by Helen Walsh
With each proud stride that took him away from St Stephen’s, Robbie was taken over by a sense that he was, at last, walking towards something – something huge. A powerful shudder swept through him and he was overcome by the certainty that tonight was the turning point in his life. He would never, ever forget this evening: the night of the snowstorms; the night Dickie Vaughan walked into his club. He strode on through the blizzard, wanting to hang on to the feeling, that awesome sense of significance, the knowledge that he, Robbie Fitz, was at the very centre of something important.
Robbie turned a corner and saw Crossfields’ two smokestacks marooned in the whiteness. A grin sliced his face as another delicious repercussion presented itself: the factory could go and fuck itself! In the very near future, he would be walking into Vernon Cohen’s office and handing in his notice. That would take some of the sheen off his ingratiating face. He started to play out the departure scene in his mind’s eye, but it was almost too much to take in. He’d quietly resigned himself to another forty years on the Metso Soap line, maggoting away with all the other maggots – maybe a promotion to Charge Hand if he got lucky. His head was so giddy it felt unsafe on his neck. A surge of recklessness made him want to do something impulsive and totally self-destructive. He looked across the white reach of playing fields and for a brief second thought about jumping a bus to town, really celebrating his newfound freedom! But there was an even stronger pull the other way. Susheela. Vincent. The baby.
He giggled again as he ran through the different possibilities for breaking the news to her, but one thing remained constant. The hell with fish and chips! Tonight they would be celebrating with chow mein and ribs. He patted the roll of pound notes in his pocket and hit the jackpot with a crumpled, pre-made rollie he’d forgotten about. He sparked up and pushed on.
Robbie walked right past the chippie. Some of the lads from the tower blocks were milling around in the doorway, neither really inside nor outside the place. What was it with these kids and big, lit-up windows? The off-licence, the phone box, the chippie – they flocked to them like fireflies. As he passed, their horrible mob laughter spilled out, jarring with the calm of the snowfall. Robbie felt for whomever was on duty in there tonight. He could see one of the little shaven-headed bastards leaning right over the counter, shouting something into the kitchen. His conscience warred with him. He really should go in – stand there and queue. His very presence would be enough to shut this lot up, probably see them off, too. But a glance inside made his mind up. Johny was there, too, and their paper wraps were already being stacked up on the stainless steel counter. Robbie saw the clock. He was an hour late.
Susheela would be worried by now. Even if she’d guessed he was going to Fung Ling, she wouldn’t be expecting him to be this late. Perhaps he should just go straight home, but it’d be worth this minor angst when he burst through the front door with his big news and their swanky dinner, and like a gambler on a roll, he pressed right ahead. He wished he hadn’t seen the skins. Subconsciously, he drew hard on his rollie as he passed them by, the sight of their harringtons and major-domo boots planting something queasy in his guts. He wasn’t afraid of any of them; he’d come up against all their brothers and cousins at one time or another. He couldn’t place the source of his unease, only that it was chemical, instinctive, some imminent menace they exuded just through being there. Maybe he was just experiencing the rude announcement of the new kids on the block, and he simply didn’t like the shock of the cockiness their youth brought. Just like the tower blocks and low-rises realigning the skyline of his own youth, Orford was changing. But so, thought Robbie as he reached the other side of the top field, was he.
The skins filed out from the chippie and mobbed up on the corner of the road, cramming fistfuls of hot chips into their mouths as they watched Robbie go. All eyes were on Evo, the oldest of the crew, a squat, solid lad who, at nineteen, was the man among the boys. A kid no older than fifteen pushed himself forward, face twisted tight into a scowl. ‘We gonna do ’im, Ev? We doing the Paki-loving twat?’
Revelling in his big moment, Evo lit up as he spoke. The flare of the lighter illuminated his burnt, stumpy hand. ‘My, my! What a turn-up. English food’s no good for the gypo. He’s heading straight for the Chink filth!’
The kid was almost jumping up and down. ‘Let’s do the cunt, then. Let’s fucking roll him now and get his wedge before he fuckin’ spends it. Paki-loving gypo twat.’
Calmly, and seemingly unperturbed by the boy, Evo glanced down at him – then with minimal backlift, slammed his gnarled fist into his face. The lad buckled, as much through shock as the blow to his nose. Evo pulled him up by an ear and pushed his face right into his blinking, tear-pricked eyeline. ‘Who the fuck are you? You don’t say nothing, you!’
There was mute sympathy as the lad slunk back into the folds of the mob, his sleeve pressed to his nose. All eyes were now on Evo. He narrowed his gaze, saw Robbie swing open Fung Ling’s door and bound inside out of the cold. He could almost hear the cheery banter between the Chink and the gypo. He could see the money changing hands – notes, not coins. These immigrants were making proper money, and making sure they kept it in the family. That Fitzgerald would be smiling at the Chinawoman now, eyeing up her little sharp tits under that green smock she wore. Sex, he thought. Violence. He wasn’t fooled by the lowering of the eyes, the humble, servile, willing-to-please act. She was as depraved as any of them, the Chinawoman. He’d thought of her many a night. Sex. Sex. But with even a sole chop suey roll being out of his price bracket, Evo’s visits were few and far between and, still then, he felt strange in there, especially when it was just him and her. Only the Fitzgeralds of this world could eat at Fung Ling, and only then because she gave him a discount; ten per cent for fucking her up against the wall outside. Sex, sex, sex. And another ten because he was married to one of them. A stinker. One more foul, stinking alien. Violence. He watched Robbie’s jaunty silhouette, and he seethed with jealousy. Violence. Sex. Violence. Sex. And then it occurred to him that he didn’t have to choose. He turned to his boys.
‘Come on. Cunt’s too pissed to feel a hiding. We’ll smack him some other time. I’ve got a better idea.’ He started jogging back the other way – away from Robbie, away from the Chinese. ‘Come on!’ he rallied, a great leery grin spreading out over his dull face. ‘Fuck you waiting for, you Paki-loving cunts!’
They jogged after him, leaving only Fat Brian who, after a wheezy and half-hearted pursuit, contented himself with waddling on behind them, cramming steaming hot potato flesh into his mouth.
Four
Fung Ling, their local Chinese, the only Chinese this side of Warrington, was empty. Mrs Ling hung in the window, her face pressed up to the pane, her hands clasped above her brow as she scoped the deserted streets for custom. Robbie spied her anxious face and he felt for her. Business had boomed for the Lings those first few months, but slowly the novelty had begun to wear thin and, as winter set in, the locals were shunning the exoticism of eastern spice for the doughy comforts of the chippie. Each time Robbie cycled past on his way back from work now, Fung Ling was empty.
She saw him coming from across the street and quickly relocated behind the counter, trying to look busy. As he swung through the door, she fielded an imaginary telephone order, holding one hand up to Robbie for a moment’s patience. She replaced the phone, scribbled on a pad and beamed up at Robbie. ‘How Susheela?’ she asked in her faltering, sing-song English. She fixed him with an admonitory stare, her black-brown eyes never leaving his. ‘No see long time.’
Robbie couldn’t be sure if she was scolding him for witholding business, or merely enquiring about the baby. He decided on the latter and leant against the hot stainless steel counter. The heat crawled up his arms and smouldered in his pits, only adding to his all-round sense of warmth, of happiness. He was going to be a star. This woman would boast of it, soon enough. ‘Robbie Fitzgerald? Eat here! Always buy duck!’
He grinned i
nto Mrs Ling’s solemn face. ‘She’s very big now!’ Cupping his hand, he traced an arc over his tummy, unwittingly blowing out his cheeks, too. ‘But she’s fine. She’s doing great. She says she’ll be back in to see you just as soon as she’s had the little ’un.’
‘And Vincent?’ She said it Win-senn. She smiled hard, small gaps between each stumpy tooth. ‘I save prawn crackers for your little man Vincent!’ She laughed and waved a grease-stained paper bag at him. ‘You tell Susheela car no go. I no go in Rusholme this week.’
Mrs Ling provided Susheela with her umbilical cord back home. Both women came from Ipoh, the seamy Kuala Lumpur quarter that became more magical the more they romanced about it. And although Mrs Ling had left KL a long time ago to live her married life in Hong Kong, the women took a childish pleasure in communicating in Malay. Theirs was not the Malay spoken in the heaving swabs of the city, but the more sophisticated variety they’d learnt in school. Had they been neighbours back home, racial snobbery would have limited their exchanges to curt, weather-based pleasantries. But here in the brash planes of Warrington, their shared tongue provided a cultural and, often, an emotional, lifeline.
When it had first opened Susheela couldn’t keep away from Ling’s, frittering all her wages on hit after hit, day after day. She found English food bland to the extent that it depressed her, truly. But Robbie couldn’t stand Indian cuisine – it was pungent beyond his threshold, and left him with a longer-lasting and more debilitating hangover than a night on the ale. When the Lings came along, Chinese turned out to be a satisfying compromise for both.
Since Susheela had left work in November, though, her spice fix had been kept to a minimum. With only one wage coming into the household now, any extravagances had to be put in abeyance and, much as Susheela missed her chat, Robbie knew she’d never call at Fung Ling without ordering. Standing there now on the stark lino floor, with Mrs Ling cursing the fryers back to life, Robbie felt a powerful need to atone. With quick mental arithmetic, he satisfied himself there’d be enough left over from the night’s earnings to see them through the week. Grinning expansively, he ordered a half aromatic crispy duck and a special banquet for two. Mrs Ling glowed at the lavishness of the order and bounced off into the kitchen where she barked instructions to an empty room. It had been worth staying open after all.
Twenty minutes passed and Robbie was beginning to regret placing such an elaborate order now. It was past midnight, and Susheela would be beside herself. At times like this he dearly wished he’d said yes to the option of a party line when the telephone company came calling in the summer. But Robbie could never quite quell the image of the hunched, ancient lady in the corner of the Indian shop in Lymm, the phone permanently glued to her ear as she yattered on and on in that indecipherable tongue. He reproached himself, but he couldn’t risk a phone with Susheela – and it wasn’t just the money. He didn’t want her thinking of home too much.
His patience began to fray and he was almost walking out when Mrs Ling reappeared wielding two steaming plastic bags. She sang at him from behind the counter. ‘All ready now Mr Fitz yeah? Good enough for a queen! Tell Susheela I missing her. Come in soon. I put small packet spice in bag – she see. Coconut milk also. And prawn crackers for little Vincent man.’ Smiling her yellow smile again, she fished a crispy spring roll from the warmer. ‘For walk home,’ she said, handing it to him.
The gentle tick-tocking of the kitchen clock grew louder in her head. Each thrum was a blow to the heart, recalling the absence of her faithless lover. Susheela clamped her hands to her ears and padded through to the living room, swooning again at its pulverising claustrophobia. The living room was sparsely furnished. Each stick of furniture had been donated by various members of Robbie’s family, resulting in a slapdash incongruity that jarred on the eye and, for Susheela, the soul. Day after day, she had to look at the monstrosity of a badly soiled, lime-green settee which dominated the room. It was too bulky for such a tight space and only added to her sense of enclosure. A trestle table draped with a large doily served as an ad hoc stand for their poky little TV. To the left of the telly, underneath the sill, was what Susheela jokingly referred to as the cultural corner. It consisted of a blue cane bookshelf filled with Susheela’s nursing books and manuals. Next to that was a bulky, ugly stereogram, stacked with Robbie’s records. Coming back into the main expanse of the room – or what passed for it – there was a floral lampshade and a three-bar fire (almost always switched off, though tonight it was defiantly on). A plastic-rimmed mirror above the fire amplified the general haphazardness of the room. The only item of furniture they’d bought themselves was a brown and beige Axminster offcut which they’d stretched to its limits, though not quite to the walls of the room. She felt the urge to pace up and down, worry loose some of the tightness in her chest, but the tiny floor allowed no more than two or three strides. She conceded defeat and slumped down on the couch next to her slumbering boy.
She buoyed at the sight of her son. His cheeks were puffed red and his nose stuffy from the artificial heat. She turned the fire down a bar and the room glowed apricot, but within moments she felt the dip in temperature and whacked the heat back up again. He was snoring gently on the couch, some wild dream flickering his eyelids. She smiled as she wondered what he was dreaming. Maybe it was Rama and Sita from the heroic adventures of Ramayana, or the monkey prince Sugriva. Often, when Robbie was at work, she’d light some incense sticks, rustle up a simple meal of roti canai and mulligatawny and recount the ancient Hindu legends in her mother tongue. Even before Vincent could speak, she’d always spoken Tamil to him when they were alone. It was their special secret.
She lowered her head to her sleeping boy and inhaled his scent in two short draughts. His sweet, babyish smell rushed to her head, radiating through her like a glass of hot toddy. For a brief spell she was diverted from her woes, absorbed in the wonder of him. But while she marvelled at his beauty and felt weak with her love for him, the knots in her chest worked away, subconsciously tightening that constant stone in her guts reminding her of her heartache. She went through to the kitchen and sat in the dark. Not even the snow spattering the window could placate her. Her man was out there, somewhere – with another.
Five
The bitter northerly wind swept the snow right across the avenue, stacking it in huge billowing ripples. Banked ranks of council roofs were snowed under, almost cartoon-pretty in the blue-white night. Robbie felt a gush of nostalgia. It wasn’t so very long ago he’d have been sick with excitement waking up to a scene like this. He transferred the two bags of hot food to one hand and bent down, scooping up a fistful of snow and hurling it at a road sign. He grinned to himself, satisfied by the thud of the snowball as it hit its target. At the bottom of Poplars Avenue he peeled off down the dark narrow cut of the walkway. A sprinkling of hoar frost blotted out the familiar daubing: ‘If you want a nigger for a neighbour – vote Labour.’
Robbie marched past, singing to himself.
The walkway linked Orford’s newest two estates, and cut a path right behind the low-rises. Robbie always felt odd passing so close, as though he were trespassing on people’s private lives. Tonight, even later than usual, those lives seemed distilled in the late-night glow of their televisions and the dim band of yellow lighting spilling out from their windows. Yet it inspired him now, too. These were his kith and kin, and he aimed to do them proud. Passing right by a drunken argument, then a baby crying, the sweet blare of Motown, a midnight insomniac hoovering relentlessly, the clatter of a dustbin knocked to the floor, shouting and laughter – these were Robbie’s people and this was the soundtrack to his life. He felt a new tune coming, and hummed it out loud, trying to keep it alive in his head.
The walkway gave out to one final clump of wasteland, and beyond it, home. Susheela. He smiled again and crunched his way across the uneven padded earth, overtaking a hefty young lad cramming huge hunks of chips into his mouth. In the distance, in the town centre, a siren wailed, it
s howl soaring high above the tower blocks. Tonight, for once, it sounded gorgeous. Humming his tune, he tried to imagine his anthem, his hymn to the working classes with a siren as its intro. He left the patch and turned the corner into his street.
Susheela heard the front gate creak open. Her whole body slumped with the relief of it. She listened out for the clank of the gate being shut but there was nothing. He was drunk! Robbie always closed the little gate, whatever the weather. Her relief quickly gave way to indignation. Now that he was home safe, part of her wanted to punish him. She thought about creeping upstairs and feigning sleep, letting him know that she’d given up on their Saturday supper club long before he had. But the thought of him walking into an empty room and eating alone drove a stake through her heart. Besides, she could never carry Vincent upstairs in that short time. What would he think if he came home to find his little boy asleep on the couch? What kind of mother would abandon their son downstairs with the fire left on?
She pictured Robbie’s squiffy eyes and the apologetic slope of his mouth as he fumbled for his keys, fingers lashed raw from the cold. She couldn’t help smiling at the image, and just as quickly as it came her rash of anger slipped away. Now that he was back, she was able to find fun in the outlandish excesses of her paranoia. She slid the safety catch along its groove and set it free. She released the latch and was just about to tug the door wide open and surprise him when a menace of hushed voices stopped her in her tracks. She called out Robbie’s name through the letter box. Her voice seemed to hang there, frail and scared, accentuating her feebleness, before drifting off into the night, unheard.
