I digest for a while before moving across to sit in my favourite item of furniture, a generous wingback armchair, which is big enough to drown me and lose myself in. I curl up with my matching flowery cushion on my lap. He has been ribbing me about everything being flowery.
“Shut it plod, I’ve not heard you complaining about making use of my sofa, twice now is it? Might have to start charging you rent. Tell your friends you get charged rent for dossing on a rose-print couch, will you?”
“It smells of roses too, did you know that?”
He is mocking my female scented house, candles and all.
“Like your shit, I expect, smells of roses too?”
He coughs and rubs one hand over his eyes while he shakes his head.
“For someone who makes the ice queen of Narnia look like Mary Poppins, you have a wicked sense of humour, you know?”
“I know,” I say nodding, quite the humble woman, “helps in my job. Helps when you get a Year Seven with a bottom lip on or a Year Nine with a desire to use the toilet five times in one lesson. Also helps when asses try to hit on me. Always have something to shoot them down straight away. Maybe I am cruel, but then, at least I am funny cruel.”
He zips his lips and I uncurl myself. I rest my feet on the low, walnut coffee table instead and we get comfortable in front of the sequins. The titles roll up and he sings along with the music.
“Dah, dah, de, da, deh, da, der…”
He’s so not in rhythm and I know he’s doing it on purpose. I can barely hold my face straight. He takes a shifty side glance at me and I stick my tongue out.
“I guess it helps being childlike when working with children,” he dares to say.
“That’s rich.”
A solid comeback, I judge.
His face breaks into a smile which he fails to hide and I enjoy seeing his face shine. Warrick’s not a pretty boy, but he has this way. I decided today. He’s got a uniqueness about him, a quiet strength he never tries to overpower anyone with. His hair, his mannerisms, his deep voice which becomes much deeper when I know he’s pissed off, all make him what he is. Today when he shopped with me, he never complained or moaned about me taking too long. He was just a presence there taking care of me.
He holds his singular beer for the night while my mouth still refuses to let up with the pain. There must be a chilli lodged in here somewhere. I can’t find it though. I’ll just grin and bear it.
“What happened this week for you? Anything good?” I say with a smile, trying to seem pleasant and affable.
I might as well be charitable and let him talk to me for a change. It’s normally the other way around. All day I have chewed his ear off with nonsense or mundane work stuff. Anything to rebuff his constant questions about other more serious issues.
Why do you live here on your wage?
Who was this Laurie guy then?
Where is your dad now?
Who was Amy?
Why … this … and … that… etcetera …
Get knotted is what I want to say but he is too nice. Far too polite and vulnerable with his curly boy locks and black stubble, puppy dog eyes and cheeky chap cheeks. I still know I could cut him down anytime I like and he’d hurt more. He’s too readable.
“I dealt with a family whose son has been truant, forced out of several schools by bullies and expelled from many others.”
“What do you mean, forced out?”
I pull my knees underneath me to listen.
“He has tourettes. It wasn’t diagnosed early enough and I don’t exactly know why. The case was passed to me when it got too much for someone else. None of the special schools will have him. He has been bullied at the other ones. I am searching for somewhere for him but it is a nightmare. The school boards are a mass of bureaucracy.”
“You’re telling me!” I exclaim.
“Nightmare, isn’t it?” he groans with a sad expression.
“Very much so. Total nightmare. You can’t please everyone. I stick to my statistics. They do me. Yes, maybe I could change a struggling kid’s life with a succession of sparkling lessons, but it just doesn’t work like that. Not in this town. Not anywhere.”
“It makes this job pretty difficult to deal with sometimes because you get the parents blaming themselves, the system, us, and it just doesn’t have anywhere to direct itself other than me. I take the flack. I mean, I expect it. It’s my job. I get paid for it. I happily take it. But this time, it’s been hard because he’s a challenging kid, but he could be so much happier in a school that suits. It’s sad when you see a situation and can do nothing to immediately resolve it.”
He seems tired then, in that moment. As though it is a drag for him sometimes. He needs cheering up and I have just the thing.
“C’mon, we’ll do something you wouldn’t normally do.”
I pause the television and beckon him with me. He frowns and I lead him to the bathroom.
Five minutes later we’re sat on the couch together with our face packs and cucumber slices on. He’s groaning and sighing.
“Can I admit something I maybe shouldn’t?”
“Go on,” I entreat him.
“This is just what I needed.”
“It’s too relaxing, isn’t it?”
I sigh and hear the distant sound of the telly. I am zoning out. The thick gunk is sending thrills all over my face.
“I feel like a gal,” he jokes.
“You look very Mrs Doubtfire!”
“Thank you dear. I aim to pleeeaaase,” he squeaks in a Robin Williams-style, ahem, Scottish accent.
We laugh hysterically and I berate him for making my facial muscles move. Out of the corner of my eye I see his black stubble is still poking right out of the green cream on his face.
We sit in silence for a while and before long, he is snoring. I visit the bathroom to wash mine off but he stays on the sofa. He must have had a tough week. He will suffer later but I don’t have the heart to wipe it all off for him.
I have a sneaky fag out of the window and watch him sleep. I contemplate asking him not to spend the night this time but I really want him to stay. The only reason I would ask him to leave is because I am trying to protect him from what I’ll never be able to do ‒ give of myself like he wants me to.
Then again, I don’t need my candlelight séances with another person around so I decide to leave him be.
I hear running water and see the en suite light on. I look at the clock and it shows midnight. I bury myself back in the pillow and pull the covers up around myself.
“It took half an hour to chisel that crud off,” he mumbles when he walks back into my bedroom.
“You were sleeping too deeply,” I mumble. “Couldn’t wake you. Get in, will you?”
I need arms. I need warmth. It’s freezing. He leaps in with just his t-shirt and boxer shorts on and wraps himself all around me.
“Do you smoke?”
“Only when on fire.”
“Recreationally?”
“Occupationally.”
He sighs.
“Night,” he says.
“Night.”
That is the first moment I actually want him to kiss me. He’s got a real man’s body, from what I can now feel through his light clothing. I sleep like the dead again, with him in my bed.
Chapter Ten
Jules
The girl was walking home from school when she heard a voice call out, “Oi, you, come here. Come and play with us, will ya?”
Over her shoulder she spied a trio of older schoolgirls following behind but she turned to look straight ahead, walking on.
“Why? What d’ya want?” the little girl shouted.
She was suspicious. These girls had never spoken to her before. Rumour had it they weren’t a nice gang.
“Aw, c’mon. We got something to show you,” another beckoned, in a sweet voice.
“No, I am going home.”
She marched on but the hairs on the back of her ne
ck prickled. Her heart raced. She felt a little bit sick. There was threat in their catcalls.
Feet pounded after her and before she knew it, the young girl was yanked from all sides and dragged against her will. There were hands in her hair, around her shoulders and waist, and there were three voices spitting in her ear.
“If you won’t play, then we’ll teach you a lesson,” one indiscriminate voice cackled.
She was pulled off the pavement, taken behind some bushes near a park, and thrown to the muddy ground. Her bag was tipped upside down and emptied, with the tallest girl shouting, “She ’ant got much ’as she?”
Their shrill laughter pierced her ears. The girl ceased trying to fight back and lay there, overwhelmed by the looming figures above her.
The tallest of her attackers spat on the ground next to her and warned, “Any screaming and I’ll spit on you.”
They kicked her and they laughed, they watched as she curled into a ball and went silent. She didn’t fight. She just didn’t have the energy.
Long after they were gone, she waited.
When it got dark, and she felt certain nobody would see as she walked down the street in her state, she plodded home and went straight upstairs to bed.
Black and blue. Through and through.
That’s what they chanted as they took away her last shreds of hope.
Then, Jules woke up…
Chapter Eleven
Jules
I wake and sense he is already alive because his grip on me is tight. I feel the hairs of his legs scratching my bare ankles. I am wearing my pyjamas and they cover me except there. My legs have always been too long for most clothes.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi. You okay? I think you were having a bad dream.”
“Yep. I’m fine, Laurie.”
Oh shit. I called him Laurie.
“Sorry! Sorry, Warrick. I am sorry.”
He’s off the bed and dressing within seconds. He says nothing. I realise he is leaving because he heads straight through to the living room to grab his jacket and shoes. I get out of bed and watch him. He’s upset and I don’t know why.
Before he leaves, he musters the courage to say, “I’ll be back at three. For the bake sale thing. I’ll pick you up. Okay?”
I want him to kiss me. I silently will the strength to ask him. I stare at him, hoping he will hear my thoughts.
“Yeah, okay.”
I try to stop him leaving but he just grabs me in a quick, awkward hug. He pulls back to look at me and for a moment, I think he is going to kiss me. He leans in and instead, darts for my nose. He pecks my nose! Christ. He leaves and I curse this world. I curse it.
***
This is not a bake sale. I know why he has done this and I will have him for it later. Right now I am just willing the strength to keep myself from launching off back home without saying goodbye and without agreeing to see him. Ever again.
I am serving soup out of a hatch and there are lots of other people like Warrick and I dressed in grotty aprons, serving people food from a grotty kitchen in a grotty community hall. It’s soup, a full roast dinner and chocolate sponge and custard. Just like the school cook used to make. Over in another corner of the hall, there is a long table spread with tins and some of the other volunteers are handing them out, sharing them between the queuing customers one at a time.
These people I am serving look normal, not homeless. They have good clothes on their backs and I don’t know why they are here to eat. It doesn’t make sense. A break in the queue gives me chance to step aside for a minute and ask him, “Warrick. Why? I thought this was a bake sale.”
“Knew you wouldn’t come otherwise.”
“You know nothing,” I growl in a fit of anger. I detect the point he is trying to make. “Who are these people?”
I grind my teeth. I have books to mark at home and a telly to veg out in front of. Not to mention the chocolate that I left untouched last night.
“Just those struggling. For whatever reason, these people need a meal. We’re here to provide one.”
“I know why you have brought me here and I am going to have it out with you… but not here. Not here,” I spit viciously.
“Fine,” he growls, and returns to his post while I slop watery soup into bowls once more.
It is late evening and he is driving me back home in his car. He has a classic Mini with a Union Jack roof and I hate it with a passion.
I have my arms folded and a scowl on my face. I feel angry and I don’t like the reason why I feel this way. When he pulls up outside my house and parks, I groan with impatience while he slides the tiny vehicle into an ample spot. Just park the stupid thing. It’s not a bloody supertanker! It seems to be his pride and joy, the way everything is shined and clean. I hate that he has such care for everything. Why is this man so perfect? Surely he has some secret deformity that makes him dislikeable to anyone but me.
Eventually he kills the engine and turns to me, but I jump out of the vehicle rather unceremoniously and stride toward my place. I leave the front door open and swaying on its hinges and when I am upstairs opening my flat door, I hear him creeping up behind me. I cannot have this discussion with him in his car, in that community hall or anywhere public for that matter.
He shuts the door behind him and sits in the cushions of my sofa while I throw stuff around my kitchen. I see he hasn’t taken off his coat so that basically means he is not sure where he stands. He is right. I might throw him out at any minute.
I put the kettle on and demand in a shrill tone, “Tea?”
“Please,” he calls back.
I place his steaming cup down on the table and it spills. He stifles a chuckle and I just cannot control myself.
“I am not saveable Warrick. Don’t bother, yeah! Don’t bother.”
I stride back into the kitchen and pace the floor. I can’t look at him. I am steaming with anger. He doesn’t follow me and that makes me even more mad maybe.
I stride back in, announcing, “I should have known better. You think I am a case to solve, don’t you? I don’t need your pity. I don’t need it!”
He stands and points at me. He is angry too and he grimaces when he shouts, “There are always people worse off than you!”
The words I didn’t want to hear. The reason I already knew ‒ that’s why he took me there today. I hate that he is so right. Why did he come into my life?
I curse under my breath. I want to let all manner of bad language loose on him. He deserves to feel my wrath. He is a pig.
“What was really wrong with those people? Tell me.”
He looks at the floor and shuffles like the shifty plod he is. He rubs his hands around his growing stubble.
“They’re a mixture… I told you. Grieving people, poor, penniless, addicts. The whole bag.”
“You think I am in the same bracket of addicts and widows…”
It sticks on my tongue like a dead fly. I hate the word.
“That is as good as how you are behaving Jules. A widow.”
I am not a widow. Stop saying that word!
“Screw you, Warrick.”
“Why do you keep calling me that? I hate it!”
I look up from where I am stood and see he is upset. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms; they are just swinging and roving the air.
“Tell me,” I say abruptly.
“My mother called me that. Everyone else calls me Rick.”
“She called you that?”
“Dead, alright, dead!” he shouts and looks up at the ceiling in exasperation.
Oh no, I have upset him. I feel bad. I don’t know. I mean, what was I meant to do? I had prepared to give up a tenner for a load of scabby cakes to take in for Betsy the next day. I hadn’t prepared to serve those that form part of our broken society.
“You’re so frustrating, Jules.”
“Well, you are better off without me then!”
I am filling with rage. It emanates from me.
The combination of the pair of us is explosive and I wish he would get the hell out. I am fuming. So angry. Why is he doing this to me? I have had to question myself more during the past two weeks of knowing him than ever before.
“I should go.”
“Go,” I say, though my voice sounds grave and I sound more emotional than I expected to. He sighs.
I want to tell him that I have every empathy for those people and no sympathy. I would like to explain how strong I have had to be all these years, but I won’t. I want to ask him to kiss me and take me to bed, hold me naked and make love. However, I am frightened he will keep on at me until I cave all my secrets.
What he does instead is walk up to me, puts his arms around my neck, and that’s it. I don’t move. He’s just there. He holds me for a long time and kisses my hair.
“Do you want to talk about Laurie yet?”
“Nope.”
He pulls away and tells me calmly, “I think I should go. I don’t like leaving bad air but in this case, I think I should go.”
I nod and he leaves. I get on with my marking and devour the chocolate. For some reason, there are a lot more red blots than usual.
Chapter Twelve
Jules
A week later. We meet in the old pub again and I get there before him. I rack up a pint for me and a half for him. He walks in and smiles when he sees me but recognition hits and he also remembers. His face turns stony once more.
He sits beside me and removes his coat. There are no pleasantries. We both stare straight ahead and he takes a sip of his drink without offering thanks.
“Dad keeps asking why he can’t frequent this pub anymore. I have to tell him that I am spying on some drug dealers.”
“Why can’t he come here?” I scathe.
“I’m not ready‒”
“For what?” I interject. “What? To introduce me to your father? This is not a date. I am not your girlfriend! Why are we even fucking here?”
I am oversensitive but oh, he winds me up.
Angel Avenue Page 7
