The Boy Who Lived With Ghosts: A Memoir (32 page)

He should try living
in
the madhouse.

Mum said it would be nice if we could celebrate this family reunion with a musical soirée. I have therefore been practicing Mozart’s “Rondo Alla Turca.” I can also play “Für Elise” and the slow movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” although I am not note perfect at this piece. We will, however, start with some background music from Rodgers and Hammerstein before the recital.
South Pacific
has been chosen yet again after Florie Atkins told Mum that the musical won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1950. Jim Reeves’s “Distant Drums” was discounted because it may bring back bad memories of the warring tribes tea party. And the “The Planets” suite is too dark for a soirée. So it will be “Bali Ha’i.”

Two ambulance orderlies brought Margueretta up the path, each holding onto an arm. Her wrists were still bandaged, and they moved very slowly with her—like she might break. She was in the hospital and the lunatic asylum for four weeks.

“Have you hidden the knives?” Joan whispered to Mum.

We don’t need to hide the knives because you would still have to use the bread knife and you would have to saw it across your wrists, and I don’t even think a bottle of Crabbie’s Green Ginger Wine would numb that feeling. And the only person I know who shaves is Auntie Dot, and she’s not here so there are no razor blades that we know of.

Mollie stared into Robert’s eyes when “Bali Ha’i” came on.

“Eech! ‘Here I am, your special island. Come to me. Come to me. Bali Ha’i. Bali Ha’i.’ Eech!”

“She had ECT,” Mum whispered to Joan Housecoat.

“Who? Mollie?”

“No! Margueretta, of course.”

“Ooo-er! The doctor said I should have some of that,” Joan replied.

“ECT? You? Really?” Mum replied.

“Yes. For my depression. He said it could end the black days once and for all. Then I wouldn’t have to take Valium three times a day. Either that or I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“We’ll all be having a nervous breakdown sooner or later. That or a frontal lobotomy! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Mum replied.

“Ooo-er!”

“Eech! ‘I’m gonna wash that man right outa my hair!’ Eech!”

“Time for the piano recital! He’s been practicing for weeks,” Mum announced and stopped the record, which was just as well as Mollie had asked Robert to dance and God knows no one wanted to see that.

It was when I was on the ascending A minor arpeggio of “Für Elise” that Margueretta let out a piercing howl like a dog that’s been stepped on. I knew I should have practiced more. And Joan said that’s it, she warned us that she wouldn’t stay if there was any screaming. She left to get another Valium and would not be coming back under any circumstances.

And even though she was in the giant tribal headdress again, I’m sure Akanni’s mother could still run. She should have grabbed Akanni in an instant and taken her husband’s hand, and they would have been out of this madhouse in a flash. Run down the path and into the Ford Anglia 105E with rockets and flying saucers, speeding seventy miles an hour all the way to London. Never look back. Change their address and their names. Have face-altering surgery.

But they stayed and drank tea and said goodbye like old friends when they left, and Akanni didn’t even want to kiss them. And everything will be fine because we’ve passed the Social Services audit.

“I’ve got something to show you!” Robert announced and left our front room.

“Eech! He brought it with us! He’s never done that before! Eech!”

“What is it?” Emily asked.

Robert pulled the cover off to reveal a tiny cage.

“It’s my Madeira Chaffinch. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s my prize bird.”

She was beautiful. She was green and white, but the cage was too small for her to spread her wings—even though she was tiny.

So she sat on her perch and shivered.

And Margueretta sat on the sofa and stared at nothing, her face a perfect, pure white— except for two red circles on her temples. But she was still beautiful.

87

T
hey’ve had to bring forward our sex education lessons owing to an incident with Malcolm Beresford. Ten of us threw him out of the changing rooms because he has pubic hair already even though he’s only twelve, which everyone agreed is ridiculous. He was wagging his huge cock at us and that was more than any of us could stand, so we threw him out. Serves him right.

He was completely naked, and we left him with only a football sock to cover his pubes. We locked the door to stop him getting back in and it was not our fault that the girls came along for their netball practice. Well, it was our fault for locking the door but not for the girls seeing him naked. And according to rumors, he didn’t even try to hide his cock with the sock. Some said he wagged it at them.

Anyway, it was Leslie Flowers who complained to Miss Copeland because Leslie Flowers likes girls, and everyone knows she stares at the other girls in the showers. Miss Copeland wanted us all caned, but Mr. Curry, our Religious Education teacher, said we should not be punished because we are obviously confused about our sexuality and it is more of an adolescent issue where punishment could lead to bigger problems with our sexual orientation. Apparently, we have a lot of hormones buzzing around our bodies that could result in any one of us becoming a mad axe killer. Also, Malcolm Beresford did not complain because he is now getting a lot of girlfriends. So we are having sex education lessons to help with our adolescent issues with puberty.

“You know when you are reaching puberty,” Mr. Curry told us, “because you will get hair around your penis. Your penis will also get a lot larger than
it is now, and you will experience something called an erection. Do any of you have any questions?”

We had questions. Oh, yes, we had lots of questions. Boy, did we have questions. Questions? Oh, yes. Questions. You bet.

No one said a word.

“How about if you all write your questions down, then we will put them all into a hat, and I will read them out and answer them? Would that help?”

Would that help? Good God, yes! We could ask any questions about wanking and tits and tampons and anything like that without anyone knowing who asked. We scribbled furiously.

“How do you know when you can produce sperm?” Mr. Curry read out the first question.

We all leaned forward. We needed answers.

“Well. Have you ever gone into a newsagents and looked at the pictures in the girlie magazines?”

There is no way I could reach those magazines. They’re on the top shelf. So I imagined Danny’s Parade Magazine pictures hidden in his dad’s sock drawer.

“And when you are looking at the pictures, do you get a warm feeling down there?” he asked, pointing to his crotch.

We were transfixed.

“Well, that means you can produce sperm.”

I definitely get a warm feeling down there when I look at my Parade Magazine picture. Therefore I can produce sperm. I will investigate this later in detail. But right now we needed more facts.

“Why do men have breasts and nipples?”

No answer on that one. He will check with Mr. Randal in the biology department.

“Will I go blind if I masturbate?”

No. But it could become dangerous if you are obsessed with masturbating or if you do it in inappropriate places.

This is just not enough detail. For instance, what exactly does it mean to be obsessed with wanking? Malcolm Beresford says he wanked six times in one day. So is that dangerous? And Danny’s brother was wanking three times a day on his bed. Is that dangerous and inappropriate? And what is an inappropriate place? The cloakroom? Bicycle sheds? I doubt Mr. Curry’s real ability to answer these questions. He appears very flustered.

And he’s sweating.

“Is it possible to get a girl pregnant who is your sister?”

That’s a whole different issue. Even though the answer is technically yes, we should not ever think about such a thing because it is called incest, and it is illegal and against the will of God, and if there is anyone who wants to discuss this question in private, he should see Mr. Curry afterwards. It is most important, whoever it was who asked that question, that he sees Mr. Curry afterwards.

“What are homos? Exactly?”

They are men who like other men and do it to each other the same as a man does it to a woman even though neither of them has got a quim. The correct word is homosexual. We are living in a more enlightened society now, and sex between consenting adult males was made legal four years ago in England. So we should not worry anymore about fancying another boy.

We’re having none of that! Timothy Newland spends all his time with the girls at playtime, and he even walks and runs like a girl. There’s a story going around that he’s got a Barbie Doll. And his mum brings him to school every day and comes to collect him. He is obviously a homo. So we lock him in the equipment cupboard when we get changed for football so that he will not see our cocks. And if you ask me, Mr. Curry knows way too much about this subject, and I am beginning to think he is also a homo.

And apparently that is quite enough question time for one day because we are all pent up like animals, and we should not be thinking about sexual matters too intently for too long. We will therefore return to the subject of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection without which there would be no life after death and we would be no different from the common beast.

We will press Mr. Curry for more answers next week.

88

T
here were lots of drinks I’ve never seen before or even heard of. The bottles were all different shapes and beautiful colors. Tia Maria, Crème de Menthe, Bols Advocat, Crème de Curaçao, and Angostura Bitters. And Napoleon Brandy, Taylor’s Port, Captain Morgan’s Rum, Smirnoff Vodka, and two bottles of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. And a bottle of Gordon’s Gin, lying empty on its side.

Beside the bottles was a small book called
101 Cocktails to Mix at Home
. Uncle Jack said we could help ourselves to anything we want but not his Johnny Walker whisky, which he was holding onto for safekeeping.

Margueretta was deciding where to start. She poured an Advocat and Corona American Cream Soda. She said it’s called a Snowball.

It was Christmas Eve, but we were not at home. Mum said we should spend Christmas with Nana because she is getting old and lonely. But we were not in Nana’s flat. We were in Uncle Jack’s flat with Auntie Ethel.

They’ve got a Christmas tree, but it looked like it had fallen over because it was propped up with a dirty pillow and a cardboard box. The lights were switched on, but there weren’t many lights actually on the tree. They were mostly trailed across the floor, lighting up the gray-black sticky carpet. Beside the tree were two tiny children, my little cousins.

“Johnny, my little cock ‘sparra! Remember me? Do you want a drink? You’re the bloody drinker, you are! You drank that whole glass of sherry straight down…just like yer dad, you are! Where is yer dad? Do you want a drink? ‘Ave a drink for Chrishmas!”

“He does not want a drink,” Mum replied.

I did want a drink. I wanted something from one of those colored bottles, maybe the green one.

“Can I have a drink?” asked the tiny boy.

“Sit down, you! I don’t want to hear from you! I’m sick of your fucking whining!”

I looked at Auntie Ethel, but she never said a word. She was sitting on the sofa, head drooped down on her chest. She never said hello when we came in. I don’t think she could even see us because her eyes were half closed—even though you could tell she wasn’t sleeping.

“Merry Chrishmas! And help yourshelf to a drinksh! A drink? Don’t mind if I do. Thanksh very mush…”

Uncle Jack took a swig from his Johnny Walker bottle and then held it back close to his chest in case anyone should steal it.

“Give yer Uncle Jack a little Chrishmish kisssh! Thatsh my girl. You were always the pretty one.”

And he pulled Margueretta’s face towards him with his free hand and kissed her hard on the lips.

“Urgh! He put his bloody tongue in my mouth! Disgusting animal!” Margueretta screamed.

“It wash jusht a Chrishtmish kisssh!”

“Jesus wept! Stay away from her! She’s your bloody niece!” Mum shouted.

“Shut yer mouth, Scottie! If you know what’s good for yer!”

Jingle Bell, Jingle Bells,
Jingle all the way.
Oh, what fun it is to ride,
On a one-horse open sleigh!

Miracle on 34
^th
Street
was just starting on their telly.

“Thatsh a good old film, that one. Load of bloody nonshense about Father Chrishmas being real! Ha! There ish no Father Chrishmas! But it makesh a good film though.”

“Father Christmas is coming tonight! Tonight! Tonight!” the tiny boy shouted, jumping up and down.

“Shut up! Shut yer mouth or you’ll get whatsh coming to you! We get all that booze from the Littlewoods Catalog. Get it on the weekly plan. We’re still paying for last Chrishmas. And the one before that…and…”

He rubbed his belly. It looked like the same dirty string vest he was wearing all those years ago on the beach. Floppy brown nipples surrounded by black hairs, and the hairs poking through the holes. And there was his belt, wrapped high around his waist, just under his ribs. As usual, it wasn’t pushed through the belt loops.

“Have a drink, why don’t yoush!”

Margueretta stepped up and poured herself a brandy and gulped it down. The bandages are gone now, but you can still see the red scars on the insides of her wrists. The doctor said if she had cut any deeper, she would have sliced through her tendons, and then she would have lost the use of her hands because it’s very hard to sew a tendon back together again.

“Look at her drink! She’s a Mitchell, right enough!” yelled Uncle Jack.

“Steady on, young lady!” Mum shouted. “Have you taken your pills today?”

“Where’sh that husband of yoursh?” Uncle Jack asked.

“No bloody idea,” Mum replied.

“I’d bloody punch his face if he wash here. Leaving you like that. And these kidzz of yoursh! I would never abandon my kidzz!”