Authors: Sue Brown
“I’m twenty years old today.” I point out. “Most kids are managing fine by themselves at this age.”
“Most kids are still slumming it off Mum and Dad at twenty,” Sylvia says. “Now stop whinging and go shave.”
“Yes, Mum,” I say sarcastically. “Can I have some more cake?”
“When you’ve shaved,” they say in chorus.
I scowl at them. “This is a setup, isn’t it?”
“Don’t know what you mean.” Mary makes a shooing motion.
I give up and head for my bathroom. Of all the amazing things about having my own place, number one is the bed and number two is the bathroom. I have a bathroom with hot running water and no one wanting to share it or me. Sometimes I stand under the shower for fifteen minutes, just because I can.
The mirror reflects a harsh truth. I look ten years older than my two decades. Being ill for more than two months, I’ve lost so much weight my face is almost skeletal, and the gingerish facial hair is now more than scruff. My beard is still several shades darker than my blond hair. My eyes are sunk deep, the black smudges underneath doing them no favors.
“Jesus, you look like death warmed up,” I mutter.
It takes me some time to shave. There are two reasons for this: one, I’m tired, and my hand is shaking; and two, I’m absolutely crap at shaving. Prior to leaving home, Dad had thrown an electric shaver at me and left me to get on with it. I’d used it about once every three months. After that, shaves were few and far between and normally done by the barber who came to the drop-in center.
Eventually it is done, and with minimal blood loss on my part. I grin at my reflection in relief. I leave the mess in the sink and lie down on my bed, and within seconds, I’m asleep.
T
HE
next day I’m praised for my efforts with the razor and then given a telling off for the state of the bathroom, but they don’t make any mention of the fact I’d gone back to bed. Sylvia is working up to Christmas Eve so she can spend Christmas Day at the shelter. It doesn’t sound like much of a holiday to me, but when I say so, she laughs.
“You’re right, but I like being at the shelter. I feel useful. Otherwise Mum and I just sit around staring at each other.”
“When was your brother killed?” I ask, a horrible suspicion dawning.
“Just before Christmas,” she says, her face pinched.
“I’m so sorry, Sylvia.” I feel uncomfortable and sad for her loss, but also angry. I’m not a plaything for her to use as a substitute for her brother.
She smiles sadly at me. “It was a long time ago, duck. We deal. I know this must be difficult for you, but it keeps Mum happy, and she feels Allan’s life wasn’t wasted.”
“I’m not him,” I blurt out.
“No, you’re not.” She looks at me seriously. “I will keep telling you that over and over again. You aren’t Allan, and none of the kids who have passed through our doors are him. We aren’t looking for another son and brother.”
“What happened after he died? Where is your dad?” I hope she doesn’t mind me asking questions.
“Dad died of a heart attack a year after Allan passed. He never really recovered from Allan’s death.”
“I saw the scars on your mum’s wrists.”
Sylvia nods. “It was about a week after Dad died. I was at work. I got a call that Mum was downstairs in A&E. She’d waited until I went out and then tried to slit her wrists. Fortunately, she fainted before she did any real damage, and a neighbor found her.
“After that, she was in a psychiatric ward for months. She just shut down.”
I stare at her. I thought my story was bad enough, but this is tragic. I have no idea what to say to her.
Sylvia catches my expression. “As I said, a long time ago. We have helped so many kids since then, and we’re still in contact with most of them.”
“You never got married?”
She shook her head. “Never found the right man.”
“That’s….”
“Pathetic, I know. But honestly, I don’t really mind. If I was going to do the family thing, it would have happened. I have a good career, and I love Mum and you lot. I never really wanted kids of my own.”
“Nor me.” I shudder at the thought of babies and then blush. What would I have to offer kids anyway?
Sylvia laughs but she doesn’t give me the usual, “You’re young, you’ll change your mind,” which I used to get from my mum. “We’re going to the shelter early so we can set up for the lunch.”
I bite the inside of my lip. I really don’t want to go back to the shelter.
“You don’t have to go, but I think you’d find it helpful,” she says.
“Helpful?”
She takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. As we sit, she says, “You still haven’t made up your mind about staying, have you?”
“I’m still here,” I mutter.
“In body, not in spirit. Once you relax and stop thinking it’s a dream, or we’re about to throw you out, then you’ll feel better.”
I sigh, because she’s right. It’s not that I’m not happy—kind of—here, and I feel better than I have in years with the good food and a proper bed, but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”
“You’re not ungrateful. You’re suspicious, and rightly so. Even we see how odd it looks. Two old biddies taking young people into their home.”
“You’re not old,” I say automatically and see I’ve said the right thing.
“You’re a good boy, Danny. We were lucky to find you.”
To her surprise—and mine—I lean forward and kiss her cheek. “I think it’s the other way around.”
“Get on with you. Now Mum isn’t going to hassle you for at least an hour.”
Great. I can play on the PlayStation for a while. That woman makes my score look embarrassing. I haven’t spent as much time as I expected on the PlayStation. Partly because I’ve been ill, but mainly because I don’t have the concentration. I fall asleep watching TV. The doctor says my body’s recovering, that I’ll feel better soon. I hope so, because I feel like shite.
I spend an hour playing
Crash Bandicoot
and then I go in search of Mary to see what she wants me to cook. Oh yes, the cooking lessons don’t stop because it’s Christmas. Yesterday she gave me a break because it was my birthday, but the day before, I cooked mince pies. I hate mince pies, and I hate them even more now I’ve spent hours filling that slimy, yucky stuff into the pastry cases.
I knock on the kitchen door. Mary looks up from the table, where she’s poring over a recipe book.
“Afternoon, Danny. Don’t you look handsome?”
I resist the urge to hide my chin. “It feels better.”
“Clean-shaven suits you much better,” she says.
“I like my men with a beard,” I shoot back and then hold my breath, wondering if I’ve gone too far.
Mary laughs and I relax. “Ooh no, all that beard rash.”
“Mary!” I exclaim, because no… just no.
She chuckles again and points at the book. “I’ll stop embarrassing you now. What shall we cook today? I’m all out of ideas.”
Relieved to change the subject, I point at the wok hanging up with the other saucepans. “I’d like to make a stir-fry. I haven’t eaten Chinese since I left home.”
She tilts her head. “I’d need to get the ingredients. Tell you what. Sylvia is finishing early today. How about I see if she would like to go out for a meal?”
“You want to take me to a restaurant?” I ask dubiously.
“Yes. Why? Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” I say hastily, “I just didn’t know if you’d want to be seen with me.” My voice trails off and I look away. I don’t see Mary get up and come over to me.
“Are you worried about what you look like?” she asks kindly.
I nod, because if I was in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to be seen with me.
“You look fine to me,” she says briskly, “but if you want, we can go out and get your hair cut. You’ll need to anyway, for the job interviews.”
“Job interviews? What job interviews?”
“The ones you’re going to after the New Year. Come on, now.”
Before I even have time to think, Mary is getting her coat and bag. I get my coat and trainers and follow her out the door. The woman is like a tsunami. She never gives me time to think about anything. Perhaps that’s the best way to deal with losers like me.
M
Y
HAIR
,
dark blond when it isn’t filthy dirty, lies in a circle around my feet. The barber, “Mick, don’t take it,” took one look at my hairstyle and reached for the scissors. I was thinking a trim; he was thinking a massacre.
“Now, that’s better, young man,” he booms.
I look at myself in the mirror. “Fuck,” I mouth. I don’t recognize the boy in the mirror. I haven’t seen him for years.
He frowns at me. “No need for that language.”
“Sorry, no, I meant… I can’t believe it’s me.”
Mick’s face softens and he nods. “You look your age now. You’re quite the looker under all that hair. Too thin, but not bad-looking.”
I know from Mary’s introduction that he knows I’m homeless and she’s paying for the haircut, but he doesn’t treat me any the worse for it.
“The last time my hair was this short was 1999,” I say.
“You didn’t get it cut at all?”
“Sometimes, but not much. It kept my head warm. Some men preferred to be bald, but I kept mine.” I don’t apologize for the way I looked, and from his expression he doesn’t expect me to.
“You’ll find it easier to look after now,” is all he says.
I run my fingers through the strands, earning myself a smack on the hand.
“Leave it alone.” He fusses again until my hair is neat and tidy once more. “I can’t have you leaving my shop looking like a bum. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“I am a bum,” I point out.
“You’re one of Mary’s kids. You’re not a bum anymore.”
Mary comes into the shop at that point. She left me at Mick’s mercy whilst she went shopping. She does a double take when she sees me.
“My goodness, who is this handsome young man?”
I feel my cheeks heat up. “Mary!”
“You look amazing. You’re going to have all the young men after you.”
“
Mary!
” I squirm on the seat and daren’t look at Mick.
He laughs at my discomfiture. “And some of the old men.”
I snap my head up. He catches my eye in the mirror. “You need to be more observant, son.”
He turns, and I see a rainbow flag on his bicep. I hadn’t noticed it amongst all the other tattoos making up one large sleeve.
Mary joins in his laughter, and I want the world to swallow me whole.
“Come on, Danny, let’s go buy some clothes.”
I frown. I’m wearing the joggers Sylvia gave me the day I came out of hospital. I alternate between these and a couple of other pairs. “I don’t need more clothes.”
“You at least need a pair of jeans, and I can’t buy those for you,” she says.
Mick pats my arm. “You seem like a decent young man. Mary knows you’ll pay her back when you can. Let her do this for you now.”
I turn in my seat and look at them both. He towers over her—he’s at least six foot—with huge muscled arms. They stare back at me, kind expressions on their faces. They don’t show any sign of pitying me. That’s what I hate. I nod slowly. “One pair, and you keep a note of what you’re spending. I’ll find some way of paying you back.”
“Are you any good with a drill?” she asks hopefully.
“I did some work at the shelter,” I say. “It depends what you need doing.”
Mary shakes her head. “We’ll see. I’ve got a few jobs around the house, but I’m not letting you use power tools without supervision.”
I feel useless and inadequate again, but I don’t think she notices. We say good-bye to Mick and head toward the shopping center. The choice is limited for men in my town, and I’m not hopeful of finding anything I like. I used to loiter in the center when I needed somewhere warm to go, so I know what’s around. Most days the security guard threw me out, but sometimes one of them would buy me a hot chocolate and let me stay.
We head toward the only real shop that sells clothes for men under fifty. I hesitate at the door. I’ve been thrown out of here more than once.
Mary notices my hesitation. “Danny, what’s wrong?”
“I’m not welcome in here,” I whisper.
“Ah.” She nods and says, “That was before. Come on.”
I follow her because what else can I do? I look around, but no one pays me any attention. I see the snooty bitch with the long, dyed-blonde hair and too-small clothes. She’s called security more than once, but she doesn’t even raise her head.
“See?” Mary says, staying close to my side. “No one cares now.”
They don’t, but I still feel out of place.
“Think of it like this,” Mary says. “You’re Julia Roberts, she’s the saleswoman on Rodeo Drive.”
“Huh?”
“
Pretty Woman
?”
Mary sees my blank look and sighs. “Julia Roberts is a hooker and gets picked up by Richard Gere, who showers her with clothes and expensive jewelry. She gets told to leave one store and then the hotel manager helps her. She goes back to the shop and gloats over the shop assistant for the sales commission she’s lost.”
I give her a look. “So let me see. I’m a hooker and you’re a… what? A kerb crawler?”
“Yes. No. Shut up!”
I don’t get my Julia Roberts moment, but I do get the chance to make Mary blush. That works for me.
I find some black jeans that fit. Mary refused to buy the ones that were below my hips. I thought they looked great. She thought they looked obscene. As she was paying, I didn’t get a chance to argue.
As we leave the shop, the snooty bitch looks up and catches my eye. I see her frown as if she recognizes me but doesn’t know from where. I look away—there’s no point causing a scene.
The shopping center is heaving with people as it’s three days before Christmas, and it reminds me of something that’s been preying on my mind.
“Mary?”
She looks up from where she’s been eyeing a purple scarf in one of the stalls. “Yes?”
“I can’t buy you and Sylvia a present.”
She frowns at me. “I don’t expect one. Neither does Sylvia.”
“But Christmas is a time for presents.”