Blood Relatives

by Stevan Alcock

  The only fly in t’ ointment that day had been Mrs Husk. That morn, she’d been all riled up about summat. She wor rubbing the stone on her ring finger, which she did when she wor agitated.

  I parked the ginger beer on t’ table beside her Brown Betty teapot. The spout wor chipped. She swirled the dregs of her teacup and tipped the leaves back into t’ bottom of her cup.

  ‘What’s the world coming to, lad?’

  ‘Dunno, Mrs Husk. But it’s rum all right.’

  She flicked me a look.

  ‘He’s going to do it again, you know.’

  ‘Who, Mrs Husk?’

  She didn’t seem right in t’ head today, blathering on so darkly. I just let folk talk. Always best that way, just let them blather on and don’t disagree wi’ owt they say. Still, I worried for Mrs Husk. Maybe she wor going a bit doolally. Like Gran. I didn’t want Mrs Husk to go t’ way of Gran.

  ‘I’ve seen it!’ she hissed, gripping the table edge wi’ her bony hand.

  ‘Seen what, Mrs Husk? Seen what?’

  She wor giving me t’ willies. Summat had rattled Mrs Husk’s cage all right.

  ‘Ohhhh … ohhhh …’

  ‘Mrs Husk, I think maybe you should sit down …?’

  ‘What can I do?’ she cried, looking at me pleadingly. ‘What can I do? That poor girl. That poor, poor girl.’

  I touched her on t’ arm, but she shook me away. Breathing hard through her nostrils, she sank slowly onto a dining chair, one elbow on t’ tabletop, muttering under her breath, her lips opening and closing like a guppy. Through t’ hallway door, partly ajar, I could just see t’ bottom two stairs. Upstairs … upstairs … in other rooms, the elderly hoard, they store, they stash …

  ‘Ain’t this place a bit big for you now, Mrs Husk?’

  She tilted her head toward me. Her wig shifted, and she righted it. I’d brought her out of a trance. She smiled at me kindly.

  ‘It’s where I’ll end my years, lad,’ she said, her voice lightening a little.

  ‘But you just live downstairs now?’

  She harrumphed. ‘He’s over yonder again, is he? Your driver? And her wi’ legs like a corner shop.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never closed, lad. If she charged she’d be bloody rich.’

  Mitch had hung a Union friggin’ Jack from t’ washing-line pole in t’ back garden. He wor getting irked cos the flag kept wrapping itsen around t’ pole, so he shouted at it through t’ window to loosen itsen, which it wor never going to do, wor it?

  Then he came up wi’ t’ idea that Mother should sew on a bit of line at the bottom corner, and then he’d bang a tent peg into t’ ground to hold it. Only t’ ground wor too dry, so he piled some stones on t’ peg to hold it down.

  I left him to it and went to my room where I played the Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ single over and over. Ace record. Even better since t’ tossin’ BBC banned it.

  Mitch came thundering up the stairs and opened my door without knocking and started barneying on at me about t’ Pistols disrespecting the nation cos they played ‘God Save the Queen’ on a boat down t’ Thames in London and when t’ boat got to t’ Houses of Parliament they wor all arrested. I said it wor brill. This made Mitch explode.

  He stormed downstairs and played Rod Stewart’s friggin’ ‘Sailing’ on t’ lounge record player, cranking the volume up so loud it distorted the sound, while singing along wi’ it at the top of his lungs like a drunken Jack Tar.

  A few days after, The Clash got fined for spray-painting their band name on a London wall. I nicked an old tin of white paint and a brush from Mitch’s garage and went out and painted THE CLASH ROOL on t’ first bit of wall I could find. Which happened to be t’ neighbours’ garage.

  The next morn I wor in Craner’s office as usual, waiting for t’ round float, when he said, ‘Seen this, Thorpy?’ He wor waving the paper about. The headline read: PUNISH THE PUNKS.

  ‘World is full of nutters, Mr Craner.’

  Craner tried to mash a fly that wor exploring his desk top wi’ t’ palm of his hand. The fly dodged him easily. But not for long. It landed again on a notebook, and Craner thwacked it dead wi’ t’ rolled-up newspaper.

  The punks wor punished. The following week two of t’ Sex Pistols got mashed up by Teds in London. It wor in t’ papers. Made it sound like they wor to blame. Then some Teds attacked Gaye Advert, bass player wi’ The Adverts, and their singer, TV Smith.

  Mitch said, ‘What do they expect if they go round dressed like that?’

  This riled me up, so I went and got Mitch’s brothel creepers, threw them into a bucket and put a match to them. Then I tried to set light to t’ flag in t’ garden. Mitch bolted out of t’ house like a ferret after a rabbit and tried to smack me on t’ jaw, but I wor too quick for him. I pushed him hard and he toppled backwards, tripping over t’ stones that wor holding down t’ tent peg. Then I scarpered.

  When I came back later Mitch had snapped all my punk singles into tiny bits and dumped them in t’ dustbin, so I refused to talk to him for t’ rest of t’ week.

  After t’ Gay Lib meeting a few of us trooped up the road to a snooker club. It had a late bar and full-size tables that you had to lean across. Also, midweeks it wor almost empty.

  I wor improving rapidly. I had the dead eye, the steady hand. The shaft of t’ cue wor like looking down an airgun sight. I had the art of leaning coolly on my cue, waiting my turn, just like in them old gangster films or on Pot Black on t’ telly.

  I did a lot of what I thought wor looking cool. Still, I could never get the better of t’ likes of Lucy or Sadie, who could sink breaks in double figures then set up snookers that needed at least a three-cushion hit. These women must play snooker most nights of t’ week.

  Daytimes, Sadie drove a bus. We passed her one time in t’ Corona van as we wor trundling up the Roundhay Road and she waved at me from her cab. I waved back and yelled and she stuck up a thumb. Eric asked me who I wor yelling at, and I told him it wor a friend of my mother’s.

  ‘And she drives a bus?’

  After losing the next game I left the lesbos to rule t’ table. Gordon wor leant against t’ bar, letting his ciggie ash drop on t’ carpet while gabbing wi’ some frizzy-haired bloke called Jeff about Jesus and some friggin’ poet called James Kirkup.

  As I wor ordering another pint of lager and lime, Fazel sidled over and slid an invite into my hand like he wor slipping me a pound note. It wor printed on pink card.

  On t’ reverse wor a printed drawing of a woman in a twenties dress and hat (which, Gordon said when I showed him the invite, wor called a cloche), in a poncy pose wi’ a glass of champagne and a long ciggie holder.

  ‘Bring friends,’ oozed Fazel. ‘As you English say, the more the merrier.’

  I didn’t say if I had any friends I could bring.

  A week later I bumped into Gina and Tad at the FK Club. Gina blathered on, but I wor barely listening. Behind her wor Tad. I smiled furtively. His hair had been dyed blond and cut back to a tuft. He wor wearing black leather drainpipes, DMs and a white German army vest. Gina wor pawing my chest while she blathered. I wor getting a semi just being in sniffing distance of Tad. I told them about t’ party.

  ‘Oooh, sounds … fun.’

  ‘They said I could bring folk.’

  The corners of Tad’s mouth twitched.

  ‘But just you two, eh?’

  ‘Just us?’ Gina purred. ‘OK, poppet, just us. Where’s this place?’

  ‘It’s called Radclyffe Hall.’

  Radclyffe Hall wor a large, rundown Victorian house across t’other side of Hyde Park from t’ uni. Not a stone’s throw from Blandford Gardens.

  There wor a few things I wor to learn about Radclyffe Hall.

  Radclyffe Hall wor named after a real person – some friggin’ ancient lesbian writer.

  Radclyffe Hall had been a gay commune since t’ early seventies.

  At some point Radclyffe Hall had been exorcised of t’ g
host of a murdered serving maid.

  The last owner kept a mad Alsatian dog and its teeth marks wor still visible on t’ bottom of t’ cellar door.

  I didn’t know there wor gay communes.

  I didn’t know there wor lesbian writers.

  But I knew that the world wor full of mad dogs.

  I pitched up on my tod shortly after 8 p.m. wi’ a bottle of Bull’s Blood Hungarian wine and three cans of Red Stripe. The fourth I’d drunk on t’ way. I dropped the empty can over a low garden wall and rang the bell. After waiting a while I rang it again. Then I heard a shout of ‘Dooor!!’ and someone clattering down t’ stairs.

  The door wor opened by a man wearing a low-cut purple dress that showed a full mane of chest hair. He had blue powdered eyelids behind round little specs, and matching blue fingernails. I could smell fresh nail varnish.

  ‘Well, you’re an early bird. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Rick. Friend of Fazel’s.’

  ‘I’m Camp David. Well, don’t stand on ceremony. Fazel’s popped out with some friends for a curry. They’ll be back later. At least you’ve brought some booze.’

  I followed Camp David into a long kitchen out the back of t’ house. All t’ chairs had been pushed to t’ sides of t’ room and on t’ table wor several large bowls of brown rice and lentil salads.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, pulling the dress together at the waist. ‘You can give me a hand.’

  I trailed behind Camp David as he portered napkins, forks, paper plates and plastic cups from t’ kitchen to t’ front room and set them down on a worn red velveteen tablecloth that covered a hefty old dining table. The carpet had been rolled up against t’ wall. Above me, the ceiling wor painted black wi’ sprayed-on silver stars and planets.

  ‘That was done by the previous lot,’ Camp David said. ‘Occultists, apparently. We haven’t got round to painting it over. Terry – he’s another Radclyffe Hall inmate by the way, but he won’t be at the party – well, Terry says it’s inaccurate. Terry says the Pole Star is in the wrong place completely.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. Not great on my stars and planets.’

  ‘Terry watches anything educational ad nauseam. All the Open University programmes. Lord knows why – what use is all that knowledge if you just sit around all day drinking endless mugs of tea?’

  ‘He knows the planets are in t’ wrong place on your ceiling.’

  ‘Darling, he does it just to feel superior. As long as you know where Uranus is, then everyone’s happy.’

  ‘Don’t he work, then?’

  ‘Trained as an architect. But then the quacks gave him aversion therapy and he hasn’t worked since.’

  ‘Version therapy?’

  Camp David flapped a hand. ‘Hmm, nails still a bit sticky. A–version. It’s electric-shock treatment. They think they can cure us of our so-called perversions, but they can’t – it just fucks you up. Fucked Terry up good and proper. His other obsession is the weather. He measures it. Keeps a rain gauge and a thermometer in the back yard. He records the maximum and minimum temperature each day, cuts out the weather report from the paper and writes down the names of cloud formations. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Maybe measuring the weather helps to keep him sane?’

  Camp David snorted. ‘Well, darling, if you ever need to know your cumulus from your cirrus, you know who to ask.’ He looked at me over t’ top of his specs like a transvestite owl. ‘You know, I like the punk hair, and your clothes are, well, interesting, but what you need is a few finishing touches. Come upstairs. You can keep me amused while I finish getting ready.’

  In his bedroom, Camp David parked himsen on a long stool at his dressing-table mirror.

  ‘Put some music on, sweetie. You choose.’

  I walked across t’ shaggy, dirty-white carpet, lifted the smoked plastic lid of t’ stereo and switched it on. Where t’ carpet didn’t reach the edges of t’ room, the boards wor painted lilac. Spider plants in macramé pouches cascaded down from t’ mantelpiece toward a fireplace filled wi’ dried flowers and incense sticks, and in t’ corner a Swiss cheese plant stretched its dust-laden leaves toward t’ window.

  I rifled through t’ LPs, unable to decide.

  ‘What do you want to hear?’

  ‘Lou Reed. Transformer. That always gets me in the mood.’

  I lowered the needle onto t’ record and the opening chords of ‘Vicious’ chugged in, Camp David mouthing the lyrics at his own image. I sat on t’ edge of t’ bed. Above me wor a poster of a drawing of a man wi’ a stiffy twice the size of his body.

  ‘Aubrey Beardsley,’ Camp David explained, clocking me ogling t’ skyscraper stiffy via t’ mirror. He patted the padded seat beside him on t’ long dressing-table stool. ‘Come, sit. Sit by me.’

  I perched on t’ seat beside him. In t’ mirror’s side wings countless images of mesen cascaded away. Camp David’s hands hovered over t’ mess in front of him, his eyes lit like a child’s in search of a favourite crayon.

  ‘It isn’t an attempt,’ he said, leaning into t’ mirror to crimp his lashes, ‘to appear female. It’s about breaking down the constraints of your attire, of breeder society dictating who you are, how you should look. It’s radical drag, it’s genderfuck. I mean, a man isn’t a man until he’s worn a dress.’

  He batted his lids at the mirror, testing the lashes.

  ‘But let’s not run before we can walk, shall we? Especially in heels. What you need,’ he murmured, turning his face toward mine, ‘is some work around the eyes. A little kohl, a little black eyeliner perhaps?’

  ‘Like Sid Vicious?’

  ‘More Cyd Charisse, dearie. Those cheekbones are just begging for rouge.’

  I worn’t one for make-up, or drag. And glam wor so out now that Bolan wor churning out shite and Bowie had moved on. Camp David wor holding the eyeliner pencil aloft.

  ‘All right, then,’ I said. ‘But just a little around t’ eyes.’

  I found it hard to keep my face still. Camp David wouldn’t let me look in t’ mirror ’til he wor done.

  ‘You’ve got lovely skin,’ he purred. ‘Really fine.’

  He leant forward wi’ eyeliner pencil, t’other hand resting on my knee. I could feel his warm breath on my skin. I caught the faint odour of sandalwood soap. It wor odd that someone so hirsute should smell so maidenly.

  ‘Like I said, fabulous cheekbones. Hold still, try not to blink.’

  ‘It tickles.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. Now. There. No, don’t look yet! You need a little more on the other side. Black on black. Give you that punk-glam look you so desire.’

  He leant back a little, looked me directly in t’ eye. ‘Lashes,’ he said firmly. ‘Look up at the ceiling to my right.’

  ‘No, no, not …’ and then t’ doorbell tringed. We both stopped. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said, springing up from t’ stool.

  ‘Ah,’ Camp David sighed. ‘Saved by the doorbell.’

  The bell tringed again. Then we heard laughter from downstairs, and at least three, possibly more, voices talking over each other. I recognised Fazel’s throaty laugh.

  ‘Oh,’ said Camp David. ‘They’re back. And more besides, by the sound of it.’

  The partygoers soon splurged from t’ kitchen into t’ hallway, t’ front room and up the stairs where they queued for t’ bog, and eventually into t’ first-floor bedrooms. The place wor jammed now, save for t’ attic bedrooms, which wor marked out of bounds. Still yet more kept arriving.

  Camp David wor showing me off as ‘the young chicken I found on the doorstep’, and when he tired of that I wor left to my own devices. Fazel wor gliding from person to person, laughing and waving his long fingers. Another housemate, Fizzy – nicknamed cos of his Bowie haircut, I assumed – had commandeered the record deck. The Bowie obsession extended to about every third friggin’ record.

  I hung against t’ wall, supping Red Stripe and looking on. A large woman wi’ long, beaded necklaces that flew about wor dancin
g wi’ a tall, bearded guy in a tie-dye T-shirt and purple loons whose shoulders convulsed when he laughed. Nearby, two guys wi’ Afro hair wor in a crotch-locked sway, holding each other’s gaze.

  Who wor all these people? Where did they hide themsens? Where did they come from? I hardly knew anyone ’cept for Fazel and a few folk from Gay Lib. I wor just getting into t’ groove of Wild Cherry’s ‘Play That Funky Music’ when I heard a commotion in t’ hallway. Gina. Wi’ Tad in tow. So he’d come!

  I shuffled along t’ wall slightly so that I wor partially hidden by others, and glimpsed them as they shoved their way along t’ corridor. Tad wor dangling a half-drunk bottle of gin between his fingers.

  ‘Try the kitchen!’ I heard Gina screech. I edged into t’ hallway and could see them up ahead, about half a dozen heads between us. I cut up the stairs and ran into Fazel, leaning over t’ banisters, peering into t’ hallway below.

  ‘Who invited her?’ he snapped.

  ‘Who?’ I replied.

  ‘Her! Gina! That fascist little cow.’

  I wor wondering how the heck Fazel knew Gina. Fazel straightened up.

  ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Just thought your paths might have crossed at your little punk thingies or whatever. I hear the FK Club lets anyone in. Even fascists. That’s the trouble with democracy. It’s like an open sewer.’

  ‘Sorry, Fazel. Do you mean that punk girl who just arrived wi’ that bloke?’

  Fazel’s wide nostrils flared. ‘Yes, her. She used to come to Gay Lib meetings claiming she was lesbian. She was very disruptive. She was thrown out for threatening someone with a broken chair leg. Lesbian? Her? Ha! Her husband used to drop her off and collect her.’

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Some Hell’s Angel on a motorbike. Anyway, then she showed her true colours and joined the National Front. What is wrong with this country? In Iran the likes of her would be dealt with properly. I don’t want her in my house.’

  I looked down and saw t’ spiked-up crown of Gina’s head as she and Tad wove their way back from t’ kitchen toward t’ foot of t’ stairs.