Don't You Want Me? (10 page)

Bloody Ichabod got slap-happy again at the Painting
Station (that’s another thing: every crappy bit of dirty, broken second-hand equipment has a grand-sounding name: Book Corner is a pair of grubby beanbags, the Kitchen is a chipped table with grey Play-Doh on it, the Play Area is a splintery old climbing frame, the Treasure Chest is a box full of toys I’d feel embarrassed about giving to Oxfam. Mystery heaps upon mystery: the women in this room all live in houses or flats that cost upwards of £300,000. What’s the problem? Why can’t we buy some new fucking toys and a bit of decent equipment? Why do we have to
pretend we’re poor
? I must ask Louisa. I’ve noticed this before, with the English middle class: they’re the ones who buy second-hand clothes for their children and pride themselves on wheeling around rusty, disintegrating pushchairs. At the park, working-class children are the ones swathed in goose-down, being wheeled in Land Rover buggies; the middle-class children are the thin, pale ones – the ones who look abused. Why?).

Still, I learned a new word today. The word is: pee-pee tail. Nice, no? Has a ring about it, wouldn’t you say? Pee-pee tail is what Marjorie – the breast-feeding obsessive with tits like udders – calls willies. ‘Don’t forget to shake your pee-pee tails,’ she instructs the children – all two of them, practically teenagers – who have managed to work out how to use a lavatory by themselves.

‘Pee-pee tails?’ I ask, finding it hard to keep the note of appalled horror out of my voice. I mean, you’re a four-year-old boy and suddenly you’re told your penis is a tail – a back-to-front tail; worse, a tail that pee-pees. How disturbing is that? How
Freudian
?

‘Yes,’ said Marjorie, who never ever smiles at me. ‘That’s what we call them here.’

‘What’s wrong with “willy”?’ I ask.

‘Everything,’ says Marjorie, who needs to do something about the hair on her upper lip. ‘Not least the fact that it’s a child’s name. That kind of thing can often lead to bullying,’ she sniffs disapprovingly. ‘And we none of us condone bullying,’ she adds, excluding me from the ‘us’ in a manner that is, well, somewhat bullying in itself. She shifts her massive bulk and looks me slowly up and down for the second time this morning: insolent is the word that springs to mind, fatly, lazily insolent. Annoyingly, William Cooper’s willy pops into my head uninvited at this point, all larval and white. I repress a shiver and soldier on.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Well, how about “penis”? That’s not anybody’s name.’

‘No. We only recommend using the biologically correct terms from age six plus. For the under-fives, we like friendly names at Happy Bunnies.’

‘Really? And how do “we” come to these decisions? Do any of us have any qualifications in childcare, for instance? You see, I’m going by instinct. What about you?’

‘I am highly qualified,’ says Marjorie. ‘That’s why I’m Play Leader.’

‘In what way? Because, correct me if I’m wrong, this room – ’ I gesture – ‘looks pretty crappy to me. It isn’t safe or clean. The equipment is broken and out of date. The lavatories are disgusting. I just wondered, you know, in what sense this playgroup actually qualifies as a playgroup. Or in what sense you actually qualify as a Play Leader. I mean, Marjorie, with respect, you don’t actually
play
, do you? You breast-feed Euan in that corner there and get people to bring you cups of tea.’

‘I’ll have you know,’ Marjorie hisses, ‘that I’ve been
running playgroups all over north London for the past five years. I’m appointed by the parents.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I say, bending down to wipe Perdita’s nose. ‘I just wondered what qualifications you had, that’s all. But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, pee-pee tails. You see, I think that’s a kind of disturbing name, as I was saying. What about “thing”?’ I suggest helpfully, just to be irritating – even I am aware of the fact that calling your penis your ‘thing’ would probably lead to many adult years on the psychiatrist’s couch.

‘Certainly not,’ Marjorie says, po-faced yet radiating intense disapproval. ‘As for your remarks, I don’t care for them much. If you’re really unhappy with Happy Bunnies, Stella, it seems to me that you should perhaps consider another playgroup.’

‘Honey likes it,’ I say. ‘Which is why I’m here.’

‘Precisely my point. You don’t have to like it, but the children do. And in all my years of experience, I’ve never run a playgroup that children didn’t like.’

‘Everything all right?’ says Felicity nervously, popping up behind me like a jack-in-the-box.

‘We were just having a little chat,’ says Marjorie, smiling tersely. ‘I was putting Stella straight about a few things.’

‘Golly,’ says Felicity, fiddling with her pearl necklace. ‘Oh dear. Stella
has
been working hard, you know, Marjorie.’

‘With the tissues and the Domestos,’ says Marjorie. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’

‘Quick,’ I say. ‘Hygiene alert! Call the child police!’

‘She,’ Marjorie says to Felicity, ‘made a derogatory comment earlier about the book of the week.’

‘I didn’t know there
was
a book of the week,’ I say. ‘What is it?’

‘
When Mommy Died
,’ they both reply in unison.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I say.

‘You see?’ Marjorie asks Felicity. ‘You
see
? That’s what she said earlier, too.’

‘It’s a difficult subject,’ Felicity winces. ‘But we all thought it was handled beautifully in the book. Sensitively. Marjorie’s friend sent it to us from America.’

‘This is a playgroup for under-fives,’ I say. ‘I’m not reading them a story about dead mothers.’

‘These are important issues,’ Marjorie says. ‘We all die. We are all dying now: you and I and all the kids. The kids are dying. It benefits children to learn about death early, in as natural a way as possible. Death
is
natural.’

‘Does the mummy go to heaven?’ I ask.

‘No,’ they say.

‘Does she go anywhere comforting at all?’

‘She is buried in the earth, and is once again at one with Mother Nature,’ Marjorie says. ‘To me, that’s beautiful. It’s the circle of life.’

I don’t have the time for this, I really don’t: I could stand here arguing with Marjorie until the cows come home. ‘We’ll agree to disagree,’ I say, more conciliatorily than I feel.

‘We’re all growing, Stella,’ says Marjorie. ‘And perhaps you too will grow as a result of your time at Bunnies.’

‘Perhaps. And do you know, Marjorie – perhaps you will.’

‘I am always open to anything that aids personal growth,’ she says. ‘Always.’

Felicity leads Marjorie away, and I begin to butter the
bread with Economy strawberry jam. Trouble ahead, I expect, but never mind.

It starts pouring with rain just as we leave Happy Bunnies, and it’s really bucketing by the time we get to Regent’s Park Road. We ring Louisa’s doorbell, but to no avail: she must still be at the dentist’s. It’s really sloshing down, so we huddle under the organic bakery’s awning, waiting.

We’ve been there three or four minutes – Honey safe and dry under her plastic pushchair-cover, me brollyless, getting soaked by the wind pushing the rain sideways – when I notice a man walking towards us. He’s doing the pimp roll – a sort of loll from the hips – and wearing Eighties-style track pants with two go-faster stripes down the side, a huge black hooded top with a logo I can’t understand and one of those little hats favoured by black teenagers that looks like it’s made out of tights. Ali G, basically, but for real, and wearing the requisite shades even though it’s raining.

The apparition stops by the health food store and fishes about in his pockets for keys, which can only mean one thing: if Louisa’s Flat B, he must be Flat A. Which means he can let us in – I’d rather sit on the dry stairs than hang out here drowning. So I leap out from under the awning.

‘Excuse me,’ I say.

‘Yo,’ says the man.

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m supposed to be having lunch with your neighbour – Louisa?’

‘Aye,’ he says, oddly northernly, or perhaps, ‘Ai.’

‘Well, she’s not back yet, and – ’ I gesture at the sky – ‘we’re getting soaked.’

‘Ai,’ he says again, pushing the key into the lock. He is wearing extraordinary trainers.

‘So I was wondering whether you could let us in – we could wait on the stairs.’

The man gives me a long, up-and-down look, much as Marjorie did earlier, but with a smidgeon more approval.

‘Sweet,’ he says. ‘Come in.’ His accent is purest south London.

I struggle to manoeuvre Honey’s pushchair through the narrow entrance: I’d lift her out, but she’s fallen asleep.

‘Thank you,’ I say to the man.

‘Safe. Cup of cha?’ he says. ‘Was just about to brew up meself.’

‘That’s
so
kind, yes please, if you don’t mind.’

‘Wha’ about the sprog?’

‘I’ll leave her here, I think – she’s fast asleep and it seems safe enough.’

‘ ’S upstairs,’ he says, leading the way.

‘I’m Stella, by the way,’ I tell him as I start to follow.

‘Yang-Tza,’ he says, which seems bizarre: surely I can’t have heard properly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as we get to his front door, which is cleverly painted to resemble camouflage. ‘I didn’t quite get your name.’

He has removed his sunglasses now and, although the hall is dark, I can’t discern any sign of Orientalism about his features: I must have misheard.

‘Yang-Tza,’ he repeats.

‘Oh, right,’ I smile. ‘OK.’

‘Y-u-n-g-s-t-a,’ he spells helpfully.

‘Gosh,’ I say, sounding like Felicity. ‘That’s unusual.’

‘I’s da DJ,’ he says, as if this explained everything, which indeed it does. ‘MC Yungsta. You know?’

‘Sorry, no – I’m more of a Radio 4 girl,’ I shrug apologetically. ‘I last went to a rave in 1988, nearly fifteen years ago.’

‘I’m the daddy,’ Yungsta says simply, which confuses me temporarily. ‘I is the daddy,’ he adds, correcting himself.

‘Cool,’ I say. ‘That must be fun.’

‘Kickin’,’ he says, pushing the door open. ‘Here we are.’

Yungsta’s walls are plastered with flyers and posters, all of which advertise him. He’s considered a great draw, it seems, from King’s Cross to Ibiza to Aya Napa. I’ve never really thought about DJs much: this is a part of youth culture which I am way too old for, though I’ve caught glimpses of it on satellite TV. I like Abba and camp pop music, like Kylie Minogue, and I wasn’t being entirely truthful when I said ‘Radio 4’ – I have my Radio 2 moments too, singing along to Dean Martin. (I used to get depressed about this, but I’ve come to terms: the ravey kind of music which Yungsta plays just hurts my ears and puts me in a bad mood.)

‘PG, Earl Grey or camomile?’ Yungsta asks from the kitchen, which surprises me somewhat.

‘PG, please, milk, no sugar.’

I gaze around the room as he’s fiddling about with the kettle. It’s done out in beiges and taupes, like a very groovy take on William Cooper’s apartment: it’s the Seventies revivalist look, with suede sofas, a cowhide on the black-painted floor and lots of sculptural plants dotted about. The far wall is full of LPs and bits of what looks like recording equipment. There are joint roaches in the ashtray
and socks on the floor. The room is sparse and very masculine, but clearly belongs to someone with a sense of style.

‘Here you go,’ Yungsta says, reappearing with two steaming mugs.

‘Thanks. Sorry about this. I’m sure Louisa won’t be long, but if you have things to do, you know, do kick me out.’

‘Nah,’ he says, kicking off his trainers, removing his shades and stretching himself out on his mushroom-coloured sofa. ‘Just got up. Not much to do until tonight.’

He yawns, while I note that he is capable of normal speech. I also observe that Yungsta is a bit of a dish. I mean, he is ridiculously dressed (mutton dressed as lamb isn’t in it: he’s an ancient ram, the grandaddy of rams, Da Ram, dressed as the littlest, babiest lamb in the land). And he talks like he wishes he were black, and yes, he appears to be wearing a hairnet, but if he were mute and bareheaded, you certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. He has very piercing greenish eyes, for example. Can’t tell about the hair, as it’s all hidden under his hat, but he appears to have a Number 2 crop. Still, he seems to be about my age, which I’d have thought was quite old for a DJ. Seems a bit churlish to bring this up now, though, as I’m sitting in his armchair drinking his tea. So I sit quietly, admiring the view, while Yungsta offers me a cigarette and smiles for the first time. I smile back, wondering whether to have a little flirt while my daughter sleeps downstairs, until I remember my clothes: I’m still in the dunga outfit, for heaven’s sake. It did me absolutely no good at all at playgroup, and now it’s impeding my flirting.

But then, miraculously: ‘I like your T-shirt,’ Yungsta
says of the Abo-guano number that is gracing my chest.

‘Good God,’ I say. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘It’s well safe,’ Yungsta says. ‘Retro – I like that. Old skool.’

I wiggle my Birkenstocked toes with pleased disbelief. Yungsta looks down at my feet as if they were shod in Manolos.

‘So,’ Yunsta says.

He is interrupted by a trilled ‘Yoo-hoo’ wafting up the stairs. Louisa’s home, and thirty seconds later she appears by the front door, which has been left open.

‘Stella,’ she says, out of breath. ‘So sorry. Dentist took ages. I bought us these to compensate,’ she adds, brandishing two bottles of white wine. ‘Hello, Adrian. Thanks for looking after her.’

‘Adrian?’ I say, nonplussed, gazing from Yungsta to Louisa.

‘No trouble at all, Loz, mate,’ Yungsta says, looking frankly embarrassed.

‘Well, um, thanks for the tea,’ I say, rising, ‘and, er, it was nice to meet you.’

‘Sweet,’ Yungsta says again. ‘See you,’ which, the way he says it, really ought to be spelled ‘C Ya’.

A couple of hours later, after lunch – a bottle of white wine, some organic olives and a plate of cheese – Louisa shows me her hats, a picture of her ex-husband, her wedding album and a photograph in
Vogue
of some shoes she covets. Thanks to the wine, we’ve bypassed any awkwardness or shyness and got straight down to the nitty-gritty, exchanging life stories. Honey and Alexander are playing on the floor with Brio, with brio.