The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  We washed our hands of Jocelyn. We heard on the grapevine that Mark was back at home. We broke up for Christmas and saw nothing of Jocelyn. She didn’t come knocking. I thought she might, particularly at Adam’s door. She didn’t know that we’d seen her climbing out of the window. But maybe she’d twigged. But then I remembered that as Adam and I had backed away from the wasteland that day, he had shouted SLUT very loudly, and then we’d run. It was more than feasible that she’d heard this.

  We knew it wasn’t an ongoing thing; we soon heard that Mark was dating a girl from Kirkby who was a member of the Young Socialists and had had three lines in Brookside.

  We heard that Jocelyn was a smash hit in the role of Mary, and lots of people had commented how refreshing it was to see Mary being Sierra Leonean.

  We also heard that Paul from The Sound of Music made quite the impression as Joseph. And his younger sister Pauline, not from The Sound of Music, was dull as crud as Abigail-Jade and the Archangel Gabriel – and she was in such a rush to do the quick costume change from one to the other that she tripped down the pulpit steps and gashed her forehead open, and an ambulance had to be called. She was blue-lighted away, still with her angel wings on. Unable to continue with the performance, Jocelyn decided to entertain the congregation with a soulful medley of Christmas carols.

  Adam said he thought this sounded ghastly. I added that I wondered whether any of the stained glass windows had shattered and had to be replaced afterwards.

  Nan knew that something had gone down between me and Jocelyn, but she was too busy fussing over the new member of the household to be that upset or that punitive about me stopping going to church. She talked a lot about ‘the rigs’ and ‘that perishing North Sea’, so much so that Dad eventually silenced her one day with, ‘Mam, she knows. Stop digging a fucking hole.’

  And Nan had looked alarmed. And then embarrassed. And then carried on as if she’d never invented a cover story at all. She still never mentioned prison, though. It was as if Dad had just been on a really long holiday – as uninteresting as it was long, since none of us particularly wanted to talk about it, never mind see any pictures.

  Jocelyn continued to ignore us if we ever saw her in the street. I’d see her every now and then, waiting at the bus stop to go into town to catch the train to school. Or coming out of the chippy with a bag of scraps.

  Then I discovered that Adam had put a note through Jocelyn’s door saying he couldn’t be her friend any more because we knew that she’d slept with Mark, and how hurtful he thought this was to me. I was a bit cross when he told me. He was as angry as I was, and I didn’t see why I should have to take all the blame. But, me being me, I just went along with it. Besides, I had my dad back now. And I had Adam all to myself. Things were definitely looking up.

  Liverpool, 1986

  It was a new year. There was new life on the street. Some of the houses had a fresh lick of paint. The weedy trees on the wasteland, struggling to grow between abandoned petrol cans and rocks, bore flowers if they were lucky. Ice-cream vans called after school every evening. People stood outside the pub instead of sitting in. Soon we’d be going back to school after the long summer break.

  The rumours were that Jocelyn had moved away. I didn’t know how they’d started, but it was Nan that first told me, and I told Adam.

  We walked past her house a lot, just to see if we could glean anything. One evening during the summer holidays we saw a woman in a nurse’s uniform sitting smoking on the step. She was white. We stopped.

  ‘Does Jocelyn not live here any more?’ Adam asked her.

  The woman shook her head. ‘They went away. They’ll be back, like.’

  ‘Where did they go?’ I chipped in.

  ‘Llandrindod Wells,’ she said, like it was the most natural place to go to in the world. Like she was going to add, Where else, love?

  ‘Why’s she gone there?’ said Adam.

  The nurse shrugged. ‘Her mam was a bit off-colour. The air’s better for her there.’

  And then she stubbed out her ciggie by wiping it against the brickwork next to the front door, and scuttled inside. The conversation was over. Adam shouted after her, ‘How long have they gone for?!’ She just scowled back and shut the door like she hadn’t heard him – but we knew she had.

  As time went on, the strength of our feelings about Jocelyn dwindled. I guessed it was because the crushes Adam and I had had on the hitherto saintly Mark had waned, and therefore the fact that Jocelyn had ‘gone there’ felt increasingly less painful or important. In fact, one night while Adam and I were out for a walk around the local streets, he even went so far as to say he missed her.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. Although to be honest, part of me kind of missed having one more person to speak to, other than Adam.

  ‘I dunno. I guess I’d just like to ask her what he was like.’

  ‘In bed?’

  ‘How big it was. That kind of thing.’

  And we both fell about in hysterics. The way we did.

  ‘How long ago was it now?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘Well, it was December, wasn’t it? Ages ago.’

  He nodded.

  We turned off Smithdown Road, back into Alderson Road, when we saw a car pulling up outside Jocelyn’s house. We instinctively slowed down to get a good look. Maybe it was the odd nursey one, back from a shift at the hospital. Maybe she’d killed someone today. She looked the sort.

  It was dark. It had been raining earlier, and there were puddles everywhere. As the car pulled up it sprayed the pavement outside Jocelyn’s with water. The engine went off, the lights died and whoever was inside took forever to get out. The passenger door opened and Jocelyn’s little sisters got out. I always forgot she had any. They ran up to the front door, which was opened by someone inside, and she went in. Then Jocelyn climbed out. She was all wrapped up in a massive coat, the sort that looked like a duvet. She looked tired and drawn, not her usual fabulous self. Her hair was tatty and had no style to it, and she looked seriously knackered. She was standing on the pavement looking into the car, which is when her mum got out. She appeared to be carrying a basket. While Jocelyn went and opened the boot and started hauling suitcases out, the streetlamp by their house lit up what was in her mum’s basket.

  I gasped.

  Jocelyn’s mum had a baby in there.

  We walked on. Her mum saw us coming, and faltered for a second. She looked to the boot of the car, where Jocelyn was getting the last of their luggage out.

  ‘Jocelyn,’ she said quietly, alerting her daughter to the fact that we were approaching. Jocelyn took the hint and looked round.

  ‘All right, Jocelyn?’ Adam chirruped.

  Jocelyn nodded, and looked embarrassed to have been seen.

  ‘How was Llandrindod Wells then?’ Adam continued.

  Jocelyn looked to her mum as if she didn’t know how to respond.

  Her mum smiled. ‘I thought I wasn’t well. And then I had this little bundle of joy.’

  ‘Mum had a baby,’ added Jocelyn. You know, just in case we hadn’t worked out what that small human being was doing in a carrycot.

  ‘Congratulations, Mrs McKenzie,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Congratulations,’ Adam echoed.

  ‘I better get him inside.’ And with that, she vanished into the house.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Jocelyn,’ Adam said, still cheery.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘It’s been too long.’

  Jocelyn was acting all mortified. And she picked up some suitcases and said, ‘I’ve got to get in.’

  And get in she did.

  Adam and I walked on.

  ‘Fancy her mum not knowing she was pregnant,’ I said, eventually. But I could see Adam was thinking.

  ‘She hasn’t got a boyfriend, though. So who’s the dad?’ he said.

  I shrugged.

  ‘That baby was very light-skinned. Did you see?’

  I nodded. Adam looked at me, paling by the minute. ‘W
hen did the Mark thing happen again?’

  ‘December. Just before the nativity.’

  ‘And where are we now? What month?’ He was saying all this like he was my teacher at school and I needed to be extra clever to work out the answers, but once I did, I would feel very proud of myself.

  ‘September,’ I said.

  ‘And how many months is that, since Jocelyn slept with Mark?’

  I counted it out on my fingers. ‘Nine.’

  ‘Nine.’

  We carried on walking. Adam linked me. ‘No way is that baby hers. It’s Jocelyn’s.’

  ‘Really?!’

  ‘She’s been in the family way. They’ve been away. Come back with a cover story so that her daughter doesn’t look like a slag.’

  I had a feeling that Adam was right.

  ‘It’s as clear as the nose on your face.’

  My nose, again!

  ‘That baby’s Jocelyn’s. Bet you any money.’

  BILLY

  London, 2015

  Dear God,

  I know I don’t speak to you very often and I know I should try more. I know I’ve stopped saying my prayers but you know that I start each day by saying to you, ‘Help me get through this,’ and that I finish each day as my head hits the pillow saying, ‘Thank you for getting me through.’ I know it’s not enough though, even if it feels sometimes like it should be.

  I went back to the flats today. The mud was dry and jagged with cuts. Like someone slashed it with a knife. But you’d never know she’d been there. There’s some African shops built in the bottom of it. I go and buy a can of Lilt and then sit on a wall and think, staring at the spot. I thought there might be a circle on the ground the colour of aubergine. But that would be just too poetic. Someone has cleaned it all up.

  Gone.

  The Lilt was warm. I think their fridge mustn’t have been working.

  As I sat there I seen her turn up. She was with some fella. He really looked familiar. Eventually they went into the flats. She saw me. She looked at me. But she didn’t register me. I was nothing to her.

  Sounds familiar, right? No change there.

  I’m upset. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’ll go.

  Amen.

  ADAM

  London, 2015

  Whenever I tell people what I do for a living they always think it’s really strange. Picture the scene. A crowded bar. No! A table with strangers at some ghastly wedding. Someone leaning in. Wearing a fascinator. A lady, probably. Or a quirkily dressed man. Jeez, what kind of wedding is this?

  ‘You do WHAT?’

  ‘I’m a hairdresser’s agent.’

  ‘A hairdresser’s WHAT?’

  ‘I’m an agent. And I look after a hairdresser.’

  ‘You’re an agent and you look after a hairdresser?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I . . .’

  ‘A hairdresser needs an AGENT?’

  ‘This one does.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Sort out their deals. Book their flights. Manager their hair-care range, their franchise. You know, their chain of . . .’

  ‘I don’t really understand all that.’

  So why bloody ask? But I can’t be rude.

  ‘Well, it’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘It’s a bloke.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said it’s a bloke.’

  ‘A BLOKE?’

  ‘Yes, some men cut hair, it’s not all women.’

  ‘An actual BLOKE?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Is it Nicky Clarke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t stand Nicky Clarke.’

  ‘It’s not him.’

  ‘He looks like Myra Hindley.’

  ‘It’s not Nicky Clarke.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know them.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I might’ve heard of them.’

  ‘It’s Jay-Jay Velazquez.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Jay-Jay Velazquez.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  And so it goes on.

  At wedding dos the questioner usually turns to their partner/mother/insouciant donkey and shouts, ‘He’s a hairdresser’s agent.’ Pause. ‘No fucking clue either, love.’ And then they both turn to look at me, the donkey in particular giving me decidedly intense evils. They then both tuck into their bread rolls as ‘the soup’s taking forever’.

  Hey. Don’t get me wrong. I never wanted to be a hairdresser’s agent. I didn’t grow up on the mean streets of Liverpool – well, actually, they weren’t that mean, I lived above a sweet shop, it was hardly Goodfellas – thinking, ‘If only I could become a hairdresser’s agent. My life would be MADE and I could escape this bunch of clowns.’ I, like the average person I previously outlined, wouldn’t have had a clue what one was. To me, hairdressers were just something that my mum went to every now and again if there was something fancy to get ready for. Most of the time she dabbled with home perming, or a mate would come round and shove a perforated swimming cap on her head and hook wisps of hair through to tint. I used to love watching the theatre of it, front-row seats. Trips to the hairdresser’s were rare occasions to be cherished, especially after the seventies when Mum decided that wigs were a vital part of her going-out wardrobe.

  I remember one time she’d agreed to babysit for someone up the road and she wore a dazzling new red curly wig. At the time I thought it made her look like the funny one from The Liver Birds who now pulls pints in Emmerdale. Looking back, she looked more like Ronald bloody McDonald. So anyway, she goes to babysit the same kid again the next week, only she forgets and puts on a different wig. Her Lesley Judd bob wig, to be precise (I never forget a wig). Well. She only comes back half an hour later saying the lad took one look at her and burst out crying, refusing to believe he’d ever met her before. She was fuming. She swapped wigs, legged it back, and we didn’t see her again till midnight. Mission accomplished!

  Back then I was a kid full of a million multi-coloured feelings, but my strongest desire was to perform. To write. To do anything showbizzy. I wanted to be a theatrical, basically, to lounge around in Soho on a chaise longue in a smoking jacket casting my pearls of wisdom before the glamorous swine. I had my brief time in the sun, eventually; but these days I’m very happy working out of the limelight and behind the scenes.

  I’ve done a shedload of different jobs in my time, but about fifteen years ago I took a temping job with a big hairdresser’s agency in London. Jocelyn sorted it for me, as she was then seeing the guy who ran the agency, Leon. Leon liked the cut of my jib and after a few months promoted me to being a booker, and before I knew it, I had my own client list. But after a dozen or so years I got sick of the day-to-day grind with hairdressers I couldn’t stand, or hairdressers who were rude, or vile, or both. But I did hit it off with Jay-Jay.

  Then about a year ago I decided to retire – controversial at 44, but fuck it, by now I had a rich boyfriend and a small child – and Jay-Jay went nuts and somehow persuaded me to go it alone, work from home and just look after him. He earns a shitload of money to my shedload and I take 20 per cent, so I’m comfortable, and quite like the fact that I can make my high-powered business calls from the comfort of my own couch, often in my Deputy Dawg pyjama bottoms.

  Jay-Jay Velazquez’s real name is Jason Vaughan. He came to the agency as a naive twenty-year-old, just a few years younger than me, with some hairdressing prizes under his belt and a rather forced cheeky-chappy demeanour; but I caught more than a whiff of eau de bitchy queen in his cutting asides to know that I defo fancied a night out with this fella. Not coz I fancied him, but because I knew we would have a scream. Which we did. And for some reason, possibly after about eighteen vodkas, I started referring to him as Jay-Jay instead of Jason. And because of his Hispanic dark looks, that turned into Jay-Jay Velazquez about eighteen
more vodkas later. And Jason, being a narcissist, loved it. And kept screaming it round the club.

  ‘I’m Jay-Jay Velazquez! I’m Jay-Jay Ve-fucking-lazquez! What’s my name?!’

  JAY-JAY VELAZQUEZ!

  From that moment on, I was his favourite person at the agency. If he needed something sorting he’d phone me instead of Leon, and within a few weeks Leon got over himself and deigned to let me be Jay-Jay’s agent full time. Especially when he threatened to leave the agency if Leon didn’t allow it. He had him over a barrel. Leon hated it. I, of course, LOVED it. I’d gone from reception to the main table in under six months, unheard of at that place, and all because I’d shown Jason Vaughan I could have a laugh with him. And also possibly because I was the only person at that agency who could understand a word he said. He’d gab away in his thick Glaswegian accent and you’d see the other agents nodding away, clearly not understanding a word he was saying, eyes flitting to me to see if I was frowning or smiling. If I laughed, they followed suit. Then when he’d left they’d be all, ‘What did he say? WHAT DID HE SAY?’

  Or ‘God, wasn’t he funny? He’s such a hoot. I was literally PISSING myself.’

  ‘He was telling us his mum’s died.’

  ‘Was he? Poor love. He seemed in bits. I did wonder.’

  I like to think it added to his intrigue.

  Also, he wasn’t daft. When a Hollywood film star was paying him ten grand to fly round the world and cut her hair for the Golden Globes, he made sure she got every word he said. You don’t wanna go into Lady Gaga’s suite before the Oscars and have her going ‘WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? CAN YOU WRITE IT DOWN? HERE, WRITE IT WITH THE BLOOD FROM THIS RAW STEAK I’M USING AS A PILLOW.’

  Basically that’s how he continues to be the star he is today. He’s all sorts to all people. He can fit in with people from any walk of life – if he so desires. And, of course, he’s a fucking good hairdresser. Well, I would say that, I’m his agent. But he is. Take my word for it. Unless you’re a hairdresser, you’ll know that as fact.