The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  It was, of course, nothing like that.

  ‘Hi, I’m meeting Billy McKenzie for dinner,’ I said to the maitre d’ in the small entrance hall. He checked through his list of bookings and made a mark with a pen.

  ‘Yes, if you’d like to follow me, the rest of the party’s already here.’

  Rest of the party? Bit of a grand way of saying that Billy had arrived before me. As we wound our way through the raucous restaurant I clocked Billy sitting in a corner. He was so tall, so grown-up. He looked more like twenty than thirteen. And then I saw that he wasn’t alone.

  He was sitting with a man.

  A white man, about my age.

  He was sitting with Mark Reynolds.

  The sight of the two of them together, chatting, stopped me dead in my tracks.

  Billy looked round as the maitre d’ pulled out a chair for me to sit on.

  On autopilot, I slid into it. It was like the world was suddenly running in slow motion. I saw Mark register shock that I was here. Confusion. Then he looked to Billy.

  The world jolted back into normal time.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ said Billy, a provocative smile on his face. Almost a smirk.

  ‘What’s going on, Billy?’ Mark looked back to me. ‘Hi, Jocelyn. Long time no see.’

  I nodded. I was speechless. After looking forward for so long to seeing my boy for the first time, I now felt only fear. What was he doing? What was he playing at? Why had he got us both here?

  He was so beautiful, though. Just look at him! The tone of his skin. Still has my nose, poor bugger.

  ‘Billy’s your son?’ Mark was sounding so shocked.

  I nodded again.

  ‘What the fuck’s this all about?’

  Oh, nice. He was swearing in front of my son. He was swearing at my son.

  ‘I just thought it’d be a nice family outing,’ Billy said.

  ‘How do you two know each other?’ My voice sounded faint. Like I’d spent a lifetime shouting.

  ‘I don’t believe this. Billy?’ Mark was sounding angry now.

  ‘How do you two know each other?’ I was sounding more assertive now. Finally finding my voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Billy was saying to Mark. ‘It was the only way I could get to meet you. And easier than saying, “I think you’re my dad.”’

  ‘Your what?!’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘Can one of you answer me, please? How do you two know each other?’

  ‘He wrote to me. Said he wanted to get into politics.’ Mark was looking white as a sheet now. ‘I’ve become a sort of mentor to him. Working-class, mixed-race lad from Brixton? We need more of them in politics.’

  ‘Why are you spending time with him on New Year’s Eve, though? That’s weird. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy. He’s only just turned thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen?’ Mark said to Billy, paling.

  Billy shrugged. ‘So I lied to get on the course, so what?’

  ‘He said his mum was coming. Quick pizza, that was it. He told me his mum hadn’t been well.’

  ‘I know you’re my dad,’ Billy said again, quietly.

  ‘He said she had cancer. I just felt so bad for him,’ Mark continued. ‘He’s been on my Introduction to British Politics course at the City Lit.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ I asked Billy, ‘Who told you Mark was your dad?’

  ‘Kathleen.’

  What. The. Fuck?

  ‘How come you’ve been talking to Kathleen?’

  ‘Last time I went back to Liverpool, we went to the funeral of an old lady. Kathleen was her granddaughter. And I met her.’

  Silence fell around the table. Billy broke it. ‘She’d had a few drinks and . . .’

  ‘Mark’s not your dad.’

  ‘She said you’d be like this.’

  ‘Why did you lie to me, Billy?’ Mark was sounding angry. As well he might.

  ‘I just wanted to hang out with you.’

  ‘So why didn’t you just tell me the truth?’

  ‘I am interested in politics.’

  ‘Mark’s not your dad,’ I said again. I was making a habit of that tonight, repeating myself.

  ‘Why would you think I was your dad?’

  ‘Kathleen told me. You don’t have to lie to me.’

  ‘We’re not lying.’

  Mark was looking genuinely perplexed. ‘Why would Kathleen think I was his dad? When did you have him? I didn’t even know you had a kid.’

  ‘Will you two stop pretending?’

  ‘Mark’s not your dad. I’ve never slept with Mark.’ And this, of course, was the truth.

  I could see tears were pricking Billy’s eyes.

  ‘Mate, if I had a kid, I’d defo step up to the plate,’ Mark was saying, and Billy appeared to believe him.

  ‘Who’s my dad, then?’

  But of course I couldn’t tell him.

  ‘Just . . . someone I met at a party.’

  He looked back to Mark. The hurt in both their faces, that something wasn’t right. I could see Mark was hurt that he’d been lied to – oh principled one as he was! And I could see the devastation, that Billy really wanted this man to be his father. But he wasn’t.

  Mark stood up. ‘I’m gonna go. I don’t need this. Not on the fucking millennium. It’s messing with me head. See you.’

  And off he went. Which left me and Billy on our own. Much better.

  I picked up my menu and tried to gee him up, by picking out interesting-sounding ingredients.

  ‘Come on. Choose what you want. This is on me.’

  But he didn’t pick his menu up.

  ‘So my dad was just someone you met at a party?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So you don’t even know who he is?’

  I thought about it. What to tell him? Then I shook my head.

  ‘How old were you again?’

  ‘Billy.’

  ‘Fourteen?’ ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Almost the same as me now.’

  Billy stood up.

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘You think I wanna spend time with you?’

  God, he was cocky for thirteen. He put me in mind of that Neneh Cherry song ‘Manchild’. He had the outer trappings of a proper bloke. But his emotional state showed he was just a child.

  He leaned down and whispered in my ear.

  ‘Slut.’

  And then walked out of the restaurant. Walking like a boy who owned the world. Old beyond his years. I could feel myself starting to cry, and stopped myself by biting my lip.

  The maitre d’ swished up.

  ‘Everything all right, madam? Your table looks a tad depleted.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m so sorry. We shan’t be needing it any more.’

  I handed him my menu, and stood up to leave. I could see he was giving me daggers. They’d probably turned away so much custom tonight and here we were, walking out without so much as ordering a glass of tap. I pushed past him and headed for the exit.

  I tried to call Leon a few times, but his phone kept ringing out, then going to voicemail. No doubt he was in some bar somewhere, celebrating the new millennium with some hair-styling pals. He’d done a lot of foreign travel lately and I couldn’t keep up with the names of all the people from the Paris office or the Milan office, and it was some of those guys he was meant to be seeing tonight.

  I checked my watch. It was only a quarter to eight. I would head home, run a bath and pour myself a glass of wine.

  As I walked, I just felt empty. The crushing disappointment that the evening hadn’t panned out as I’d hoped was almost too much.

  What the fuck had Kathleen been mouthing off at Billy for?

  I wanted to slap her. I felt my hand clenching itself into a ball.

  I wanted to hurt her.

  I tried to bury my anger, but it wasn’t working.

  In a doorway on Soho Square, a homeless woman sitting on some cardboard in raggedy clothes asked if I had any spare chan
ge. I didn’t. She then asked if I had a spare cigarette. I didn’t smoke. But suddenly that sounded like the best idea in the world.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, and I hurried to the nearby late-night newsagent’s and bought twenty Silk Cut. I returned to the woman. I took one out and she lit it for me, then I handed her the pack. Without asking to be invited or seeking permission I sat next to her in the doorway and tried to quell the anger I felt at Kathleen. The homeless woman said nothing, just sat there smoking and looking up at the sky. Eventually I finished my cigarette. It wasn’t my first ever one, and it probably wouldn’t be my last, but it seemed to have calmed me. I stood. And the homeless woman said,

  ‘You’re a very kind person.’

  I smiled. Shook my head. ‘I’m not, I’m a cunt,’ I replied.

  She smiled. ‘We’re all cunts, darlin’.’

  I nodded, and headed to find a taxi.

  Home these days was Leon’s place on Elgin Avenue in Maida Vale. One of those pretty white stucco houses with the pillars. A glossy red front door. And a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. The lights were on as I stepped out of my taxi. Maybe he’d not gone out yet. I slid my key in the door, and gently pushed it open.

  A handbag sat on the hall floor.

  A handbag that wasn’t mine.

  It was a bright red handbag, and it looked amazing contrasted with the black and white floor tiles it sat on.

  In the kitchen I heard gentle giggling. And then a woman gasp like something was hurting.

  Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I walked towards the kitchen door. It was open, and I could see Leon. He had bent a woman over the kitchen table, and he was fucking her.

  It was as if all breath evaporated from my body. My legs went to jelly.

  He was really going for it. He was about to come.

  ‘You dirty bitch!’ he said, and slapped her arse.

  Yep. Any second now.

  ‘WHAT THE FUCK D’YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!’ I suddenly roared.

  His eyes widened in shock as he stumbled backwards, his pathetic erection slipping out of his slut and waggling about angrily.

  And the woman screamed, and stood up.

  And when I saw who it was, I ran forward and slapped her. Hard.

  ‘Jocelyn!’

  ‘Get out of my house, Kathleen!’

  Her face was red with lust, shame and from that pretty good slap. She stood there, frozen.

  ‘I won’t say it again, Kathleen!’

  She sort of squealed, and ran from the house. I turned and looked at Leon. He was like a stupid, quivering wreck. A stupid, quivering wreck with his cock out.

  ‘Put that away.’

  He quickly tucked it back into his jeans.

  I went to the fridge to get a bottle of wine. ‘Happy fucking millennium,’ I said flatly.

  Kathleen. She really did get everywhere.

  ‘Babe. I can explain.’

  ‘Cliché!’ I said, holding my hand up in a Jerry-Springer-guest sort of way.

  ‘She’s been hounding me for ages. Whenever I see her on the flights she’s all over me like a rash.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, pouring the wine. ‘She practically raped you.’

  I saw his eyes light up at that suggestion. ‘Yeah. Yeah, it was a bit like that, actually.’

  ‘You can’t rape the willing, love.’ I took a glug of wine, but it just tasted bitter. Maybe I had too much bile in me right now. I looked at the glass. And then, with a sudden sharp movement, I chucked it in Leon’s face.

  How very EastEnders of me.

  I put the glass on the table. The table on which he had, mere moments ago, been fucking my childhood friend.

  The childhood friend who had fucked him, and fucked everything up with my son.

  Thank you, Kathleen.

  I took a deep breath.

  And then I went upstairs to run my bath. As the water ran my mobile rang. I half expected it to be Billy, calling to apologize, calling to explain, calling to . . . what? Why should he? I checked the caller ID. I immediately picked up.

  ‘Hi, Adam.’

  ‘Jocelyn! Just ringing to wish you a happy new millennium! Just before the madness starts.’

  The madness. It had already started here.

  ‘Thank you, honey. You too.’

  And I didn’t know what it was that triggered it – maybe it was the familiarity of a voice I’d known for so long, its reassuring tones – I mean Christ, I hardly ever saw the guy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him. But I couldn’t pretend with him, suddenly, and I burst out crying.

  ‘Jocelyn! Jocelyn, what’s the matter, babe?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘No, Joss. Come on, tell me.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Tell me.’ His voice was more insistent.

  ‘I just found Leon and Kathleen. Together.’

  Silence. Then . . .

  ‘Jocelyn, where are you? I’m coming over.’

  BILLY

  London, 2015

  The room is light. Well appointed, as an estate agent might say. Though I don’t really know. To my knowledge, I’ve never met an estate agent in my life. Or maybe it’s like paedophiles. We’ve probably all met many, it’s just that in social situations they don’t let on.

  She is wearing a browny-green trouser-suit thing and has a dusting of dyed-pink hair. She looks like an elongated olive, bashed by a brick. I imagine her rolling out of bed in the morning, plump and oily, and her husband taking a massive rolling pin and rolling her out till she is long and thin.

  The image amuses me. She doesn’t seem to like it when I smile, and she scolds me with a frown.

  ‘How are you getting on with keeping a diary?’

  She’s asked me to jot down notes about how I’m feeling each day. As homework goes, it’s not exactly brain surgery.

  ‘Fine,’ I reply, ‘I do it in the form of letters to God.’

  Ha!

  I see her visibly twitch. People often twitch when I mention the big man himself. Especially people with degrees. Ruby always warned me. People who go to higher education often lose their faith. That is, if they had any faith to start with.

  ‘Last time we met, we were discussing the time you arranged to meet your birth mother for the first time.’

  ‘Jocelyn,’ I prompt her, in case she has forgotten.

  ‘Jocelyn,’ she concurs, with the air of someone who already knew. ‘And you concocted the meeting with her and the man you believed to be your father.’

  ‘Mark,’ I prompt her.

  She nods. What a memory. It’s almost like I pay her to listen to me rambling on. Though she has left out the bit about me practically grooming him for months by becoming his student at night school.

  ‘And of course, that didn’t go quite as you had imagined it would.’

  ‘Is correct.’

  And I was just starting to tell you this when you informed me that our fifty minutes was up, I want to add, but am far too polite to. Instead, I give her one of my tight little smiles. And feel myself pinching the inside of my right hand, to stop myself from getting angry. Smile through the anger. Smile through the anger. It’s OK, Billy. Now is your moment. You can tell her now how that felt.

  ‘Talk me through what that was like for you,’ she says, and I release the grasp on my skin, relief flooding me like warm milk on a cold night.

  ‘Well, it was a long time ago. I behaved very differently then.’

  I’m not quite sure why I have responded in this way. Seconds ago I wanted to tell her how it had felt. Seconds before, I was angry that I’d been denied the chance to tell her how it had felt. And now she’s asked me, and I’m shielding that information from her. It’s a childish reaction, especially as the main purpose of therapy seems to be to rake over the coals of the past to see why the smoke in the present is making you cough.

  I quite like that image. It pleases me. Sometimes I do fancy my
self as a bit of an urban poet.

  But then I question myself. Is it really that good an analogy? If the coals exist in the past, then how can they be creating smoke today?

  OK. Fine. I am no urban poet. Not today, anyway. The muse must not be upon me.

  She is saying nothing. Just staring, head cocked to one side, knowing that eventually I will crumble or crack. Or both.

  Well, just as long as I don’t crack up.

  Or maybe it’s too late for that.

  Then crumble I do.

  ‘I felt stupid. I felt winded. I felt . . .’

  I want to say angry, but I don’t want her to think I’m an angry person.

  ‘Yes?’

  Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘Angry.’

  She nods.

  ‘I felt stupid that I’d believed what that woman had told me. At the funeral. Kathleen.’ I almost spit her name.

  ‘You were very young. It’s not surprising that you believed her.’

  ‘I know, but looking back . . .’

  ‘I think you need to cut yourself some slack, Billy.’

  ‘Maybe. I’d spent so much time planning that moment, and it was all for nothing.’

  ‘It was certainly very industrious, what you had done. Some might say mercurial.’

  I have no idea what mercurial means.

  ‘Manipulative?’

  ‘Well, you certainly manipulated the situation and the people involved. You went out of your way to befriend and flatter the man who you assumed was your father, without telling him your reasons, and . . .’

  ‘Yes, I see now that was a complete waste of time, and I’m glad he wasn’t my father. He was so vain, so easily flattered. So open to it.’

  ‘Or maybe he just saw in you a good cause.’

  ‘Because I’m black?’

  I half expect her to contradict me with You’re not black, you’re mixed race – she loves getting one up on me – but instead she says,

  ‘A disenfranchised youth to whom he could open a gateway. Anyway. We’re not here to talk about him. Though we can, of course, explore your feelings about him.’

  I zone out, and she thinks I’m self-analysing. I’m not. I’m just thinking. I’m just wondering how she manages to sit there, and I manage to sit here. What happens in someone’s life that means I’m the one that’s seeking help, and she’s the one that gives it?