33 East

by Susannah Rickards

  ‘Julie!’ mum said, trying to draw my attention back to her. ‘Julie Black, I’m talking to you. I know we might not be as interesting as all your fancy new New York friends but I, your mother, was speaking to you,’ she scolded.

  ‘Sorry mum, I was…’

  ‘And when your mother is speaking to you, you listen!’ she declared. I tried not to scream.

  ‘Oh don’t look at me with those big doe-eyes. You’re just like your dad you are,’ she said, closing in on herself the way she did whenever she felt she’d been snubbed, ‘constantly looking over someone’s shoulder for the next best thing.’

  Dad. He used to drive the lorries. Long-haul. Mum said that it was good money but bad for his back. I didn’t remember that much about him except for the little things. Things like how he used to come home from the pub, the outsides of his leather jacket deliciously cold on my cheek when I hugged him, the inside pockets lined with bags of crisps for me and Leanne; his voice thick with drink and love. Or how, on New Year’s Eve, he would lift me onto his shoulders so that we could go up and down the street letting the New Year in.

  ‘Leanne, did you tell your sister about Auntie Sue?’ mum asked, her fingers working extra fast. My previous transgression was apparently forgiven. I watched as she felt intuitively for the right places to bend and slot and fix, and (where necessary) use brute force to achieve the required shape.

  When Leanne didn’t respond to her prompt she kept going.

  ‘She’s got a new caravan. You wanna see it Julie. Massive it is,’ she enthused. ‘Had it specially built she did. It was so massive they had to transport it down the motorway to Southend in the middle of the night. They had to have two police escorts. Two.’ She laughed to herself. ‘Oh it’s beautiful inside, isn’t it our Leanne? Bee-you-ti-ful’ she said, relishing each syllable. ‘The bathroom. It’s got a sink, it’s got a toilet, it’s got a shower.’ She went to go on with her list but then interrupted herself. ‘Not one of those showers in the bath mind you, like we have. A separate one. And they’ve got one of those round baths with the bubbles in it. A… a…?’

  ‘A jacuzzi’ said Leanne, her quick jump-in revealing that she’d answered this question before.

  ‘Yeah, a jacuzzi,’ she said, taking a gulp of her tea, her eyes lost in thought at the thing, readying herself for the task of describing each and every room of the caravan in turn. The finished pile of lipsticks on her right was almost up to her elbows, the other side nearly finished. Refreshed, she carried on.

  ‘It’s got two massive settees and a wide-screen telly in the front room and a lovely gas oven in the kitchen. And in the bedroom, loads of wardrobes, loads of storage. All fitted mind you.’

  Leanne gave me another look and this time I decided to meet her gaze, my sign that I was now ready to give in and let her spill the beans. Leanne leapt up in excitement, and then, remembering herself, feigned a yawn.

  ‘God I’m wrecked. Do you mind if I leave the rest of the lipsticks for you mum? I’m ready to drop.’ She went over and kissed the top of her head. I followed suit.

  ‘Me too. It’s been a long day. Jet-lag and all that.’

  I was almost at the top of the stairs when mum shouted me back.

  ‘Julie love, can you come back in here a tick?’

  From where she stood on the landing Leanne shook her head and mouthed a ‘No’ at me. I knew she would huff and puff if I didn’t follow her into the bedroom but what was I supposed to do? I hadn’t seen mum since the summer and besides, I figured, it was better to get my bollocking out of the way. Then at least we could start tomorrow afresh.

  ‘I’m sorry Lee, I’ll be up in a minute, I promise,’ I said, reaching over to ruffle her blonde crop before going back down the stairs two at a time. I hovered at the doorway but mum motioned for me to come in.

  ‘Shut the door love.’

  On the sofa, I saw that Nanna Black was asleep. Laid on her side, she was snuffling quietly into the cushions. I sat down and began stroking her baby chick-like silver hair. I decided to beat mum to the punch. I was tired and I’d decided that I was sick of her finding a way to blame me for things that weren’t my fault.

  ‘Look, I know what you’re going to say and it’s not fair mum, really it isn’t. I know I went away, far away, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. You know that, you even said it yourself. I’m sorry it’s been hard for you, hard for Leanne, really, I am. But if you’re going to start saying that what’s happened to her is my fault, that her getting knocked up is something to do with me, well that’s just not right…’ I was still speaking when mum stood up from her armchair. The mound of lipsticks that had been obscuring her lap clattered to the floor.

  ‘Julie,’ she said, her voice all hard and quiet. ‘Me and Vince, well, we thought I was too old you see, but then…’

  ‘Mum?’

  And then she turned so that she was facing me side-on and lifted her jumper. The skin across her rounded belly was already so taut that, in places it was almost translucent.

  ‘Julie, please don’t be mad.’

  NEWHAM

  A Village by Any Other Name

  Kadija Sesay

  A limousine was trying to gain access to Memorial Avenue. It stretched across the mini-roundabout blocking the pathway of all three exits. People exiting the underground station looked on and stared, bewildered. Those leaning against the back of the street benches, hands in pockets, turned and stared intently, something to take up their interest through the boredom of waiting for their ride. Some of them huffed:

  ‘’e’s ’avin’ a larf!’

  The assumption was it was either a lost driver or an important ‘somebody’ come to ‘pop in’ to the new sports centre at the end of the road. People moving in and out of the underground just shook their heads; people who hung around pointed and jeered with some choice words in different dialects and languages:

  ‘What a nonce – eh!’

  ‘Look pan de fool.’

  ‘Oh my days!’

  The chaos that the long vehicle created even brought out halal chippie from behind his grill during a busy lunch hour to light a ciggy and have a nose.

  ‘Wha’s going on?’ he said in Cockney Arabic dialect as he lit up.

  ‘Must be opening the new sport centre – no one else would be so daft as to bring a car like that ’ere.’

  ‘Whose openin’ it then? Don’ remember seeing anythin’ abou-it, like.’

  ‘Mayor,’ two people said in unison.

  ‘What, Boris? Nah, he’d be on his bike!’

  Everyone in earshot on the pavement laughed loudly and falsely.

  ‘Nah! ’E’d be scared someone would nick it dan-ere, but you can’t see inside, can ya?’

  ‘Must be red as a beetroot or wearin’ a red nose with all this malarkey he’s creating. Whaddya reckon?’

  ‘I reckon it’s a waste of bloody time an’ money meself – not like it’s for the Olympics is it?’

  They looked at each other again, this time not laughing but questioning.

  ‘Didn’t think about that! Maybe it is an’ we just haven’t been told.’

  Halal chippie went back in and the others moved on, as the limo finally began to manoeuvre into the tight space and pulled to the side to let an oncoming yellow smart car pass.

  ‘Now, that’s what he should be coming down ’ere in – the only thing that can move around ’ere!’

  The limousine moved up – eyes followed slowly. Gone were the days when kids would chase the limousine, with sticks for legs and in their hands, as these days they were chided if they played in the streets, so the plush black vehicle moved on unhindered.

  But Mark, the café owner, kept that thought in his mind – something about the Olympics? Who was opening the new sports centre? Hadn’t it already been opened? What was going on there? Did they need catering – they should be using someone local like me!

  It was tough having a café in weepy West Ham. He had thought that with
the new Transport for London development, people would at least come in and sit down and have a cuppa while waiting, but it didn’t happen that much. He also wanted to be well-placed for the Olympic rush.

  It was only a small arcade of shops – a bit busier now that the underground had expanded sufficiently so that it mattered; he remembered as a teenager signing the campaign to keep the Post Office open. They failed. Now the nearest one was a bus or train ride in either direction to Stratford or Canning Town. For a small late-night business like his, this was not comfortable. It meant that he either had to leave his takings on the premises overnight or take them with him as there were no banks nearby either. Didn’t think of that, did they – idiots – helping small businesses? Yeah, right! How was the area supposed to develop with no business facilities?

  He had often thought of giving up the café on that little strip. It was frequented only by locals, who in the main didn’t work, although sometimes people popped in if they were waiting for someone to pick them up. It was frustrating, but hopefully waiting for local Olympic traffic would encourage them to stay on. They were promised all sorts of things and how it was going to be good for the area – good for them – they could only benefit come 2012. He would have people queuing outside, the local Olympic Committee spokesperson said, West Ham station will be one of the three ‘gateway’ stations to the Olympic Park – and yeah – till then? What incentives were they offering till then? How would they survive until then?

  He had opened another café, hoping that the one in East Ham, much busier, would support the income of the Rial Lifestyle Café in West Ham till that time, but it was tight, touch and go, as even though there was more people traffic, there was also more competition, and his slim build was less due to his Filipino background, than for the fact that he was run off his feet working 25/8! But he was still young and he hoped that he had the energy for the next few years to see that it would all be worthwhile and turn him, not into a millionaire but at least make him financially comfortable and maybe, before he was 32, he would be able to buy his own home… that was his dream.

  These were his thoughts as the ‘swoosh’ of the black limo streamed back past again. That was quick! Snip the ribbon, break the champers and gone! He still couldn’t believe that someone had come down to ‘open’ it – he would check it out later, after closing.

  He walked past the Memorial Avenue Sports centre on his way home. No sign that any major activity had taken place. He asked his parents but they didn’t seem to know anything, and neither did the other shop owners when he asked them the next day. They shook their heads, no-one seemed to remember or care that much.

  The strip of shops on the avenue was a mix of the old, the new (the site of the alienated mini-mart opposite the other shops, into which blasted the tanoid on the underground was owned by TfL), so not all of the business owners had the same emotional investment as he and Errol.

  So what had the limo been doing there yesterday? Maybe everyone was right and the driver was just lost. But two weeks later, a hand-dropped letter through the door explained the mysterious visit.

  Dear Resident,

  Congratulations! As a resident of Newham, the Olympic borough, this is an exciting time for you. The area, like your sister borough, Hackney, is being regenerated and you will receive the massive benefits that always comes to Olympic towns.

  Yet, our concern is that with the hundreds of thousands of visitors headed your way as the Olympics draws near, that they will become confused that the football club is not at the underground station with the same name. West Ham United Football Club has been in existence, as you know, since 1895 and is part of the pride of Newham, so we are suggesting that West Ham tube station changes its name to one of the names below:

  Stratford West

  Plaistow East

  Canning North

  Or you can suggest an alternative here:

  Everyone who responds with a suggestion will enter a prize draw. The winner and his/her family will receive one month’s free travel throughout the TfL network.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Mayor of London’s Office

  P.S. If a clear winning name is not found, then one will be selected by a Mayor of London committee.

  They’re ’avin a larf!

  Are they?

  All of a sudden, this didn’t sound so funny. They had been given 10 weeks to select a name – or what?

  One will be selected.

  The next day, Mark went first into Errol’s off licence/newsagents even before opening his café.

  ‘Mate, you seen this letter – have you seen it!’

  ‘I’m reading it now… what’s it to you…’ Errol, the man with the all-day smile, was not smiling.

  ‘I live round here – like you – I was born here – in West Ham! We’ll have to change everything!’

  ‘I know. This is ridiculous.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  ‘Let’s start a campaign.’

  Mark smirked, ‘Yeah, right.’

  Errol looked up, ‘What’s wrong with a campaign?’

  ‘Remember the Post Office campaign? Where did that get us – eh? And this is something much bigger – has to go much further – do you think they are going to look at our petition?’

  ‘We can try – lets make a start – I’m sure there are loads of people in the area who feel the same as us. All of us who live here, have homes and businesses here, like you and me, we all feel the same.’

  ‘Get the housing on to it as well – its gonna cost them too – and the council.’

  ‘You’re right. Changing the name of a town ain’t no cheap thing.’

  ‘A town?’

  ‘Yeah, town.’

  ‘West Ham isn’t a town.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  Mark was honestly lost for words.

  ‘Do you have villages in a borough?’

  ‘You’ve hit it on the head Mark,’ Errol shrugged – what are we?’

  ‘The “forgotten zone”.’

  ‘So, is that a reason to give in to what they want?’

  ‘Do they think people round here don’t matter, or what?’

  ‘It’s our home. Let’s start with the petition, anyway man, it’s a start.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘It’s a start.’ And a finish, he said silently in his head.

  Nothing will really happen with this. There had to be something else. There had to be another way.

  Mark and Errol drew up the petition and put it in their shops. They got halal chippie to put it in his and the small grocery store next to it. They wanted to put it in the obvious place, the underground station, but as much as the staff sympathised, they were paid by ‘the Man’ who wanted to make the change and they shook their heads.

  ‘Volunteers – get volunteers to stand outside the station every morning and every evening, get them to sign this.’

  ‘Who’s got mates who work at the council?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Get ’em to sign this, will ya?’

  ‘Course.’

  Errol was out there with his charming, Jamaican self, upbeat, talking everyone into fighting the name change. Marcia, his wife, smoothly stepped behind the counter, each time he ran out to get another signature. They fitted together like a glove, even looked like each other – one of those ‘forever’ couples.

  They set up a Facebook page – SaveWestHam.

  What we need to do, Mark thought, is to get people to recognise West Ham for something famous – not just the stop on the underground – which didn’t benefit from being in Zone 3 – and find a way to divert the focus from the ‘long illustrious history of the football club’. They couldn’t even ask the football club to help their campaign, since in essence they were fighting against it. How do you fight against the local, the national and the international presence of a world-wide name, eh?

  And hadn’t the powers that be, been clever? The sports facility that housed two football
pitches and a rugby pitch, and a soon to be amphitheatre was named after the Road, ‘Memorial Avenue’, not the area. So, what was West Ham famous for? Apart from the Premier League team that was in Upton Park?

  We need something big and newsworthy and whatever it was, something, permanent. He hadn’t broached this suggestion to Errol yet; the past experience of their relationship told him that he would just laugh. He was much younger than Errol and he felt that he really didn’t take him seriously as a business person, but if he came up with something that would work…

  They were down to eight weeks before the deadline, which meant seven weeks max. to make something happen.

  ‘Well, the numbers are piling,’ Errol said proudly, ‘we have 1600 names – that’s like nearly half of the households in West Ham. Ain’t bad. Whaddya think? People on Springfield Road have signed, Memorial Avenue, Holland Road, Valerian Way, Hamilton Road, Teasel Way, Godbold Road… everyone on the stretch between here and Canning Town and the flats up the other way toward Stratford. It’s great. Yeah, the response has been great!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mark agreed, but it was not enough.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ the words slipped out.

  ‘You what? Well, what have you done, eh? You were never really in on this from the beginning, were you Mark? You don’t really give a shit. All the hard work I’ve put into this!’

  ‘I just think that we need to do something more…’

  ‘Like what? Well you come up with something, then!’

  ‘You’re right. Give me a week – I’ll come up with something in a week but it might help if we can fight this together…’

  ‘Naa, I’m not ‘fighting’ with you…there’s no fight in you…’

  The sports link that Mark had originally thought of, trying to get a local athlete into the Olympics was just not going to work. No athletic talent seemed to be forthcoming and ‘Rugby Sevens’ that the sports centre was also used for, wasn’t recognised as an Olympic Sport until the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. Mark was getting desperate for ideas. How else could they get on the map?