The Harder They Fall (38 page)

Josh wiped his hands on the rough napkin the bacon roll had been served in and looked around for a bin.

“Here,” George held out his hand, “I’ll keep hold of it for now.” Josh handed over the scrunched up, greasy paper, and then they were back in the car, with less than five minutes’ drive to their destination.

“Just so you know,” George said cagily, “the flats are due for demolition, so the council have stopped doing any work on them.”

“OK,” Josh acknowledged casually. He’d been waiting for something like this ever since they left, and there was still more.

“Also, my mum…” George began. How best to describe her? A rough diamond? A bit unpolished? The ‘salt of the earth’ type? It all sounded so twee and in any case was completely inaccurate.

“What about her?” Josh prompted.

“She’s as rough as a bear’s arse,” he said. It was a phrase she used all the time, aptly. Josh had never heard it before and it gave him the giggles.

“Define, please,” he spluttered, wiping the tears from his eyes. George didn’t look too impressed.

“She’s got a mouth like a docker, she chain-smokes and sleeps in her clothes. The flat hasn’t been decorated for years and her staple diet is tea and biscuits, supplemented by ale. She does clean though. Sort of.”

“I see. Thanks for the warning,” Josh said, becoming serious once more in order to attend to the road ahead. He was now driving into the estate and the tarmac was like a moonscape, with more potholes than level bits between. As he drove on, past the two-storey, concrete maisonettes, he was overwhelmed by the poverty and ugliness of it all. Ahead loomed the solitary tower block, its front face in full shadow, a formidable blot on an otherwise beautiful skyline.

“See what I mean?” George said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was suddenly regretting asking if Josh wanted to meet his mother. At this time on a Sunday morning, she’d be watching one of the TV programmes about the countryside and telling the presenters what she thought of their rustic cottages and scenic vistas. “Pull in over there,” George indicated to a space next to a shell of a car, burnt-out and rusted almost beyond recognition. Josh did as he was told. “And make sure you lock up,” he warned.

He’d figured that much out for himself. He wanted to stop and tell him that all of this was fine. Better than fine, because here he was, not invited round to play as such, but granted access to the secret side of George’s upbringing. The respect and love he felt for him right at that moment was overwhelming. They stopped in the foyer and both sniffed, then quickly resorted to mouth-breathing.

“Stairs or lift,” George asked, sounding like he had a cold.

“Lift,” Josh replied in a similar fashion. George pulled his jacket sleeve over his hand and pressed the ‘call’ button. The lift could be heard rattling its way down from whichever floor it had last stopped. The indicator light hadn’t worked since—well, ever, now he came to think about it.

They stepped inside the steel box and it started its juddering ascent to the ninth floor. Josh braved a quick breath in so he could speak.

“Thank you for doing this,” he said, then added: “I know how hard it is for you, but I’m glad you invited me. It means a lot.” He ran out of breath. George wasn’t taking the same risk and merely nodded to confirm he had heard and understood. The lift stopped suddenly, and the doors opened part-way, George giving them a helping hand (again, with protective sleeve) so they could both step into the draughty, urine-scented corridor. He walked slightly in front, mapping out Josh’s path for him. They stopped outside a door.

“It still looks the same,” Josh said in awe.

“Of course it bloody does,” George snapped, but then checked himself. “Sorry. That was out of order. You know I’m shitting myself about this, don’t you?”

“I do. Plus, you appear to have inherited what you tell me of your mother’s propensity for cussing on the way up in the lift.”

“Says he, who woke me up this morning by shouting ‘fuck’ no less than three times!” Josh grinned and waited while George took out his keys and unlocked the door.

“Hi, Mum,” he called. She didn’t reply straight away, which was entirely usual, and when she did acknowledge him, it wasn’t with a standard greeting.

“Did that gobshite have bulls like this? Look at the size of the fuckers! They’re fuckin’ enormous. And look at the balls on ’em. That can’t be normal, surely?”

George squinted at the miniscule TV screen. “Yeah, they’re normal,” he assured her.

“Aye fuck. They’d proper make yer eyes water.” She stubbed out her cigarette end and immediately lit another.

“Where’s Monty?”

“Buggered off.”

“When?”

“Don’t bloody start. A bit ago, when I went down Paki’s. He’ll come back. He always fuckin’ does, unfortunately.”

George opened his mouth to say something and coughed instead, as a cloud of blue smoke was exhaled in his direction.

“You makin’ a brew, or what?” his mother asked, although it wasn’t a question really. “Best check the milk first, mind, it came out in friggin’ lumps yesterday. Oh.” She stopped, having suddenly noticed George was not alone. “Who are you?”

“Mum, this is Josh. We went to school together.”

“Never saw ’im before.”

Josh smiled, but for the first time in his life couldn’t string together an introduction. He’d always known about Mr. Morley abandoning them both when George was young, so should he call her Mrs. Morley? Or did she go by a different address these days? Whether he got it right or wrong probably wouldn’t make much difference to her response.

“Hello,” he opted for instead.

“You’re not another one of them fuckin’ woofters, are you?”

“Err, I…” Josh stammered.

“She means are you gay,” George helped him out. “Mum! You can’t just ask people things like that. It’s personal!”

“Well you answered me question anyhow, so go and get that kettle put on. I’m spittin’ feathers ’ere.”

George stepped over the vacuum cleaner and made his way across the room, leaving Josh loitering next to the sofa.

“Go with ’im, if you like. I’m not proud,” she told him.

Josh followed George into the kitchen and looked around. His description was very accurate, he’d give him that. In general, the place was spotlessly clean, but there was so much stuff—clocks, little china dogs, vases, pots, pans, mugs—and the entire flat was covered in a sticky yellow film. George unplugged the toaster so he could plug in the kettle, jumping back in advance of the shock he knew he’d receive.

“The wiring’s a bit shot,” he explained. Josh was slowly spinning on the spot, taking in his surroundings. When he came back round, George had the biggest grin on his face.

“What?”

“I think it might actually be worth all this trauma just to see you speechless for once.”

Josh laughed nervously. “She’s a bit scary, your mum.”

“She’s not really. It’s her accent, makes her sound hard. All the lads around here used to be terrified of her.”

“She’s from Manchester?”

“Yeah. Grew up on a council estate that makes this place look like Knightsbridge.” George went through his usual routine of rinsing and scrubbing the generally unused mugs. “Wonder where Monty is? I’m gonna have to go and have a look before we leave.”

“Who’s Monty?”

“The dog. A Westie with an identity crisis—thinks he’s a pit bull.”

“Ah. I understand now. He ran off when she went to the corner shop.”

“Congratulations,” George said, “you have completed your first lesson in Mancunian.” He filled up the three cups with water, the tea bags bobbing to the surface. “A couple of other things you should know,” he continued. “The ‘Paki Shop’ has never been run by Asian people. I think the current lot are Polish. Whatever, it’s just a figure of speech—shorthand for the ‘open all hours local convenience store’. Secondly, there’s no coffee, because it’s too expensive.”

“Right. Got all that.”

“And she’ll no doubt tell you all about Julian in a minute. He runs the hairdresser’s next to the ‘Paki Shop’ and is as gay as a daisy. The rest of the shops are shut now. Anyway, she thinks the sun shines out of Julian’s you-know-what.”

“I did wonder what she meant by ‘another one of them’. Does she know about you?”

“Yeah, and she doesn’t care. She says it how it is—Pakis and woofters—but it’s not meant in the way you’d think. The gay community in Manchester isn’t a new thing, she says. Lots of the men where she lived were gay and had their own places to meet long before the trendy bit opened in the city. In fact, the only people she really doesn’t like are straight men.”

“Because of your dad?”

“My dad, her dad, most of the men around here. They’re all the same.” He didn’t get any further than this, as his mother shouted from the living room.

“Oy. Don’t you be bummin’ in me kitchen. I keep me food in there.”

George shook his head. “She doesn’t.” He beckoned Josh over to the fridge and opened the door. The light didn’t work, but he could see that it contained only a carton of milk and a tub of margarine. “And for the record, the only person I ever brought home was Jono, from number thirty-four, and only because his mum was a smackhead, I mean heroin addict.” George took the milk out and sniffed it cautiously. She’d obviously bought more, because it smelled fresh enough. He poured some into two of the mugs of tea and looked to Josh to see whether he wanted any, as he rarely drank tea, and when he did it tended to be Earl Grey or the herbal stuff. Josh nodded.

“I wasn’t going to ask about your past conquests, by the way.”

“You know pretty much all there is to know. Kris, Jono, Kris again, a couple of one night stands at college, Sam—that’s for another time—and Joe.” George fished out the tea bags with a spoon and held up one of the mugs for Josh to take. It was the tiniest flicker, hardly noticeable at all, but he saw it. “Are you bothered about Joe?” he asked.

“What?”

“The flash of the green-eyed monster.”

“Damn. I tried to hide that,” Josh blushed.

“Well don’t,” George chastised gently. “So?”

“No. Not Joe. Sam. You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“It’s a long story, and not a good one. And yes, before you say anything, Joshua, it is complicated, which is the only reason I said it was for another time. OK?”

Josh nodded his acceptance, even though he was still fighting the jealousy within. George tutted.

“Just drink your tea and forget about it for now,” he said, thrusting the mug at him. Josh took it and tried to do as he’d been told. He glanced at the tea and wrinkled his nose.

“There’s nothing wrong with the milk,” George restated, taking the lid off the carton again to double check. It still didn’t smell sour. He went over to the fridge and took out the margarine tub. It was rock-solid and covered in ice crystals. “It’s frozen,” he said, checking the temperature dial. It was on the highest setting and he turned it down, making a mental note to ask his mother why. He deposited the milk and picked up the other two mugs, taking them through to the lounge, Josh trailing a step behind.

“Ta, love,” his mother said, taking her tea and shoving her old empty mug across the cluttered table with her foot. Josh observed the appallingly worn old slippers, holes cut in the sides to allow her bunions to protrude, and followed them upwards: the brown pop socks, rolled down to her ankles, men’s grey jogging pants, baggy, off-white t-shirt, and finally the rollers.

“Grown an extra ’ead again, have I?” she asked him with a twinkle in her eye that was pure George. Josh smiled. He was feeling a little less awkward, now he had some understanding of where he was. The people with whom he came into contact on a daily basis used words to convey how they felt, and to fill voids. Those words, as George had told him so many times, were nothing more than cleverly measured bullshit, thought up by the middle classes in an attempt to convince the listener that regardless of how it looked from the outside, they too were suffering. His surgery and the work he did there were of no relevance to this world and he felt like he had stumbled into a different reality. It was a real effort to stay grounded, because the researcher in him was desperate to step back and observe these phenomena from afar. That’s how they all did it—the sociologists. It would be easy to detach himself from this experience. Easy, but wrong. This wasn’t some nameless ‘ethnographic insight’; it was real life, and it was George’s.

The sound of scratching at the door broke Josh out of his trance, and George went to let Monty in.

“It’s rude to stare y’know,” George’s mother remarked without taking her eyes from the TV.

“Sorry,” Josh mumbled. “George looks a lot like you.”

“Course he does, you daft bat. I’m his mother. D’you not look like your mother?”

“I don’t remember. She died when I was little.”

“Ahh. Fuckin’ shame, that is.”

Monty trotted into the living room, head up, ears pricked, stub of docked tail vertical and stiff. He stopped in front of Josh and started to growl, slowly backing off, the growling getting louder.

“Shut it, Mont,” George’s mum ordered. The little dog wandered off behind the sofa, still grumbling and very disgruntled, then suddenly appeared next to Josh’s end.

“You’re sitting in his spot,” George explained.

“Oh.” Josh shuffled along.

“Don’t fuckin’ move, just for the dog,” George’s mum said, still watching the TV. “Christ. What a soft shite.” She patted her lap. “Come ’ere, Mont.” Monty prowled past the sofa, glancing up sideways at Josh, and jumped onto the arm of the chair.

“I turned the fridge down,” George said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. It backfired somewhat.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“Because the milk was frozen. Why was it turned up so high?”

“It’s broken, that’s why. You always have to bloody interfere.”

“You need a new one, I keep telling you that, but…”

“There’s nowt wrong with it, if you keep the fuckin’ thing on full.”

“I’ll get you a new one.”

“You fuckin’ won’t.”

“I’ll do it when you’re at work. Then what you gonna do?”

“Throw the fucker out the window, that’s what I’ll friggin’ well do.”