The White Stuff

by Simon Armitage

  ‘Olé,’ said Neville, which brought the meeting to a close.

  As they walked back to the staffroom together, Felix said to Neville, ‘I just don’t understand you sometimes.’

  ‘Who, me? I’m just a callous bastard, that’s all. Nothing too complicated about that.’

  ‘So why did you go to the funeral?’

  ‘Which funeral?’

  ‘Matthew Coyne’s.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I saw you, Nev. Through the telescope.’

  Neville veered off towards the toilets on the left. When he returned, it was to say, ‘So maybe I’m going soft. Keep your trap shut.’

  On Tuesday James Spotland was waiting for him in reception. The last time he’d seen Jimmy he’d been forking lumps of pan-fried reindeer into his mouth, an image Felix had struggled to forget. He caught sight of Jimmy’s pierced tongue and couldn’t help gawping at the tiny silver stud as it flashed between his teeth.

  ‘Thing is, Felix, I’ve got a shed-load of toys in the back of the van. I had a buyer lined up but he’s been called away on business. Thing is, they’re cluttering up my garage and it’s costing me just to keep them, so you can have them, all right?’

  ‘Why would I want them?’

  ‘For those deprived kids you work with, down at the children’s home.’

  ‘That’s a nice thing to do. Are you sure they’re not knock-off?’

  ‘Don’t insult me. I’m trying to do a kindness here. I’m not saying that everything touch comes with a receipt, but if something’s a bit warm I’ve got more wit than to pass it on to Social Services. Anyway, the knock-off stuff is usually top quality, and I’ve got a living to make.’

  He scratched his potbelly with both hands. It looked almost detachable, a whoopee cushion strapped around his middle or a phantom pregnancy.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Felix. ‘It’s really good of you.’

  Jimmy hitched up his trousers and spun his fob of keys around his middle finger.

  ‘I must be going soft in my old age. Don’t tell anyone.’

  Felix called after him, ‘You’re the second person to say that this week.’ Then smiled, thinking that maybe the world wasn’t such a crummy place to live in after all.

  On Wednesday it rained. A light drizzle in the morning cleared up about eleven, then after lunch the air became heavy and thick, and dense black clouds began to mount over the hills to the east. Just after two o’clock there was a terrific bang, like a bomb going off, and a minute or so of hail that drummed on the roofs of the cars down below was followed by torrential rain. Within seconds the gutters and fall-pipes were swamped, and water sheeted down the windows of Prospect House. The light outside turned from dark blue, to brown, to almost bottle green. Felix and Neville watched from the staffroom as the Strawberry Field became saturated, then waterlogged, until finally a fast-flowing stream was coursing through the underpass and out towards the precinct on the other side. The fire service turned up with the vague ambition of staunching the flow or pumping out the floodwater, but after taking one look at the scale of the problem decided to sit it out. They parked on the inside lane of the roundabout, laid out a line of traffic cones to steer oncoming traffic away from the tender, and passed an hour in the rain by dropping Coke cans and other items of litter into the deluge below, then running to the other side of the road to watch them reappear. Another fireman, the driver, sat in the cab and appeared to be smoking. Every once in a while, electricity ripped across the sky or earthed out somewhere on the horizon, forking down into me outlying estates, with the heavy artillery of thunder not for behind.

  It was the same day that Captain Roderick had been spoken to by PC Nottingham and PC Lily as part of their inquiries into the temporary disappearance of Ruby Moffat a few weeks ago. Roderick had told them that as far as he was concerned the girl was a ‘fabulist’ whose weird behaviour was an elaborate hoax designed to excuse her poor performance in class and her bouts of truancy. P.C Lily, relating the discussion to Felix over the phone, went on to say how much she would have liked to slap the pompous bastard across the head.

  ‘Did you see his nails?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Sure did. I was going to ask him for the name of his manicurist. What’s the betting he paints his toes as well?’

  On Thursday Felix made a home visit to the Moffats. He took the first entrance to the Lakeland Estate, but halfway up Keswick Lane the Big Blue One pulled out into the middle of the road, blocking the way ahead. After waiting a minute or so, thinking the coach had stalled or even broken down, Felix pomped his horn. There was no response. He got out of his car, locking it behind him, and walked towards the coach. The door handle had been removed, but at eye level there was a small spyhole and to one side of it an old-fashioned button with the word PRESS written on it. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have even approached the Big Blue One, let alone rung the bell, but his encounter in Derby had given him new confidence, or even courage, perhaps. If he could talk the talk with illegal immigrants and labour pimps in a strange city, why couldn’t he chat amiably to the driver of a mobile shop in his own backyard? Not only that, in the space of twenty-four hours he’d heard admissions of compassion from two people he’d previously thought of as irredeemably insensitive or pathologically selfish. Not miracles, exactly, but little incidents that were full of humanity and hope.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said a voice. It came from inside the bus but was amplified by a small loudspeaker mounted above the wing mirror.

  ‘I just want to get past in my car,’ said Felix.

  Felix waited for more dialogue with the person or persons inside, or another instruction from the speaker. But nothing happened. The coach sat there, monumental and silent. Alongside it, Felix was insignificant and small. He had a job to do, guidelines to meet, responsibilities to carry out. The coach had all the time in the world and nothing to care about. One day it might meet its match in the form of a bulldozer or an armoured tank. Its comeuppance would come. But not like this, with a social worker of medium build politely ringing its doorbell and asking to be let through. Another three or four minutes went past, not in fear but in embarrassment, before Felix did exactly as he had been told, executing a three-point turn and heading for Coleridge Avenue via Grasmere Drive.

  The fridge freezer was still on the lawn in front of the house but had been converted into a pretend car, with tyres propped against each corner, two car seats installed - one in the freezer and one in the fridge - and an actual steering column rammed through the thin metal base. Whatever shortages the people of the Lakeland Estate had to cope with, spare parts for motor vehicles were not one of them. Two little boys were playing at driving the car. ‘Hey, mister, will you shut the door while we’re inside? Go on, mister. Why not, yer mean twat?’

  Mrs Moffat said that Ruby had been quiet since the disclosure interview. No outbursts or incidents, although she had heard her crying in bed on a couple of occasions, once in the middle of the night and once in the morning, just before it came light.

  ‘But she hasn’t said anything?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Does she speak to Mr Moffat?’

  ‘No. But he’s not really the talkative kind.’

  ‘What about her brothers?’

  Mrs Moffat shook her head. ‘Teddy, a little bit, the eldest. They all look out for her, but I wouldn’t say they talk We’re not like that. We’re never going to be on Family Fortunes.’

  Ruby was watching television, just like the last time. She mumbled a hello but other than that only nodded when Felix asked her if she was OK and shook her head when he asked if there was anything she wanted to tell him. Maybe Captain Roderick was right. Maybe this was nothing more than an old-fashioned case of attention-seeking behaviour. Who could blame her, a young girl in a family of seven or eight older brothers and a mute father?

  The Big Blue One was still straddling Keswick Lane with its wheels on the pavement at each side of the road. Felix went the
long way round.

  On Friday he went home early to mow the lawn and stopped at the garage at the side of the ring road. The gauge on the petrol tank was pointing to full, but he needed a bottle of wine - two, probably, Spanish if possible - and a bunch of flowers.

  13

  Some cases stayed around for years, lifetimes even, the blue folders becoming tatty, faded and torn, swollen with documents, letters and notes. A baby might be taken into the care of the local authority or put on the at-risk register., The same child would be well known to Social Services by the time it made its first appearance at juvenile court, charged with its first offence. Then came further court appearances and more complicated problems, often involving illegal substances. Then parenthood, divorce, custody, poverty, insanity, infirmity, meals on wheels, the local hospice and even burial. Obviously not everybody who came into contact with the department stayed on the books for ever, and Felix could point to any number of clients who had gone on to live happy and normal lives, people he could think of as his success stories. But for those who wanted it, or needed it, or were told that, like it or not, they were going to have it, social work offered the complete service, from cradle to grave.

  Then, once in a while, a case would last no more than a few days or a week, and disappear as quickly as it had come to light. An issue would be resolved, or a person would move on, and with them the blue folder. They were now, in the unofficial language of the profession, SEP. Someone else’s problem. The case file labelled John Valentine had been someone else’s problem, but now it was Felix’s. He had arrived at the children’s home having been transferred in from another district. He’d been passed from one foster parent to another, and two attempts at adoption had broken down in the early stages. He was now nine and three-quarters, and in the opinion of his previous social worker time was running out. A suitable family needed to be found as quickly as possible, before he lost his boyish grin and what was left of his innocence. When those had gone, no one would want him. Then the problems would really start. Felix read through the file in the office and went over the relevant facts in his mind as he drove to the home. Inside, a handful of kids of various ages were sat around a television eating toast. They all looked as he walked in, then turned back to the screen. Off to one side a couple of industrial spin-dryers rumbled through their cycle. The air was clogged with the smell of washing powder and margarine. Carlos, the officer in charge, was behind his desk. Felix didn’t know his full name. Whenever he came to the home he always felt sad for the kids, but sorry as well for the people who worked there. They got the least training, the lowest pay, the most flak. If there was a front line, this was it. At least Felix could retreat to his office on the top floor of Prospect House, or show someone the door when he’d had enough. But this was wall-to-wall, twenty-four-hours-a-day, 36o-degrees, four-dimensional, full-blown, in-your-face social work. Carlos had been expecting him.

  ‘He’s in the games room. Want a coffee?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Spuggy,’ he shouted in the direction of the television, ‘two coffees.’

  A thin boy in a blue football shirt peeled himself out of his chair and ambled off towards the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve got them well trained,’ said Felix.

  ‘Reward system, we call it. They call it slave of the day. They get a fiver for doing jobs. It’s Spuggy’s turn today.’

  Felix could hear the clack of pool balls as he walked towards the door. Inside, a small boy with a mop of brown, unbrushed hair was bending over the table to take a shot. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Felix.’

  The boy grunted, then drilled the white ball towards a red dose to where Felix had rested his hand on the cushion.

  ‘Do you want a drink? Some juice, or…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fancy a game?’

  John Valentine shrugged his shoulders. Spuggy delivered the coffee. Felix picked up a cue that was resting in the corner and put his coffee on the windowsill. The window was made of toughened glass. The pool cue had no tip, just a black plastic cap.

  ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘Not bad,’ the boy said.

  ‘Well, I’m fantastic,’ said Felix. ‘You can break.’

  The boy grinned and gathered the balls into the triangle. Then he walked to the other end of the table, chalked his cue with a stick of white chalk from the tray under the Scoreboard and fired the cue ball as hard as he could into the pack.

  Later on, in McDonald’s, Felix explained about the advert.

  The boy said, ‘I know. They did it last time.’

  ‘So you know you have to think of a name. We can’t use your proper name.’

  ‘I know.’

  A blob of red sauce dripped from his burger on to the tray. He wiped it up with a chip and ate it.

  ‘That good, is it?’

  The boy couldn’t speak because his mouth was full of food, but he nodded enthusiastically, chewing and swallowing, then opening wide for the next bite.

  ‘Any ideas? About the name?’

  It was an odd business, trawling for prospective parents in the classified section of the local paper, next to planning applications, notices of bankruptcy and advertisements for happy hour at Cinderella’s nightclub. It had to be done anonymously for legal and moral reasons, and it was considered good practice to let the child choose the name he or she would be advertised under. Mostly they went for the names of their idols and heroes: pop stars who had everything; footballers with their faces all over the telly; cartoon characters who could put the world to rights with a single punch. It showed the power of their imagination and the size of their dreams. But more than anything it proved they were children, or spoke of a childhood that had never happened, or had to be kept a secret. And there was always a secret. One thing that all of these kids had in common - they were all on guard.

  ‘Lee,’ he said.

  ‘Not Beckham, then? Or Eminem?’

  ‘No. Lee.’

  Felix helped himself to a chip. ‘Lee. Fine. Any reason?’

  ‘It’s real. Like what proper people are called.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t want another stupid name.’

  ‘John isn’t stupid. John’s a real name, isn’t it?’

  The boy swallowed a mouthful of food. ‘My name’s Valentine.’

  ‘What’s stupid about John Valentine?’

  ‘I’m not John Valentine. I’m Valentine John.’

  ‘But I’ve been calling you John all day. Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I just thought you were being… you know… the boss.’

  Valentine had a milk shake and a cherry pie, then another milk shake to go. Felix drove him back to the home. That afternoon he drafted out the advert on a word processor in the clerical office. He’d missed the deadline for tonight but if he dropped the copy in tomorrow it would appear in the paper the following evening.

  Lee is nine. He’s a bright, fun-loving boy with a gleam in his eye. He likes football, riding his bike, playing pool - all the things that boys enjoy. But Lee needs a home and a new family to take care of him and support him. If you’ve ever thought about adoption, and think Lee is the kind of boy you could love and help, please phone Social Services at Prospect House and ask for Felix.

  That night, Abbie came out of the utility room and into the lounge holding a piece of paper.

  ‘I found this,’ she said.

  Felix was reading a magazine. ‘Oh, the ad,’ he said.

  ‘Is this what happens? Adverts in the papers?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What’s he like, this Lee?’

  ‘He’s a great kid. A bit troubled, but a good lad, basically.’

  Abbie went back into the kitchen with the piece of paper. He could hear her stacking the dishwasher, slotting the plates into the rack on the bottom
shelf, then the cutlery in the little plastic basket with its eight separate sections for knives, forks, spoons. Then the metallic clunk of the pans that were really supposed to be washed by hand, the ones with the pine handles which had been through the machine so often they now looked like lengths of driftwood or old bones. Then he heard the kettle boiling, its vibration on the worktop on the other side of the wall, just behind his head. Then a teaspoon clinking against the inside of a cup. Then the fridge door. Then the silence of milk being poured, then the ker-thunk of the pedal bin. Finally she came into the lounge with the drinks, set them down on coasters on the coffee table and curled up against his shoulder. He lifted his arm and put it around her, holding the magazine in his other hand. After a while she said, ‘We could have him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lee.’

  Felix lowered the magazine and rested it on the arm of the sofa, and as quietly and with as little movement as possible took a deep breath.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A million reasons.’

  ‘Give me one.’

  ‘He’s got problems.’

  ‘I thought you said he was a great kid.’

  ‘He is. But…’

  Felix reached for his drink and put the hot tea to his lips. They’d never actually discussed taking on one of his clients before, although the subject of adopting a baby had come up several times, speculatively at first, then with more conviction. On each occasion Abbie had pointed out that if some kind souls hadn’t found it in their hearts to welcome her .into their midst… Felix took another sip of tea. Then, because he couldn’t think of anything useful or different to say, he said, ‘He’s not called Lee, he’s called Valentine.’

  He hadn’t meant it as the concluding remark, but for whatever reason it struck home.

  ‘Valentine?’