckleberry Finn.”

  “So you’re named after part of a fish?”

  “Huck Finn is not a fish, stupid,” Amy broke in. “He’s a character from Tom Sawyer. I watched it at Georgia’s.”

  I glanced at Huck and shrugged. “Why read the book when you can watch the movie? … Amy, you should read Tom Sawyer. It’s a very famous book. It’s a classic.”

  “No point now that I’ve seen the movie. So, Huck, what job do you do?”

  Huck explained that he helped homeless people and children from poor homes.

  “What, you mean like Jesus or Bono?” Ben said. “Bono helps poor people. I know ’cos there’s this boy in my class who’s related to him.”

  “Not exactly like Bono, no. I run a youth club for poor kids.”

  “Do they take drugs?” Ben asked.

  “Some of them do.”

  “Cool.”

  I stared openmouthed at my son. “Ben! I cannot believe you said that. Taking drugs is never, ever cool.”

  “Dante in my class—his dad says drugs are cool because they expand your brain. Maybe if I took some drugs I could build a flux capacitor.”

  “You don’t even know what that is,” Amy said.

  “Yes, I do. It’s in Back to the Future. It’s the thing that Doc builds into the DeLorean. It’s what makes time travel possible. But I don’t understand enough about it yet.”

  “Well, I can assure you,” Huck said, “that taking drugs wouldn’t help. Drugs mess with your brain. They don’t improve it.”

  “But Dante’s dad says—”

  “Ben, I don’t care what Dante’s dad says. Huck works with kids who take drugs. He knows the terrible harm they can do.”

  “The other night,” Amy piped up, “when we were coming home with Dad, he had the car radio on and this man called in and he said that poor people are lazy scroungers who sit on their backsides all day watching flat-screen TVs, eating KFC and drinking our taxes. And then this government person came on and sort of agreed. If somebody from the government says it, then I think it must be true.”

  I didn’t know where to put myself. “Amy, Dad and I are always telling you how important it is to question what people tell you—even adults and especially adults who are rig
ht-wing politicians.”

  “What’s right-wing?”

  “Maybe your mum can explain that later,” Huck said. “But let me tell you a bit about being poor. The thing is that when you’re brought up in poverty and you’ve never seen your mum or dad go out to work, you start to believe that there is no future for you and that there’s no point in working hard at school or trying to get a job.”

  “So people take drugs to try to make themselves feel better,” Amy said.

  Huck nodded. “Pretty much.”

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was getting late. “OK, you two, time to get ready for bed. Say good-bye to Huck.”

  They protested about being shooed upstairs, but eventually they disappeared.

  “They’re great kids,” Huck said.

  “I like to think so, although I have to admit that their views on drugs and social welfare need some urgent honing.”

  Huck laughed. “They’re so young. You should be pleased they even have views about that kind of stuff.”

  I said I guessed he was right and topped up our glasses.

  • • •

  After Huck had gone, I went to check that the kids were in bed. Ben was fast asleep, but Amy was awake with the bedside light on.

  “You OK, sweetie?” I sat down on the bed and kissed her forehead.

  “Dad and Roz are being weird with each other. You know, snapping and being moody—a bit like the way you and Dad used to get. I think maybe they had a fight.”

  “They did, but I spoke to your dad and they’ve sorted it out now, so I’m sure they’ll start cheering up soon.”

  “I wish Dad could come back here to live. I really miss him.”

  “I know, darling. I know.”

  “Can I have a cuddle?”

  “Of course you can.”

  I climbed into Amy’s narrow bed and we made spoons, me with my arms around her waist. “Better?”