by Neal Doran
Yep watching JK. Your mum’s been on. The DNA test results aren’t good and Hopkins is actually your dad. Explains why you’ve still got a job though. Didn’t know she was such a good dwarf wrestler either ;¬)
He got his response from Kam straight back:
Bollocks to that, I want a lie detector test. Your dad in law got his JK appearance date yet?
God, that was a thought James sent back something else insulting and sordid about Kam’s relationship with the firm’s managing partner, but got nothing in reply. The meeting must have got underway in earnest. He was glad he wasn’t there.
So what was the internet offering him this morning, he wondered as he opened his email. It needed to be something good. He was going to be supporting a family. But this was his last chance to really find the thing he wanted to do. The job, the career, that he’d be able to tell Bompalomp about with some pride. He imagined a little kid, a boy – no, maybe a girl – saying ‘my daddy’s an accountant’.
Didn’t exactly seem exciting.
‘My daddy’s a partner at a niche City insolvency company’ wasn’t really working either. But then the only way to get future Bompalomp (a boy again now) really impressed with a job was to imagine him saying ‘my daddy’s an astronaut’ or even ‘he’s a fireman!’
It’d be pretty cool to be a fireman actually. He wondered how much training you’d need to be able to do it. He wouldn’t mind the shifts so much, and he’d really be getting out there and doing something that made a difference. And everyone loves firefighters – none of the political connotations of the police or armed services. What kind of pay did it get though? Might make the mortgage tricky. He was pretty sure none of the neighbours were in the emergency services. Maybe they’d need to move. A place in the country would be good for the kids (kids plural now was it?). But no, hadn’t he always wanted street-smart urban kids as comfortable at the Festival Hall as at the urban farm, learning to rap at the community centre, and happy to run around the Tate on a Saturday? Actually, maybe not – thinking about what those kids would be like, he couldn’t help feeling they’d permanently be in need of a slap. And anyway, they didn’t exactly live in the fashionable heart of the big smoke, their kids were going to be suburbs kids through and through.
Fair enough though, it was what he’d always wanted – even if the reality hadn’t been quite what he’d hoped for during those years trudging around Europe in a camper van being home-schooled. That had been chess, crosswords, and art class all day, and he could stop schoolwork pretty much whenever he felt like it if he said he wanted to read or go and look for strange bugs in the woods. Sport didn’t feature much – having a football team to support was about the only time his parents had disapproved of something that was a bit tribal.
At thirteen they’d finally come back to England and he’d needed to go into a proper school. He’d been looking forward to it for forever, but was on the back foot since day one, when his mum hadn’t been together enough to get him his uniform in time and he had to go in wearing his regular clothes. That they’d been quite obviously ‘European’ was bad enough – when he’d taken his bike to the park, there’d been definite pointing and sniggering at the unnecessary purple patches and bits of leather on his jeans, while the flappy collar and multiple materials on his baggy shirt made him feel self-conscious whenever he got up speed. But now, wearing them at school – he probably would have rather been in his pyjamas or naked like some kind of bad dream.
The nicknames had started straight away. The one that seemed to take hold was ‘Children in Need’ – even more than ‘French Exchange’. It was something to do with the school having allowed pupils to wear their own clothes for the charity telethon. The idea that he’d got confused about the date, and that maybe he was in fact a child in need himself because his family couldn’t afford a uniform, combined to help the name stick. For years both his class and older kids across the school would call the name out – or the snappier Pudsey – and he’d respond. The thing is, he didn’t really mind too much, because it was such a relief to be part of something.
It probably helped that school coincided with a growth spurt that had him the tallest in his year, and he wasn’t exactly skinny, so mastering a dirty look and a threat of violence usually took the edge off things. For a while his size got him picked early at games, but teachers and peers alike soon realised that size didn’t matter when you’d barely touched a ball for a lifetime. He would’ve quite liked to run around a bit more, but he didn’t mind that he was stuck in goal all the time too much, and his best pal – Simon the boy on growth hormones – was always told to be centre-half, so there was somebody to talk to.
But back to the task at hand. Seven automated emails from recruitment sites, but nothing suitable that he hadn’t already seen. It was ironic that as the economy got in better shape, it meant that a job for him was getting harder to find. Not so many businesses failing, and fewer sacked people trying to make it on their own. But he wasn’t going to settle – there was no reason that this couldn’t be a chance to get further ahead. If it wasn’t for his youthful indiscretion, that is. Now he had to weigh up the thoroughness of every HR department before he even got started, so he could get his approach right. He guessed it was one of the few times that he was pleased that his damn hippy parents had given him an embarrassing first name. He’d decided to stop using it when he was a teenager to stop getting picked on, and now it added a degree of cover sometimes.
He wished again he’d told Rebecca about his ‘criminal past’ when they’d got together, or before they got married at least. But then, from just a few months into being a couple, it had always felt like she would have seen the biggest betrayal involved in the confession as being him not having told her earlier. That feeling only grew the more time passed. He’d also not been sure of who he’d be telling her for, if it’d just be something he was doing to make himself feel better. In a way it was a conscious self-inflicted part of his punishment – taking the decision to keep it to himself, and deal with it on his own, no matter how lousy it made him feel. But now the impact of that bit of stupidity was going to be felt by a family.
Ah, it’s nothing really, he told himself. He’d manage. It mainly meant that he wouldn’t be able to give Bompalomp the chance to say his daddy was a policeman. He was going to have to find something though. He realised if he was going back to the dole again today that meant it was now eight weeks since he’d got canned. And he hadn’t actually applied for anything yet. Even the nice guy at the job centre was beginning to get a bit edgy about that. But there was nothing quite right out there – not even close – and he had to watch what he said with applications because of the record thing, and he didn’t want to end up compromising, and he didn’t know exactly what he wanted and… James let out a grunt of frustration.
Money was running out too, and would be running out a lot quicker when they seriously went baby shopping. Becs was carrying on as if everything was fine, although to be fair he might have given her that impression. But he was trying to not worry her – that was his job now, with this pregnancy. He couldn’t do much to help grow Bompalomp, but he could manage the stress for the two of them. Make sure she wasn’t worried about his job, take on the hassles of the stuff with her dad, help her physically feel better with the hugs and massages. It was going to be fine. He always got edgy on dole day.
He rapped the top of the table, shut the lid of the computer. He’d head out now, get a couple of things for fixes around the house before he was due at the job centre. Then later this afternoon he’d get some applications out. Definitely.
***
The station manager had been very helpful about Margaret’s plans, even taking into account his susceptibility to the Big Brother mind control of Health & Safety. Of course, as a worker, he had solid experience of the need for protest and was a good union person. Margaret vaguely remembered that they’d met briefly on a picket line during the last pay deal strike, when she was paint
ing children’s faces as starving skeletons. He’d asked at the time if she did children’s parties. She’d explained that she did female empowerment workshops for both boys and girls that were art-based and fun, but that also addressed some of the ingrained prejudice absorbed by both genders. He said his five-year-old son was mainly into Transformers. Storing up trouble for himself ahead, she’d thought at the time, but he seemed decent. The mural was now in place, with space cordoned off for the sculpture elements of the piece, which were arriving in dribs and drabs from the wholesalers and the junkyard.
‘So this is about that Tory bloke who got nicked before Christmas then is it?’ the station manager asked.
‘Yes. But he’s a symbol for a silent oppression too many still feel in Big Society Britain.’
‘Used to get a lot more of that sort of stuff around here, but it doesn’t seem to happen so much any more. Heard that it was the internet that killed it off,’ the station manager mused. ‘That or when we stopped letting Big Carl use the staff toilets. It can be like being tear-gassed in there now. Wouldn’t exactly put you in the mood.’
Margaret smiled politely as she added speckles of shadows and light to the swarm of CCTV cameras on her painting, swooping in from the sky like attack helicopters.
‘But he’s denying it, ain’t he?’
‘He shouldn’t have to deny it,’ Margaret said. ‘The how and why of when an individual chooses to address their sexuality shouldn’t be a matter for the police state.’
‘So he’s queer then?’
‘That’s a term I prefer left for use by members of the community.’ Margaret wasn’t going to let that word go, but she didn’t need a row with an ally before the paint had dried and the newspaper had got here.
‘Tories eh? Bet he got into it at boarding school. He’s pleading not guilty though?’
‘There’s nothing to be guilty about.’
The station manager nodded his head thoughtfully, and looked around the installation.
‘The more I think about it the more I’m worried about putting those over there. If some smartarse pisshead decides to use one of them Friday night, the station cleaning team will have a fit.’
Chapter 17
Rebecca could not wait to get home to get into the shower, on with her PJs and onto the sofa. Her feet were killing her, but all day she hadn’t dared take her shoes off for fear she’d never get them back on. On the walk down to the station she’d been insidiously drenched by horizontal drizzle and was now chilly and shivery. In the office she’d been clammy and sweltering due to over-zealous central heating and the extra blood circulating her veins making her feel like her entire body was in a slow cooker. So this is what being radiant feels like, she’d thought.
It was going to be one of those tricky evenings at home too, she thought to herself, thinking of James. He was going to be upbeat, and break her heart. This always happened after he signed on, he got all positive. There was a good chance he’d try a bit of improvising and add something to the Loyd Grossman when he was cooking, and run through in some detail when he added the frozen sweetcorn and extra fish sauce and regularly checked the seasoning. There’d be the observations about the other guys down at the job centre, a few self-deprecating jokes, and observations about ‘Dec Dolan on the dole’ and all the other people he saw. Then he’d start to feel bad about laughing at the other guys, even though she already knew he didn’t mean it. Plans for reform of the entire system would be next and he’d get angry at the injustice and the lack of hope for those for whom it wasn’t just a temporary setback. Then he’d go quiet for a bit.
She’d spent the day trying to think of ways to let him know that he could just say he’d had a shitty day and she could help him out; ways to let him know he was a good man, and that things would work out for him. The only answer she’d managed to come up with had been sex. Now that would normally have not been a problem, and was a pretty good answer to everything. But at the minute, not so much. She could count the times since Christmas, which couldn’t be a good thing. She wasn’t sure if it was the job stuff or the pregnancy that was behind it. She’d been so tired for a while, and he’d been nervy around her, so things had slowed down. Now her mind was wandering to whether she might be able to persuade him to join her in the shower when she got home.
She flushed slightly at the thought, although that might have happened anyway.
Reaching the entrance concourse to Harrow on the Hill, she thought about stopping to pick up a hot chocolate for the way home, but the idea of an overheated train carriage had her sweating again. If she could just pick a temperature… She started up the stairs to the ticket office just as a marching crowd of commuters released from the Met line stomped down them. A large woman shoulder-checked her as she went by, knocking Rebecca into the path of a small, surprisingly old-looking, businessman who rapped her elbow with his umbrella. She hoped that was an accident.
Steadying herself she made it to the top of the stairs, and could see ahead of her, next to the ticket gates, a large display, and a couple of men with leaflets trying to get people’s attention as they strode by. The last thing she needed today was to be harangued into an awkward conversation with a chugger, or somebody trying to get her to take a new credit card. As she got closer, she began to wonder what kind of promotion they could be offering.
There was a row of urinals standing in the middle of the concourse, with two shop dummies standing next to them, one in a business suit with his hands cuffed behind his back, the other in police riot gear, but with a truncheon pointing upward from a very rude-looking angle at his waist. The display seemed to merge into a painting on the wall where she could see a man standing inside his bedroom, hiding behind a wardrobe door. It was the same businessman as the statue. He looked familiar. Then one of the men handing out flyers strode out to speak to a commuter leaving the ticket office. His walk was familiar.
‘Can I interest you in a leaflet, we’re fighting police bullying and political correctness gone mad.’
‘Oh fuck,’ she thought.
Chapter 18
Rebecca stuttered to a stop, caught as if on a jumpy DVD moving forward then back as her brain froze over, unsure whether to try and sneak to the platform unnoticed, or turn and run from the station.
Then, adjusting his expression from one of indignant irritation to a salesman’s smile as he turned away from another office worker refusing a pamphlet, Howard saw his daughter, and the smile becomes one of genuine boyish excitement.
‘Becky! You’re here!’ he bellowed as he strode across to kiss her on the cheek, taking her arm. ‘Come with me and look at this magnificent display Maggie’s put together. I’m a star! And that copper is going to feel a bit red-faced next time he comes through here, the swine.’
‘Dad, what do you think—’
Rebecca went quiet as Margaret joined them. They exchanged hellos and kisses, and Margaret asked about the pregnancy. Rebecca ran through her usual response. Women seemed to like to hear about a few aches and pains they could identify with, before an upbeat end to the assessment accompanied by a cheery tummy rub. She was getting quite good at it. Then there was the question she’d been expecting, but still hadn’t worked out an answer to.
‘So what do you think?’ Margaret asked.
I think you’ve made my father into a laughing stock and my family into a circus act, was mainly what Rebecca was thinking.
‘It’s er, it’s really something,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Must have been a lot of work,’ Rebecca said, mentally adding which obviously stopped you, once again, getting to the bra shop.
‘Worth it to get the point across I think,’ Margaret continued. ‘It’s been getting a lot of really positive reaction. I think it’s getting through to people.’
As Margaret spoke, Rebecca looked across to see a couple of schoolboys sniggering at the display’s urinals while the solitary volunteer that Howard had rounded up to help – he l
ooked like a work experience kid from the office, little older than the schoolboys – attempted to get them to take a leaflet. They backed away from it as if it was capable of transmitting homosexuality just by touch, and walked past Rebecca and Margaret jostling and insulting each other.
‘No, man, it’s you. If you tried anything I would so batter you with that truncheon, you fuckin’ big gayer.’
‘It’s certainly challenging attitudes,’ Rebecca said politely as the boys headed down the stairs.
The three of them stood awkwardly for a minute nodding thoughtfully. Rebecca felt uptight and stuffy after noticing she and her dad were in very formal office wear while Margaret was unkempt and arty-looking in her baggy jeans and oversized men’s work shirt. And somehow she still looked tall and skinny too, prompting Rebecca, bulked up even more than usual by her raincoat, to stand up a bit straighter. A trumpet blast from Howard’s pocket broke the silence and he checked his mobile.
‘Guys from the paper are here. Photographer’s just parking the car,’ he said, adjusting his tie cheerfully. ‘Time to face the press again!’
‘I’ll head down and make sure they come in the right way, get the full impact of the piece,’ said Margaret pulling her hair into a high bunch on the top of her head, and heading off for the car park. As soon as she was sure Margaret was out of earshot, Rebecca turned to her dad, who was brushing the lapels of his jacket.
‘You know she thinks you did it don’t you? She’s treating this like you’re being persecuted because you’re gay!’
