Bucket Nut

by Liza Cody

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I could put you on my books.’

  ‘Work for you?’

  ‘Now and then,’ she said.

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Usual rates,’ she said.

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘In advance?’

  She grinned at me. She wasn’t as dumb as she looked.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You can put me on your books.’

  She gave me her card and I put it in my pocket.

  I was glad I had the chance of more work, because I was finished with the Chengs. Even if they decided to live and let live I’d never work for them again. Ever.

  But the funny thing was that although I hated Auntie Lo now, I sort of missed her too. I missed her fancy shoes and her huff-huff laugh and her silly jokes. She was someone to talk to now and then. I used to think of her like she was my real Auntie. Which was stupid when you think of the way she treated me. She was too clever by half.

  The lady copper was better than nothing, but what I needed was to work for someone I could handle. Someone who was rich and stupider than me. That made me think of the artist dweeg. Have you ever seen a bloke who always looks one step behind? Well, Dave de Lysle looked like that, and it made him just about perfect for me.

  We went on eating, the lady copper and me. They do a good pie and mash down the Cut. After the pie I had treacle tart and custard.

  ‘All right,’ I said when my pudding was half finished. ‘If you got to tell me, tell me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Goldie,’ I said.

  She held up her cup in both hands like she was warming her fingers. She wasn’t eating pudding, just drinking tea.

  ‘She’s back home with her family,’ she said. ‘I got her out when things turned nasty at the Ladywell Baths.’

  ‘Did she want to go?’

  The lady copper grinned at me. ‘I didn’t kidnap her,’ she said. ‘She’d had enough. She’s a nice, middle-class girl and things got too rough for her. Her father’s paying for her to go to Italy. But first they’re putting her in a clinic.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Clean up.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was already doing cocaine and crack. She was just starting on heroin when you met her.’

  ‘She told me she only took it to stop that poncy singer having it.’

  ‘The things they say,’ she said.

  I finished my treacle tart.

  My head felt less like a blister now. All I needed was a breath of fresh air and a chunk of pie in my belly.

  The lady copper said, ‘Want to see her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend. Goldie.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. ‘I told you. She’s no friend of mine.’

  ‘Thought it might help.’

  ‘Help what?’

  She gave me a real vinegary smile – a proper polizei grin – and said nothing.

  ‘Help what?’ I said again, narked.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ she said. ‘She’s feeling guilty. Unfinished business. That sort of stuff. I thought you might know.’

  ‘Know what?’ I said. ‘You a social worker or something?’

  She just sat, drinking her tea. She didn’t even look insulted.

  ‘Feeling guilty,’ I said. ‘I should sodding well hope so. You should see what she owes me. Never mind she’s a treacherous clap-ridden cow. Never mind she turned me over and her diseased mates hung my dogs and ripped off my stash and shat on my bed. Never mind all that. Baby feels guilty. What a long weak stream of stale piss.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Up yours,’ I said. But I didn’t turn the table over and stomp out. I hadn’t finished my tea.

  ‘Did you lend her any money?’ she asked.

  ‘Hundreds.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ she said with the sour grin on her talking-box. ‘Be reasonable and I’ll talk to her father for you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m seeing him tomorrow to close the account.’

  ‘He won’t cough up for the likes of me.’

  ‘He’s settling all her debts.’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath,’ I said.

  ‘You’re one of life’s natural optimists, aren’t you?’ she said, and drained her mug.

  ‘That’s a fact,’ I said. And I felt quite pleased, because it’s true. When you think about everything that happened to me in the past few days you’ve got to admire the way I was still in there hustling with a smile on my face. I do, anyway.

  She took me back to the yard. When we got there she said, ‘See this car?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘White Peugeot,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Licence plate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Read the licence plate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I just want you to know that if my motor ever goes missing, this is the first place I’ll come and look.’

  And she drove off. Just like a farkin’ copper. They always want you to know how smart they are. They make me puke.

  Work for her? Oh, I’d work for her all right, and I’d steal her blind. Just you see if I don’t!

  I’d put one over on her already. I mean, who paid for the pie and mash? Tell me that. And me with money in my pocket. I didn’t pay, did I? So who do you reckon was smarter?

  All the same, as soon as that little white Peugeot had buzzed off round the corner I remembered it was Sunday again. I didn’t exactly want her back but she had been someone to talk to. Now there was nothing to do and nowhere to go. Sam’s Gym would be full to bursting with recreationals and there’d be no space for someone serious like me. Just a load of secretaries in their little pink headbands and floppy socks trying not to sweat too much. Secretary types don’t like sweat. On a Sunday the gym reeks of deodorant and hair spray. It’s enough to make your eyes water. The blokes aren’t much better. I’ll swear some of them shave their legs. I know they shave their chests. They don’t want to be strong. They want to be pretty.

  I thought about Goldie and the way she looked in those green leotards I bought for her.

  ‘You can stuff pretty in the same place you stuffed nice,’ I said out loud, and Ramses showed me his big yellow teeth.

  I thought I’d better look at his neck but he backed off snarling and wouldn’t let me get near him. That dog does not have a forgiving nature.

  I did not want to think about Goldie. It was the sort of day when she would have washed her hair. She was always washing that hair. Then we might have sat by the fire and watched telly.

  It was a good thing I kicked her out when I did or I’d have ended up as soft as she was.

  Sundays stink worse than Gruff Gordon’s jockstrap. Sundays are for the dead and dying. When I finally croak I bet it’ll be on a Sunday.

  Chapter 26

  The next day was Monday and I was glad. The crusher screamed and the metal groaned and the men shouted the way they always do. The world came to life after dead Sunday. It was quite a relief and I slept my first decent sleep in ages. No dreams, thank you very much.

  It was about two in the afternoon when I opened my eyes and saw white spots on the red wall. The sun was shooting through the holes I’d drilled in the window. I got up. I stretched. I did forty press-ups and ditto squats. Then I washed and dressed.

  Leaving the yard was tricky because through the holes in the door I saw Rob with a face as long as a limousine and I knew he’d pester me about Goldie. Lovesick blokes are a pain in the tit so I sneaked out while he was looking the other way. I had plans and I didn’t want his mournfulness to spoil my day. Mournfulness is catching and I’d only just shaken off some of my own.

  The sun was bright but not hot. It was chill enough to freeze the spit in your mouth. I had a bacon and egg sandwich in the caff on Mandala Street and it warmed me up no end. Then I had a good look r
ound to make sure. You’ve got to be careful when you’ve got as many enemies as me. Where they came from I’ll never know. After all, none of what happened was my fault. Well, was it?

  I thought I’d begin with my good deed for the day. I thought I’d do Dave de Lysle a favour. I wasn’t going squishy. Not me. It’s good management. Take a tip from me – if you are going to use a bloke, soften him up first.

  So, like I said, I had a good look round and then I started the old grey Volvo and drove smartly off north of the river. Dave de Lysle would be so pleased to see his motor back he’d be putty in my hands. Not that he was difficult to manage anyway. I was just feeling extra kind.

  But on the way there I started thinking about my fight with Sherry-Lee Lewis. It was hard not to. It was the best fight I ever fought in my entire life. Just thinking about it made my blood fizz. Dave de Lysle didn’t see my fight. That’s how keen he was. You’d think the least a rich dweeg like him could do was get a cab down to the old Ladywell Baths when he couldn’t find his clapped-out old banger. But no. Some blokes are born dweegs. You can’t educate them.

  Well, it was his loss. But it was my loss too. I wanted to talk to someone about that fight. I wanted just one person to say, ‘Nice one, Eva.’

  It almost made me want to go on driving north till I got to Newcastle. I could talk to Sherry-Lee Lewis. She knew. She was there. She even said, ‘If that Mr Deeds of yours gives you any aggravation, come up north.’

  Yes, she did. And she said, ‘A big girl like you can always make a living in my home town.’

  What do you think of that? That shows respect. North was the place to go.

  But there wasn’t enough gas in the tank. The fuel gauge was nearly on zero. So I went to find Harry instead. Not to Bermuda Smith’s cellar – I’m not an idiot. I went to the place Harry goes to play dominoes. I thought if he wasn’t there, one of the old men he plays with might know where he was. But he was there. He was sitting in the window looking all lopsided.

  When I went in and looked at him properly I saw that one of his eyes was completely closed and he had to twist his neck round to squint at his dominoes. It looked like a bird had laid a black egg in his eye-socket.

  ‘Ho!’ he said when he looked up and saw me there. ‘What you doin’, Eva?’

  ‘Came to see you, Harry.’

  ‘What you want with me, girl?’ he said. ‘More trouble? What you done now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘No trouble. Why? Are those bastards still looking for me?’

  ‘Better lie low, Eva,’ he said. ‘Better let the big men fight it out without you. You and me, Eva, we small fry.’

  The old guy he was playing with sniggered. He set down a domino, slapping his palm flat on top of it – whack. ‘Small fry!’ he said, giggling. ‘Someone close your other eye, man? You gone blind or what?’

  Harry said, ‘Go home, girl. You ain’t important to the big men no more, but you not welcome in their territory neither. Din’t you hear?’

  ‘Hear what, Harry?’

  ‘Negotiations,’ Harry said. ‘Mr Cheng and Count Suckle, they both go to Heathrow airport. No soldiers but plenty security. Nobody’s territory, see.’

  ‘What happened, Harry?’

  ‘Everyone say Mr Cheng keeps Bermuda Smith’s Cellar Bar. Mr Cheng is one very smart gentleman, Eva. Bermuda Smith going to open up again so maybe I get my job back.’

  ‘Bully for you, Harry,’ I said. I was choked. No one was going to give me my old job back.

  ‘You stay missing, Eva,’ Harry said. ‘Biggest mistake I ever made, asking you to help out.’

  ‘Fuck you too, Harry,’ I said. ‘I only came to be sociable.’

  He stared at me out of his one good eye.

  ‘Don’t be what you ain’t,’ he said. ‘You goin’ to be a good fighter, Eva, but don’t try bein’ sociable. You get me killed one day. Go home. Be safe.’

  Well, sod him! I went to see Dave de Lysle instead.

  When he opened the door he was wearing an apron. It wasn’t a lady’s apron. It was a big white canvassy thing with splatters of gunge on it, but it was an apron all the same. I ask you! What sort of bloke opens his front door in an apron? I’d have blushed for him if I’d been the blushing kind.

  ‘Eva!’ he said. ‘What a surprise. Come in, come in.’

  Say what you like about dwerbs who open doors in aprons – at least he knew how to be sociable, not like some I could mention.

  ‘I’ve got some plaster going off,’ he said. ‘Just let me finish and then we’ll go up and put the kettle on.’

  I thought he was doing a proper plaster job, like a wall or something, but he wasn’t. He was smearing the stuff on a big ball thing which was attached by an iron bar to a board.

  ‘A portrait,’ he said.

  ‘What of?’ I said. ‘A giant white bollock?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m making a mould. Under all this plaster there’s a clay head.’ And he kept on daubing plaster all over it. Scupture doesn’t look like a very skilled job to me.

  His work room was covered in grey dust and you couldn’t see what anything was. All the big shapes were covered with wet sheets and polythene. It was quite boring really. Maybe one day when I’m feeling helpful I’ll offer to spray-paint his walls red like the Static. Red’s a good colour. It’s got a bit of life in it – not like all the white and grey in Dave de Lysle’s room.

  To please him, I said, ‘I thought you lost your old grey Volvo.’

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I would’ve come to your fight. I was really sorry to have missed it.’

  I could’ve said, ‘What about taking a taxi, dwerb? How hard is that?’

  But I didn’t. I said, ‘There’s an old grey Volvo out in the road a few doors down from your house.’

  ‘No!’ he said, sounding all amazed.

  ‘Take a look,’ I said, enjoying myself. ‘You can probably see it from the window.’

  He set down his plaster bowl which was just about empty anyway, and went to the window.

  He craned his neck. He said. ‘That’s it all right. How the hell did it get there? What rotten luck.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, beginning to feel a bit choked.

  ‘I was going to get a new car out of the insurance company.’

  He looked upset and bewildered. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wanted a new car.’

  Well, really! You try to do some blokes a favour and what do you get? A boot in the teeth – that’s what you get.

  He turned away from the window, all disgusted. He went over to a big stone sink in the corner and started washing his hands.

  ‘Someone must have brought it back,’ he muttered. ‘Why would anyone do a thing like that? How very odd.’

  He dried his hands on his apron. Then he took the apron off and slung it on the floor.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, and smiled, looking like his normal self again. ‘Let’s get a cup of tea and cheer ourselves up.’

  I followed him to the kitchen. He filled the kettle.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  He pulled a big glass jar out of a cupboard. The jar was full of biscuits.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said. And I did.

  He made the tea.

  ‘So,’ he said, when we were sitting on opposite sides of the table, each with a big mug of tea and the biscuit jar in the middle. ‘So what brings you to my door this afternoon?’

  He had forgotten! Bleeding Dweeg de Dwerb had fucking forgotten. I was glad I’d brought his rotten motor back. I was well chuffed he couldn’t have a new one.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve forgotten,’ I said.

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘My sister,’ I said. ‘You promised you’d ring the solicitor. I took my clothes off and you did your drawing. But you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Don’t shout,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake! You don’t have to chew the carpet. I’
ll do it now. Just sit down and … Where’s that letter?’ And he dithered around like a fart in a trouser leg. Well what would you expect from a bloke in an apron? I was just about ready to ram his teapot down his corduroys when he found the letter.

  I followed him into the sitting-room where the phone was but he said, ‘Sit in the kitchen, Eva.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you’ll let those poncy blobs of goat’s dribble walk all over you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘You will.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘But it’s good to know you think so highly of me.’ He stared at me. And I thought maybe I’d better be a bit more careful of his feelings. I’d forgotten about him being an artist and all that crap. People say artists are very sensitive about their feelings, and who knows, maybe they’re right. I never met one before.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But I know what I’m talking about. I had a solicitor once and he never listened to a word I said. I had to chuck his briefcase out the window before he’d even look me straight in the eye.’

  ‘Did you?’ he asked, looking very interested.

  “Course I did.’ Well I did. But it didn’t do me a blind bit of good. At the end of the day I was still on remand and that shite-hawk went home to his tea without a care in the world.

  ‘Lawyers are nearly as bad as social workers,’ I told him, because he didn’t know very much and he needed some friendly advice.

  ‘They play silly buggers with other people’s lives,’ I said. ‘They cock up, but it’s no skin off their noses. They just go home to their gin and tonics and forget all about you and the dog-dung they got you into.’

  I wanted him to know how important it was.

  ‘See,’ I said, ‘it’s my sister. I haven’t seen her since she was twelve and I was eleven. And the why of us not seeing each other is all down to solicitors and social workers. They don’t understand family feeling. They put you in places where it’s convenient for them. Never mind you were perfectly happy where you was before they came along sticking their noses in.’

  I was feeling all hot and sore inside and my teeth started to hurt. I dug in my pocket and came up with the photo I stole off Ma who didn’t deserve it.

  ‘There,’ I said. ‘That’s her. That’s Simone two days before the last time I saw her. That’s two days before the Place of Safety Order. And who did that? Solicitors and social workers did that. That’s who.’