by Sue Nicholls
‘Weekend?’
‘Yeah. Remember? I said I’d help you with the garage.’
For a moment, Maurice looked mystified, then he beamed. ‘Ah yes.’
Compared to Paul and Mick, the fathers of his friends, Maurice was already an old man. Over the past few years his memory had deteriorated, and on more than one occasion, Sam had attempted to get him to the GP. But Maurice was stubborn and refused to go. It was time for Sam to raise the matter with his irresponsible brother, Josh. Irresponsible in Sam’s opinion because he had dropped out of college after only a year and now worked on a construction site. Whenever they met, Josh had an unfamiliar girl in tow. But shiftless as he seemed, if Maurice were sick, Josh would give Sam the support he needed.
Sam glanced round the kitchen in search of a calendar. Maurice waved him to a nearby drawer where the wire-bound, week by week pad lay under a jumble of bills, notebooks and receipts. In large letters in Saturday’s space, Sam noted that he would tidy the garage. ‘Leave this on the side,’ he flapped the pad at Maurice, ‘It’ll remind you I’m coming.’ He looked around the kitchen. Years ago, although his dad had never been all that interested in domestic concerns, he had made some effort with the place. He had kept it clean, and the walls got an occasional coat of paint. But now, fronds of cobweb waved from the ceiling, while larger, occupied structures draped corners and windowsills surrounded by a litter of fly and wasp corpses. ‘Have you considered a cleaner, Dad?’
Maurice poked out his lip and folded his arms, and Sam sighed. ‘I suppose I could have a go at this after the garden.’
‘You don’t need to. I can manage.’
‘Well, it’s your house. If this is how you choose to live, go ahead, but I wouldn’t invite any ladies in.’
‘Ladies? That’s a laugh.’
A lady friend for Maurice would relieve Sam of some pressure, so he persevered. ‘No it’s not. Plenty of men your age, start again. Look at Paul.’
‘Yes, look at him. Under the thumb already.’
‘Were you under the thumb when you were with Mum?’
‘No. But look what happened. She walked out on me, didn’t she?’
‘I suppose she did.’
The conversation was getting them nowhere, and Sam stood. ‘I’ll make a move. I’m seeing you on Saturday - we can talk more then. In the meantime, why not check out a dating site? There are special ones for seniors.’
‘Seniors? Cheeky bugger!’
Sam grinned, pleased by Maurice’s flash of life. ‘Just give the idea some thought. Even if it’s only for companionship.’
‘Get out of here.’ Maurice laughed and flapped the backs of his hands at Sam.
Sam raised his palms in submission. ‘OK. I’m going.’
On his way home, Sam reflected on his own love life. He longed for Kitty, but she signalled no interest in him. Not a single giggle or flutter. The corners of Sam’s mouth kinked up at the idea of Kitty giggling. She punched him sometimes; was that horseplay? Nah. It was friendly. Kitty was his mate, nothing more. He spent the rest of the journey trying not to think about her body pressed against his own as he rode pillion on her bike.
23 ANWEN
Paul’s hallway was scattered with cardboard grocery cartons. Anwen knelt beside them and ran her palm over the carpet pile. So soft.
Beside her, a radiator warmed her arm.
‘That’s the last.’ Cerys’s muffled voice came from the under-stairs’ cupboard, and Anwen paused in her Sybaritic musings to regard her sister’s round bottom, reversing towards her. Cerys sat back on her haunches and brushed her fringe from her eyes. ‘Let’s get this lot onto the kitchen table. Paul said there’s stuff in here he hasn’t unpacked since he moved in, so I expect we can take most of it to a charity shop.’
While they toted the boxes, Anwen listened in astonishment to Cerys’s explanation of a charity shop. To throw things away or have so much you might not notice if something was missing was an unfamiliar concept. Her parents - their parents - owned nothing that was not utilitarian. If something broke, they fixed it. The kitchen at Mynydd Hen contained a clutter of mismatched chairs, drawers with odd handles and a table constructed from two sawhorses and an old door. If Anwen had ever heard of Heath Robinson, she would have wondered why he was considered unusual. Only broken china was irreparable, and if the person breaking it was Anwen, the result would be her chilly incarceration.
‘Does Paul know we’re going through his stuff?’ she ventured.
‘Not exactly.’ With an ‘oomph’ Cerys dumped the last box onto the table. ‘I mentioned that I planned to have a good sort out before the party though, so it shouldn’t surprise him.’ She brushed dust from her melon-ripe front and ran her fingers through her hair.
‘You should look in the mirror. You’re a proper mess,’ Anwen grinned.
‘I’ll have a shower after. Now… what have we got in here?’ Cerys sliced a knife through parcel tape on the first box. Inside, wrapped in newspaper, they found glasses and pictures, all new to Cerys. The unexceptional prints of white, metal garden chairs and straw hats in conservatories were not to Paul’s automotive taste and held no appeal for Cerys either. She propped them against the hall wall. The glasses would be useful for the party, and Anwen unwrapped them and stood them by the sink. At the very bottom of the box lay a pile of papers: bank statements, old bills and a small notebook with dog-eared corners. Cerys replaced the financial records in the box and wrote ‘Bank Statements’ on the side.
They found blankets and sagging, dribble-stained feather pillows, and a rancid collection of plastic ice cream containers that held nuts and bolts, cable-ties and batteries. Cerys screwed up her nose. ‘Disgusting. These can go straight in the bin.’
‘Don’t you think you should check with Paul first? He might find some of that useful.’
‘I suppose so. I’ll find new boxes for them.’
Two hours later, most of Paul’s under-stairs belongings had found a new home in the dustbin. In the hall, two boxes awaited his authorisation: one for the charity shop and one for the attic. The latter bore a list on its lid of contents such as photos (mainly of old bikes and cars), cuff links, and flying jacket - the jacket may have fitted Paul once, but Cerys doubted he could zip it up now, let alone move in it. However, she knew how much the garment meant to him, as he often talked about it with a misty look in his eye. It was US Airforce issue: leather with a fleecy collar. Paul had bought it from a retiring furrier in his early biking days. She did not need to ask if he would send it to a charity shop, so she pressed it into the depths of a box.
Leaving Anwen to vacuum the hall, Cerys laboured up to the bedroom. After rinsing her hands in the en suite bathroom, she pulled the tatty little notebook from inside her bra. With the Hoover droning downstairs, she perched on the edge of the bed and separated its mottled, yellow pages, with her perfect pink nails. The sheets were divided into three columns, each labelled in Paul’s careless scrawl: Date, Event, and Anger. An item drew her attention: ‘Fee called at house - complained about smell.’ The number in the Anger column was ten, the highest on the page. She flipped through the book. The maximum number on any page was ten, and she found few below five. Here, at last, was information about Paul’s past, but reading it brought her no pleasure. This anger record revealed a side of Paul she had not experienced. Yes, he could be grumpy, but this scale of fury presented her man in a new, unwelcome light. Furthermore, peeking where she should not, was uncomfortable, so after dropping her grubby garments into the laundry bin, she slid the notebook into her bathrobe pocket.
Grime from her hair ran in rivulets between her blue-veined breasts and streamed around her gleaming belly. She arched her neck in pleasure, letting the heat soothe the troublesome pain in her back. To distract herself, she put her mind to Anwen’s future. Their area had several schools, but the nearest had no space, so Cerys had secured a place at a school local to Maurice. This would mean a bus ride or a lengthy walk for Anwen. Not that
the girl would mind. In North Wales she had traipsed miles for most things.
On the previous Saturday, the sisters had enjoyed a shopping trip. Cerys helped Anwen chose modern clothes: jeans, jumpers, tee-shirts and a skater dress. Next, they bought school uniform: a dark green blazer with yellow edging, and a pleated skirt and green and gold tie. The hairdresser transformed Anwen from waif to modern young miss, cutting her light brown hair into layers. When she saw her new self in the mirror, Anwen’s face lit up.
After her shower, Cerys flopped downstairs in her slippers and stuffed the old notebook into the recycling bin. As she straightened up, a key crunched in the lock and Paul arrived.
‘What’s all this?’ He glared at the boxes. ‘Charity shop? What are you throwing away?’
Cerys gave him a hug. ‘Hello to you too,’ she smiled.
Paul embraced her briefly, but his eyes remained on the boxes. ‘I don’t remember saying you could go through my stuff.’
‘I did tell you.’
‘I don’t think you did.’ His eyes flicked to hers, and he sighed. ‘What have you thrown away?’
‘Nothing you could possibly want. Pictures, ancient bedding and loads of old bills.’ Cerys nodded at the ice cream tubs. ‘Anything I thought you might want is there, but if you wish to check the bins, you’re welcome.’
Paul grunted and stomped into the kitchen. When he saw the glasses, dried and arranged on the window ledge, he crowed, ‘My Guinness tankard! I wondered where that had gone. I nicked it from a pub on my twenty first.’
‘Shush,’ Cerys hissed. ‘I don’t need Anwen to hear about your misspent youth thank you very much.’
Paul frowned and muttered, ‘A bloke can’t call his house his own. She’ll have to get used to it - I’m not a saint, you know.’
Cerys gave him a hug. ‘You are to me. Not every man would take in an unexpected sister. I do appreciate it.’
‘Yeah. Well…’ Paul lapsed into silence and Cerys relaxed.
Later, she poked her head into Anwen’s room. The girl sat at her desk, in reality a table, purchased in haste from IKEA to serve as a surface for homework. ‘Hello Lovely.’ Cerys whispered. ‘Mind if I come in a minute?’ She sat on the duvet and patted the space beside her, and Anwen snuggled up. Cerys put an arm round her sister. ‘You know Paul is a good man?’ She felt Anwen’s nod against her neck.
‘He gets agitated sometimes.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘You might say grumpy. Things haven’t gone the way he expected lately, you know, with you arriving.’ She squeezed the bony shoulders and kissed her sister on top of her head. ‘He’s pleased you’re here, and he wants us to be happy, but we need to be careful not to upset him. It’s important for our future to keep on the right side of him.’ She let go of Anwen and cupped her palms around the girl’s face. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Lovely? I must marry Paul to secure a future for us both.’
Anwen gave an apprehensive look and nodded.
‘Good. Just remember that this is his house. Keep it tidy, keep your noise down and clean up when you notice a mess. OK?’
‘OK. I didn’t realise I was being noisy.’
‘You’re not, but I hope that you’ll want to when you’ve settled in.’ She chuckled at Anwen’s baffled expression. ‘Come on. EastEnders is starting.’
24 ANWEN
The rays of a low winter sun bounced from the wet pavement, silhouetting the figures of other school children ahead of Anwen. She looked down at her shoes, hoping their shiny tops and the tailored look of her new uniform, would not make her novice status too obvious.
Cerys had offered to accompany her on this first day at Rockingham Comprehensive, but instinct told Anwen that a big sister fussing at the school gate would not serve her well.
Near the main entrance, cars eased to the curb releasing long-legged, short-skirted girls, and boys with rolled up blazer sleeves and ties knotted low, to expose their top buttons and open necks. Conspicuous in her stiff blazer, and conscious of the hem of her skirt brushing her knees, Anwen battled an urge to turn and run from the bag-flinging crowd.
She slowed down, her courage waning, and a voice said, ‘You new, then?’ A skinny Goth-boy fell into step with her. He swept his dead-black fringe from black-lined eyes and scanned Anwen’s new uniform with curiosity but not disdain.
‘Yeah. Yes.’
‘What yer gotta do first?’ Once again, the fringe flicked sideways and fell back.
‘Report to the office.’
They passed through glass doors into the foyer and the boy said, ‘That’s easy then. Go to the front desk - just there. What year yer in?’
‘Eleven, I think.’
‘Me too. Might see yer later. Depends how clever yer are.’
‘Oh?’
The crowd jostled round them, and the boy was swept away, shouting, ‘I’m in the bottom set. Thick.’ His grin disappeared around a corner, and Anwen turned to a harassed lady behind the desk.
Soon she was following the rather masculine frame of the woman along a confusion of corridors, stairs and heavy doors. When they reached the classroom, Anwen opened the door and met the stare of thirty pairs of eyes. The lady gave her a push, saying, ‘This is Anwen Jones, Mr Crocket,’
‘Thank you, Miss Pilkington,’ the teacher called after the woman’s disappearing figure.
A snigger piped from somewhere, but Mr Crocket ignored it and unwound his lanky frame from his chair. ‘Anwen. Welcome. I’ve put you beside Daisy, there.’ He pointed to a gloss-lipped, kohl-eyed blond whose analytical stare did not fill Anwen with confidence. At another giggle, Mr Crocket fixed a deep frown on a girl in the back row. ‘Sit down, Anwen,’ he said. ‘I’m just finishing the register, then Daisy will show you where to go next.
‘Daisy,’ he fixed a firm look on the girl, ‘I hope I can rely on you to get Anwen sorted out with a locker and a timetable and show her where the canteen is.’
Daisy let out a small sigh but answered politely enough, ‘Yes, Mr C.’
A powerful smell of perfume rose from Daisy, and as Anwen took her place, she sneaked a sideways glance at her neighbour’s claret pout. Cerys would never countenance that much make-up.
Over the morning, Daisy made the burden of her responsibility very plain. After flouncing ahead of Anwen to the office for a locker key and pointing out the toilets and refectory, she ran off with her cronies to jeer from a distance.
Anwen ventured into the dining hall and soon found herself stumped by the contactless payment system. A supervisor gave her credit on the understanding that her guardian, Cerys, paid for the lunch that evening online and added a surplus for Anwen to spend during the week ahead. Anwen donated a thumb print for access to the system.
She had overcome her first obstacle, and with an orange juice and a chicken mayonnaise sandwich on her tray, she sat at the first available table among a crowd of year eight boys. They were too busy larking about to pay her any attention, and she swallowed her food into a knotted stomach.
A familiar voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘All on yer own?’ The boy from earlier grinned down at her, and her heart lifted at his friendly face.
She wanted to hug this kindly boy but instead aimed an enormous beam at him and said, ‘Hi. I didn’t see you in my class this morning.’
‘Different house then.’
The crowd of younger boys took their noisy leave, and the goth parked himself beside Anwen. He offered the open top of his crisp packet to her, and she inserted cautious fingers, examining a golden disk before taking a bite. Her face screwed up. ‘It’s sour.’
‘Never ‘ad salt and vinegar before?’ The boy’s brows pulled together.
‘No. Never. I’ve seen them, but my Mam and Dad wouldn’t have let me.’
‘Yer always do what they say then?’
‘I don’t live there anymore. I live with my sister.’ Anwen fiddled with her cuff.
The boy shrugged, palmed half a dozen crisps into his mouth and crunched on them.
‘What’s yer name then?’ he said, displaying yellow teeth, coated in a sticky mess of food.
She told him.
He swallowed the crisps and took a gulp of water. ‘Charlie.’ He nodded his introduction. ‘Yer talk funny. Where yer from?’
‘North Wales.’ Anwen grinned at him and wagged her head. ‘You talk funny too. Where are you from?’ Charlie waved a crisp over his shoulder towards the school entrance. ‘Out the gates, turn left and keep on walking. Soon as you see the wall with the graffiti, turn right and that’s my street. Elm Road.’ He shoved in another handful of crisps.
‘Does it have trees?’
‘Nah. Dog shit and rubbish is all. Why?’
‘Well. With a name like that. Why call it Elm Road with no Elms?’
‘That a tree, then? I never knew.’
‘So, we’re quits. I taught you about a tree, and you taught me about crisps.’
Across the room, a posse of girls, led by Daisy, left their places and crowded around Anwen and Charlie. ‘Found a friend then?’ Daisy looked down at the two, her knuckles resting on her hips. The four damsels behind her shrieked with laughter, and all five sat down opposite Anwen and Charlie. Their breath smelt of chips and something fruity and unpleasant. Anwen pulled away.
‘So, what bands do you like?’ Daisy demanded with a smirk.
‘I haven’t heard any. Paul, my sister’s fiancé, likes The Blues Brothers. There’s music in that. It’s OK.’
‘The Blues Brothers. Who the fuck are they?’
Anwen decided that silence was best. Charlie came to her rescue. ‘We was just talking about Taylor Swift, wasn’t we?’ He nudged Anwen.
‘Yes. I like him.’
There were more raucous yells. ‘She’s a girl, you idiot. Where have you been?’
Anwen resisted the temptation to tell them, instead lifting her head higher and demanding, ‘Who do you like then?’
‘None of your business little Welsh girl.’ The girls danced off, shrieking with mirth, and Anwen sighed.
‘Where have yer been all these years?’ Charlie squinted at Anwen through his fringe, and the kindness in his voice forced a tear.
