White Goods (13 page)

Then it all speeded up.
Very quick. Like it was urgent. Like it was life or
death.

‘Scotty was
looking for a snack and knocked the salt out of the cupboard,’ Ian
told her, which was partly good, because she instantly believed
him. It was the sort of thing I was
famous
for
(Mum), though I was certain I hadn’t
been on the telly or anything because of it. The bad bit was that
Auntie Stella instantly tried the stew. ‘You little bugger,’ she
cried, gagging, running to the sink to spit it out.

‘Who’s a little
bugger?’

Our dad. Stood in the
frame of the open back door. Swaying. Swaying quite a
bit.

‘I said, who’s a little
bugger?’

Later, when I stopped
being sick, Della and Ian came to see me. I was in bed. Still fully
clothed, but with the covers pulled right around me. I really
missed my coat then. I needed its safety, its smell, its warmth -
that was like something magical I couldn’t describe or ever
replace. But Auntie Stella had taken that with her washing and
interference.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ian said,
coming and sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘It seemed like a good
cover up. I never thought she’d react like that. Never thought Dad
would, either.’

‘How much did he make you
eat?’ Della piped up.

I couldn’t
answer; just the thought of the endless bowls of salty stew our Dad
kept serving me up to
learn-me-a-lesson
made me want to
heave again. He hadn’t believed it was an accident for one single
second.

‘Dad’s not himself,
Scot,’ Ian said, as if apologising. ‘He’s missing Mum and he got
himself a bit drunk.’

‘Again,’ Della added,
looking directly at me. ‘We’ll get rid of her, Scotty,’ she
promised me, like now it was even more important. Like Auntie
Stella had done this to me – not our dad.

Much, much later, when we
were all supposed to be asleep, and when he’d had enough time to
drink plenty of coffee and think things over, Dad slipped into our
room. Came over to me, stroked my head, thinking I was asleep. But
the smell – the stale, beery breath, the unwashed hum of his body –
would have been enough to wake me, in any case.

‘Sorry, so sorry. I’ll do
better, Theresa. I’ll do better.’ He was talking to our mum I
realised. ‘I’ll make it all up to them.’

I don’t know whether I
meant to speak, but it just came out, without me really
thinking.

‘Will you?’ I asked, half
mumbling, and a little frightened, wondering how he might react. He
had scared me that night – his rage, as he’d forced the first few
spoons into my mouth, the rounded metal catching against my teeth,
my gums, the back of my throat.

Dad seemed
surprised, and I expected a
shouldn’t-you-be-asleep?
Or maybe
even a reprise of his fury.

Instead, he simply
said:

‘Yes, I will. You’ll see.
Now, back to sleep.’

Dad kept his
promise. He started making an effort and presented me with what he
called a
bloody-big-gesture
a day or so later. But this
gesture
of his didn’t make up for
everything. We still had to get rid of Auntie Stella. And we did -
eventually. Two weeks later, Auntie Stella packed her bags. It
wasn’t Della or Ian who achieved this, however. It was me, all on
my own.

Auntie Stella
went back to relying on Marilyn after the stew incident. She didn’t
hold much of a grudge, either, eventually accepting – at least on
the surface of things – that it was a genuine accident. This made
Dad appear even more guilty for making me eat so much of the salty
muck, but Della reckoned Auntie Stella knew the truth; she just
didn’t want to rock the boat too much, as she had it cushy with us.
Della saying
rock-the-boat
made me think of the big hat Auntie Stella had
worn at the funeral. Then I thought about how Mum hadn’t really
been gone that long and how we were all carrying on okay. That made
me a bit sad.

‘You alright, Scotty?’
Ian asked, reading my face, I guess.

I shrugged a
shrug that said
sort-of.

‘Dad’s still drinking
isn’t he?’ I asked.

‘A bit. But he’s just
sad. He’s just not coping well without Mum.’

‘It’s no excuse, though,
is it?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Ian
agreed and then he paused, thinking for a second. ‘School starts
soon. He’ll have to be fine by then.’

School: Ian would be in
sixth form and I’d be starting the second year at high
school.

‘Hope so,’ I replied, but
I wasn’t certain. Wasn’t certain our Dad would sort himself out.
Wasn’t certain I cared, either. We were kind of sorting ourselves,
or so it felt. The-three-of-us. Maybe we didn’t really need
him.

We were in the kitchen:
Ian making tea, me eating jam on toast, standing up. Ian was right
– it was the last half of the summer holidays and school was only a
fortnight away.

‘So,’ Ian started up
again, breaking my reflection. ‘You out with Justin
today?’

‘Probably,’ I replied,
taking a final big bite of the jammy toast, thinking it was good I
didn’t have to lie about spending time with my friend anymore. At
least, not to everyone; I was still cautious about mentioning it
around Dad.

We went to
the swimming pool again, but I did a deal with Justin from the
outset – a Texan Bar when we left
and
a coke and pancakes at the Wimpy
afterwards, if he stayed in the shallow end with me.

‘Deal!’ he agreed, and we
set off, a sad looking Tina giving us her eyes, as we left Justin’s
house without her. ‘I told Sharon about the police and she told our
dad,’ he explained, as we walked off. ‘So Tina ain’t allowed out
anymore.’

There were no
dramas this time at swimming. No Roy Fallick, no me panicking, no
Justin just leaving me, no Disney towel incidents, no
what-you-fucking-staring-at
stuff. I saw Russell, but he just nodded, didn’t come over. I
wondered why he wasn’t friends with our Ian anymore, but didn’t
dwell on it.

At the end of it all, I
found a cubicle to change in and Justin took the one next to me.
All was going well, but it didn’t last. I knew it wouldn’t. I got
us both a Texan Bar and then we headed towards the Wimpy. We didn’t
make it there, though. Something – someone – intervened.

The Wimpy was
on our way home. I’d been there a few times. Mum would take us
there when we had to go into town for new shoes and stuff, as a
treat for
all-our-patience,
which she said in a funny voice that indicated
she didn’t quite mean it. It wasn’t that much of a treat, though.
It had red plastic seats that your legs slurped against if you had
shorts on and the tables were always a bit sticky. Still, Mum let
us eat the sugar cubes if we were particularly good. I liked
dropping them in my coke, but always got my fingers smacked for
being
disgusting-and-common
when I did that.

Justin and me
were just outside the Whimpy when we saw them.
Them.
They saw us too, and came
over: Roy Fallick and another older lad. Like us, they had wet
hair.

‘Saw you queers at the
pool, splashing around like girls,’ Roy said, smirking, looking at
the other boy for approval. His friend was taller, thinner, our
Ian’s age. ‘This is my brother,’ he added. ‘And he can beat you
both up.’

The brother looked
shifty.

‘I ain’t your
brother. Not yet,’ he corrected, kicking Roy gently in the back of
the legs, probably wondering whether he really could have the both
of us. I couldn’t fight and Justin fought like a girl – but at
least he
could
fight, all the same.

‘My dad’s marrying his
mum,’ Roy continued and I wondered why he was telling me. He was
even being quite pleasant, for Roy Fallick, anyway. ‘So, I’ll have
a dad and a mum again,’ he bragged and suddenly I got it. I knew
where this was going. ‘What happened to your mum again?’ he said
and then he laughed, looking at his not-quite-brother again,
seeking his agreement, but the second boy didn’t look
back.

‘You can fuck-off,’ I
said, only I didn’t; I just said it in my head, staring into the
ground, controlling my anger, knowing it would get me nowhere. Roy
wasn’t someone I could say that to and walk away
unscathed.

‘Ain’t that
Dodgy Gary’s new car?’ Justin said randomly, suddenly distracting
us, breaking the discomfort. He was right: at the traffic lights,
near the crossing that led to home,
Uncle
Gary had stopped in his brand
new Cortina, the bright orange body-work attracting our attention.
It was like the colour of a lollipop.
Mandarin,
he’d called it.

‘Scot!’ Justin cried, as
I abruptly dashed off, leaving him with Roy and co, heading like a
lightning strike towards the car before the traffic lights could
change.

The thing is, I’d had a
brainwave: seen the most obvious answer to all our problems waiting
at the lights, puffing on a fag. Thank you for pointing it out,
Justin Tankard!

‘Uncle Gary,’ I said,
breathless, as I clambered in the back of his car, using the
familial tag on purpose. ‘I need a favour!’

‘Jesus!’ he
cried, and the cigarette jumped from his mouth, landed in his lap,
creating a smell of burnt ironing, as it sizzled a hole in his
nylon slacks. Beige nylon. The burnt iron smell reminded me
instantly of my purpose: getting rid of Auntie Stella. Cars started
to beep: the lights were green again and
Uncle
Gary was still flapping with
his fag. Eventually, we started moving.

‘What kind of favour?’ he
asked, trying not to sound annoyed or edgy, because it was me
asking. But I could tell he was both.

‘Well,’ I began,
wondering just how I was going to start, and what I was actually
going to ask...

It took a few days to
happen.

At first, I thought he’d
bottled it. Changed his mind. He kept telling me it was a lot to
ask, that it was pushing things too far.

Even for
you,
he told me. But he came good, all the
same.

I kept it all
to myself. I didn’t let Della or Ian know what I was up to, and,
since Dad had made me eat so many bowls of the salty stew, they
hadn’t insisted I join in with their attempts to get rid of Auntie
Stella. In fact, for fear of similar punishment, they seemed to
have all but given up. Della was still a bit rude, and Ian kept up
the belching and blowing off, but that was hardly the campaign that
both had promised. Still, I reckoned I had a corker, one that
wouldn’t make its way back to me and one that was permanent. Well,
almost. It wasn’t like
Uncle
Gary was gonna kill her; least, I hadn’t asked
him to go that far.

It happened
on a Wednesday, the very last week of the holidays. Just after tea,
which was
something-and-chips
from
Harry’s;
whatever you wanted
.
So, that lovely holiday smell of
vinegar, salt and hot fat on newspaper had filled our house,
putting us all in a good mood.

It was Della who went to
the door. She came back to us with a weird look on her face, the
one she gave you when she thought you were a pervert or not quite
right in the head.

‘It’s for
you,’ she said, keeping her face on, looking at Auntie Stella, who
had her teeth around a battered sausage. We’d already had lots of
jokes about that between her and Dad –
Oh,
bit of a mouthful you’ve got there, Stel!
– with eyes rolling from Ian and Della. I’d started rolling
my eyes too when these things happened, although I still wasn’t
quite sure what was funny or what was just plain
embarrassing.

‘Me?’ said Auntie Stella,
putting her plate aside.

‘Yeah, you,’ Della
replied, testing to see if she could use a cheeky tone in front of
our Dad when he was preoccupied with fish-in-batter. She
could.

‘Tony,’ she said, giving
Dad a nudge as she got up out of her chair, ‘I’ve got company, do
up your fly.’

As we
listened to what happened next, I couldn’t help but smile to
myself. The others just looked perplexed, like they couldn’t quite
work out what was happening. I knew, of course;
Uncle
Gary and I had already come to
an agreement. Only, he seemed to go a bit further than I’d
expected.

‘Stella, I
was wondering if you would, well…’
Uncle
Gary was a bit hesitant,
stumbling over his words, building up to a big question. ‘What I’m
trying to say is, well, Stella.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Will you
m-.’

That was as far as he
got, because Auntie Stella was suddenly gushing, crying and
screaming, even though he hadn’t finished his sentence.

‘Oh Gary!’ was the
general gist of what then came out of her mouth, along with: ‘Oh my
God!’ Sometimes mixing it together: ‘Oh my God Gary!’ And her voice
went a bit higher, bit shriekier than usual, making us pull faces,
as the shrill squeal hit our ear lobes.