by Maggie Gee
Well whatever the doctors said, they were wrong. May made herself smile, like a wife, not a widow; made herself think about him coming home, for she wouldn’t let them keep him in hospital. She knew her husband better than they did.
Even if it came to the unspeakable thing. He couldn’t die there. She wouldn’t allow it. Alfred could always depend on her. She had brought back his boots, when he asked her to. Had shoved them in his cupboard with the blooming greatcoat. And Sister had turned a blind eye, bless her, whatever the rules and regulations … He felt a lot better once his boots were there.
And thinking of that, she felt cheerful again, for she had a purpose, she had a use. She would be his rock; if need be, his soldier. The things that he had been to her.
She was going to the off-licence first. Was there a hospital rule against alcohol? No one had mentioned it, if there was. She found herself grinning like a schoolgirl. He loved his beer, always had done. At a time like this, he should have his comforts. She wouldn’t take in great clinking bottles of beer, but miniature whiskies might do the trick. He could tuck them away in his bedside cupboard.
The girl in the off-licence seemed half-asleep, pallid and bored, disinclined to chat. She looked too young to be working there, but May smiled at her, and thanked her nicely, which made the girl’s lips twist into a sort of sneer. As she bent towards May with the change, May smelled her breath. Some kind of spirit, which was sad. She had read about it in the papers, how all the young women liked to drink these days, but that poor girl should have been in school.
At least we’ve still got an off-licence. Not that we use it much, normally, but … Things should be there, in case you need them. That’s how it used to be, round here. That’s how it was until – when did it start dying?
We used to have everything here, she thought. Hillesden Rise was like a village. We used to have a bank; that went in ninety-four. And a building society. That vanished soon after. And the chemist – that went six months ago. She’d seen it coming; Mr Frost had been depressed, especially since the incident last year when two drug addicts beat him with the butt of a gun. She wouldn’t say it to Shirley, but both of them were black … The most innocent remarks offended her daughter. Two flower-shops; both of them had gone under. Served them right for charging too much, though she missed the great lilies and the golden chrysanthemums waving at her behind the glass. Two shoe-shops; gone. Where she bought the kids’ shoes. Their first tiny sandals, their sensible school-shoes. Now there was just a man who did repairs, an Indian, a gruff old thing who reminded her of her own father, sitting in the dark all day, hammering and sticking, helped by shrill-voiced women who were daughters or granddaughters. (You wouldn’t catch an English family doing that, these days, though I helped my father, when I was a kid.)
Once we had a bakery-cum-cake-shop. She used to buy gingerbread men for the kids, and a sponge on Saturdays, since hers always sagged. It was – an ornament to the high street, the cake-shop, a sign of the prosperity that came with the fifties. May used to like sniffing the air outside: eggs, sugar, butter, vanilla. But the shop changed hands some time in the eighties; they brought in rubbish baked in Kilburn. By the time they folded, no one much cared … There was a solicitor’s where May and Alfred had made their wills twenty years ago, when it seemed like a joke that they would ever need them. That only survived the bank by a year. Electrical Goods; went in ninety-six. Hardware store; ditto. Jewellers; late eighties. May missed the jewellers; it was romantic, looking in at the second-hand rings and lockets and lucky charms, gleaming on the velvet. She had liked old Hymie, who also mended watches, and never minded getting things out of the window even though he knew May was only looking. (He was … partial to her, when she was younger, when they were both young; a lifetime ago.) But he got too nervous, after three or four break-ins, the last one with him present, in broad daylight. He didn’t resist, but they still broke his jaw. ‘My wife says, “Hymie, it’s just not worth it.”’
We had two or three butchers – three, after the war. They used to dress up properly, in blue striped aprons. Then later with little white trilby hats. Then the windows started to look a bit patchy, because butchers needed to have lovely full windows, gleaming chops and ribs and legs, not grey lumps eked out with plastic parsley. Last November the one surviving butcher closed. ‘We had hoped to keep going till Christmas, Mrs White. I don’t like to let the customers down.’ His face had been pallid as the chicken-legs. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll go down to Gigamart,’ said a stringy young woman with a bright yellow crewcut, dragging her toddler out of the shop. May wanted to kick her, but she did have a point. If they’d had a car, she would have done the same. May had been keen to drive, at one stage, when Ruby and George had got their first motor, but Alfred was always too busy to learn, and he thought he’d look silly being driven by a woman. And now I’ll be stranded, she thought resentfully, then realized that meant if Alfred dies …
There used to be a fish-monger’s with marble slabs on which beautiful blue and pink bodies gleamed. She used to buy roes, and do them on toast …
When we were first married. It was Alfred’s favourite. His eyes were so blue when he smiled at me. And kippers, for breakfast. And the odd bit of plaice. He thought fish was healthy, though the smell was awful, and I bought it regularly, twice a week, but what good did it do him, what good, what good?
May stopped, found her hanky, pulled herself together. She couldn’t go crying in the street at her age.
She passed the betting-shop. She rarely looked in through the plate-glass windows with their crude graphics. It seemed like catching men at something shameful; they went in looking furtive, came out looking sad. In the past ten years it had doubled in size, to three times the size of a normal shop. May had bet twice in her life, both times on the Derby, both times when the names of the horses seemed lucky, ‘Early Sherbet’, which reminded her of Shirley, and ‘King Alfred’, which of course – of course. And she lost the money, naturally. It was a sort of sink, soaking up people’s money. But all sorts of betting was popular, these days. The paper-shop she favoured did the Lottery. A huge yellow sign beckoned from the window. Whereas George had turned down the chance to have the Lottery. ‘Ruby says it’s taking people’s money for nothing. They don’t have a lot to spare, round here.’
They did. She saw them. A tenner at a time, and the poorest people were the worst of the lot. A tenner on Saturday and ‘instants’ on weekdays. Betting and boozing, as other things dwindled. Till all that was left would be the pub and the betting-shop. Nowhere for people like May to go.
The shopkeepers all used to know my name … They knew our kids. Looked out for them. Shirley never went out without being given toffees. And the mothers all used to meet up in the shops. We stood there talking and blocking up the gangways till the shopkeepers started giving us looks. But it wasn’t bad for business, not really. The local shops were like a club. If you asked, they would get things in just for you. They even cashed cheques when the bank was closed. It was like a dream now, all that bustle and variety, people who smiled and knew your name … In Gigamart, the staff all looked like robots. Stacking shelves by numbers, in nylon uniforms.
It was all going faster than May had realized. Almost trotting down the street, her blue coat clutched around her, she saw that more than half the shops were boarded up, or had their fronts covered with aluminium shutters, which rattled coldly in the winter winds. ‘To Let’, the boards said, hopefully, but no one new came except charity shops, and they already had three, full of wrong-coloured garments. So the boards got battered, and looked grimy, guilty, each one a confession of failure and emptiness. It was over, Hillesden Rise was over, over, and May found the tears welling up again, and realized she was crying for herself and Alfred and the silly young couple they had once been.
We liked it here. It was our – El Dorado. Once upon a time, it had all we needed.
17 • Dirk
His mother and father. He would never esca
pe them. He was nothing at all, except their son.
Until he made his millions with MediaNet. Then he’d have his own place. In Brighton, maybe. Those pier thingies … So white in the sunlight. He and the lads had gone down one day, and before they’d got blasted, he’d seen the sea, very far away, blue and unfrightening behind all the pebbles, and the piers like – big white palaces. Two of them. Long. With lots of bits. He would have one, his family the other.
‘So how’s your father? I’m talking to you.’
Dirk wished he’d belt up. He enjoyed his own thoughts. In the quiet moments. The quiet minutes. The quiet half-hours, because today was quiet. Weekends were quiet. Well, weekdays were quiet. It was always quiet, except for George coughing.
‘I said, how’s your dad.’
‘Uh … All right.’
‘So. How about yours truly popping up to see him? Tomorrow would be good. For the wife and self.’
Dirk didn’t want him coughing over his father. George’s breath was lethal at twenty paces. ‘Like I said, it’s like, just family, at present. My brother’s just come back from abroad. From – overseas.’ That gift with words. Whatever the sodding teachers said, always comparing him to Darren and Shirley.
(Though Mum seemed to think he was pathetic at English. ‘Not your best subject. Never mind.’ ‘What is my best subject then?’ he’d asked. A long silence while she gawped at him.)
‘That would be – Darren?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brilliant boy. Outstanding. Went down the brain drain, didn’t he?’
Dirk felt like hitting his great ugly mug. How dare he say Darren had gone down the drain? ‘You’re going peculiar in your old age. He’s famous, Darren. Everyone knows him.’
‘Do they? Get on!’ George was bloody laughing.
‘He’s Darren White, the People’s Friend. He’s a household name, my brother is. He has a column in The Mail every week. He e-mails it from the USA.’
That shut him up for a moment. George wouldn’t even have a photocopier here, because he was frightened of machines. And Dirk did most of the addition in his head, because George said he was better than a calculator. It was true that numbers were easy for him. But he had refused to do maths GCSE. It was boring. He knew it, so why write it down?
‘I’d be very happy to see your brother,’ George said in a sickly, syrupy voice. ‘Household name, is he, now? I remember him when he was four years old. Lovely little lad, curly brown hair. Apple of his father’s eye.’
It was a pool of mush. Spreading out towards him. Darren wouldn’t give him the time of day.
‘So I’ll pop along tomorrow. Have a word with Alfred. Like to have a word. Just show my face.’
Why couldn’t he wait till Dad comes out? They saw each other twice a week. There’s something up, I know there is.
Maybe he’s going to retire, at last. Maybe he wants to tell my dad it’s time for him to hand things over to me. Sound him out. See if it’s OK, like. See if there’s any hope of me accepting.
Look who it is. It’s not my day. Wanker-in-Chief, King of the Wristers. Thomas Lovell the Librarian. Grinning away like a Cheddar Cat.
‘Good morning, Dirk,’ he says to me. That’s out of order, saying my name! Just because he saw me in the hospital doesn’t suddenly make us best of friends.
‘Ah, Thomas,’ says George. ‘How’s the book racket?’ Rubbing his great fat hands together as if he was squashing a pack of butter.
‘George. Morning. All right, thank you. Well, more cuts, that sort of thing. I’ve just popped home to let in the plumber.’
‘Drains?’
‘No …’
‘Pipes?’
‘No …’
‘Is it your lav then?’ says Nosey Parker. ‘Windsor Drainage, next door. They’ll fix you up.’
‘Tap,’ says Lovey, and he goes a bit red. Wanker can’t even fix his own frigging washer! ‘Guardian, please’, he says, very quick.
‘Dirk. Fetch Thomas a Guardian.’
‘They’re on the shelf,’ I say, outraged.
‘Not to worry, of course I’ll get my own … No news of your father, this morning, I suppose?’ And Lovey looks at me as if we’re best friends.
‘No.’ (Guardian-reader! Gobbler! Pansy! I hate the voices of people like him. Loving themselves. Too bloody loud. Totally … self-competent.)
‘Regards to your family,’ Lovey says to me. ‘I’ll probably pop in to the hospital again tomorrow.’
‘Uhn,’ I grunt, not looking at him.
‘Regards to your sister. I didn’t say goodbye.’
‘She wouldn’t have noticed.’ One up to me.
And now he’s gone, he’s gone, thank God.
‘I thought you said only family was visiting?’ George’s eyes are like the eyes of a spaniel. Big, brown, bloodshot and bloody miserable.
‘Yes, but some people always push in.’
‘Your dad’s my oldest friend,’ said George suddenly. ‘My oldest … surviving friend, you know. Your mum knows that. She wouldn’t mind. We go back a long way, me and Alfred. Before you were thought about, young man.’
And the coughing swells, a great gale of it, as if he will burst, as if he’s exploding, as if what’s been hiding has to get out, as if he’s been holding it in too long, and now he will cough till there’s nothing left and the shop is covered with blood and phlegm.
Maybe it’s now. Maybe it’s time.
And I’ll sit and watch and do nothing to save him.
But no. Getting quieter. Calming down. Now I can hear the rain again, the hiss of rain as the cars go past. None of them stop. Roaring past us. Off to the shops that rake in the money. Doling their cash out at frigging Gigamart. Largeing it down the sodding West End. Putting on the dog in bloody Bond Street, flashing their cards for the wops and the Jews …
This is an English shop. What have they got against us?
18 • Shirley
Whenever it rained Shirley thought about Kojo. He said English rain was quiet, like tears.
He meant Shirley’s tears. She was his ‘quiet woman’. Quieter than his African loves. He had many women before he met me but it was me he married, me he loved.
Shirley dressed herself with elaborate care, though she was only going shopping. Leaving the house to escape the pain. Silks and wools of milk and honey that made her skin glisten rose and pearl … Oh Kojo once called me his pink pearl, and his pale pearl, and his –
Stop, stop.
Purse. Hanky. Cards. Umbrella?
It was the second time she had dressed that day. Jeans and jumper for breakfast with Elroy. He’d made her tea, then she made him breakfast. He left for the hospital at 8 a.m.
He never leaves without telling me he loves me. He isn’t a talker, but he always says he loves me –
I don’t know what to say to him.
Last Sunday I cooked him his favourite fried chicken and we sat together in the kitchen and talked. I said I could never marry again. (Once you’ve loved someone so completely …) But Elroy’s desperate to marry me. ‘We are living in sin,’ he says, quite straight. He’s twenty years behind the times – the Pentecostal church does that to you. I love Jesus as much as him, but I don’t think God minds about marriage. Love is patient, love is kind … He’s the God of Love, and He loves us all.
When it rained on Saturdays, we stayed in bed, Kojo and I, we loved to be naked, can that have been me, can life have been so good? Naked, in a nest of sheets, his beautiful warm slender body, curled round mine, stroking, playing, and then inside me, he spent hours inside me … Usually he’d worked till three in the morning, straining his eyes at that glaring screen, his big brown eyes always slightly bloodshot, then up at seven, racing, chasing – But at weekends he loved to lie in. I’d bring up our breakfast, we’d eat together, slowly, ravenously, playing around, jazz on the radio, rain on the window, the smoke from his fags curling up in the light, I liked the smell, it was part of the music, the smell of Kojo a
nd our life together, how many cigarettes did I light for him? The curve of his lips with the tip between them, smiling at me, staring at me … His beautiful lips. So full, so firm, not tight and thin like English lips. He used to eat me with his eyes, he used to eat me till I came, I hardly knew my body before I met him. They say that black men won’t go down on you, that they just like pumping away all night, jump on top and get on with it, but it isn’t true of all of them, no more than any of these things are true, though Kojo could make love all night – (Elroy has never gone down on me, but Elroy is younger, less confident. He will, one day. When he loves me more. I go down on him, and it blows his mind.) But Kojo was an artist. Kojo loved me. Kojo found me. He found my joy, what was the word, the long French word, my jouissance, the word he used in his books for coming, the word he taught me, as he taught me to come.
No, I never came before I met Kojo. I never told him, but I never came. When we started, it seemed too big an admission, I didn’t want to give him so much power. But now I wish I had told him, thanked him. Thank you Kojo. Dear love, dear heart.
(Are you somewhere? Anywhere? Listening?)
My lovely love. My African love. Maybe he’s with his ancestors … He was westernized, he dismissed all that, but I think that part of him still believed it. He said he was a Marxist, but these things go deep. If he could be a Marxist and a Christian, he could be a Christian and believe in spirits, though he laughed when we went to visit his second cousin and found queer rubber balls in every room, and afterwards I asked him if Kwame had children, and he told me each ball stood for a different spirit, the spirits of the air and the wind and the forest. I thought it was a beautiful idea, but he claimed to think it ridiculous. ‘I left all that nonsense behind in Ghana.’
I hope he is with his ancestors. I can’t believe he is entirely lost.
Forgive me, Jesus, for thinking these thoughts. No one who sleeps in You can be lost.
