by Helen Walsh
Even just imagining that harsh accent in his mind cajoles a shudder of lust from Vinnie, an inner shiver. Kenny.
Kenny talks like that. His sweet, tender hooligan, glamour thug Kenny from the warehouse, talks the talk of these baby hoodlums. He’s only been working there three weeks – twenty-two days if you count today, seeing as he did his induction on a Friday. Vinnie smiles at the recollection, the first time they met. The dirty-blond, hard, cripplingly handsome townie, eyes averted, ever so slightly apologetic in his faded Cocteau Twins T-shirt. Vinnie knew the form well. In a place like Kwik Save in a town like Warrington in the coldest week of the year, to wear a T-shirt like that to work is to say: ‘Don’t bother. You won’t get me.’
So Vinnie, for all his indisposition to small talk, struck up a break-time camaraderie with the taciturn shelf-stacker. And Kenny, in the manner of the born again, was unflinchingly upfront about his reasons for pitching up in the Kwik Save stockroom. Over ciggie breaks out back, Vincent swooned at the romance of his story – which Kenny was at pains not to romanticise. He merely stated the facts: passed from pillar to post. Most settled memory was seven years with his granddad up in Eccles. Granddad died. Various homes in and around Salford and Eccles. Running with big, wild gangs. But it wasn’t this that saw him doing twelve months at Hindley. It was a crime of passion he went down for – his books. One of the lads tried to show him up as a ponce, a poof for reading all the time, and one day Kenny flipped. And that was it for Vinnie. When he heard that bit – how Kenny had stabbed the lad with a fork for calling his book habit ‘gay’ – he was gone. He was utterly, agonisingly hooked on Kenny, yet knew too well he could never say a word about it. It would be for ever the love that dare not speak its name. He has an instinct Kenny may well come tonight. His stomach is vaulting to the thought.
The bus swings a corner and there it is, scooping its gold-crêpe tunnel right through the red-brick soul of Manchester. Rusholme. Beautiful, vibrant Rusholme. Vincent checks his timepiece, its antique face splintered down the middle by a jagged crack. The bus is late. He hasn’t got time to make Abdul’s tonight and, feeling a little cheated, he heads straight to the Plough to meet his friends.
He’s never quite lowered himself to the tiffs over who discovered Rusholme first. Dan is fond of telling the gang he stumbled upon Didsbury Road before ‘Rusholme Ruffians’ was released, and at a time when the rest of them were still pressing their cheeks up against the brickwork of Salford Lads’ Club. Zoe claims she and her dad have been hitting the Curry Mile for years. Vinnie doesn’t feel the need to get involved. For the longest time, Rusholme was a guilty secret that Mum kept from the family. But after Dad went, and as he grew into his role as Mr Jones, he and Mum shared many a Saturday afternoon wandering the strip. While Ellie was indulging her then-love of rugby league, Vinnie was coming alive to the sights and aromas of Manchester’s micro-Asia. It was, in so many ways, the making of him. Rusholme and the Smiths were the things that showed Vinnie what was really out there and what could be done. Both had compelled him to write. Yet Rusholme was something he preferred to keep to himself. The Smiths changed all that.
Like everyone who falls for the Smiths, Vinnie fell hard and heavy. He can still recall his first kiss from them with the utmost clarity. He can remember the background acoustics that percolated around the bathroom where he was sunk shoulder deep in scalding hot water. Beyond the perky, upbeat voice of Peter Powell he could hear Mum stacking away dishes in the kitchen below; every crash and clang reverberating the sting of Dad’s absence, and outside, the perverse refrain of the ice-cream van cutting through his mother and sister’s grief. He was thirteen years old. Dad had come and gone, and gone again, and this time he’d been gone a month. Vinnie was in his bathroom lair, fleeing the pall that hung over the house. And he was thinking, No, it’s good that Dad has gone. Mum is sad, but we’ll be happier, soon. We’ll all be better off without him. And suddenly Peter Powell wasn’t talking and those jangling, indelible, ultra-bright, scaling chords chimed out, seeming to send the radio rocking. He can remember it so clearly now. He cranked up the volume as high as it would go. He didn’t care who heard. Everything he did, Vinnie did quietly, on the low. But this he had to hear! He had to immerse himself, surrender himself to it in just the same way as he let his fathomless bath claim him, day after day. He loved this band. That voice just punched him bang in the heart – fresh, fraught, wise and wistful, soaring above and below the jaunty guitar, defying and renouncing the synthesised melodrama of the charts. It was like nothing he’d ever heard.
‘I would go out tonight. But I haven’t got a stitch to wear …’
The poetry shivered his skin, its clever camp conceits prickling goosebumps all over him. He laughed and smiled and shook his head at the comic aptness of the lyrics – yet there was so much of himself, all his own sorrow and loneliness wrapped up in those bittersweet couplets that his laughter gave way to tears.
‘It’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care …’
Vinnie was smitten. Gone. He sat there trembling all over, anxiously waiting for Powell to reveal the identity of this charming young man. And he didn’t let him down. The Smiths. How perfect.
He smiles again as he enters the Plough, happy at the pleasure his arrival will bring.
Vinnie elbows his way to the bar, fighting his way through an all-white cast of indie kids, goths, yet more Morrisseys, a few skins, a gang of foppish professor types trying to stay with the pulse, and a smattering of non-denominational students out for a Saturday night drink in a safe pub. Vinnie drags deep and hard on it, reeling back from the sticky, pulsating magic of that initial buzz of the bar. Right now the youth of Manchester is sliced in two – narcissism versus nihilism – with one side blissed up on E, the other blitzed on weed and drink and contemplating the end of the world. Apart from the young Asian homeboys who cruise the drag in their souped-up X3is, cheesy gansta rap thumping out from their cabriolets’ sub-bass, Rusholme is Indie Kingdom. Its innocuous blend of musical tribes, students, arty types and downbeat intellectuals seems to seal it off from the bug-eyed bacchanalia of Madchester and he loves it for that.
Vinnie orders a Jameson, tosses off the dram in one slick shot, then orders another and scans the scrum of bodies over the rim of his glass. The smoke prickles his contacts. He loves this place. He could get drunk on the stink alone – that fleecy mingle of fags and weed and sweat and cheap hairspray. Some Sundays he hides last night’s garb under his bed so Mum can’t wash away the stench. He’ll wear his clothes again to write in and, perhaps, while he pleasures himself. He shoulders his way past a couple of skins, looking them straight in the eye. Nothing to worry about. If they’re in here, they’re gay. One of them slips him a wink and jerks his head in the direction of the toilets. His face is blank. He’s good-looking enough, sure, but that steel-hard, musclebound thug look doesn’t really do it for Vinnie. He prefers the poet-ruffian, the hardened vagabond. Kenny’s look. He wonders now if he’ll actually show up tonight.
He spots his little crew over in their regular corner and his heart lurches. Stooped towards them and laughing hard is Kenny. Vinnie is almost on top of them before they notice him. There’s lots of over-the-top guffawing, especially from the girls. There’s no doubt about it – Kenny is a hit with the clique. He’s a star. But he isn’t so starry-eyed as to miss the envy flickering his friend’s face.
‘Late again, Dorian Grey?’ Kenny smiles, getting his defences in first. In revealing his clever pet name for Vinnie he clearly thinks he will show them both in a good light. Vinnie bristles and for a brief moment steers away from the group, as though he’s about to walk off, but just as quickly he turns back and smiles, first at Kenny, then at the others. He’s forgiven him already. Kenny makes a space for him and Vinnie stoops to conquer.
‘So,’ he says, tossing his fringe, knowing Kenny’s eyes are on him but carrying on unawares. ‘Seduce me.’
And as though it was the funniest thing anyone
ever said, they guffaw again.
‘Hey!’ beams Dan. ‘Stone Roses are on at the Boardwalk. They’re shit hot, man.’
Vinnie leans back in his seat and eyes his eager pal. ‘Daniel.’ He just says his name – hardly any stress or intonation – but they all lean forward. They know this is going to be good. Vincent smiles thinly. ‘Lose the hot. Actually, no. Lose the man …’
Appreciative chuckles from his acolytes, but Dan resists. ‘They’re all over the music press.’ He blushes. ‘Everyone says they’re top, man …’ He tails off, aware he’s delivered himself on a plate.
Vinnie smiles again, almost apologetic in his put-down. ‘To be popular one must be a mediocrity.’
Zoe chimes in. ‘Nah, Vin. On this one, maestro, you are wrong. Have you heard them? They rock, maa …’
‘Man? You women love with your ears, just as we men love with our eyes.’ A glance at Kenny. He’s watching the sideshow, amused.
‘That is your fatal error, Dorian. You value beauty far too highly.’
Vinnie swoons for an instant as he soaks up his warm, generous mouth and the hard vulgar accent at odds with the beautiful soul within. A beat – and then he strikes back. ‘It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.’
Laughter plays its way around the table. Kenny sits back, hands him the floor and just twinkles and grins at him. Vinnie widens his eyes in mock horror and affects a Richard Pryor accent.
‘And they is one band of pig-ugly motherfuckers!’
And that, the switch from arch-Vincent back to normal pub-joker just slays them. Sometimes it still takes Vinnie by surprise the level to which he’s not just accepted but loved by his gang. These are the people that used to batter him – not them exactly, but their type. A type forever compensating for the ills they perceive in themselves. He knows in his heart of hearts that this wouldn’t work as well if he weren’t a brown boy; their pet Paki.
‘OK, so they’re not the greatest looking band,’ Dan ventures.
‘Say that again! The lead singer looks like fucking Gaylon.’
‘Whatever, The Face did a huge spread on them. That must count for something.’
Kenny twinkles at Vinnie, knowing he’s going to say something good.
‘The road to hell is paved with other peoples’ opinions. Here’s mine – for what it’s worth. I have, thank you, both seen and heard the Stone Roses’ blend of pang and twang. One is aware they flirted with cursed goth not so very long ago …’ He can see Kenny wants to intervene – sees him choke the impulse. Vinnie continues. ‘Go see them, by all means …’ He leans right back, taking two legs of his chair with him. His raincoat falls right open the further back he leans and his stomach is tensed. He’s aware that his lean, brown torso is now exposed, just, and he gets a rush from how it must look. He runs a hand through his thick black hair and brings the chair back down again. ‘But you’ll hate them.’
It seems to bring a downer on them, briefly. Vinnie’s quick to make amends. Having distanced himself from this half rock, half Byrds symbol of the new Madchester indie-dance vibe, he’s quick to let them know it’s fine for them to like the Roses.
‘It’s just me.’ He grins. ‘I hate everything.’
At this, Kenny laughs louder than anyone, giving Dan his cue. ‘What d’you think, Kenny? You up for it?’
‘I dunno,’ says Kenny. ‘I have to …’ He looks to Vinnie. Is it OK to say? Indeed, he’s fine with it himself, but is Vinnie going to be embarrassed? But this time, Vinnie is silently urging him to spill the beans. Kenny looks into his glass as he’s talking. ‘I’m sort of on probation. Not probation exactly – but it’s better that I do certain things voluntarily, if you see what I mean.’
They all nod solemnly, not knowing at all what he means. Zoe puts words to what they’re all feeling. ‘Wow!’ she says. ‘That’s so—’
Vinnie intervenes, grinning. ‘If you utter the overused and under-meant epithet “cool”, Zoe … I’ll slap you!’
Zoe goes red. ‘I wasn’t—’
Vinnie holds up a hand. ‘I know. It’s just that I was, and I needed to deflect my deep, deep shame elsewhere.’
Hearty, heartfelt laughter – Kenny, too. Vinnie can’t hide his pleasure at this. He makes them laugh. They love him. He should quit while he’s ahead. It’s tough, keeping up the standards they’ve invested in him. His glass is empty, faded to a slip of ice. Crowd pleased, palate whetted, loins loose and easy, he finds himself craving that sweet tangy kick of another whiskey. But he weathers the urge, knowing it’ll jeopardise what lies ahead. He’s all nerves, now – nervous and itchy as hell. Hungry to get going. He’s backed away from the conversation. He no longer worries about Kenny. He’s certain that, once he’s gone, Kenny won’t wish to stay with the others. He feels mean, but he has to tend to his hunger. He doesn’t tell them he’s going – he never does, never can. He heads towards the loo and exits through the saloon door.
There’s a long train of buses edging bumper to bumper all the way down Didsbury Road. Without having to break his stride, he catches the one furthest up the road just as the last passenger is boarding. The doors swoosh shut. He slips his headphones on and presses his nose against the cool pane and makes stories out of the people on the street.
Vinnie doesn’t see him sprinting alongside. He almost draws level with the window before the bus lurches out into the main stream of traffic. Kenny stands there panting for a moment, then hops on board the next bus along.
Four
Ellie dangles a long, slender leg out of the passenger door, hesitates, then leans over to graze her mum’s cheek. It’s barely a kiss, but it’s enough to make Sheila smile.
‘What about tomorrow, Elsbells? Do you need me to pick you up?’
‘Not sure, you know, Mum. Can I call you in the morning?’
An expert would have picked up on her overtly gay, upbeat tone; the dissembling use of ‘you know’; and, most obvious of all, the fob-off promise of the phone call tomorrow. But Sheila isn’t ready to let go just yet.
‘I can pick you up around eleven if you like? I’ve got a couple of patients over this way in the morning …’
‘Mum!’ Ellie cuts her short and compensates with her very best ‘stop worrying’ smile as she tries to bring the routine to a close.
‘OK, honey.’ She leans out of the window for another peck. Their lips hardly touch. She squeezes some joy into her voice. ‘Have fun!’
‘I will!’
Sheila watches her daughter’s bright-red puffa jacket disappear down the dark, muddy dirt track. She finds herself choking up the way she always does at this Saturday night juncture – her little girl making her way in the big, wide world, wading further away from her, deeper and deeper into the flats of adulthood. Oh, but she’s gorgeous, though! Those caramel-brown legs and the lightly freckled face and those staggering, bright-green eyes. She should just be thankful Ellie hasn’t discovered – or been discovered by – boys yet.
It’s odd to think now, but she felt the absolute opposite when adolescence finally drew Vincent out from his clenched little conch. There aren’t many mothers who’d say this of their teenage sons but Sheila was delighted that first time he came home bollyeyed and garrulous, stinking of drink and smoke. She was just relieved that her shy, bookish son was developing at last into a normal, healthy teenage boy.
In contrast, she finds her daughter’s take-off difficult to reconcile. As she grows into her limbs and breasts and devastating good looks, she moves further away from the mother and daughter intimacies of which her friends at work boast, and to which Sheila herself had so looked forward. Far from bringing them closer together adolescence has cast a husk around Ellie that Sheila simply can’t slough off. And the changes have happened almost overnight. Her bolshy little tomboy left the house one evening and returned a reclusive and beautiful young woman.
This is nice though, being a part of her Saturday night. In dropping her off, she’s involved at least, if o
nly on some peripheral level. She stays there staring at the empty dirt track for a while, awaiting Ellie’s signal. She’d prefer to take her right to the door, but her own peace of mind isn’t worth the embarrassment their battered Lada would cause to Ellie. If not for Vinnie’s intervention, Sheila would never have twigged.
‘Mum! Come on! How many other girls at Culcheth Hall request their mums to pick them up a mile away from the school gate?’ he teased.
The truth of it coshed Sheila hard, but as ever, she cast herself as villain more than victim. Had she really been that remiss? How could she have missed all the signs? As Vinnie gently chided her, how could she fail to notice Ellie never asked anyone back for tea? This was so Sheila – forever the wide-eyed girl in the crowd, waving excitedly as the royal procession troops by.
She’d been exactly the same when choosing a school for Ellie. When she’d first flicked through the school prospectus for Culcheth Hall, that was it for her – sold. So swept away had she been by its prestige, its glamour (and, truth be known, by the gold-leafed spears on the school gates) that she scarcely paused to consider the social chasm between Ellie and her classmates before signing her away. She was smitten by air-brushed images of girls in royal-blue blazers and boater hats, and the thought that her own little girl could be like them. And on some subconscious level she saw Culcheth as no different to Vinnie’s grammar school, with its varied social intake. The reality was that Culcheth Hall cost an arm and a leg to its fee-paying patrons and, in the perverse way of such things, a scholarship girl was not an icon of learning but an object of ridicule – especially one whose mother drove a livid-orange Lada.
