‘Everyone still hates you,’ snips Dirty Alice.
‘Away and have a bath, you stinky cow,’ I say.
Alice is all red and gives me the finger. ‘Fuck off,’ she spits.
‘No, you fuck off,’ I say.
Then Katie Calderwood dumping a TV in the Woody goes mad and tells us we can’t say ‘fuck’ to each other or she’ll tell our mas and our das, except Dirty Alice doesn’t have a ma and her da never opens the door, so it’s all right for her.
I go home straight away but Paul MacDonald’s ma has already been on the phone and told my ma about the fight, but Ma tells Paul MacDonald’s ma a few things about her ‘precious son’ and doesn’t care too much I thumped him. Later she tells me it’s good I stood up for myself and that Paul MacDonald needed a good hiding. I am still worried Katie Calderwood will tell on me for saying ‘fuck’ to Dirty Alice, but Katie Calderwood doesn’t say a word. She just walks past our window and gives me a bad look. I feel worried for saying ‘fuck’ and also scared because one day when I’m least expecting it Katie Calderwood might tell Ma and Da, maybe when it’s my birthday and then I wouldn’t get anything. If she did that I would hate her for ever and I’d tell her she looks like a man. She would hate that because she thinks she looks like a woman. I wish I’d never said ‘fuck’ to anyone in my life.
EIGHT
WHEN YOU FIGHT the toughest kid in the land and win then you are the toughest kid in the land except girls don’t care about that. Marianne wants me to say sorry to Paul. She says if I say sorry then I can be in the talent show, although that’s never going to happen, but just in case it does I go look for Paul. I find him playing with Fat Ralph in the Woody, but I don’t say sorry to him, I just ask to play soldiers. Paul says yes straight away. He doesn’t want to fight again either so we decide to shoot Fat Ralph, but Ralph hates being machine-gunned to the ground all the time and says he doesn’t want to play any more and we decide to go find the girls. Marianne is in tears because Bardo lost the Eurovision Song Contest and someone called Nicole from Germany won with a song about peace instead. Dirty Alice isn’t crying. She’s screaming it was a fix because of the war we’re having in the Falklands. She’s acting like she knows stuff about wars and Margaret Thatcher just like my da does, but she doesn’t, my da is the only person in the whole town that knows these things. He is a political person and says so. Dirty Alice doesn’t know anything. Everything she says gets on my nerves, even her face. It’s all screwed up and sweaty, as if she was running somewhere. She’s stupid, that Dirty Alice, and she’s always falling over on her arse. ‘It’s because of those long skinny legs,’ Ma says. If I hear a loud crying I don’t even have to look up, I know it’s Dirty Alice all hunched up like a ball sucking at her knee. Mrs Connor helped her one time and took her to her house for a plaster, but Ma said that was wrong and we should never go to anyone’s house by ourselves.
‘Everyone knows Mrs Connor, Ma,’ I say.
‘But what if she has a stranger with her, then what? She’s always running around with this one and that one.’
‘What do you mean, Ma?’
Granny and Ma give one another a look, a look that means something I can’t know. They never tell me anything. Everything I find out is by accident and it’s not fair because I can keep a secret better than anyone.
‘Away out with your ball, Michael,’ says Granny.
Anyway, Tracey and her mad red hair tells Marianne Bardo’s song was the best by far and we should sing it in the talent show. This cheers Marianne up and then I tell her it doesn’t matter anyway because there will be other times we’ll win the Eurovision Contest because Britain is brilliant at everything.
‘Bucks Fizz won, didn’t they? And we had a great song to sing for a really long time,’ I say.
Everyone agrees and Marianne sniffs a yes. Dirty Alice feels left out and moves in to comfort Marianne but is pushed off by Lanky Fiona. I’m glad about that, Dirty Alice is always hogging Marianne like she owns her or something.
Next thing Tracey is singing ‘Making Your Mind Up’ and at first Marianne pretends she doesn’t want to because she’s so upset about Bardo but it’s obvious she’s dying to get up there with Fiona and Tracey and so she wipes her face and starts dancing, even Dirty Alice is in there, and you should have seen them waving their skirts about and doing what girls do with songs. They don’t care, girls, even when there’s no music, it’s just them singing and jumping about. They move in circles and wrap themselves around one another. They spin about and lift their skirts until we nearly see their knickers. I see Dirty Alice’s knickers. They’re white. I hate her knickers. Then they grab at each other’s hands and run about all over the place doing high kicks and all kinds of things. I like Adam and the Ants. Adam is like a soldier although my da isn’t keen on the glossy lips he has. My ma thinks Adam’s beautiful and Granny doesn’t care for him at all. I think Adam Ant is amazing and when I’m alone in my room I put on the record Da got for me and I jump up and down and pretend I have a guitar. I kick my legs and fling my arms over my head like Adam does and I think I’m the best singer in the world. It’s good to listen to your records when no one is looking.
Watching the girls dancing is all right but we still act like we think they’re eejits and make faces at them. Paul actually falls over making sick noises, but then he laughs to show he was just kidding around, the girls love that. He’s such a suck-up, that Paul, and he still likes Marianne even though I’ve thumped him for it. I would never have sucked up like that. I would have kept the vomit noise real and made the girls feel like they were stupid. You can’t be too mad for girls. I mean it’s OK to show up places you think they’ll be but you don’t go to their doors and ask if they want to come out for a while. The talent show is different because I’m doing keepy-uppies and we’re all getting some money from it. It’s five pence a ticket. My granny says this is a scandalous amount of money and will only pay one pence.
When I get home Da is all angry like Dirty Alice was and saying the Eurovision Song Contest was fixed because of the war and it was Margaret Thatcher’s fault we lost and if Ma wants to blame anyone then it should be the prime minister.
‘They were wonderful dancers,’ cries Ma.
‘And very good-looking,’ says Granny.
Da says Ma’s silly for crying and it’s only a song. Also he liked the German girl and her little guitar, but not as much as Jan Leeming who reads the news and was at the Eurovision Song Contest in a beautiful dress telling everyone about the points each country was winning.
‘She’s a fine woman all right,’ says Da.
Ma pulls a face at him, but that’s how it is with Ma right now. She makes faces and leaves rooms all the time, usually for a bath or a nap.
‘If she just went to the police,’ whispers Da. ‘If she just told the truth she’d feel better.’
‘You mean you would,’ says Granny.
‘We all would,’ says Da.
‘You should have told the police from the start, didn’t I tell you to? Then all the neighbours wouldn’t be thinking you smack your wife around. It’s too late to go back now.’
‘Why is that?’ quizzes Da.
‘No one would believe her is why. It’s been left too long. They might think she made it up or she’s mad or something. They might think we’re all mad. We should have said something as soon as she walked through that door, but we didn’t. It’s done, Brian. Leave it be. They’ll be no more talking about this family. I won’t have it.’
Da looks angry.
‘This too shall pass,’ says Granny and crosses herself.
‘When will it pass? When?’
I think the same as Da. When will this all go away? Ma’s not being nice to any of us.
‘Give the girl time for Christ’s sake. It’s been less than two months. Be patient.’
Da looks sorry when Granny says that and hides in his paper. I don’t feel sorry at all, two months was a long time ago, it was dark then and th
e sun is shining now. Da walks everywhere with her. She’s safe now. We won’t let anyone hurt her, not ever again.
NINE
MA KNITS LIKE Granny and hardly looks at anyone. Da tries to act like normal. Ma says she’s knitting for Christmas, but it’s only May and Christmas is way off, they’ll have us knitted to death by then. I hate getting jerseys and itchy socks anyway. I especially hate mittens. They always get wet in the snow and never keep your fingers warm. I hope no one knits me mittens.
Da says a scarf will be handy and hopes Ma is knitting one for him.
‘It’s cold for spring,’ he says.
‘It’s practically the summer,’ says Ma.
‘Ne’er cast a clout till May is out,’ says Granny.
Everyone agrees it’s still a bit cold, except me, I’m always hot from running around with my football. I love football and I’m going to play for Celtic one day. Da agrees.
‘You’re as good as Paul McStay any day of the week, just keep practising the dribbling.’
Da walks Ma to work and back again every night since the flasher. I think this is a nice thing to do but Ma doesn’t. She calls Da possessive. Granny says this means you’re loved a lot and I wonder why Ma doesn’t like it.
Ma is also doing the Open University thing they do on the telly. She’s learning all about books and stuff. This annoys Da. Granny says it is good to keep yourself busy.
Ma says she is reading Shakespeare. Mrs Roy says Shakespeare had a beard and was a wonderful playwright. He sounds boring to me. Ma is boring. I want to know if she’ll come to the talent show but she just says, ‘Maybe.’
‘And where else will you be, Rosemary?’ snips Da.
‘It’s a long time to be practising, Michael,’ says Ma. ‘Months and months now.’
‘It’s maybe nearly soon,’ I say, even though I know it isn’t anywhere near soon and might never happen at all, but she doesn’t say anything, not to any of us, it’s like we didn’t speak.
Da says he can’t wait, neither can Granny.
‘Marianne’s taking her time with the talent show, Ma, she wants it to be perfect,’ I say, but the truth is I think the same as Ma. I don’t think the talent show will ever happen, like it’s something the girls are just playing at to get attention.
Ma doesn’t care about the talent show anyway, she just knits and reads and has her baths, except one Saturday night when Tricia Law comes to the house holding a cigarette, causing an uproar.
‘Is Rosemary ready?’ she says.
‘For what?’ says Da.
Then Ma appears smelling really nice and says, ‘I’m off out for a drink with Tricia. I told you this afternoon,’ she says.
‘You told me no such thing,’ says Da.
‘What’s the matter, Brian? Can your wife not pop down the road for a quick one?’
‘Without her husband?’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ says Tricia. ‘Without her husband.’
Tricia looks annoyed at Da and Granny is looking like she wants to push Tricia through the front door.
‘Then get a taxi home,’ he whispers to Ma.
‘I’ll walk her,’ says Tricia.
‘And who’ll walk you, Tricia?’ says Da.
‘I’m a big girl,’ says Tricia.
‘A taxi for the pair of you. There and back. I’ll pay for it.’
‘Isn’t he the gent?’ laughs Tricia.
Tricia has already been drinking beer, I can tell because she is swinging a bit on her hips like Granny does when she drinks lager at New Year.
When Tricia and Ma go away to the pub Granny puts her hand on Da’s shoulder and tells him Ma will come round and be back to normal in no time, but Da is annoyed and grabs for his coat.
‘Where are you going?’ says Granny.
‘For a drink,’ says Da.
‘Don’t do that, Brian. She’ll go mad if she thinks you’re following her. This is a good thing, son. She’s getting on with her life. It’s what she needs.’
‘Since when did my Rosemary ever go to bars without her husband? These are all new things she’s doing! The haircut. The Shakespeare. The knitting till her hands hurt. It’s not getting on with life, Ma. She’s erasing who she was. She’s pretending what happened to her happened to someone else and not the woman with the blonde cropped hair.’
They are talking about the flasher again and when they remember I am standing there in my pyjamas they stop. Da strokes my head and suggests we have some hot chocolate.
Granny makes terrible hot chocolate. It’s all watery, just like her stew, but Da doesn’t mind because she slips whisky into his. We have some fairy cakes and Da asks about the talent show again. He asks me to show him some keepy-uppies, but I bounce the ball into the sink and annoy Granny. Da thinks it’s funny. I tell him all about Marianne and all the things she’s going to be doing in the show and about how upset she is about Bardo losing the Eurovision Song Contest just like Ma was. Everyone looks sorry for Marianne and for Ma.
‘The Eurovision Song Contest has upset a lot of people, son. A lot of people,’ says Da. ‘Now off to bed.’
I do as I’m told, but I want to stay up for hours and hours with them. I like to talk to Granny and Da, but before I’m even off my chair the doorbell rings.
‘Can I get the door, Da? Can I?’ I beg.
I love to answer the door, but when I open it I find Ma with Tricia and Kenny Stuart’s da who drives the ambulance about the town. Kenny thinks this is a brilliant job as if his da is a doctor or something but he’s really just a taxi driver for the hospital.
‘Jesus, what happened, Rosemary? You’re as white as a sheet, lassie,’ says Granny, grabbing at Ma.
‘She collapsed in the Bull,’ says Tricia.
‘Drunk?’ yells Da at Ma.
‘She never touched a drop,’ snaps Tricia.
Ma looks scared.
‘She fainted, must have been the heat in the place. She’s OK now. We took her up the hospital and had her checked out,’ says Kenny’s da.
‘And you couldn’t have called the house?’ says Da.
Ma starts to babble and everyone is staring at her.
‘I couldn’t stand it, Shirley. All those people, so many of them,’ she cries.
‘I think she must be coming down with some sort of virus,’ whispers Kenny’s da. ‘Best put her to bed, Brian.’
‘What’s wrong with me?’ Ma asks Da.
‘It’s OK, love,’ Da says and takes Ma upstairs.
‘What’s going on round here?’ says Tricia. ‘That lassie hasn’t been the same since your precious Brian gave her a hiding.’
‘I’m away, Shirley,’ Kenny’s da says. He doesn’t want to hear Tricia talking like that to Granny and neither do I.
‘Hope Rosemary gets better soon,’ he says to Granny.
Kenny’s da is out of sight in no time, but Tricia won’t leave.
‘My Brian never laid a finger on her. She fell down the very steps you’re standing on.’
Granny reddens and it looks like she’s telling a fib and she is but not like Tricia thinks.
‘She’s my friend, Shirley, you remember that, and I won’t have anyone hurting her again, right?’
‘My Brian wouldn’t let the wind blow on Rosemary. Now get the hell off my doorstep!’
Tricia goes all red and leaves, but you can tell she wants to say something else but can’t think of anything. Tricia swaggers away; she’s had a few for sure. Granny shakes her head at her, like when Da says something he shouldn’t to Ma or when I won’t eat my dinner or when Ma uses up all the hot water.
‘How you getting home, Tricia?’ Granny shouts after her.
‘What the fuck do you care?’
‘I don’t care, but that’s some state to be walking around in by yourself. Anything could happen.’
Granny’s thinking of the flasher and so am I.
‘Then phone us a taxi,’ slurs Tricia.
‘Fine,’ says Granny and dials for a car
.
Tricia sits on the pavement next to the lamp post outside our house. She looks orange. She lights herself a cigarette and she’s staring at me through the open door, that’s when Granny closes it so I can’t see her any more, but I can still smell Tricia’s smoke.
‘Would you go to bed?!’ screams Granny.
In Ma and Da’s room I can hear Ma sobbing her heart out.
‘I couldn’t swallow and I couldn’t breathe. Everyone was looking at me. At this face, Brian. At these scars.’
‘It’s all right, Rosemary. You’re home now. You’re home.’
It goes on like this for a long time, Ma saying stuff and Da telling her it’s all right until I’m almost asleep, but then Da comes into my room. He sits at the bottom of my bed and puts his head in his hands.
‘Are you all right, Da?’ I say.
‘Away and sleep, son,’ he says.
‘Is Ma asleep?’ I ask.
He nods and I think he might cry or something and I really don’t want him to, not in front of me. I couldn’t stand it.
‘Hey, Da,’ I say, ‘I saw Tricia Law going into the bushes with Skinny Rab!’
Da gives me the funniest look.
‘I did,’ I say. ‘I swear it.’
I tell him the whole story and he laughs. He laughs harder than I’ve heard him laugh in a long time.
‘Skinny Rab and Tricia Law?’ His eyes are wet with laughing and I feel like the funniest boy on Caledonia Walk.
‘Michael,’ he says and I know he’s going to tell me something important, ‘don’t be telling anyone else that story, mind, that’s our little secret. You’re a man now. Only women tell tales like that and usually to other women. Men know how to keep their lips buttoned and you have to keep your lips buttoned all the time. You understand?’
I know he’s talking about the flasher again and I nod. It seems everything is about the flasher.
Closed Doors Page 4
