What was I saying? . . .
What . . . ?
Dad getting ill! I do remember going to Mum and Dad’s with Karen one day – this is after we’d been going out a good two months (perhaps longer), so I’d taken Karen home lots of times – and Dad said, ‘And who’s this?’ as if he’d never seen Karen before. I don’t recall anyone making a big fuss about it. Perhaps we thought Dad was trying to be funny or something. Although saying ‘And who’s this?’ is not really funny. Not in a jokey ha-ha sort of way. But, then again, Dad’s jokes were never funny in a jokey ha-ha sort of way. I can’t remember any other ‘incidents’ like that before we got the ‘official’ diagnosis, but obviously there must have been, otherwise Mum would never have taken Dad to the doctor’s in the first place. Dad’s test results came back just before Clyde was due to leave for university. Mum tried to persuade Clyde not to go. What if this happened? What if that happened? Clyde said, ‘Yeah. And what if nothing happens?’ And Clyde – self-centred son of a bitch that he is – fucked off exactly as he’d planned.
For a while, though, nothing did happen with Dad. He carried on pretty much as before. He seemed perfectly okay the day I told him (and Mum) that Karen was pregnant. In fact, he seemed more level-headed about it than most people. He said, ‘Well, you need to get a proper job, son. And quick.’ I’d had a few ‘not proper’ jobs since leaving school. Mainly office cleaning (paid in the hand) and, for a while, delivering paraffin for an old friend of Karen’s dad (I had to give that up in the end because Karen couldn’t stand the smell. Once you stink of paraffin, you stink of it for days!) These jobs gave me enough to take Karen out for a drink or to see a film, but now – with a wedding (and baby) on the way – I needed more than just pocket money.
It was Karen’s mum who came to the rescue. She had a job as receptionist in a local television rental shop called Radio Rentals (why they didn’t call it Television Rentals is beyond me). They were looking for young people to take on as apprentice engineers. Was I interested? Yes, I was. Had I got a suit to wear for an interview? No, I hadn’t. So Karen’s mum and dad bought me one. From Marks & Spencer’s. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it fit well enough to get me the job. In fact the person interviewing me said I was a little ‘overdressed’ for the occasion, but he did appreciate the effort I’d taken (‘so nice to see young people taking a pride in their appearance’, blah, blah, blah). He also appreciated – as he was good friends with Karen’s mum – that I planned to ‘do right’ by the girl I’d ‘got into trouble’. Of course, it’s all my fault Karen got pregnant. Karen had no idea how babies were made.
My first day at Radio Rentals I had to report to their warehouse – in Stratford – where one of the drivers (who delivered and installed televisions) came up to me and said, ‘You went to Daneford, didn’t you?’ I thought his face looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I told him that yes, I did indeed go to Daneford. He said, ‘I went there too. You won’t remember me. I was in my last year when you joined. I’m Melvin. Friends call me Melv.’ We shook hands and shared some anecdotes about crackpot teachers and crackhead pupils. We got on like the proverbial house on fire. It felt like having a ‘best mate’ again. Something I hadn’t had since Dwayne (who, I’d heard – from Mum – had joined the fucking army anyway, the two-faced bastard).
Melv sort of took me ‘under his wing’, as they say. He had got married the year before last to a girl called Steph, so the four of us – me and Karen, and him and Steph – used to all go out together. Karen wasn’t drinking because she was pregnant. And Steph wasn’t drinking because she was trying to get pregnant, and she’d heard alcohol ‘dries out the ovaries’ or something. One night – after I’d been working at Radio Rentals for a couple of months – Melv took me to one side and said, ‘You need to learn to drive as soon you can, mate.’ I told him that, yeah, I wanted to learn, but there just wasn’t the money for any lessons at the moment, what with the wedding coming up, and the baby on the way. Melv said, ‘Trust me! You and me can make a small fortune out of Radio Rentals.’ I asked, ‘How Melv?’ He winked and said. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, mate. Just make sure you get those wheels.’ And I did ‘get those wheels’. And me and Melv did make a small fortune. For quite a long time. But that’s another story— What was I saying?
Dad! Illness! The first time Dad’s ‘little problem’ really became something that involved me was in the run up to the wedding. Mum was ‘petrified’ that Dad was going to ‘ruin the day’. I said, ‘I can’t see Dad doing anything that bad, Mum. All he does is forget a few things and drift off now and again.’ Mum said, ‘He has good days and he has bad days. And if your wedding happens to coincide with one of his bad days, he’ll embarrass us all!’ I could sense a volcano bubbling, so I didn’t say anything. Mum made plans about how we should ‘deal with’ Dad on the day of the wedding. Someone had to be with him at all times, either me or her (or Clyde, if he could drag himself away from university). If anyone asked Dad a question, whoever was with him would immediately prompt Dad to give a sensible answer and, if that didn’t work, then we’d laugh and say he’d had one too many drinks. Karen said to me, ‘Your mum’s madder than your dad.’ I said, ‘Dad’s not mad.’ Karen said, ‘You’re right. He’s not. He’s forgetful. And your mum’s not mad either. She’s just plain nasty.’
Dad, needless to say, didn’t do or say anything to embarrass anyone on the day of the wedding. In fact, the whole thing went off a treat. We had a registry office wedding at Hackney Town Hall. Mum had wanted a white wedding at St Peter’s Church (where she and Dad got hitched), but as Karen was very pregnant by now – and as it was very plain for all to see – Mum was eventually persuaded a walk down the aisle wasn’t really the way to go. We had the reception party in a large room above a pub owned by ‘a friend’ of Karen’s family. There was a lot of food and a lot of drink and some really cool music – courtesy of one of Karen’s cousins who was a professional DJ – and everyone had a good time and kept telling me how ‘totally brilliant’ the day had been (which made me feel really chuffed). For Mum, though, the most ‘brilliant’ part of the ‘totally brilliant’ day wasn’t me making my vows to Karen, or the four-tier wedding cake that cost an arm and a leg, or how beautiful Karen looked, or how handsome I looked (according to Karen, anyway), or the way that, when me and Karen had the first dance (to Islands in the Stream by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, not one of my favourite records – and certainly not the easiest to boogie to – but apt for the occasion, I suppose), everyone clapped and cheered. Oh, no. The most ‘brilliant’ thing about the wedding for Mum was . . . Clyde.
It had been an ongoing debate between me and Mum as to whether Clyde would actually show up for the wedding at all. After all, he’d only been home once since going to university – for a couple of days at Christmas – and he’d spent most of that time on the phone to his university mates. As Karen said, ‘Your brother thinks we’re all too stupid for him now. He looks down his nose at us.’ Which is why I kept saying, ‘He’ll make some excuse to avoid coming to the wedding. You’ll see.’ But, in the end, he did turn up. He arrived the night before the wedding. Talk about ‘cut it fine’! Mum phoned me and said, ‘I told you he would be here.’ I said, ‘Wonders never cease.’
I didn’t see Clyde till the actual ceremony at Hackney Town Hall. He’d bought a new suit, which was thoughtful of him, of course, but it was a strange sky-blue colour, and his new longer hair kept getting in his eyes so he was constantly doing this head-flicking thing. Personally, I thought Clyde looked a bit of a wanker, but a lot of the guests kept telling me, ‘Your brother could be a model!’, so what do I fucking know? And then – at the reception – because he’s the best man, he stands up to make a speech – even though I’d told him he didn’t really have to – and (of course!) the speech is touching and humorous and has everyone in the palm of his fucking hands, and even Melv said, ‘I’ll say this for him. He’s got charisma!’ and I said that yes, that’s true, he’s
got charisma all right. And style. And class. And a university education. And he hasn’t got a girl up the duff. And he doesn’t have to get married. And, of course, he’ll never get a girl up the duff and have to get married, because he’s a fucking queer, and I knew Melv understood exactly how I felt because no one hated queers more than Melv.
One night, a few days before the wedding, me and Melv were in The Seabright – the pub we went to when we weren’t with our other halves – and we were talking about how we both wanted to bend the barmaid over a table and give it to her from behind, when – out of the blue – Melv said – ‘Of course, your brother wouldn’t want to do that to her, would he?’ I said, ‘Why not?’ Melv said, ‘Because he’s a poof, right?’ I said, ‘Just because Clyde hasn’t got a girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s queer.’ I’d spent my whole fucking life making excuses like that. ‘Just because Clyde don’t like sport doesn’t mean he’s queer,’ or, ‘Just because Clyde don’t swear and get drunk doesn’t mean he’s queer,’ or ‘Just because he likes reading books and drawing doesn’t mean he’s queer.’ But all the time, I knew, of course . . . Clyde was queer. I called him a queer once. When we were kids. He got so annoyed he nearly killed me. But that’s another story— What was I . . . ?
What was I . . . ?
What . . . ?
Radio Rentals! This is how me and Melv made our ‘small fortune’ for quite a long time. One day – about a week after me and Karen had got married – Melv took me to the stockroom and said, ‘How many televisions do you see?’ I said, ‘Lots, mate.’ He said, ‘Some of these are stored for months before they’re rented. You know what that means?’ I said, ‘No. What?’ He said, ‘It means they can get damaged. And if a television has so much as one scratch, d’you know what that means?’ I said, ‘They can’t be rented?’ He said, ‘Exactly! And d’you know what they do with televisions that can’t be rented? – Don’t bother, I’ll tell you. They chuck them away. But we – you and me – we can do something much better with them. Listen!’ He leaned closer. ‘I’m in charge of checking stuff into this stockroom and checking stuff out. But let’s say, I don’t check some stuff in – like the ones that are obviously going to get scratched – and when I do happen to check them out, I check them into the car you’re going to get. I know you’re someone who’d be capable of selling scratched tellies. And we could split the profits fifty-fifty. How does that sound?’ I said, ‘It sounds like a lot of money, mate.’ He grinned and said, ‘You better pass your driving test tomorrow, mate.’
Needless to say, I did pass my driving test, and Karen’s dad loaned me the money to buy a car. Nothing flash, but decent enough. Within a few weeks me and Melv had a pretty slick Mission Impossible-style thing going. Every Friday I’d park my car at the rear entrance of the warehouse. Me and Melv would wait for everyone to go home, then we’d put the tellies in my car. With a squeeze we could fit five in (two in the boot, two on the back seat, and one on the front passenger seat), and any little gaps were taken up with video players and stuff. Over the weekend I sold all the gear. I saw myself as a sort of modern-day Robin Hood – taking from the rich and, if not actually giving to the poor, then at least selling to them at a discount. And – to be fair! – I did deserve some financial reward because it was a lot of hard work on my part, schlepping all over East London with a car full of electrical equipment and sometimes carrying it up umpteen flights of stairs. Also, me and Karen had heard about some houses that were going to be built in Goodmayes (that’s still in East London, but it’s bit further out, more posh) and we wanted one. We wanted one bad.
I was out selling tellies one Saturday afternoon when Karen went into labour. I had no idea till I got back to Karen’s parents’ and Karen’s dad – who had stayed behind to wait for me – said, ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ I said, ‘I’ve been doing some overtime!’ He said, ‘Let’s get to the bloody hospital!’ Karen had been there since midday apparently, and it was now five o’clock. All the messy screamy stuff was over by the time I arrived, and the baby was in an incubator. He was too delicate and new to be touched, so I just gazed at him like he was the world’s biggest diamond. I promised him I would always love and protect him and give him everything he wanted no matter how many ‘scratched’ tellies it took.
Mum, who – along with Dad and Karen’s mum – had been there all afternoon, said to me, ‘You should phone Clyde.’ I said, ‘Why?’ Mum said, ‘Because he’ll want to know about the baby. He’s been phoning nonstop to ask how everything’s going.’ I said, ‘Oh, of course he hasn’t been phoning, Mum!’ And Mum said, ‘He has been phoning, he has!’ And she looked at Dad and said, ‘Hasn’t he?’ And Dad said, ‘What?’ Mum looked at me and said, ‘Your brother can’t wait to be an uncle.’ I said, ‘Mum, I haven’t spoken to Clyde since the bloody wedding. Not one word. If he’s so concerned and excited he can always phone me. He knows Karen’s number.’ And Mum said, ‘Well, he knows you’re busy. He doesn’t want to disturb you.’ And I said, ‘Jesus fucking Christ! Can we please stop talking about bloody Clyde? I’ve just become a dad. Aren’t you supposed to be slapping me on the back and shoving a cigar in my mouth or something?’ Mum said, ‘It’s the new dad who buys the cigars. Not us!’ And then Karen says to Mum, ‘If you’re so desperate that your precious Clyde knows about Todd, you bloody ring him! There’s a phone down the corridor. Fuck off and tell him! Go on!’ We were all so taken aback that, for a while, no one said anything. I could tell that Mum wanted to give as good as she’d just got, but Karen was holding Mum’s grandchild now, and in the armed warfare that is family life, Karen had the H-bomb, and her finger was on the button. Mum said, ‘Well, I . . . I don’t know his phone number off by heart. I’ll do it when I get home.’ Karen, in no mood for peace negotiations, said, ‘Yeah. You do that.’
About three months after Todd was born, Mum phoned and said, ‘Clyde just rang. He’s coming down this weekend to see little Todd. He can’t wait.’ I told Karen. She said, ‘Tell her it’s a little tricky. We’d planned to go and see my great aunt in Tilbury this weekend. It’s her ninetieth birthday. We can’t cancel.’ I phoned Mum and told her. Mum said, ‘You’ve never said anything about a great aunt in Tilbury before. When was all this planned?’ Karen – who’d been standing beside me listening in – snatched the phone from me and said, ‘Perhaps the next time Clyde feels like doing one of his royal bloody visits he can give us all more than forty-eight hours’ notice. We have lives too, you know.’ And she slammed the phone down. I thought, ‘Poor Dad. He’ll be getting the full Vesuvius right now.’
Clyde did give us more than forty-eight hours’ notice next time. In fact he gave us three weeks’ notice. But, as things turned out, Karen’s great aunt in Tilbury was taken into hospital the day before Clyde arrived, so me and Karen had to go to Tilbury once more. I told Mum. She said, ‘Your brother is going to take this very personally. Especially after the whole godfather situation.’ What ‘godfather situation’ I hear you ask? Allow me to explain, that’s if my bloody sanity (and yours) can take it.
Mum had got it into her head that Clyde just had to be Todd’s godfather. I explained to her that Karen and me wanted a married couple to be godparents, and as Melv and Steph were already married, and as they were our best friends, and as they had already asked me and Karen to be godparents to their baby – then it made sense to ask Melv and Steph to be godparents to ours. Simple. Right? Not for Mum. She went on and on about Clyde being the ‘obvious’ choice, blah, blah, blah. Mum was still going on about it weeks after Melv and Steph had been asked (and had been thrilled to accept) when me and Karen (and Todd) went round to see her and Dad one Sunday afternoon. Mum said, ‘Are you absolutely sure Melvin is the right role model for Todd?’ I said, ‘Mum, Melv has done nothing but help me and Karen. He’d do anything for us. He’s the best role model any boy could have!’ I could feel Karen tensing up beside me. I shot her a ‘don’t say anything’ look. But Karen being Karen, she couldn’t hold back. She said,
‘And Melv’s straight!’ For a moment Mum genuinely wasn’t sure what Karen actually meant. Did Karen mean Melv was a straight-up, honest type of guy, or did Karen mean . . . what I knew Karen meant. So I got in before Mum had time to do too much thinking and said, ‘Exactly! Clyde’s an honest bloke and always straight-up with people. Now, we’ve really got to go. Bye!’
In the car Karen said to me, ‘Your mum knows Clyde’s a queer. Why are you always pussyfooting around the subject?’ I said, ‘I’m not pussyfooting around anything. I just didn’t want another bloody argument. And, to be absolutely honest, I’m not sure Mum does know.’ Karen said, ‘Oh, give me a break! She’s his mum. I’d know if Todd was growing up bent.’ I said, ‘And what would you do about it if he was?’ Karen said, ‘I’d make sure he stopped it! For his own happiness. And his health! AIDS is killing all of them.’ I said, ‘Clyde won’t catch AIDS. He’s not promiscuous.’ Karen said, ‘All queers are promiscuous. It’s in their nature. You ask Melv. He drove past that queer club down by Mile End tube the other night. They were giving each other blowjobs in the street. That’s the kind of life your Clyde’s leading up in Leeds, you know. Well, let him stay up there! He’s not spreading his germs anywhere near my son. And if your mum mentions Clyde being godfather to me again I’ll tell her that to her face. I want a godfather who’ll live long enough to see Todd grow up, which Clyde won’t be.’ I felt very dizzy all of a sudden. I had to pull the car over to the side of the road. It’s not that I hadn’t had that same thought myself – lots of times, in fact – but to hear it said out loud – and in such a matter-of-fact way – made it suddenly all too possible. Too . . . inevitable. Karen went to say something, then thought better of it. I went to say something, then thought better of it. If Todd hadn’t woken up and started crying we might have stayed like that for hours. Karen said, ‘Things will get a lot easier when we move to Goodmayes.’
Flamingoes in Orbit Page 20
