by Ray Banks
"Me skin."
"I never touched you."
"Me eczema."
"Pack it in. Pack it in. And stand up straight."
Kevin straightened up. His face was pink and blotchy.
"Now what's going on?"
He sniffed, rubbed one hand across his eyes and pointed at Andy, who was pulling himself up off the carpet. "He's got me maths."
"What's that?"
"Me homework."
Gav clicked his fingers, held out a hand. Andy pulled the battered exercise book from his jeans and stared at Kevin as he gave it up. The front page was ripped. When Kevin saw the state of his homework, he squealed and lunged at Andy. Gav blocked him. "How, what'd I tell you?"
Kevin threw an accusatory finger Andy's way. "He's the one ripped—"
"I said pack it in." Gav turned to Andy, who was busy trying to look nonchalant with one side of his collar and most of his hair pointed at the ceiling. "Why’d you nick your brother's homework?"
"He was pissing us—"
Gav batted him across the head with the book.
"Annoying us."
"How?"
"Howeh, he's doing his homework on a Saturday."
"That it?" Bit of a swot thing to do, right enough, but Gav couldn't punish the lad for setting a good example. "Kevin can do his homework whenever—"
"He was humming an' all."
"Humming?"
Andy hummed off-key, grated it for effect.
"I never!"
"Kevin."
"I never sounded like that! He's doing it on purpose!"
Andy grinned. "And then I telt him to stop it because it was getting on me wick, but then he did it louder, so I took his maths off him."
Gav pointed the rolled-up book at Kevin's outraged face. "And you hit him, did you?"
Kevin pouted. "Nah."
"What you lying to us for, Kevin?"
"He wouldn't give us it, though."
"So you hit him?"
He mumbled something that sounded both affirmative and persecuted.
Gav turned to Andy. "And you hit him right back, didn't you?"
Andy stuck his tongue in his cheek. Gav whacked him with the book. When Kevin laughed, he got the same treatment.
"What're we going to do with you, eh? Honest to God ..." Gav shoved the book into Kevin's hands, grabbed both boys round the neck before they had a chance to separate. "Ought to bang your heads together." They protested, struggled, but Gav tightened his grip. "From now on, if you hit your brother – either of you, I don't care what the reason is – you'll get the same from me, all right? You smack him in the ear, I'll smack you in the ear. You nick his homework, I'll nick your homework."
Kevin sneered. "He never does any."
Gav shook them both. "Are we clear?"
They didn't answer. Gav let go and stood back. The boys rubbed their necks and gave each other hacky looks.
"All right, go and see if your mam wants any help with the tea." The boys left the room, but Gav heard whispered threats in the hall. "Faster."
The boys went faster.
Gav fished around down the back of the settee for the remote and turned off the telly, then headed through to the kitchen, snatching the Chronicle from the hall table on the way. Usual shite – they still had trouble filling the pages, except the football, and that was just depressing these days. He dumped the paper on the kitchen table as he sat down. Fiona had already laid out most of the tea. She smiled at him, pushed a long strand of blonde hair over her ear in a way that made something tickle in his chest, and then finished unwrapping the rest of the chips. Sophie sat at one end of the table, eyeing up her plate of chips, the tip of her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. Gav leaned over and kissed her on the cheek; she threw herself back in her chair and squeaked, beaming at him, before she rubbed the heel of her chubby hand against her face. Andy and Kevin took a seat opposite each other, checking under the table to make sure there was plenty of kicking room on both sides. Gav shot them both a warning glance. Fiona put the sauce on the table. The boys fought for it, but Andy was quicker.
Fiona nodded at the newspaper. "Not at the table."
"Right y'are." Gav looked around for somewhere to stash it.
Fiona brought the last two plates over – chicken nuggets and a cod – and set them down in front of the boys, then plucked the newspaper from Gav's hand and leaned into his kiss.
"Thanks, love."
She deposited the newspaper in the rack by the kitchen door. "Been busy?"
"Busy enough."
The family ate. Fiona alternated between her food and Sophie's. Sophie put a chip in her mouth and chewed so everyone could see what a disgusting little monster she was. "Fuh, fuh, fuh."
Fiona cupped her hand under Sophie's mouth. "Too hot, love?"
Silence. Sophie closed her mouth. Shook her head.
"All right." Fiona nodded at Gav. "How's Neil getting on?"
"Not bad. Remind us on, I need to talk to you about that."
"Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh."
Kevin grinned. "She's swearing."
"She's not swearing."
Andy's turn to chime in: "Aye, she is—"
"If she's swearing, then who taught it to her?" Fiona looked from one mute to the other, eyebrows raised. "And it's yes, not aye. Eat your tea."
The boys returned to their chips. Gav leaned in to Sophie, looked her right in the eye. She swayed in her seat, puckered her mouth and stared back.
"How. Yee."
Sophie showed teeth like Tic-Tacs. "Fuh."
"Stop saying naughty words, yee."
"Naughty?" She opened her eyes wide as if appalled at the accusation. "Nah."
"Not naughty?"
"Nah."
"What you saying?"
"Fuh."
"What's that?"
She closed her eyes and grinned like a cartoon. "Fudge."
"See?" Gav nodded at the boys. "She's saying fudge."
Kevin smiled at Sophie. "Why're you saying fudge?"
"I like fudge."
Gav shrugged. "Can't argue with that."
Kevin put his hand out for the sauce. Andy offered it up, then jerked it back to his side of the table. Andy pushed his bottom lip out with his tongue. Kevin glanced under the table, tried to level a solid kick at his brother, but Andy had already tucked his legs under the chair.
Kevin pulled his agitated face. "Da-ad."
"What?"
"Tell Andy I need the sauce."
"Tell him yourself."
A whine in his voice now: "I need the sauce for my nuggets."
"Bairn."
"Andy, give us the sauce, will you, son?"
Andy passed the bottle to Gav, who then put it down in front of Kevin. The noise of the bottle hitting the table made the boy flinch. Andy called him a spacka.
"Mind what I said, Andy."
Andy returned to his plate.
"What did you say?" Fiona put a piece of haddock in her mouth, watching the boys as she chewed. The lads didn't shift their gaze from the table, suddenly aware of their precarious situation.
"I told them to stop braying on each other like a couple of animals and start acting like a family."
"They were fighting, were they?"
"Oh aye, a right racket."
"I had the radio on."
Sophie pointed at Andy, then at Kevin. "Naughty."
"That's right." Gav smiled at her, then at Fiona. "Wasn't anything serious, mind. I think we sorted it out, didn't we, lads?"
In stereo: "Yes, Dad."
Fiona stared at the boys. "All right, then."
She went back to her meal. Bollocking averted. For now.
"Dad." Andy was always the first to pipe up after a close thing.
"What?"
"Is it all right if I go to Wayne's after?"
Gav didn't know the name; he looked at Fiona for help.
She frowned. "Wayne Orton?"
"Aye."
"
Yes."
Andy looked hopeful. "Yes?"
"Not aye. And no, you can't go round Wayne's."
"Aw, Mam ...
"You're both staying in."
Kevin put down his fork. "What'd I do?"
"It's too dark. You're not playing out in the dark."
"But Wayne's mam—"
"Wayne's mam's probably down the pub. She doesn't care. I do."
Andy looked at his plate. "I promised."
Gav frowned. "What's so special about Wayne Orton?"
"He's got a Capri. It's mint—"
"He hasn't got a Capri," Kevin interrupted. "It's his brother's."
"And Jason Orton's in prison." Fiona stared at Andy. "So no."
Andy opened his mouth to complain, but Fiona gave him the short, sharp shake of the head that meant the conversation was over. Like that programme the kids watched – the trash heap had spoken.
Andy huffed, Kevin gloated – he never played out much anyway – and Sophie continued to say her new favourite word between mouthfuls of chip, occasionally spraying potato across the table. Fiona wiped it up without thinking. Three kids down, soft solids clean up was second nature.
Kevin was the first to finish. "Can I watch telly?"
Fiona nodded. "If you keep the sound down. And scrape your plate."
Kevin left the table, quickly scraped his plate into the bin and left it in the washing-up bowl. Andy did the same. Sophie waved both pudgy hands at her sides and Gav told Andy to take his sister with them. When they were out of the room, Gav heard the telly go back on, followed by a half-hearted attempt to turn down the volume – Kevin argued that "Mam said", and Andy told Kevin he was a kiss-arse.
"You were going to tell me about Neil?"
"I was talking to him today. He's not well."
"What is it?"
"Ticker."
"That's a shame."
Gav shrugged. "The way he eats ..."
"And drinks, and smokes, and all the rest of it. Sedentary lifestyle." She nodded at him. "You want to watch that, too."
"I know."
"Sitting around all day, smoking tabs, eating your fried egg butties, your whatsit'll go through the roof."
"Blood pressure."
"Cholesterol. You need to take care."
"I know. I will." He shoved a mess of mushy peas and fish into his mouth. Chewed without tasting and frowned as he swallowed. "Anyway, reason I mention it – he's going into the hospital for an operation."
"That bad?"
Gav nodded. "And he wants us to look after the place while he's in."
"So is it a promotion?"
"Not really. He just wants someone in charge." Gav cleaned the rest of his plate, wiped his mouth. "That was champion, that."
"When did he tell you about this?"
"Today. Took us in the office." Gav picked up his and Sophie's plates and took them to the sink.
Fiona nodded. "So what are you going to do?"
Gav dunked Sophie's plate, left it in the water to soak the ketchup. "Wey, I can't say no, can I?"
"Course you can."
"It's not like that. To be honest, I think he's looking to get rid."
"Of you?"
"The whole lot. I don't think the place is making him enough money. I mean, I don't think he's going to shut us down or owt, but the way he was talking today, I don't know if he wants to keep it running, either."
"He's probably worried about the surgery."
"Wey aye, but—"
"Yes."
Gav smiled. "Yes, it's probably a bit of that. But honestly? I think he's had enough. I think he really wants someone to buy him out. And I think he wants me to run the place for a bit, see how I manage. Maybe put us in a position where we can come to some sort of deal."
"Has he said that?"
"He mentioned it."
"Right." Fiona put down her knife and fork. "I see."
"I mean, obviously he'll be looking to sell cheap, but it’ll still be a bit of money."
"How much?"
"Haven't got to that stage yet. It'll be below market value, mind. And it's not like we won't see it back."
"You reckon?"
"It's a good business. Could be a great one if someone ran it right."
"We don't have the money, though, do we?"
"We do." Gav pulled a face. "Kind of. I mean, we've got this place."
"You been hiding cash in the walls?"
"If we remortgaged—"
"Then there's a bloody good chance we could lose our home."
"Bloody good chance we could lose it anyway." Gav leaned against the sink. "If Neil punts Puma Cabs on to someone else, they might not see what I see. They could just strip it and move on. Or they could have their own drivers ..." He stopped himself, held up one hand. "I promise we won't lose the house."
"You really think you can run your own business?"
"Neil did it."
"Neil's family are entrepreneurs."
"Yeah, but it's not like I'm going to be starting from scratch, is it? I'll have an office, I'll have a fleet, I'll have drivers I know, I'll have an established customer base ..."
"Right." She smiled. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you?"
"All day. It's a proven business. Just needs a little graft to make it properly lucrative. I don't know anyone else with the nous to do it."
"Is this you practising for the bank manager?"
"You think it'll work?"
"Your plan or your patter?"
"Either."
"The patter might."
"Give us your plate."
Fiona moved from the table, scraped and then dipped her plate in the bowl. Gav puts his arms around her waist. She looked at his chest. "I'm just thinking about you."
"I know. It'll be fine. We'll get plenty of help. Her down south is always going on about the small businessman, isn't she? Well, then."
"You're a softarse, though."
He let go of her in mock outrage. "If you're going to be like that, you can—"
"Come on, no. I love you, but you know what I mean. What happens when you need to sack someone?"
"Piece of piss."
"You sure?"
He nodded. She wet a cloth and chucked it at him, then turned to the dishes. He wiped down the table with more energy than usual. "All I'm saying, you don't get these opportunities very often, and you've got to make the most of 'em when they turn up or you'll end up going nowhere."
"I know."
"And I look around this place, and I think maybe there's a few lads I could give jobs to. Sort them out, get them back on their feet." He finished off the table, dumped the food crumbs into the bin and the cloth onto the draining board. "I just think I'd be daft if I didn't at least consider it, know what I mean?"
"All right."
He drew closer, one hand on her back. Cocked his head and got into her eye line. "You game?"
She smiled. "Aye."
"Yes. Not aye."
She laughed. He pulled her into a hug and they stood there for a minute, looking into each other's eyes while the telly blared the theme tune to New Faces.
3
"Live from the Birmingham Hippodrome, we present the final of ... New Faces of '86!"
Razzmatazz music, a slow and shaky zoom on a neon marquee, and there was Marti Caine in a dress made of a French slag's offcuts, braving sheer steps in six-inch heels. Marti Caine, the drag queen's dream, a stick insect with Dynasty hair and a tab-gravelled voice – the quintessential ITV hostess. She read the autocue as if she needed glasses, which made her look concerned about the show she had lined up, even though it was all great acts, huge talent, and a galaxy of tomorrow’s stars. And all the while, the Brum audience burbled in anticipation.
Joe stared through the television, a blood-warm can of Herald in one hand, a cigarette burning between two fingers of the other. He hated this flashy, noisy shit – it was like being shouted at for an hour – but it was this or Paul Daniels,
and the thought of that sleazy little slaphead made his stomach churn. Michelle cuddled into him on the settee. She was a dead weight against his chest. She'd been bigger than he'd remembered, and when he hugged her outside, he'd felt every single pound. At the moment, it was errant baby weight; give it another year, and it'd be just plain lard. The feel of it had been surprising and wrong. Still, he'd managed not to pull away too sharply. Not that she'd noticed, anyway. Which was good. Last thing he wanted was a conversation about it.
The cake hadn't been Carricks after all. She'd made one from scratch, a heavy yellow lump with thick white icing and the words WELCOME HOME written in bright baby blue. On top of that, she'd gone out and bought balloons, beer and a butcher's special. He hadn't wanted any of it, but he'd ended up taking a slice, a sup and a steak because, again, he didn't want a fucking conversation about it. She read his silence as contentment. When he asked about the old man, she told him he’d won a little on the horses, so there was a good chance he wouldn't show his face until after last orders. That was good. It gave Joe the chance to settle in, gave him a few hours to think of this as his house, his telly, his girlfriend.
His bairn.
He took a drag from the Regal and held the cigarette up longer than normal, hoping that the smoke smell would kill the other one in here – that sweetish, pervasive odour, a combination of milk, shit and spew. Michelle didn't notice it anymore, but that smell was a clammy little fist in Joe's throat, made it difficult to breathe without his stomach rolling. He watched the smoke curl and disperse in front of the telly, then narrowed his eyes at the sight of the glittering Hippodrome stage. He blinked. It hurt him to focus, but he tried.
Then, worming through the New Faces ambience, that soft, wet breathing sound.
He glanced at the carry cot down by the side of the settee, took a swig from the can, but neither the booze nor the sudden television applause could smother the presence of the bairn.
Fact of it was, he was used to adult noise: the low grumble of conversation; background radio blaring and echoing in the barracks; voices raised in argument or in the wake of a dirty punchline. That was everyday. As normal as the sound of his own breathing. But the bairn made noises that grabbed at his attention in the same determined but feeble way she'd grabbed at his finger earlier. Moist, gooey vowels, the soft click of spit that turned into a mild coo whenever something new and interesting caught her eye.
