Biro pulls a face. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, you do. I’m too busy and there’s no way I’m letting your mother go in there. Just flush the toilets and open the window if it needs it.’
Biro pulls a face and reluctantly leaves the bar and saunters across to the back door. The toilets are out the back through a dark, damp corridor, I think they may have been outside at one time. I never use them if I can help it; they’re full of spiders and are freezing cold.
Within minutes Biro comes back and resumes his position leaning on the bar next to me.
‘Okay?’ I ask.
‘Rank. Don’t know what’s difficult about flushing a toilet but no one in here seems to have that skill.’ He bangs on the bar to get Charlie’s attention.
‘Pa! Do I get a drink now?’
‘Yeah. But you’re only having coke. Gents okay?’
‘Fantastic, there’s nothing I like more than the sight of another bloke’s shit bobbing around with dog ends floating on the top.’ He takes the offered bottle of coke. ‘Highlight of my evening.’
Charlie laughs and winks at me and turns to serve another customer.
‘Disgusting,’ mutters Biro taking a slurp of his coke.
I laugh at the look on his face and after a moment he can’t help himself and joins in.
‘You’re lucky you’re not a bloke, we’re a gross lot.’
The faint sound of applause interrupts us as the George Michael wannabe finally takes the hint and gives the microphone back to the MC and sits down.
The MC clears his throat. ‘Now, Ladies and Gentleman, a treat for us all. Our very own landlord, Charlie, is going to give us his rendition of Stairway to Heaven, put your hands together...’
Charlie comes out from behind the bar and weaves his way to the microphone accompanied by whistles and table thumps. The MC hands him the microphone and Charlie takes it with a beaming smile.
Biro drains his bottle of coke in one swallow and bangs it down on the bar.
‘C’mon. Time to go. X Box is calling. See if you can beat me.’
‘Oh. Okay. If you like.’
‘I do like.’ He looks across at Charlie who points the microphone at Biro and winks at him.
Biro rolls his eyes at me. ‘And you thought your Dad was embarrassing.’
✽✽✽
‘Don’t you want to know what she said?’
We’ve just got home. Dad picked me up from Biro’s and I wondered how long it would be before we’d have to have “the conversation”. We chatted about the pub and the open mic night in the car but not the college meeting but I knew it was only a matter of time.
‘Not really.’
‘Josie, don’t you think we should talk about it?’
I hang my coat up and keep my back to him so I don’t have to look him in the eye.
‘Nothing to talk about,’ I say, hoping that he’ll give up.
I can sense he hasn’t moved and I turn around and he’s standing in front of me with his arms folded.
‘Look. You need to face up to things, you can’t avoid your feelings forever. Miss Bradley thinks seeing a counsellor would really help you.’
‘I’m not avoiding anything. I’m not going to see a shrink and that’s the end of it.’ I fold my arms across my body to emphasise the point.
Dad sighs. ‘She’s not a shrink, she’s a counsellor and she might be able to help. Miss Bradley says she refers students to the college counselling service all the time. There’s no shame in it.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t need any help.’
‘You do. You know you do. You need to talk things through, about Mum and what happened in your exams.’
‘I don’t need to talk about it, I’m fine. And people are allowed to fail exams you know.’
‘You’re not fine and you didn’t fail them.’
I unfold my arms and squeeze past Dad and start up the stairs. ‘I’m off to bed, got to get up in the morning.’
‘Just think about it,’ he calls after me.
‘Night,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Night, sweetheart.’ He sounds dejected and I feel bad. Again.
I close my bedroom door and lean my back against it and let out a sigh of relief. The last thing I need to do is to talk to a counsellor; I can’t talk about Mum, if I start talking I might not be able to stop and then it’ll all come out. I can’t tell anyone the truth.
Especially not Dad.
Chapter 2
Robbie
I t’s hard being a single parent, really hard, and it’s not something that I ever thought I’d have to do. I’m struggling and there isn’t a minute goes by when I don’t miss Nessa and wish she was here.
But all the wishing in the world isn’t going to bring her back, is it?
I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t much use to Josie in the first few months we were on our own, and I let her down, big time, I know I did. But things are a bit better now, I’m slowly getting on top of things and getting us a new kind of normal.
And our Josie’s always been very serious; even as a five-year-old. She’s never been your run of the mill kid, an old head on young shoulders, Nessa used to say. Deep, that’s how a lot of people describe her, she gives things a lot of thought, thinks things through. She certainly doesn’t take after me that’s for sure. But even though she’s always been a thoughtful kid she used to laugh and giggle and she was funny; dry, but so funny. The three of us used to have such fun, Nessa and Josie used to laugh at me , at me pulling faces and my dress sense, and I used to play to it and I could always get a laugh out of Josie even when she turned into a moody teenager.
But Josie rarely laughs now. She might paste a smile on her face when I talk to her or if she catches me looking at her but she doesn’t fool me. Seventeen-year-olds should be out having fun and enjoying themselves, going to parties and hanging out with their mates; having a laugh. She should be enjoying being young and having a good time, but she’s not.
She doesn’t even swear, says things like “for God’s sake,” I mean, I don’t want her cussing and swearing but Jesus, she’s seventeen going on fifty. My brother, well, half-brother, Ralph - same mum, different dad - he loves Josie to bits, would do absolutely anything for her and treats her like the daughter he never had. He won’t have a word said against her - even he says, ‘Robbie mate, you need to get her to see someone, get some therapy or something – she’s seventeen and she behaves like our bleedin’ maiden aunt, it ain’t right.’ Which just shows he’s as worried as me because he doesn’t believe in counselling or ‘talking bollocks,’ as he calls it. I keep wishing Nessa was here because she’d know what to do and then I realise what a stupid thing that is to think because if she was here Josie wouldn’t be like this, would she?
It’s a two-way thing, Josie and her uncle Ralph, she adores him even though he’s the most un-pc person you could ever meet and can be downright obnoxious at times. She used to love listening to his newspaper stories (he’s the editor of the Frogham Herald) and all about the people he’s come across. She’d write these little articles for him, you know, made up stuff but Ralph says she’s got a flair for it and she even talked about becoming a reporter. But that was before Nessa died. Now she just shrugs when I ask her what she wants to do, like it doesn’t matter. Ralph’s tried talking to her but she stonewalls him like she does me.
For a while I thought maybe we should move house, start afresh. But we have so many happy memories in this house why move to get rid of one bad one? And I don’t think it would work anyway, you can’t run away from things and we always loved it here. It was a dream come true when Nessa and I bought it – we’d thought we’d made it. Josie was a toddler when we moved here and it’s the only home she’s ever known.
Ralph moved to Frogham first; he kept telling us what a lovely place it was, family friendly, plenty of jobs. Nessa and I were a bit disbelieving, thought it was the back of beyond and couldn’t imagine wanting to live any
where but London and couldn’t believe Ralph would think otherwise. So we visited, because Ralph kept on and on, then we could see what he meant. It was so much quieter than London, a fraction of the traffic; five minutes and you’re in the countryside. And people actually talk to you when you’re out for a walk with the dog. So we sold up and we couldn’t believe it when the proceeds from our tiny one bed flat in London bought us this house, it felt like a mansion to us. I tell you, we couldn’t believe our luck.
No, moving’s not the answer. Besides, we’d struggle to find anywhere better, it’s a great house in a lovely area with good neighbours.
Apart from the serial killer who used to live across the road.
But he’s in prison now, the Frogham Throttler, and he won’t be coming out any time soon. I’ve passed his house and seen builders putting up a massive extension on the front, nearly doubling the size of it so I’m guessing someone’s bought it. I wonder if they know who lived there? Anyway, lightening doesn’t strike twice, hardly likely to be two serial killers in a place the size of Frogham is there? Although I think Ralph would quite like it if there was. A good murder sells a ton of newspapers, he says. Callous sod.
But Josie? I’m at a loss to be honest.
Like Ralph says, maybe if she sees a counsellor it’ll help. She can get it all off her chest. Because she won’t talk to me, I’ve tried but she won’t. Insists that she’s fine. I keep telling her; it’s alright not to be okay, it’s not a sign of weakness but I can tell she’s not listening. She hasn’t even cried, not that I’ve seen anyway. I’ve cried plenty, get it out, that’s my motto. I don’t know that it does help because I feel pretty shit when I’m doing it but I honestly don’t think I could hold it in. It bothers me that Josie’s bottling it all up and my way of thinking is that it’s got to come out, sooner or later, and the longer she holds it in the worse it’ll be.
I wish that I could help her and it breaks my heart that I can’t, but if she won’t let me in, I can’t. I just can’t bear to see her so sad, and when she puts that brave face on it makes it even worse. I always used to get a laugh out of her with my daftness. And if that failed then I knew she would definitely laugh at my dress sense, yet the night of the Open Evening she was embarrassed by me, by what I was wearing. It never used to bother her what other people said, she used to say everyone was entitled to their opinion. She thought my outfits were hilarious even when Nessa didn’t. She’d say, ‘Dad, wear that shirt with the frogs on,’ or ‘I haven’t seen that yellow striped jumper for a while, about time you wore it again.’ She’s always had her own mind, which she still has, but now she seems ashamed and embarrassed by it.
She wouldn’t even sit with me and talk to her tutor. Point blank refused. Her tutor says she’s doing okay, academically - not that I needed telling, it’s a fact that Josie is super clever and she could do her re-sits right now and pass them all with flying colours. She has a photographic memory; not instant, she has to think through things but once she’s seen something, she remembers it forever. She should have passed her exams easily last time – and I’m to blame for what happened, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself when I should have been thinking about her. She doesn’t need to go to college to swot up so she can pass the exams, I persuaded her to go because I thought she’d make new friends, make a new start.
She keeps telling me that she hasn’t got any friends because they all think she’s a weirdo. If only she knew how it cuts through me like a knife when she says that. She used to have loads of friends and they thought a lot of her, I could tell, especially Ellie. Now the only one she ever mentions is Stefan. Biro, he calls himself; seems a pleasant enough lad although he does wear some odd stuff and that’s saying something coming from someone with my dress sense. He had a fur coat on the other night that looked like he got it off his mum. I mean, there are limits.
That’s the other thing – Josie lives and dies in that bloody Parka coat. Made me buy it for her for Christmas and I don’t think it’s been off her back since. Jeans, baggy jumper and that Parka; you could easily mistake her for a boy until you see her pretty little face.
‘Put something else on,’ I tell her, nice clothes give you a boost, make you feel better. I know what I’m talking about, when Josie and I were first on our own I had a job to get myself out of bed and into work in the mornings, never mind caring what I wore. But after a while you realise that life goes on, you have to get out there and just live, keep going through the motions even though you don’t feel like it and then after a while it’s not so hard.
When Nessa died, I wanted to curl up and die myself. If I could have lain down and willed myself to go to sleep and never wake up, I would have. The rumours that went around didn’t help either; I know people like a good gossip but they don’t realise how hurtful it is to the people involved. I tried to keep the details from Josie but the inquest was reported in the papers although obviously not in the Herald, Ralph wouldn’t print anything . It was all over the internet though. Just our luck one of the nationals decided to do a spread on “jumper” deaths just after Nessa died. It was unbearable. Some nosey parker reporter even turned up at our house asking if we wanted to do an interview, he even shouted through the letterbox. He wouldn’t go away, just stood outside ringing the bell. I had to ring Ralph eventually; couldn’t trust myself to open the door and speak to the guy ‘cos I think I’d have killed him. I don’t know what Ralph said to him but he soon went away.
I can’t blame the Coroner because they have to look into all of the possibilities and suicide was one of them, even thought there was no suicide note. Apparently not that many people leave them. So, although the verdict was accidental death there are always nasty types that say it was suicide; that she didn’t just stumble, that it wasn’t just the most awful, most rotten bad luck.
I had to talk to Josie about the inquest because the outcome was all over the internet so it was pointless trying to hide it. I didn’t let her attend, even though she wanted to, because I thought she was too young. Now I think maybe I should have let her go because she found out anyway. There was so much gossip about it being suicide and I hope that I put Josie’s mind at rest; I told her that there was no way Nessa would had left us deliberately because she was happy, we were all happy.
I spent the first few months after Nessa died torturing and blaming myself when I should have been helping Josie. You know, the what ifs – what if I’d said to Nessa, don’t go to London for that meeting, or what if I’d driven her instead of her taking the train, or why didn’t she stand at the back and not near the front. Kept running it over and over; wishing somehow, I could turn back the clock and change things.
If only.
Eventually I pulled myself together because it’s not just about me is it? I have to be around for Josie, make things right for her, see her happy again. But I know I wasn’t there for her as much as I should have been to start with.
We’re always going to miss Nessa. That’s a fact. And we will never, ever get over losing her, that’s also a fact. In a perfect world Josie would have been old herself before she lost her mum which would have still been horrible but that’s things in the right order, if you know what I mean. But it is what it is and life goes on and Josie has her whole life in front of her and I’ve got a lot of mine in front of me, too. I may seem ancient and decrepit to Josie but I’m only 43 and I intend to make the most of it and I want her to make the most of her life as well. I can’t replace Nessa, can’t see myself ever being with anyone else but if there’s one thing I do know it’s that you never know what’s around the corner, life is full of surprises and not all of them good.
Anyway, enough navel gazing, time to take the dog for a walk.
‘Come on, Skipper. Walkies.’ I rattle his lead at him and he looks up at me with disinterest from his basket, his stumpy little tail giving the very faintest of wags.
‘Walkies.’ Bit louder this time and he looks up at me with those sad eyes and sighs.
&
nbsp; I think he may need a counsellor too.
Chapter 3
Josie
M r Borden is sitting in the chair opposite me and smiling. He’s too close; one of his crossed knees is only millimetres from mine. Will it look too obvious if I move my chair back? He’s too close. His legs are so long they seem to take up half the room.
How did I let myself be persuaded to see a student counsellor, I ask myself for the millionth time?
Dad kept on about it so much that in the end I gave in just to shut him up, I knew that he wasn’t going to let it go until I gave in. I decided that I’d just not bother turning up for the appointment and then I’d just be forgotten about and put down as a no show.
No such luck.
Mr Borden came and got me out of my maths tutorial.
Yes. He actually came and interrupted the tutorial, knocked on the door, stuck his head round it and asked the tutor if I could be excused as I’d forgotten about my appointment.
The humiliation. Absolutely everyone looked at me. I got up from my desk and meekly walked out of the classroom, too mortified to even argue. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as I walked to the door and I knew the whispering would start the minute I’d gone. Really, there should be a law against it, I thought counselling was supposed to be confidential. Okay, Mr Borden didn’t say it was for counselling but he did say appointment so everyone pretty much guessed. Mrs Bundy, the maths tutor, looked surprised and slightly uncomfortable or was that my imagination? Now the whole college knows that I’m having counselling, as if everyone didn’t think I was weird enough.
I could kill Dad.
And that wasn’t the only shock.
Dad told me that the counsellor was going to be a woman.
Mr Borden is definitely not a woman, he’s a man. A very hot man, to be honest. Yes, he is really old, at least twenty-five or thirty, but he’s also very handsome and I just can’t see myself being able to talk to someone so good looking; I can’t even look at him without blushing.
So Talk to Me Page 2
