Gloves Off

by Louisa Reid

  GLOVES OFF

  www.guppybooks.co.uk

  Also by Louisa Reid:

  BLACK HEART BLUE

  LIES LIKE LOVE

  www.louisareid.com

  LOUISA REID

  GLOVES OFF

  GLOVES OFF

  is a GUPPY BOOK

  First published in the UK in 2019 by

  Guppy Publishing Ltd,

  Bracken Hill,

  Cotswold Road,

  Oxford OX2 9JG

  Text © Louisa Reid, 2019

  978 1 913101 20 6

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  The right of Louisa Reid to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permissions of the publishers.

  Papers used by Guppy Books are from well-managed forests and other responsible sources.

  GUPPY PUBLISHING LTD Reg. No. 11565833

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in Gill Sans and Garamond by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd, www.falcon.uk.com

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A

  “Going in one more round

  when you don’t think you can.

  That’s what makes all the

  difference in your life.”

  – Rocky Balboa

  ROADKILL

  i taste the street –

  it’s filthy,

  gritty and hard,

  and it has

  knocked

  all the

  breath

  out of my body.

  slammed low,

  i grope for my bag,

  stinging shame in my palms,

  on my knees,

  and my chin.

  i don’t get up.

  i stare at the ground,

  something in my eye.

  RESCUE

  waiting for the thunder of feet to fade,

  for the taunts to be swallowed

  by the blare and shout of traffic –

  who finds me?

  who scrapes me off the street

  and helps me home?

  (oh, god,

  how long did i

  lie

  there?)

  i don’t like to be

  SEEN.

  and – like that –

  SPOTTED

  at my worst.

  i like to pretend

  that no one knows

  who i am,

  that i’m hiding well,

  hiding here,

  in front of you –

  invisible,

  nevertheless.

  but when you’re

  down and out,

  knocked

  on the ground,

  crumpled –

  it’s clear that someone put you there,

  and that you didn’t fight back.

  too weak.

  too wet.

  even so,

  i remember to say thank you

  to the woman who drives me home.

  manners cost nothing.

  FOR SHE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW

  i turn my key in the door,

  and hear mikey’s voice –

  “she’s home, she’s home! lily! lil!”

  he runs towards me,

  grabs my hand,

  before i can escape upstairs,

  and drags me into the sitting room

  where mum and aunty clare are waiting

  with balloons,

  and a fountain of silly string explodes.

  “happy birthday to you!”

  they chorus

  in voices so loud

  the whole street will hear,

  even the baby is bouncing

  and cooing in time.

  i crush the rest of the day inside my fist,

  and smile.

  SWEET SIXTEEN

  there’s birthday kisses and cake.

  a tower of pink candles

  flickers and flares,

  mikey claps his hands,

  jumps up and down –

  our sofa his trampoline,

  as i blow out my age – all sixteen at once –

  and screw my eyes tight,

  and make my wish.

  “look what i got you!” mikey cries,

  shoving a parcel into my hands,

  and i peel back the tape,

  peep inside,

  “oh wow,” i say, “oh, thanks, mikey, aunty clare, that’s

  great.”

  make-up,

  – a palette of war paint.

  “you can get married now,” says aunty clare,

  giving me a wink,

  no ta

  “or just play the lottery,” she hands me a ticket,

  for tomorrow night’s draw,

  and i smile at the thought.

  mum’s made me a scarf,

  crocheted perfection, matching hat and gloves,

  in rainbow hues,

  “do you like it, lil?”

  she asks, watching me,

  so anxiously,

  “it’s getting colder now,

  they’ll keep you warm.”

  i wrap myself in her love,

  they’re perfect, mum, so beautiful.

  but i know i can never wear this stuff

  anywhere near school.

  DANCING QUEENS

  mum cranks up Abba,

  and mikey insists

  that we play some games –

  musical statues, he decides,

  so we all join in,

  and let him win.

  “didn’t you do a pass the parcel, aunty bern?”

  mikey wonders,

  and we laugh, tease mum,

  then i grab my cousin and swing him

  round

  and round

  until we fall on the sofa,

  dizzy and daft,

  and i tickle him until all I hear is his laugh.

  BERNADETTE (1)

  When you were born you were perfect.

  And now,

  Standing here,

  Looking at you –

  Sixteen! –

  I watch you and wonder,

  At the shape of your face,

  The arch of your brow,

  The bow of your lips,

  The length of your neck,

  The strength of your back,

  The curve of your cheeks,

  The joy of your laugh,

  Your heart, so sweet.

  Oh Lily,

  You are my masterpiece.

  WE ALL FALL DOWN

  my dad thinks i’m clumsy.

  i don’t let him see

  all the bruises –

  sometimes, though, he’ll look at me twice

  and ask questions that make me

  wince and hide.

  “happy birthday, lil,” he shouts down the phone,

  the roar of a motorway

  growling hello.

  he’s not home tonight.

  he works long hours

  far away

  for not much pay,

  which is why I need

  to do well at school,

  to find a way to rise above,

  they say.

  but what if you can’t concentrate?

  what if there’s always too much noise?

  sixteen –

  should know what’s what,

  how to deal

  with what i’m not.

  i lie awake,

  as sirens s
trafe the early hours –

  someone else’s problem,

  but,

  still,

  close enough to remind us

  no one’s safe

  round here.

  3 A.M.

  and the front door opens, shuts.

  i can hear mum in the hallway,

  murmuring, the sound of

  lights being turned on,

  and the kettle humming,

  fridge sucking open, shut.

  i wonder

  if it’s dad.

  standing at the top of the stairs,

  i listen in.

  uncle ray.

  oh, god.

  go away.

  “MORNING,”

  he says, sitting there,

  feet under the table,

  cooked breakfast round his mouth,

  mopping up yolk

  with a piece of fried bread.

  “all right? get the girl some grub, bern. lazy cow,”

  he laughs,

  eyeing me,

  no card or present, that’s no surprise.

  mum steps to the cupboard,

  her face grey and pouchy,

  yawning behind her hand.

  they’ve talked all night,

  his voice echoed

  up the stairs,

  into my room,

  vibrating, deep and low.

  he likes the sound of it,

  sings karaoke at the weekends,

  when he can.

  and now this morning

  ray is brazen,

  has shaved his face

  with one of dad’s razors.

  “she never did pull her weight, eh, lil?”

  he laughs at his joke, gestures at my mum,

  but i don’t smile

  or sit down.

  “come on then,”

  he says to mum,

  “get into gear.

  get that arse moving, eh?”

  ray comes over

  when dad’s away

  and mum

  lets him in.

  if dad were here,

  he’d tell ray to sling his hook.

  once i saw mum open her purse

  and hand over all she had.

  i know his knock:

  a hammer.

  if no one answers

  he calls through the letter box,

  then comes round the back,

  “i know you’re in there,”

  he shouts.

  i’m a coward. i make her face him alone.

  see you later, mum,

  i kiss her goodbye

  and slam the door behind me.

  uncle ray is

  in the police,

  you’d think

  that you could trust him.

  BERNADETTE (2)

  The past

  Follows me,

  A stalker

  Who knows everything I’ve ever regretted,

  Every shameful moment I can’t forget.

  My brother, Ray, grins.

  His face is over the breakfast table

  And

  His fist is in my belly

  In the alley

  Near school

  Twenty years ago,

  Taking my bus money,

  Pulling my hair,

  Telling his friends they can have a ride.

  And I’m still a kid

  Who can’t tell him where to go.

  Every day

  I watch my daughter leave,

  See her walk away,

  Close the door,

  Everything on her shoulders.

  And I try not to cry at the strength that somehow

  she has learned.

  What now for me?

  I sit in her room and stare at the pictures on her

  walls.

  She’d hate to know I was here

  Touching her things,

  Trying to worm my way inside her thoughts.

  I talk to Lil of how she’ll leave all this

  Behind,

  And that thought is the saddest one of all.

  SCREW SCHOOL (1)

  it’s all

  that i can do to find my way to school,

  my feet doing

  everything i’d rather they didn’t –

  as if the compass points only one way.

  avoiding the noise and bother of the bus,

  the shoving and pushing and not enough room

  knowing that i will sit alone,

  i take the long route.

  no one is waiting this morning.

  i spend the day dodging

  faces,

  jeers.

  later, homewards,

  i walk again

  down the

  autumn strewn streets,

  kicking leaves and litter,

  fighting fumes,

  looking over my shoulder,

  pretending that i’m not so slow.

  (if someone tries to get me

  i’ll freeze,

  grabbed and caught,

  my scream is already ready,

  vice tight, a band across my chest

  and i will hate that i can’t run.)

  there are peeping shadows everywhere.

  i tell myself i see things that

  are not there.

  BERNADETTE (3)

  Watching the clock.

  Where are you?

  When you were small

  You were my tiny shadow

  It was almost as if we breathed as one.

  I knew what made you happy,

  What made you sad.

  When you were growing up

  I’d tell your dad we’d had a lovely day

  And it was true,

  I suppose.

  You never seemed to mind

  Staying at home and playing in the yard.

  We made mud pies in summer,

  Splashed in the paddling pool,

  Grew strawberries in pots

  From seeds I ordered down a phone line,

  Avoiding facing faces.

  You and your dad brought home

  Tadpoles from the park.

  We made a makeshift pond and watched them grow,

  You laughed as they

  Changed,

  Tried to catch

  The baby frogs

  When they jumped.

  When you started school

  I didn’t show you how to make friends

  And keep them,

  To make connections

  Or make your mark.

  I didn’t show you how to walk in steps as bold

  And bright as your smile,

  Or that your heart could burn

  With all the dreams it dared.

  ANOTHER DAY DONE

  i wander home,

  and follow the road as

  far as it will go.

  i watch the sky

  and think that if i could only run

  i might catch the disappearing sun,

  snatch the

  light,

  hitch a ride

  out of here, to the other place,

  another world where i am

  someone

  new.

  i tried it once,

  chasing fast as i could go,

  panting

  stumbling,

  tripping over uneven stones,

  down the lane, towards the

  wasteland,

  metal scarred,

  that runs behind the houses to

  a place that isn’t a place any more.

  surely there, i’d find it –

  a pool of gold.

  but the sun

  outran me.

  it was dark before

  i’d even half begun.

  back home safe,

  i stare through the kitchen window.

  there’s mum,

  at the table

  on her own.

  how easy to sneak up and frighten her –
/>
  to bang on the window,

  and make her jump.

  she sips tea,

  dunks a biscuit,

  checks her watch,

  rubs her head and yawns

  and then stares at nothing for a while.

  why don’t we go out together any more?

  my mother does not leave the house at all.

  she taught me all about her shame

  and left me alone with mine.

  her face lights up like Christmas

  when i walk through the door.

  i sit with mum.

  we listen to the rain, and talk about

  how today’s not the day to be outside.

  we watch TV.

  she measures, pins, stitches, sews,

  creates beauty for those

  who already know how lovely they are.

  talented,

  my mother is.

  she blushes if you say so.

  she works with

  silk and lace, velvet, net –

  mysteries of grace

  that drape the room

  in dreamy folds.

  she stitches

  tight skirts

  fitted to the skin.

  things that i could never wear.

  (would never wear

  how they’d STARE.)

  “let me make you something pretty.”

  mum pats my hand, holds out

  a pattern.

  i shake my head.

  “so everything’s all right, then?”

  she asks,

  biting off a thread.

  i nod.

  i try to tell her how

  happy i am at school.

  but the friends who every day

  pretend to smile and

  then

  look away,

  say that they will sit with you at lunch,

  then

  disappear,

  pretend that their birthday didn’t happen,

  not that you weren’t invited,

  are lurking somewhere here,

  present

  in the calls that never come.

  in the messages i don’t receive.

  i take a picture of my face and

  wonder

  is it good enough to share?

  i know i take up too much room.