Stuck on Me

by Hilary Freeman

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Dot. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

  At four-forty, I hear the peal of the door again and Dot goes out to the front. She pops her head back into the office. ‘He’s here,’ she says, grinning. ‘Come on.’ Nervously, I follow her out. There’s a man leaning on the counter. Almost bald, but for a few wisps of grey hair scraped across his forehead, he’s wearing old jeans and a grubby jumper and carrying a beaten-up rucksack. I walk over to him, my pulse pounding. Dot hovers by the office door, and I’m not sure if she’s out of earshot.

  ‘Hello, my love,’ he says, in an accent I can’t place. Somewhere up north, a long time ago? How did he end up in Camden? He holds out his hand and I shake it, even though his fingernails are filthy. ‘I’m Reg. You must be Sky, Connor’s girl.’

  Nobody’s ever called me that before. Connor’s girl. Hearing it feels strange. I nod. ‘I’m trying to find him. To get to know him again. Dot says you might remember him.’

  Reg peers at me closely and I try not to recoil. I can smell a faint, stale sweetness on his breath. He looks ancient, although he tells me he’s only fifty-three. His face is craggy and lined and his sunken cheeks seem to drag down his eyes. I wonder what he used to look like, when he was young. He might have been handsome; it’s hard to tell now.

  ‘Yes, you’re definitely Connor’s daughter. Connor Carter. He was a good ’un. I believe our paths crossed about two or three years ago, when we were both in Arlington House.’

  ‘My dad was homeless? That’s awful!’ I check myself. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. There’s nothing wrong with it, I just mean . . . It was a shock . . .’

  ‘Nobody ever wants to end up homeless,’ he says, kindly. ‘I used to have a wife and a family myself. Your dad was only there for a short while. I believe he got himself back on his feet again. Met a woman.’ He winks at me. ‘He was a bit of a charmer with the ladies, if I recall.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m not sure what to say. I realise that, to my surprise, I feel angry. Far worse than knowing Dad was homeless and living in a hostel is knowing that he was living – literally – up the road and never contacted me. I might even have passed him on the street, queued up behind him in Sainsbury’s, boarded the same bus.

  I have to know. ‘Did he ever mention me? His family? I have two sisters, you know.’

  Reg concentrates hard. ‘He sometimes talked about his girls but I can’t remember what he said. Just that he was fond of you. He had some photos that he put above his bed. All pretty girls, his daughters. A couple of you just like him too.’

  ‘He did?’ This makes me feel slightly better. So Dad does love us after all. He hasn’t forgotten that we exist. But I’m definitely the only one who looks anything like him. Isn’t it strange what other people see?

  ‘I told him about my kids too. All grown up now. Up in Manchester still, I suppose.’

  He sounds sad and I’m not sure if I should ask about them. ‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

  ‘All water under the bridge now.’

  ‘Was my dad OK? Was he well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. Bit of a drink problem, like most of us.’

  I nod. ‘You don’t know where he went when he left, do you? An address? A number?’

  Reg shakes his head. ‘We weren’t close,’ he says, ‘and when people move on they don’t tend to stay in touch.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m disappointed.

  ‘But we did used to talk about his music – we even jammed together a couple of times. He told me about a couple of bands he’d played with – The Four Horsemen, and, er, The River Runners. They’re quite well known on the circuit. I think they might still be gigging. Why don’t you look them up?’

  ‘Cool, thanks. The River Runners? Yes, I will do.’ It’s another lead. Probably just another dead end, but worth a try.

  He pauses and I wonder what he’s waiting for. Then I remember. God, this is awkward. ‘Um, can I give you some money for, er, dinner or something, to say thank you?’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ He looks down at the floor, embarrassed. ‘Actually, what I’d really like are some strings. For my old acoustic.’

  I glance at Dot, quizzically. She reaches over to a display unit on the counter and, without a word, passes me a set of strings, mouthing, ‘We can sort it out later.’ The label reads Martin Light Gauge Strings. I smile and hand them to Reg. He stuffs them into the back pocket of his jeans.

  ‘See you around,’ he says. ‘Good luck finding your dad.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile. ‘Take care of yourself.’ I know it’s mean but I hope I don’t bump into him again. That would be too weird.

  I don’t go straight home after I say goodbye to Dot, although I should. Instead, I take a walk through Camden, noticing the things I usually try to avoid: the parts of Camden that the tourists don’t come to see and that the expensive estate agents cover up in their glowing reviews. On the corner of the High Street, where it meets Camden Road, there’s a group of drunks who meet up to hang around and swig from their bottles. The police move them on, but they’re always back again a few days later. I wonder if my dad ever drank with these people. I pass the skinny woman who begs for money by pretending she needs cash for a Travelcard and, a few metres further on, the sweet, jolly man who tells you a joke in return for a pound, like a street stand-up comedian. Has my dad ever stopped people in the street and asked for cash?

  At Britannia Junction, I cross the road and head up Parkway, turning into Arlington Road to see where Dad once lived. Arlington House has been refurbished recently, but it’s been a men’s homeless hostel for ever. It’s on a leafy street, next to a row of very expensive Victorian Houses. That’s the weird thing about Camden: wherever you look, you’ll find rich people living right next door to the poorest. It’s always been this way. Maybe that’s why it attracts so many writers and musicians.

  I stand outside for a while, hoping, wishing that Dad will emerge from the front door, so I can give him a hug and take him for a coffee. I know it’s stupid. He doesn’t live here any more and, anyway, I’m not eight; he probably wouldn’t even recognise me. God, I might not recognise him. Then, when I start to feel chilly, I turn around and walk slowly home.

  ’m worried about you, Sky,’ says Mum. ‘Are you depressed?’ She’s come into my bedroom and sat down on my bed, uninvited. It’s my own fault: I’ve been home for an hour and I haven’t spoken to her at all. I came straight to my room, intending to start searching for The River Runners on the internet, but I felt sleepy and curled up on my bed instead.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’re spending a lot of time on your own at the moment and when you are around you’re really quiet. You’re not eating much either. Is there something I can help with?’

  Mum has always prided herself on how open her family is, how we’re all like friends, not like mother and daughters. She doesn’t want us to have any secrets. That was easy when I was a kid, when the only secrets I had were knowing that my tooth was wobbly or that I’d taken the last slice of cake. Now I’m older, I don’t want to be mates with my mum. It’s not normal. There are some things I don’t want her to know. And there are some things I just can’t tell her.

  I shrug. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘You’d tell me if there was anything up, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Course I would.’ I grin my broadest grin. I hope she’ll give up now and leave me in peace.

  She doesn’t. ‘Is it Rich? I’ve noticed he hasn’t been round lately.’

  Rich. Now there’s something I really don’t want to talk about. I’m not even sure how I feel about it myself. Mum’s right: he hasn’t been around. I haven’t been to his either, or hung out with him after school or at breaktimes. Since our horrible dinner night we’ve messaged a few times – short, cursory chats about school – but not much more. I’m sure he’s avoiding me. I’m not even sure if he’s my boyfriend any more.

  ‘Everything’s cool with
Rich. We’re both just busy with other stuff. Anyway, you’re the one who was always saying it was getting too serious. So you should be glad I’m not seeing so much of him.’

  ‘But I know you love him, Sky. And I don’t want you to be unhappy. I remember what it feels like.’

  I shrug again. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  She gets up and I hope she’s decided to leave the room. Instead, she sits down right next to me and places her hands on my shoulders. ‘How about a nice massage? Get those knots out. I’ll go and fetch the essential oils from my room if you like.’

  I shake her hands away. ‘No thanks.’

  She looks hurt. ‘OK. If you won’t talk to me, will you talk to Ocean?’

  ‘I don’t need to. Anyway, I’ve got Vix and Rosie.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s good to talk to someone who’s a little older. Just to get a different perspective.’

  ‘Ocean wouldn’t understand. She’s just like you. She’s on your side.’

  She flinches. ‘I’m not on anyone’s side.’ Looking thoughtful for a moment, she goes on, ‘Sky, is this is about your dad again?’

  ‘Partly.’ I don’t want her to know that I’ve been actively looking for him. I certainly can’t tell her about Reg. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew Dad had been homeless. She might even be glad.

  ‘Actually, there is something you can help with.’ I pause, for dramatic effect. ‘I’ve found a doctor who’ll give me a nose job.’

  She seems genuinely shocked, which is exactly what I intended. ‘What? When? Where?’

  ‘Harley Street,’ I tell her.

  ‘You went to Harley Street and saw a plastic surgeon? How?’

  ‘On the number 27 bus. It was easy.’

  ‘This isn’t something to joke about, Sky.’

  ‘No, I know that. My nose is no laughing matter.’

  She stares at my nose and sighs. ‘Remember in India, those children we saw who had leprosy, the ones with cleft palates that hadn’t been fixed? They had real disfigurements, Sky. They needed plastic surgery. You’re just being vain.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we don’t live in India. We live in Camden Town. London. England. And I’m going to get my nose fixed. So if you really want to help me you can give me four grand to pay for it.’

  She laughs – a strange, growly laugh. ‘You know full well I don’t have that sort of money. And, even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you so that you can deform your lovely face.’

  ‘Fine. Then there’s nothing you can help with, is there? So will you please just leave me alone now?’ I know I sound mean. I can’t help it. I guess I’m angry with her too.

  She doesn’t move. Maybe she’s trying to think of something to say. Finally, she gets up and stands by the side of the bed, sadness in her eyes.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve taken your nose stud out,’ she says, in a quiet voice. ‘I thought it was just for school, but you never wear it at all any more.’ She fingers her own stud, twisting it around so that catches the light from my bedside lamp. I shrug and she turns away.

  ‘I never wanted it in the first place,’ I say under my breath, as she leaves my room. ‘It suits you much better.’

  he River Runners don’t write any of their own music; they just do covers of old blues classics. And, despite searching for them on the web for the past hour, that is pretty much all I can tell you about them. There are a no pictures or profiles, and they don’t have a Facebook page or even a MySpace account. I didn’t think it was possible to be so invisible, not in the twenty-first century. Like The Four Horsemen, the only mentions I can find are in old listings pages, in announcements of evenings long since past and long since forgotten. Looking for Dad is beginning to feel like chasing after a wisp of smoke. Whenever I think I’m getting close, he vanishes again. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be found.

  ‘Keep on going, Rosie,’ I say, exasperated. We’re at her house this time, using her computer. I’ve had a try, and so has Vix. Now it’s her turn. ‘There’s got to be something else about them. There’s just got to be.’

  She groans. ‘I’m doing my best here, Sky. There’s just pages and pages of gigs. They don’t say anything useful.’

  ‘I know! There’s never details of the line up, no reviews and no contact emails! How the hell do they get booked? Or paid?’

  Rosie sighs. ‘There must be a booker or an agent or something. All I can see are things like, July fifteen, eight p.m., support: The River Runners, Blues classics with an Irish twist, whatever that means.’

  ‘It’s the type of stuff Dad used to play on his CDs when I was a kid,’ I explain. ‘Eric Clapton and people like that, I think. Which is hopeful, because I’m sure it must be the right band, at least. We just don’t know if Dad’s with them any more. Or how to contact them to ask.’

  ‘What about looking at the results in date order?’ Vix suggests. ‘Like clicking results from the past year or even just the past month. That way you’ll cut out a lot of the really out of date stuff.’

  ‘Genius idea, Vix. Go on, Rosie.’

  ‘OK. Let’s try it . . .’

  Rosie presses return and a new list of webpages fills the screen. ‘That’s better. There’s only a few results now. It’s a little more manageable.’

  ‘So?’ I ask. ‘Is there anything really up to date?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a couple from this year! So at least we know they’re still going.’

  ‘That’s a relief. And?’

  ‘Ah, they played some pub in Reading about a month ago.’

  ‘Whereabouts is Reading again?’

  ‘I dunno,’ says Rosie. ‘I think it’s somewhere near London.’

  Vix giggles. ‘Have you actually ever left Camden, Rosie?’

  ‘Ha ha. Not if I can help it. Why would I?’ She pauses. ‘Hang on . . .’ Her voice goes up a whole octave. ‘Oh my God! Sky! You’re not going to believe this . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think I’ve found something amazing. Yeah! I have! The River Runners are playing a gig next Saturday night. And you’re going to die when you hear where it is!’

  ‘Stop teasing me, please. Just tell me . . .’

  ‘It’s the Dublin Castle. In Camden!’

  ‘Seriously? Are you sure? The pub on Parkway?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve double checked. They’re on the bill. This coming Saturday.’

  ‘Let me see . . .’ I usher her off her chair and take her place, scrolling down the screen three times, just to make sure. She’s right. The River Runners are due to play in Camden in a few days’ time. I’m so excited I feel hot and shaky. ‘Oh my God, what are the chances? What if we hadn’t done this search now? If we’d waited a few days we might have missed them. It must be fate. We’ve got to go!’

  ‘Absolutely. There’s just one problem,’ says Vix. ‘It’s Carrie’s fifteenth birthday party on Saturday night. We said we’d all be there. And you were going to try to sort stuff out with Rich there too, remember?’

  Of course I remember. I’ve already chosen my outfit and practised my make-up to ensure I look the best I possibly can look. I’ve even rehearsed what I’m going to say to Rich. The plan is to show him that I am lots of fun, just like I used to be. I’m going to dance with him and kiss him and make him fall back in love with me. ‘OK, what time’s the gig?’ I scroll back up the page. ‘It’s says here that doors open at eight-thirty. There’s a few bands playing. I don’t know when The River Runners will be on, so we’ll have to get there for the start.’

  ‘Maybe we can do both,’ says Vix. ‘Go to the gig and then the party.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Suddenly, making things better with Rich doesn’t seem so important – not when I am about to meet my dad. ‘Rich can wait. One night won’t make a difference, will it? Whatever happens, I’m going to see my dad. And I’m not sure that once that’s happened I’ll want to go to a party. He’ll probably want to buy me dinner or something, start getting to know me properly again.
’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ Vix cautions. ‘You don’t even know if he’s still in the band. Or, even if he is, how he’ll be when he sees you. He might not . . . Look, don’t get too excited yet, OK?’

  ‘I can’t help it. This is the best chance I’ve ever had of seeing him again. There must be a reason why he keeps coming back to Camden. Don’t you think?’

  Vix hugs me. ‘Let’s just play it by ear,’ she says. ‘The good thing is that because of the party we already have an excuse to get dressed up and go out on Saturday night. Nobody will ask any questions.’

  ‘That’s true. I can’t wait. It’s going to be a big night!’

  amden on a Saturday night is crazy, even crazier than usual. It’s busier than most town centres are during the day, with so many people pouring out of the tube and into the bars, restaurants and pubs that you can barely walk up the High Street. There are tourists still drifting around hours after the markets have closed, gig-goers arriving from all over London, locals out for a Saturday-night drink or cinema visit, and gangs of kids hanging around outside the kebab shops, some of them spoiling for a fight. The pavements are littered with Coke cans and cigarette butts and fast-food wrappers, and there’s so much music playing in so many different venues that you can feel the vibration from all the bass drums through the soles of your shoes.

  I’m not really supposed to go out in Camden on a Saturday night, not even with Rosie and Vix. The later it gets, and the drunker people become, the more edgy it feels. I know that there have been a few stabbings and that people have been mugged, but that can happen anywhere. I’m not scared – Camden is very well lit and I’m streetwise. And tonight, not even a riot would stop me going out. Because tonight is the night that I’m going to find my dad. Finally.