by Frances Vick
In the back room, Miriam had really gone to town. Shoals of balloons clung to the picture rails. The tables, covered in wipe clean sheets, were obliquely set in clusters of three. Streamers and banners hung from the ceiling, most of which said ‘Happy Birthday’ but some were printed with ‘Happy Anniversary’ and ‘Merry Xmas’. Miriam had gone for effect rather than accuracy. A fat DJ played snatches of earsplitting party tunes, trying to get the levels right. There was no-one else there.
Carl and Lydia retreated to the bar, and Lydia began to drink quickly and nervously, on edge, waiting for someone uncouth to start taking the piss out of her. Looking at Carl’s calm profile, she wished he’d speak to her; she didn’t feel confident enough to speak herself, in case her voice carried and her accent gave her away. Eventually however, these feelings receded, and instead she became upset that no-one appeared to have noticed her at all, so she slowed down on the drinking and tentatively turned to look around the room.
It was half time. The regimented rows of men broke up a little. She could see a few overdressed women amongst them, and a couple of dark, sultry teenagers who were adjusting their tops to show their bras and backcombing their hair in the tinted mirrors on the back wall. A blowsy woman in a tight blue dress came by and pinched their cheeks. A middle aged man wearing an orthopaedic shoe made an impossibly long order at the bar, and when he’d finished, nodded to Carl. Carl shook his hand, didn’t introduce him to Lydia, and helped carry the trays of drinks over to the teenagers and the woman in the blue dress. It was a weird situation. They were all, presumably, related, but hardly a word was spoken. There wasn’t a tense atmosphere, just one of bored companionship, as if they spent all their time together, and there was nothing more to be said. The teenage girls – Carl’s cousins – whispered, giggled and spent a lot of time going to the toilets to put on more makeup. The man with the orthopaedic shoe gazed into his pint, while the woman in blue pulled at her tight dress and kept up a monotone mutter aimed at the back of his head: Kathleen bought some shoes and wore them and took them back to the shop, Jeanette won on the scratchcards, her baby father was out of prison but the boyfriend was back in. More and more relations and friends gathered in the same corner, morosely waiting for the party to begin. No-one, after Carl’s vague introductions, asked Lydia anything, or asked Carl anything, they just maintained their grim faced vigil, staring at the balloons on the back doors.
In Lydia’s family, relations were properly delineated. There were no second-cousins-once-removed, no uncle’s baby mothers, no aunts younger than yourself. When family members saw each other, at Christmas or New Year, it was in someone’s home. Large, comfortable cars driven by large comfortable uncles splayed the gravel on the drive; kisses were exchanged in the hallway; guests were ushered in with smiles and drinks were enjoyed by the fire, or in the tasteful conservatory. Children were jocularly assessed as growing up just like Dad, or Mother, ambitions and hobbies were inquired about. But here, there was none of that. Lydia struggled to see any resemblance between Carl and these dissatisfied, lumpy people with suspicious eyes and aggressive attacks of humour. To see Carl next to them, so slight, so sensitive, so vulnerable, it made her hurt. This, then, was what he grew up with. She looked around this mean, low ceilinged room and vowed to help him up and away from here.
When the back doors opened and everyone filed in, though, people loosened up a little. True, the banter was crude, and there was no getting-to-know-you politeness, but the novelty of being taken as she was without having to resort to explanation was actually a relief. Lydia was used to explaining to patient, perplexed relatives just why she wasn’t finishing her degree this year, why she had to have her hair like that, what she hoped to achieve. Listening to other people’s peculiar narratives and knowing that hers wouldn’t be the most peculiar, and wouldn’t even be asked for, was relieving. There was also something attractive about the self sufficiency of the young cousins too – shamelessly drinking their MD2020s in full view of their mum, letting their skirts ride up to show their knickers. At Lydia’s family gatherings Mother had always cajoled her into sober trousers and a loose t-shirt (“You don’t have the legs for short skirts, sweet. And a looser peasant style top is much more flattering if you have larger boobs. Oh, don’t get all haughty about it, it’s true, and it’s best to dress for your shape. You’ll thank me for this later.”)
As time went on, the party turned into a twisted version of a formal dance from a Jane Austen novel. Dowagers and young mothers sat at the edges in gossiping clusters, while the dancefloor and bar were left to the young singletons. Sugar-ridden children pulled at the banners, eventually ripping one down. A chain of women attached themselves to Carl, rubbed his head, tried to push up his chin, tried to make him meet their eyes, tried to cajole him onto the dancefloor, but Carl always refused, smiling, hunching his shoulders. The cousins, Roisin and Maraid, eventually succeeded, dancing and twirling around him like sluttish fairies.
Lydia found herself sitting between two women, one large, one small, both drunk, both discussing Miriam.
“...waste of money and where did she get it from?”
“It’s nice, it’s a nice thing to do. And poor Kathleen.”
“Poor Kathleen my arse. Poor Kathleen should have paid for this herself, she gets enough from the social. Plus there’s the kiddy money. That’s why Miriam’s doing this, all this. Kathleen’s the golden girl with the social, taking in them kids and Miriam thinks she can do the same if she gets Kathleen onside. They wouldn’t let Miriam foster, never never.” The large woman’s slack face quivered. “Never never. After what she did to her own? Never. I’d call up. I’d tell them a thing or two about her.”
“Cora you wouldn’t do that.”
“I bloody well would, who had the boy afterwards? Me. Who had to look after him, after all that?”
“Bob. Bob took him.” The small woman intoned with closed eyes.
“Before Bob it was me! They couldn’t find Bob, so they got me. Two weeks and the boy couldn’t leave the house! Had to eat at night he was so scared. Slept all day. I tell you. After that it was Bob. Bob didn’t see the state of him first though. They should’ve locked her up.”
“Didn’t they? I thought they did?”
“He was too old, if he’d been a kiddy it’d have been different. He said it wasn’t her fault. Said he just wanted to live with Bob. Scared. And Bob scrubbed up well, new suit, all that. She got off scot free I tell you that. She’s got a nerve inviting me.”
Lydia, included in the conversation via gestures and questions posed but not meant to be answered, hazarded a question:
“When did Carl leave home?”
“Not early enough. Not nearly early enough.” Cora swelled indignantly at the recollection.
“When did they come back here?”
“When Bob left the forces. Five years?” the slight woman with half closed eyes murmured.
“Five years then. Or six. Yes. that would make him – eleven? Something like that. And they lived in – where?”
“Holmes Court.”
“Holmes Court first. Yes. And then Bob got bad with the –” Cora mimed drinking, her little finger outstretched, “and then Miriam left with him, with Carl. And she moved in with me until the council got her her flat. A flat I helped her get, by the way. Lovely it was at the beginning. I even gave her one of my mother’s nests of tables, never got that back. And she was there until after Carl got taken away, maybe still there. But I doubt it, after what she did the neighbours wouldn’t stand for it.”
Lydia’s mouth was dry. “What did Miriam do to Carl?”
Cora let her eyes bulge melodramatically, nodded at her sidekick.
“She doesn’t know – boy hasn’t told her. Not surprised though, knowing what I know about him, God love him. Like blood from a stone. She went on holiday. She buggered off to God knows where with someone. For a few months.”
“Two months it was,” said the soft voice of the sidekick.
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“Two months is long. For a kiddy. Not a kiddy but young.”
“And who looked after Carl?” Lydia asked.
“She’s asking who looked after him? Who? No-one. No-one. Nobody knew. Summertime, so the school didn’t know, neighbours were away. No-one knew until they found him going through the bins next door. He was hungry. She didn’t leave him any money, nothing. Leccy got cut off. Couldn’t find Bob, too ashamed to find his family. God love him. They brought him to me, then Kathleen’s. He would have stayed with me, but I’d booked Tenerife.”
“And then what happened?”
“She’s asking what happened. He hasn’t told you anything, eh? He must be getting worse. Do you know he gets fits? Well, at least you know that then. He went to Bob’s, to his dad’s. Bob convinced them he’d stopped drinking, maybe he has.”
“Says he goes to meetings,” said the soft voice in the shadows.
“He goes to meetings. If he’s stopped drinking fair play to him, fair enough. But I still say the boy would’ve been better off with me. I wouldn’t have minded. Better off with me than with Kathleen and those slut daughters. Well, they are, look at them!”
“You’re not his blood though, Cora.”
“And neither are you! No-one is here apart from Miriam, and that’s a curse if you ask me.” Turning to Lydia: “To answer your question sweetheart, Bob took him away. Got him into school over there, and that’s the last we heard until now.”
“You’re not related to him?” Lydia’s head swam.
“Who Bob? Oh, Carl. No. But I feel like I am. Miriam is my late husband’s first sister in law.”
“And,” whispered the woman in the shadows, “he’s my step nephew. I was married to Bob’s brother, Mick. Not Kathleen’s Mick, the other Mick.”
“And Kathleen? Is she his aunt?”
“Oh no. Kathleen...is she your cousin, Cora?”
“Second cousin.”
Lydia closed her eyes and opened them a few times to try to clear her head. She looked for Carl on the dancefloor. Roisin and Maraid had wrapped him up in a Happy Anniversary banner and were grinding their crotches against his legs. He wore an expression of endearing helplessness. These girls were children – his (almost) cousins – they were just playing with him; but Lydia felt like taking them to the toilets to scrub their sluttish faces raw. She saw him accepting their fluttery kisses, she saw him allowing himself to be dragged off into a dark corner. He was laughing.
Cora whistled through her teeth, “Look at that, you want to watch that, they’ll eat him alive if you’re not careful.”
Lydia was about to go and help him but their mother, Kathleen, got there first. She slapped Maraid on the behind and sent them both to the bar and wrapped herself around Carl. When Lydia got up, a soft voice behind her said:
“You should watch her too. Watch all of them with him. You need to keep an eye on him. They all love him.”
Suddenly Lydia realised how drunk she was. The short trip over the dancefloor was like walking up dozens of shallow stairs and she had to touch stray chairs and shoulders for support. Kathleen, also drunk, was holding on to Carl’s shoulders and nodding vehemently with each sentence:
“...happy you’re here, haven’t seen you in so long, we all miss you...part of the family. Love you...” and when Lydia swayed into view, Kathleen’s narrative stream forked to include her: “...happy you’ve got someone now...got to sit down, sit down with me.” She dragged up some chairs and set them in the middle of the dancefloor. The little cousins came back with a tray of drinks, setting it on the floor, away from Kathleen’s swaying stiletto.
Kathleen stared first at Lydia, and then, warmly, at Carl. She gathered their hands between her own dry palms and squeezed them before dropping them in favour of her glass.
“I just wanted to say how happy I am that Carl has got someone to look after him, because he needs it and God knows we haven’t done a good job at it. No!” – She held up her hand, warding off an assumed contradiction – “No, we haven’t. If I’d had a boy I think he’d be like Carl. People always said we looked alike, didn’t they girls? When he was staying with us? If I’d been blessed with a son, he’d have been like Carl. Because you are like a son to me. I couldn’t feel closer to you if you were my own son.” Maraid rolled her eyes, sneaked a cigarette from Kathleen’s packet, and took Lydia’s lighter. “And you’re good for him, I can tell. Miriam might have a problem with you, but I don’t. Why should I? We don’t own the boy.”
“Miriam has a problem with me?” Lydia was hurt.
“Oh,” Kathleen whirled her cigarette, “bugger her. Yes, she has a problem because she wants the boy to herself. After everything she’s done she wants him to herself. If she had her way he’d be living with her and giving her his pay packet every week so she could piss it up the wall. She thinks you’re too upper class for him too, she told me. Says you think you’re above her. And I told her, we’re all above you, Miriam! Over her head it went though. I’m more open minded. I’ve lived abroad. I’m not prejudiced. My partner’s half caste, isn’t he Ros?” Roisin nodded, yawned. “What I mean is, there’s love for him here, but it’s –” Kathleen frowned, trying to find the right phrase, “– it’s fucked up is what it is. There’s too much history. He needs a clean slate. We all do, don’t we, sometimes? You’re that clean slate, my love.”
Lydia noticed Kathleen’s urgent dry hand high on Carl’s thigh; the giggling of the girls. She saw Carl’s face completely absent of expression. She saw Miriam waving at them from the DJ booth. The drinks churned in her stomach.
Miriam had got hold of the microphone and the room shifted gear into silence.
“I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. I especially want to thank my big, beautiful son for coming all the way across town to see his Aunty Kathleen. He doesn’t manage to see much of us, but when he does it’s always a treat. A real treat. So, thank you Carl.” Fond stares from the women, drunken cheers. “And, I’d like us all to wish our lovely Kathleen a happy birthday.” A few people began to sing but Miriam carried on talking, “And, Kathleen, I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but you know that I love you, and so, with that in mind, I’d like to sing a special song now, with the help of the birthday girl.” The guests geared up for Happy Birthday again, but were drowned out by the opening strains of ‘I’ve got you Babe’. Kathleen was coaxed up to take the Sonny part, Miriam was Cher.
And then something strange happened. Kathleen, drunk and laughingly awkward, peering at the printed lyrics, was an average, normal, off key singer. She enjoyed herself, but would be happy to sit down again and have a drink. Miriam, however, was transformed. She became taller, almost willowy. Her ugly hands threw practised, nuanced gestures towards the ceiling, towards the crowd; full of pathos, filled with drama. Her strong, bold voice held the notes with confidence and relinquished them with good grace. She became, in three minutes, a star.
The applause was long and hearty. Miriam took it all in, signalled to the DJ, and settled in to sing another number.
Kathleen, giggling her way back to her seat, patted Lydia’s knee, “I knew she’d do it! Bless her! She can never resist. Oh, but she’s good though, you’ve got to admit it.”
“Is she a singer then?” asked Lydia, dazed.
“Oh well, she was. Club singer, you know. What was the name of that band she sang with Carl? That cover band? What were they called? Leather and Lace! That was it. They did the circuit for a good few years when Carl was young, when they came back here.”
The room was hushed and attentive now. Even the children sat quietly in the corners, and on their parents’ knees, gazing at Miriam backlit against the DJ booth. Her ringed fingers reached up, up past the cracked ceiling tiles, towards the imagined stars. Her dewy eyes confessed, beseeched, submitted; her voice swooped and darted around the melody, and, just when it seemed to be heading out of control, returned to earth. Her feet, in sensible low heels, never shifted, it was all in
the torso, in the arms, in the eyes and that wide gash of a mouth; the sound of an angry talent pouring out painfully in a run down pub at the edge of town.
Lydia looked at Carl and he looked just like everyone else. His hands hovered over his thighs, as if he wanted to reach out but was stopping himself. In the half light, with his mouth slightly open and his wide eyes, he looked startlingly like Miriam, or rather she looked like a ruined version of him. As Miriam reached out to touch an imaginary lover, Carl’s fingers twitched, his eyes watered, his lips parted. The whole room breathed with Miriam, and as the last notes lingered and departed, the crowd sighed as one.
When midnight came, they had trouble getting Miriam away from the microphone. She and Kathleen stayed hugging and swaying with one another in the emptying room with the DJ packing up around them and Kathleen’s kids tiredly ripping down the rest of the banners and balloons. Carl and Lydia had missed the last bus back into the city and had to get a taxi. Carl’s hand lay limply in hers as he dozed, and she looked out of the window as they headed back towards more familiar streets, trying to put together what she’d heard and learned that night. It didn’t make sense to leave your defenceless child alone. It didn’t make sense to throw a party for someone you knew hated you, and then invite a whole crowd of other people you know hate you too. But then it also didn’t make sense to love someone you hated, and there had been love there, between Kathleen and Miriam, between Carl and his family. There was an affection towards Carl and a vivid, intense yearning to do right by him. Carl was the damaged core of so much devoted activity.
The next morning Carl lay heavily asleep while Lydia took painkillers and made coffee, and showered. He stayed asleep despite the volume of Lydia’s flatmates. His breathing was ragged and loud and when he didn’t respond to strokes, prods, shouting and eventually shaking, Lydia began to panic and was about to call an ambulance. Then he’d opened his eyes, stopped making that terrible noise. He’d taken his medication, a double dose he thought, too late the night before on a belly full of beer. He tried to laugh it off, but it took him a good hour to calm Lydia down.
