Maggie & Me

by Damian Barr

  More Scooby-Doo stars. I reach in and snatch my specs and slap them on my face. The metal frames are even colder than my face. I spin round. He’s gone. Unless he’s hiding under the sink with the Vim I’m the only person here. Then, slowly, the scullery door opens. I press myself back, storing up potential energy to spring for the back door, when my mum walks in. She’s pink from outside.

  ‘I’ve been up the road tae git yous weans a Chinky,’ she says, still at the happy stage. I know she’ll want a cuddle and I’ll smell her sweet boozy breath. ‘Not wantin’ a Chinky? Ye makin’ yer own tea, son?’ she asks, walking towards me, her eyes the colour of the pilot light on our rarely used gas fire. ‘Good boy, but ah’ll do it, you do yer homework.’

  I am pinned against the fridge-freezer by something like love. I tower a foot above my mother.

  She reaches up past me to the freezer door, opens it and takes out a packet. ‘Fish fingers?’

  Chapter 12

  ‘Economics are the method: the object is to change the soul.’

  Margaret Thatcher, interview for the Sunday Times, 1 May 1981

  I’m on every team at Brannock High School that doesn’t have anything to do with throwing, catching or kicking a ball. It’s not that I’m competitive, it’s just that I have to win. Everything. As far as I’m concerned, an A is just an A+ waiting to happen. Maths doesn’t count (and neither can I). And I’m not just on the teams, I lead them: it’s a captain’s life for me.

  ‘It’s all about being the best consumer,’ explains the homely home economics teacher, Miss Kane. Renowned for failing to keep discipline in her totally doss subject, Miss Kane is nevertheless one of the school’s sweetest and kindest teachers. She looks like a baker’s wife and her floury cleavage invites you to sob in it. Because it doesn’t take too many brains to scramble an egg or stitch a tea-cosy, home economics attracts plenty of remedials. I will not say I am proud of the day Heather and I replaced Leeanne Smith’s baking powder with washing powder but I will say it was funny watching her watch her sponge cake bubble out the oven. Because we’re clever and very well-behaved we escape without suspicion, letting somebody stupid take the blame.

  Home economics and tech (what my dad called woodwork) are only compulsory for the first two years of high school. These are not star departments. So Miss Kane is giddy with the chance of fame offered by the Young Consumer of the Year Quiz sponsored by the utterly privatised British Telecom.

  ‘Doesn’t being the best consumer just mean consuming the most?’ I ask Miss Kane, who sees me as her last best hope.

  ‘No, Damian, it’s all about “knowing your rights and responsibilities as a consumer”,’ she reads from a leaflet emblazoned with the BT Tower in London, which I’ve seen on the News. It seems the only big building not yet targeted by the IRA. We don’t get bombed up here, we’re too close to Ireland. ‘ “It’s a fun, challenging and interactive national quiz which tests pupils on a wide range of issues including consumer law, food and health, safety and the environment, managing money and finance, credit and the European dimension. It will make them more aware of their consumer responsibilities and rights.” ’

  So far my responsibilities as a consumer are limited to making sure my mum, Uncle Joe and Dodger put back all the 50ps they’ve taken out the gas meter before the inspector makes his monthly call. That and making sure my mum buys enough phone stamps on a Wednesday so our phone doesn’t get cut off and I can keep making my endless, obviously essential calls to Heather. Maybe I can win phone stamps this way?

  ‘But isn’t consumption a disease, miss, like in Wuthering Heights?’

  ‘Don’t be clever, Damian,’ she snaps, before realising she needs to keep me sweet. You catch more wasps with wine than vinegar, says Granny Mac. She smiles and delivers her killer line: ‘We need a captain.’

  I’m in.

  At fourteen I am finally embracing the fact that I’m always going to be a geek so I might as well be the absolute number one geek. The geek, I write on the back of my timetable, will inherit the earth.

  ‘And the national final will be held in Brighton.’

  Brighton.

  She might as well have said the Emerald City. Brighton exploded into my mind when I saw the bombed hotel on the News in black-and-white all those years ago. The day my mum left my dad for Logan. It’s the place where Maggie proved she was indestructible and somehow it’s held responsible. Brighton is a bad boy. If Brighton was a pupil at Brannock High it would hang out at smokers’ corner.

  According to the papers, Brighton has the highest incidence of AIDS in the country, which means a high concentration of homos.

  ‘I’m in,’ I say, as if there was ever any doubt, and set about forming my team. Heather is obviously Deputy Captain and between us we feverishly discuss who will make the cut and how best to play them off. We’ve got three places to fill and need knowledge spanning all the areas Miss Kane highlighted. I’d love to ask Mark so we could run away to Brighton together but he’s still treating me like I don’t exist. Scott McAlmont is one of the best runners in school but also a computer geek, which cancels out his athletics points. We reckon he can be corralled, PLUS Heather has a slight crush on him. Choosing him would make me feel less guilty about her wasting her time with me when she could be losing her virginity. That leaves two spaces. Me, Heather and Scott all like John Jackson who’s really good on politics even though he always stands as a Tory in class election and only ever gets one vote: his own. And he votes to save Maggie Thatcher in the balloon debate. Not surprisingly, he lives in the new Brosley Estate where the Bing was. Secretly I admire him for standing up for what he believes in, even agree with some of it but couldn’t admit it. Plus I like his flat-top which reminds me of the guys from Big Fun. He’s in. We all agree our fifth and final space should go to a girl in the interests of feminism, which we’ve been learning about in moddies. The only girl smart enough but sufficiently unpopular to have the time to memorise the Sale of Goods Act is Sonia Morrison. She is just massive tits. Straight As and double Ds.

  We have our team.

  Miss Kane approves, not that I would change it for her anyway, and looks pleased with her chance to finally show the rest of the school that home economics is good for something other than leaded scones and knitted atrocities. I’ve got another trophy to win and the chance to escape to Brighton. If I can just get there I’ll find other people like me and Mark. This thought is thrilling and terrifying.

  We practise every Wednesday after school with a man from the local Trading Standards called P-P-Peter. We finish all his sentences for him to save his stutter, which sharpens our buzzer response times.

  ‘Who is the G-G-Governor of the B-B-Bank of England?’

  We don’t have actual buzzers as the school budget’s been cut again so we shout ‘BUZZ!’ Miss Kane bakes us a perfect Victoria sponge.

  ‘BUZZ! Eddie George!’ shouts Scott, always the fastest.

  ‘Translate from the L-L-L –’

  ‘Latin,’ I interrupt. ‘BUZZ! Caveat emptor?! It means “let the buyer beware”.’

  For their prep I assign each member a different newspaper each week. This is hard because we can’t get our hands on broadsheets in Newarthill. Bullah-Bullah only stocks the Daily Record and the Motherwell Times so we rely on Miss Kane to visit the John Menzies in Motherwell and bring us back the Guardian, The Times and the Financial Times. Like yuppies we pore over the business pages, learning about privatisation and inflation and deciding whether or not the UK should join the EMU. Maggie is against it. Kinnock is for it. I’m unsure. Friday nights we gather at Scott’s house in Holytown because his parents have got a satellite dish so we watch the Business News on Sky and then The Simpsons. After that we drink Tango and play Golden Axe on his Amiga – to sharpen our reaction rates, obviously. Between games we speculate on what we’ll be asked and who we’ll be up against. Heather sits next to Scott on his bunk bed and I see that’s how things should be. Sonia makes eyes at me and I
make faces at John.

  When quiz day finally dawns we’re so over-prepared we could probably win a case in the small claims court after beating the Stock Exchange. We know our rights and we’re prepared to fight for them! To present a united team we all wear our navy-blue blazers with the gold badge saying Concordia. My frayed cuffs crawl up past my wrists. I pull them down hoping nobody notices. We sit in the school minibus in silence and disembark at Motherwell Civic Centre. The quiz is in the echoing Council Chamber where I annually puff myself up for the Public Speaking Competition. Last year I spoke about the nightmare of yet another family Christmas with the same predictable gifts, the same boring relatives and the same endless meal round the same old table – all made up. I half convinced myself. Anyway, I won.

  Our opponents are Dalziell High School, which, they constantly remind us, is correctly pronounced ‘dee-ell’. The nearest actual private school is in Glasgow but Dalziell pupils have a whiff of the grammar with their shiny hair and pink cheeks that say rugby and too posh to get preggers. Their captain has actually turned up the collar of his school polo shirt. Of course they’re not wearing blazers, they don’t need props. I hate him and I want to be him all at the same time.

  Our audience is a very nervous-looking Miss Kane and P-P-Peter and that’s it. I’m excited to spot a reporter from the Motherwell Times and swear I won’t wear an anorak when I am a journalist. Both teams pretend not to mind the lack of spectators. Our hands hover over actual buzzers.

  Question 1, Round 1: ‘What is the current interest rate?’ BUZZ! Dalziell are straight in with ‘15 per cent’. Sonia wobbles nervously and Scott looks ready to sprint. The next question is about food colouring and I BUZZ! in with ‘sunset yellow E110’. Fish fingers. Rounds flash by and soon it’s a tiebreaker. I hold my sweaty palms a single cell’s breadth from the buzzer.

  ‘Finchley is the parliamentary constituency of . . .’ I BUZZ! and lean into the microphone.

  ‘Maggie, Maggie Thatcher.’

  ‘That is correct and I believe that makes Brannock High the winners!’

  ‘Y-Y-Yes!’ P-P-Peter’s pride echoes round the empty chamber as Mark tries to get his arms round Sonia who wobbles uncontrollably and we all do high fives and Heather throws dirty looks at a stunned Dalziell.

  P-P-Peter’s boss at Trading Standards presents prizes and looks pleased with the future of capitalism. We pose for a picture in the Motherwell Times in branded Young Consumer Quiz T-shirts. We’re given the ‘very latest in communication technology’ – my heart leaps at the thought of a mobile phone but no, it’s a phone card. A close second. Dalziell pretend to look pleased with runner-up mugs. Elated, Miss Kane takes us all to the newly opened McDonald’s where we toast our win with root beer and pretend to get drunk.

  When I get home that night nobody cares what I’ve done or won that day. The music is so loud they don’t hear me come in and my mum’s passed out so I show Dodger my certificate and he grabs it off me and dances about with it and I try to grab it back and it rips and he just throws it on the floor and laughs, stamps on it. Tears fill my eyes and he shouts ‘Boo-hoo’ after me as I run upstairs. I’ve had enough. That night when everybody’s passed out and the music’s finally stopped I decide to make the phone call. I’ve memorised the number off the telly – 0800 1111. I don’t want anyone to overhear this so I sneak out to the phone box at the top of Rannoch Avenue. It’s one of the old-fashioned red ones and I wish it was a Tardis. Shaking, I dial the number. Somewhere far away it rings and I expect Esther Rantzen to answer.

  ‘Hello, ChildLine.’ It’s a friendly English voice, a woman. Not Esther.

  I say nothing.

  ‘Hello? What’s your name?’

  I tell them my name is Luke in case they can trace me. I starting telling her everything from Logan on and she says slow down and I tell her how bad it is for us weans in this house.

  ‘Why does your mum call you Wayne, Luke?’ the kind lady asks.

  ‘No, she doesn’t call me Wayne, I am a wean,’ and I try to explain that ‘wean’ is the Scottish word for child but still she doesn’t understand me. I tell her about Dodger and how much I hate him for causing all the fights and getting my mum into drink and she says slow down and then I hang up feeling guilty for telling her anything. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. What if they recorded me? I wander the streets for an hour or two then go home to bed.

  It’s a full month until the Strathclyde Regional Final and we up our revision at Scott’s to three nights a week. Mr and Mrs D need a break. Scott says his parents always wanted more kids so we assume they’re pleased by five loud hungry teenagers. I bet they wish we were out drinking cider and sniffing glue. I’m just pleased to be out the house.

  Strathclyde is the biggest unitary authority in Europe, it’s probably bigger than Belgium. It includes Glasgow and over 1 million people and every single constituency in it votes Labour with Motherwell North having the highest majority of all. If John Jackson was eligible to vote he’d double the Tory’s local tally. Because of this, Maggie hates Scotland, that’s why she tried the Poll Tax out on us. It seems she’ll never go. We watch the news for our revision and it’s always strikers chanting ‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out, Out, Out!’ Except for John we all join in. But it doesn’t feel quite right – hating her just helps me fit in. I don’t need to stand out any more: six foot tall, scarecrow skinny and speccy with join-the-dots spots, bottle-opener buck teeth and a thing for waistcoats. Plus I get free school dinners and I’m gay.

  We trounce our next opponents so soundly I forget who they are. When I’m sure they can’t catch up I actually answer a question wrong just to make them feel better. Heather, Scott, John and Sonia turn as one, knowing full well I know salmonella is the bacterium in eggs made famous by Edwina Currie. Miss Kane actually cuddles P-P-Peter as our prize is announced: an all-expenses-paid trip to the national finals in Brighton.

  We’ve got to get parental permission to go. As usual I fake my mum’s signature – all crippled capital letters, one leaning into the other but never joining up. These days I try not to correct her when she gets simple sums wrong or forgets names or dates but sometimes I can’t help it. The unfairness of her condition and her refusal to make it better by stopping drinking make me so angry I press through the paper. I could ask her permission – she’d never stop me doing anything academic because ‘school’ll take ye far’ but why should I? She doesn’t ask me if she can have another Diamond White. So I fake her signature and take my spending money from the gas meter like everybody else.

  At the train station I can’t believe I’m finally leaving Motherwell, leaving Scotland. I’ve never been further than Glasgow. Our destination is London King’s Cross where we’ll change trains for Brighton. It seems unbelievably far away but I can’t get there fast enough. Miss Kane, P-P-Peter and Mrs D are our responsible adults. It might as well be the Orient Express. As we go through Carlisle I realise I’ve left Scotland and I squint at the countryside flashing by, hoping it’s different. Until now Mrs D is the only English person I’ve heard who wasn’t reading the News. I wince at how harsh we sound compared to all the English around us. I sit facing forward, willing the train to go faster. King’s Cross is a blur of platforms and people, more people than I’ve ever seen. I point out a black man then worry he saw me pointing. We catch another train and soon we’re leaving London, moving into bright green countryside and I’m surprised cos I thought it was all cities down south and then we run out of land and we’re slowing down.

  Seagulls greet our train. Even they sound English. I jump off the train and run ahead desperate for it all first – to steal the joy and make it my own. I flash my ticket at the barrier without stopping, like I travel all the time, and note the vaulted ceiling which contains more sky than there is in all of Scotland. Bursting through the entrance I actually jump and try to click my heels like they do in films. I want somebody to see me arrive but nobody looks twice. I almost run into a man talking casually into a
brick-like mobile phone like it’s something he does every day. He has to be at least thirty. He smiles at me and turns away without breaking his important-sounding sentence. I move closer and breathe in, deeply, desperately, trying to catch a whiff, convinced it will be Calvin Klein. All I smell is the sea.

  ‘We’re not in Kansas any more,’ I say without really knowing why and sigh dramatically as if I’d walked all the way here.

  ‘Thank God,’ says Heather, suddenly by my shoulder.

  She smiles and hands me my bulging schoolbag then takes my hand and we walk ahead of the others to the taxi rank.

  Any illusions of staying in a suite at the rebuilt Grand Hotel are banished when we head out of town to the Halls of Residence for Sussex University. This is my first visit to an actual uni. Me and my mum watched Brideshead together so I expect Sussex to look like Oxford. There are no spires, no pretty boys on bikes. This is more like Motherwell Civic Centre with its purpose-built concrete bunkers. The library, we’re told, looks like an open book from above. The seagulls must be well-read. We’ve got our own rooms and a shared scullery. I’m desperate to see Sebastian clutching Aloysius but there’s not even a Young Ones punk – they’ve all gone home for the Easter holidays with their washing.