Blood Relatives (9 page)

‘Way too much sherry in it,’ said Mand.

Mother laughed heartily. It wor good to see her in such a happy mood. ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘always too much sherry.’

An hour or so later she lifted the parkins from t’ oven. Her face clouded. The parkins had burnt at the edges, and in t’ centre, where they should have risen to a gentle mound, a fissure had opened up through t’ Union Jack.

‘Smells great,’ Mand said encouragingly.

Mother hunched over t’ parkins, running a knife round t’ edges of t’ tins, then upended them onto a metal grid. She set the grid on t’ draining board and we all looked on, waiting for some sort of transformation.

‘Don’t we get to try a bit, then?’ I said, reaching out for a corner. Mother slapped my hand.

‘Hands off! They’re not for you.’

‘They’re for t’ Queen,’ Mand said.

Freshly baked smells teased the air. I suggested opening the window.

‘No,’ Mother said, ‘it will only bring in t’ wasps.’

On t’ big day itsen streets wor closed off all over t’ city, the trestle tables wor decked and Union Jack bunting wor hung from every available pole. All morning Mother, Denise, Mavis and a gaggle of t’ older folk from t’ surrounding streets had been assembled in a former Methodist chapel-cum-function room, threading Union Jack bunting. I wor collared to help collect chairs from t’ chapel storeroom. Outside, two young Asians wi’ a bucket of disinfectant and scrubbing brushes were listlessly trying to wash away t’ graffiti that had appeared overnight:

GOD SAVE THE FASHIST REGIME

While I fetched yet more chairs, Nora, portly Mrs Fibak and some other women I’d never clapped eyes on before wor laying out white tablecloths, cutlery, plates, cups and saucers and whatnot. They wor joined by Mother, Mavis and Denise. The women nattered and clattered, telling tales about hubbies, offspring, fancy men, work colleagues – drenching themsens in their own laughter as if all wor right wi’ t’ world.

A few excitable kiddies wor hiding beneath t’ tables or tearing up the pavements on BMX bikes. Some blond-haired nipper in Union Jack shorts wor jumping up and down on a space hopper ’til he lost control and sideways hopped into a table. His mother clipped him fiercely on t’ side of his head.

‘I told you to leave that indoor!’

The kid just scowled, dragged the space hopper away from her and continued bouncing around.

As I came back wi’ t’ chairs, Mother wor blathering giddily, ‘Oh, I know. Our Mandy acts like a scalded cat whenever I say owt to her.’

‘It’s their age, Pam luv. She’s growing up, that’s all,’ said Mrs Fibak, wi’ a skewed smile. Mrs Fibak had married a Pole who had been stranded here at t’ war end.

Mother tied another knot in t’ endless stream of bunting, broke it wi’ her teeth, then turned to Mrs Fibak and said, ‘Of course, you know all about raising kids, don’t you?’ It sounded crueller than she’d perhaps meant. Busy hands stilled, voices hushed. Everyone knew how Mrs Fibak fussed mightily over other people’s kids, that the Fibaks had no kids to call their own. Mrs Fibak wor everyone’s babysitter and folk loved her for it.

Into t’ thickening silence I plonked down t’ chairs and said, ‘We’ll need more than this.’

I headed back to t’ chapel storeroom. All that remained of t’ graffiti wor a white smear. The Asian cleaners wor packing up. One of ’em nudged t’other and pointed at my hair. Maybe they had me down as the culprit. If only. I grinned and they grinned shyly back, and one of ’em tousled his own mop.

‘Punk? You punk, eh?’

‘Yeah, punk.’

He put up a thumb. ‘Punk! Me like!’

He laughed, displaying a neat set of impossibly white tombstones. I laughed also. He looked relieved. ‘God save the Queen, eh?’

‘God save the Queen,’ I echoed. I picked up four more chairs and made my way back.

‘I hear,’ Nora wor saying, her voice like iron filings in syrup, ‘the police wor round at the Graysons’ last week, taking a statement.’

‘Nora, luv, the police have been all over t’ place like flies on rotting meat,’ said the woman to her right, sucking on her teeth. ‘Scares me half to death, all this murdering. The only good thing about it … and I’m sorry to say this … but thank God it’s only prostitutes. Not that I’d wish … you know … Even so, my Derek won’t let me out at night, not even to walk to t’ post box at the end of our road. Drives me all over t’ shop.’

‘Well I wouldn’t mind being chauffeured about. Save my feet,’ said Mrs Fibak. Mrs Fibak’s ankles swelled over her shoes, and her feet looked beyond saving.

Mavis clattered some plates down. ‘Can’t any of you let this Ripper business drop? It’s all some of you ever talk about … Ripper bloody this … Ripper that … I don’t want to hear it, I … I just want to enjoy this day. That’s all. Just … enjoy … that’s all.’

She lowered her trembling hands beneath t’ table lip, where only I, standing right behind her, could see her one hand gripping t’other too tightly.

Craner had arranged for every pop wagon to have plastic Union Jack bunting attached to t’ outside and plastic Union Jack stick-on flags in t’ windows. We wor shifting pop by t’ crateload. Halfway through t’ day we wor sold up and had to go back to t’ depot for a reload. By t’ time we wor cashing up in Reginald Street, Chapeltown, the sun wor setting behind t’ nearby terraces and I wor aching like I’d been stretched on a rack. But the bonus would fatten up my wage packet nicely.

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, mid-weeks 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’ ghost of a murdered serving maid.