Read Not What They Were Expecting Online
Authors: Neal Doran
He wished again he’d told Rebecca about his ‘criminal past’ when they’d got together, or before they got married at least. But then, from just a few months into being a couple, it had always felt like she would have seen the biggest betrayal involved in the confession as being him not having told her earlier. That feeling only grew the more time passed. He’d also not been sure of who he’d be telling her for, if it’d just be something he was doing to make himself feel better. In a way it was a conscious self-inflicted part of his punishment – taking the decision to keep it to himself, and deal with it on his own, no matter how lousy it made him feel. But now the impact of that bit of stupidity was going to be felt by a family.
Ah, it’s nothing really, he told himself. He’d manage. It mainly meant that he wouldn’t be able to give Bompalomp the chance to say his daddy was a policeman. He was going to have to find something though. He realised if he was going back to the dole again today that meant it was now eight weeks since he’d got canned. And he hadn’t actually applied for anything yet. Even the nice guy at the job centre was beginning to get a bit edgy about that. But there was nothing quite right out there – not even close – and he had to watch what he said with applications because of the record thing, and he didn’t want to end up compromising, and he didn’t know exactly what he wanted and… James let out a grunt of frustration.
Money was running out too, and would be running out a lot quicker when they seriously went baby shopping. Becs was carrying on as if everything was fine, although to be fair he might have given her that impression. But he was trying to not worry her – that was his job now, with this pregnancy. He couldn’t do much to help grow Bompalomp, but he could manage the stress for the two of them. Make sure she wasn’t worried about his job, take on the hassles of the stuff with her dad, help her physically feel better with the hugs and massages. It was going to be fine. He always got edgy on dole day.
He rapped the top of the table, shut the lid of the computer. He’d head out now, get a couple of things for fixes around the house before he was due at the job centre. Then later this afternoon he’d get some applications out. Definitely.
***
The station manager had been very helpful about Margaret’s plans, even taking into account his susceptibility to the Big Brother mind control of Health & Safety. Of course, as a worker, he had solid experience of the need for protest and was a good union person. Margaret vaguely remembered that they’d met briefly on a picket line during the last pay deal strike, when she was painting children’s faces as starving skeletons. He’d asked at the time if she did children’s parties. She’d explained that she did female empowerment workshops for both boys and girls that were art-based and fun, but that also addressed some of the ingrained prejudice absorbed by both genders. He said his five-year-old son was mainly into Transformers. Storing up trouble for himself ahead, she’d thought at the time, but he seemed decent. The mural was now in place, with space cordoned off for the sculpture elements of the piece, which were arriving in dribs and drabs from the wholesalers and the junkyard.
‘So this is about that Tory bloke who got nicked before Christmas then is it?’ the station manager asked.
‘Yes. But he’s a symbol for a silent oppression too many still feel in Big Society Britain.’
‘Used to get a lot more of that sort of stuff around here, but it doesn’t seem to happen so much any more. Heard that it was the internet that killed it off,’ the station manager mused. ‘That or when we stopped letting Big Carl use the staff toilets. It can be like being tear-gassed in there now. Wouldn’t exactly put you in the mood.’
Margaret smiled politely as she added speckles of shadows and light to the swarm of CCTV cameras on her painting, swooping in from the sky like attack helicopters.
‘But he’s denying it, ain’t he?’
‘He shouldn’t have to deny it,’ Margaret said. ‘The how and why of when an individual chooses to address their sexuality shouldn’t be a matter for the police state.’
‘So he’s queer then?’
‘That’s a term I prefer left for use by members of the community.’ Margaret wasn’t going to let that word go, but she didn’t need a row with an ally before the paint had dried and the newspaper had got here.
‘Tories eh? Bet he got into it at boarding school. He’s pleading not guilty though?’
‘There’s nothing to be guilty about.’
The station manager nodded his head thoughtfully, and looked around the installation.
‘The more I think about it the more I’m worried about putting those over there. If some smartarse pisshead decides to use one of them Friday night, the station cleaning team will have a fit.’
Rebecca could not wait to get home to get into the shower, on with her PJs and onto the sofa. Her feet were killing her, but all day she hadn’t dared take her shoes off for fear she’d never get them back on. On the walk down to the station she’d been insidiously drenched by horizontal drizzle and was now chilly and shivery. In the office she’d been clammy and sweltering due to over-zealous central heating and the extra blood circulating her veins making her feel like her entire body was in a slow cooker. So this is what being radiant feels like, she’d thought.
It was going to be one of those tricky evenings at home too, she thought to herself, thinking of James. He was going to be upbeat, and break her heart. This always happened after he signed on, he got all positive. There was a good chance he’d try a bit of improvising and add something to the Loyd Grossman when he was cooking, and run through in some detail when he added the frozen sweetcorn and extra fish sauce and regularly checked the seasoning. There’d be the observations about the other guys down at the job centre, a few self-deprecating jokes, and observations about ‘Dec Dolan on the dole’ and all the other people he saw. Then he’d start to feel bad about laughing at the other guys, even though she already knew he didn’t mean it. Plans for reform of the entire system would be next and he’d get angry at the injustice and the lack of hope for those for whom it wasn’t just a temporary setback. Then he’d go quiet for a bit.
She’d spent the day trying to think of ways to let him know that he could just say he’d had a shitty day and she could help him out; ways to let him know he was a good man, and that things would work out for him. The only answer she’d managed to come up with had been sex. Now that would normally have not been a problem, and was a pretty good answer to everything. But at the minute, not so much. She could count the times since Christmas, which couldn’t be a good thing. She wasn’t sure if it was the job stuff or the pregnancy that was behind it. She’d been so tired for a while, and he’d been nervy around her, so things had slowed down. Now her mind was wandering to whether she might be able to persuade him to join her in the shower when she got home.
She flushed slightly at the thought, although that might have happened anyway.
Reaching the entrance concourse to Harrow on the Hill, she thought about stopping to pick up a hot chocolate for the way home, but the idea of an overheated train carriage had her sweating again. If she could just pick a temperature… She started up the stairs to the ticket office just as a marching crowd of commuters released from the Met line stomped down them. A large woman shoulder-checked her as she went by, knocking Rebecca into the path of a small, surprisingly old-looking, businessman who rapped her elbow with his umbrella. She hoped that was an accident.
Steadying herself she made it to the top of the stairs, and could see ahead of her, next to the ticket gates, a large display, and a couple of men with leaflets trying to get people’s attention as they strode by. The last thing she needed today was to be harangued into an awkward conversation with a chugger, or somebody trying to get her to take a new credit card. As she got closer, she began to wonder what kind of promotion they could be offering.
There was a row of urinals standing in the middle of the concourse, with two shop dummies standing next to them, one in a business suit with his hands cuffed behind his back, the other in police riot gear, but with a truncheon pointing upward from a very rude-looking angle at his waist. The display seemed to merge into a painting on the wall where she could see a man standing inside his bedroom, hiding behind a wardrobe door. It was the same businessman as the statue. He looked familiar. Then one of the men handing out flyers strode out to speak to a commuter leaving the ticket office. His walk was familiar.
‘Can I interest you in a leaflet, we’re fighting police bullying and political correctness gone mad.’
‘Oh fuck,’ she thought.
Rebecca stuttered to a stop, caught as if on a jumpy DVD moving forward then back as her brain froze over, unsure whether to try and sneak to the platform unnoticed, or turn and run from the station.
Then, adjusting his expression from one of indignant irritation to a salesman’s smile as he turned away from another office worker refusing a pamphlet, Howard saw his daughter, and the smile becomes one of genuine boyish excitement.
‘Becky! You’re here!’ he bellowed as he strode across to kiss her on the cheek, taking her arm. ‘Come with me and look at this magnificent display Maggie’s put together. I’m a star! And that copper is going to feel a bit red-faced next time he comes through here, the swine.’
‘Dad, what do you think—’
Rebecca went quiet as Margaret joined them. They exchanged hellos and kisses, and Margaret asked about the pregnancy. Rebecca ran through her usual response. Women seemed to like to hear about a few aches and pains they could identify with, before an upbeat end to the assessment accompanied by a cheery tummy rub. She was getting quite good at it. Then there was the question she’d been expecting, but still hadn’t worked out an answer to.
‘So what do you think?’ Margaret asked.
I think you’ve made my father into a laughing stock and my family into a circus act, was mainly what Rebecca was thinking.
‘It’s er, it’s really something,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Must have been a lot of work,’ Rebecca said, mentally adding which obviously stopped you, once again, getting to the bra shop.
‘Worth it to get the point across I think,’ Margaret continued. ‘It’s been getting a lot of really positive reaction. I think it’s getting through to people.’
As Margaret spoke, Rebecca looked across to see a couple of schoolboys sniggering at the display’s urinals while the solitary volunteer that Howard had rounded up to help – he looked like a work experience kid from the office, little older than the schoolboys – attempted to get them to take a leaflet. They backed away from it as if it was capable of transmitting homosexuality just by touch, and walked past Rebecca and Margaret jostling and insulting each other.
‘No, man, it’s you. If you tried anything I would so batter you with that truncheon, you fuckin’ big gayer.’
‘It’s certainly challenging attitudes,’ Rebecca said politely as the boys headed down the stairs.
The three of them stood awkwardly for a minute nodding thoughtfully. Rebecca felt uptight and stuffy after noticing she and her dad were in very formal office wear while Margaret was unkempt and arty-looking in her baggy jeans and oversized men’s work shirt. And somehow she still looked tall and skinny too, prompting Rebecca, bulked up even more than usual by her raincoat, to stand up a bit straighter. A trumpet blast from Howard’s pocket broke the silence and he checked his mobile.
‘Guys from the paper are here. Photographer’s just parking the car,’ he said, adjusting his tie cheerfully. ‘Time to face the press again!’
‘I’ll head down and make sure they come in the right way, get the full impact of the piece,’ said Margaret pulling her hair into a high bunch on the top of her head, and heading off for the car park. As soon as she was sure Margaret was out of earshot, Rebecca turned to her dad, who was brushing the lapels of his jacket.
‘You know she thinks you did it don’t you? She’s treating this like you’re being persecuted because you’re gay!’
‘She’s a lefty! They think everyone is a bit of one.’
‘But look! Look at the painting!’
‘That’s a pretty good representation of the bedroom I think. That’s not the colour of the duvet, but it’s not one of those Impressionist Picasso things where everyone’s got noses on their foreheads. Art’s a matter of taste you know.’
‘She’s got you coming out of the closet, Dad. Out of the closet!’
‘That’s a built-in wardrobe I’m standing next to, Becky. I could never fit in there. We had those hand-built twenty-five years ago. Everyone said we could have got the same thing for a fraction of the cost at MFI, but they’re still standing – not like that flat-pack rot. They’d have never coped with your mother’s shoes.’
‘Eft, gft, irggh!’
‘Are you all right, darling?’
Rebecca scanned the ticket hall in frustration as words failed her. The kid from dad’s office was jumping out from behind a noticeboard attempting to ambush people into instinctively taking a leaflet with an old election photo of Howard emblazoned across it. Her mother-in-law was standing next to an effigy of her dad, telling some young woman about her work while a man with a camera took snaps from funny angles. She was probably spelling out the statement she was making with the piece, which had nothing really to do with what her dad was trying to do. What it was her dad was actually trying to do, she just didn’t know, putting her mum through this humiliation.
‘Forget it. Never mind,’ she said.
Unable to say anything more without bursting into tears, she rushed to the platform gates, flapping her overcoat in frustration as she tried to extract her Oyster card from a tangle of tissues and gloves in her pocket. Eventually she just whacked the gate sensor with the inside lining of her pocket until the barriers thunked open and she ran through, her coat catching on the bars as she struggled through before running down the steps to the platform.
‘Is everything OK with Rebecca?’ Margaret asked, walking across to join Howard again.