White Goods (23 page)

When I get home, Dad takes
the money off me and goes out. I’m not allowed to go with him. And
then he’s back again. So I know that’s it – he didn’t get to see
her, he simply had time to hand over the money. And we won’t be
allowed to see Nan Buckley anymore. He brought something back with
him that confirmed it – the photograph of Mum that I gave
her.

‘
You have to
stay away,’ Ian tells me, when Dad refuses to even talk about it
anymore.

‘
But
I-.’

‘
No, Scotty.
You have to let it go. You have to let her go, like the rest of us
have. You have to promise.’

I look to the floor, not
wanting to answer, not wanting to commit to Ian’s
request.

‘
There are
other ways to deal with this.’

I look up.

‘
You can still
talk to her. Nan Buckley’s still listening.’

‘
Really?’

‘
What do you
think me and Della do on our visits?’

I shrug – I hadn’t really
thought about it before. I think something over before I speak
again.

‘
Can we go
now?’ I eventually ask.

Within ten minutes, we are
all ready.

The
three-of-us.

Ian, me, and
Della.

Ian tells Dad where we are
going and he simply nods in recognition – but he doesn’t want to
join us.

‘
Just make
sure he stays out of trouble,’ Dad refers to me.

‘
Will do,’ Ian
confirms.

So we leave. In my
stomach, I feel sick. Suddenly, I’m not sure I can face a visit
after all, but Ian’s hand is on my shoulder, guiding me out of the
door, along our road, left at the top into St James Road, guiding
me all the way along the end. Then I dig in my heels, don’t
budge.

‘
Come on,
Scotty,’ Ian says quietly.

But I’m looking right, up
towards Beverly Courts, looking towards Red Nanny’s little flat,
wanting to visit that version of the nan I loved.

‘
You can’t,’
Ian says, reading my face and getting into my mind.

‘
Come on, it’s
cold,’ Della expels, impatience in her voice.

‘
Della-.’

But it’s enough to get me
to move – having Della back on side is important to me. So we go
right, instead of the usual left and I don’t really feel a thing
until we are there.

In the crematorium, Nan
Buckley isn’t an old lady who paints her nails red and refers to my
Dad as Anthony. She’s a little rose bush, or at least she will be
when she grows a bit in the spring. We know it’s her because
there’s a little plaque in front of her telling us.

‘
What was she
like?’ Della.

‘
Who?’ I say,
pretending I don’t know, but Della just gives me a look.

I shrug, as I find the
right words.

‘
Nice,’ I say,
thinking of my pretend Nan Buckley, back in her flat; the flat that
used to belong to our Nan Buckley. And part of me curses Justin for
nicking the money and messing it up; but another part of me is glad
to be here, with Ian and Della, being the three-of-us, being a bit
more honest.

For once.

‘
I’ve brought
something for you,’ I say to Rose-Bush Nan, taking something out
from inside my coat and using the plaque to prop it up. Still
inside the small Woolworth’s bag, I leave her the copy of ‘There’s
No one Quite like Grandma’ I’d bought.

Ian and Della
don’t quite know what to think, I can tell. I try to give them
a
don’t-ask
look,
and it must work, because they don’t.

‘
Right,’ says
Ian, eventually. ‘Whilst we are here...’

And they are both looking
at me, and realise this isn’t just about visiting Nan Buckley’s
rose.

They have something else
in mind. Someone else to visit.

I shake my
head.

‘
No.’

‘
Scotty.’

‘
No,’ I
repeat, feeling hot tears trickle down my face, tasting them on my
lips, warming my face in the winter cold.

‘
Come on.’
It’s Della this time, using the new hold she has on me again.
‘It’ll do you good.’

I look at her and then I
look at Ian. Then I slowly nod, giving in, my body feeling like a
concrete weight, wishing I still had my old, falling-apart parka to
hide in, to protect me, as they both lead me towards the one place
I’ve been resisting more than any other…

9.

She had been getting ready
all day. Not on the outside, just on the inside. Just in her head.
Feeling it all the way through her body. Feeling it all day whilst
her kids were at school, her husband at...

‘
Work,’ she
thinks, as she chooses a new lipstick in
Boots
, popping it into her basket
next to the packet of tights and the tin of
Atrixo
. She likes the advert where
the dried-out brown leaf becomes all new and green again. She
imagines that the cream does the same to her, making her old self
younger again.

‘
Youthful,’
she muses, continuing to think in single word sentences, as she
heads to the check-out and pays for her three items, handing over
three crumpled pounds notes.

‘
Coffee,’ is
her next consideration, as she steps back onto the high street and
heads for
Acre’s-the-Bakers
for a drink and a pastry.

There is a sense of luxury
in the air, as she glides along, stepping over the bakery
threshold, picking up her tray and sliding it along the counter,
placing her order as she goes. She doesn’t seem to notice that the
tray is sticky, the coffee a little bitter, the pastry that she
chooses a little too dry. Sitting in the corner, sipping her drink,
running her right index finger around her plate, gathering crumbs,
she dreams about the evening, wondering if he’ll be clean shaven,
or wearing the shirt she bought him. She even thinks about the
smell of cigarettes and aftershave lotion that comes off him, of
the warmth of familiarity it arouses, the comfort, the…

‘
Love,’ she
thinks, but this sets off a different thought, and suddenly she’s
down another path. Thinking about her husband, the kids and her
life. And her secret. Thinking that she really wants it all, but
knows she can’t have it.

‘
Home.’ A
sobering thought, that makes her gather up her bags and head back
to her reality for a few hours until…

‘
Tonight.’

She has the excuse ready
that she uses every time – she’s accompanying her friend Suzie on
her Avon round.

‘
Why don’t you
do it too?’ her husband keeps suggesting, and she’s tempted to
say
yes.
It would
provide her with a stronger excuse to slip away from the family at
night. Yet, it might also raise more questions:
where were her products; where were her earnings?
So this little lie about the friend is better.
Even if he does keep asking about this
Suzie,
so she’s had to make up a few
lies about her as well.

‘
I’ll think
about it,’ she tells him, putting him off again.

And now she is
getting ready. The kids have been fed and are glued to their
rightful place in front of the television. And her husband is with
them, equally full and sleepy with lager. She’s had a nice warm
bath and smells of
Imperial
Leather
, her skin soft and soap-scented.
She’s put on her best underwear and popped on her dressing gown.
Her dress hangs on the outside of the wardrobe. A navy, polka dot
number; he won’t notice – this man she’s meeting in secret – but
it’s important to her. However, before she slips it on or does her
make-up, she needs to dry her hair.

That’s when it
starts.

The end.

And, because it happens
so quick – in a flash - the only way I can retell it is in slow
motion. Slow, agonised motion.

She slides open the
drawer where the hair drier is kept.

Unwinds the lead that has
been coiled around the snout where the air blows out.

Takes the plug and pushes
it into the wall socket.

Clicks the switch,
allowing the electric current to connect with the
mechanism.

Runs her hands through
her hair, leaving her fingers and palms wet.

Then, she hits the ‘high’
button and there is a ‘puck’ sound in the air, which fills with a
sudden burning smell and that’s it.

That’s the
end.

No screaming, no bolt of
lightning, no fires.

‘A faulty product, Mr
Buckley,’ the husband is later informed. ‘It might not seem the
right time, but later, you might want to consider if you want to
take action. Take it up with the manufacturer. Go back to where you
bought it.’

But he won’t. Of course,
he won’t. It wasn’t a normal purchase, as such. Dad hadn’t bought
it for Mum; it had simply been ‘acquired’.

A faulty product, from
Dontask.

How many had Dad handed
on to other, innocent punters, not really thinking about the
quality? What did he say when people tried to get a refund for
something that didn’t work?

‘You pay your money, you
take your chance.’

And he’d stand his ground,
unless the complainant was bigger than he was. Then he gave in, but
it was very rare.

You pay your
money, you take your chance.

So, there you have
it.

‘That’s not what you said
last time,’ Roy Fallick said, charging forward into the circle of
people that had surrounded me in the playground. ‘Or the time
before!’

The others looked at him,
then back to me, wondering what was going to happen next. Would I
bite back? Did I really dare, what with Roy’s reputation for
violence?

‘You said she was killed
in your kitchen, then you said the heater fell in the bath, didn’t
you? You’re a fucking liar, Buckley! A fucking liar!’

I did. There was no
denying it. I’d said all these things. But there was some truth in
all of them. Just a bit. I could have explained myself. I could
have told him how I wasn’t quite ready. How the truth was much
harder to deal with. How killing her again and again was somehow
the easy option. But Roy wouldn’t understand that. None of them
would. So I said nothing.

Instead, I did something
that I’d never done before - I fought back.

Afterwards, I wasn’t sure
if something snapped, if something new was released into my system.
In any case, I spoke to Roy in his first language – I charged into
him, took him by complete surprise, and, with one simple but
forceful shove, I pushed him onto his back. As I walked away – not
running, but keeping calm – I heard him crying and knew there would
be hell to pay. He’d fallen onto some stones and later I understood
he’d been badly bruised and even got some cuts. But I’d humiliated
him, and in front of other people he had bullied. So, he’d have to
regain his title, his dark stature.

Yes, there would be hell
to pay.

And there was – hell was
exactly what occurred.

But just for a moment I
was on top – I had defeated the bully. I had reduced my arch-enemy
to a snivelling heap, and it had been so very
satisfying.

I did try to visit Nan
Buckley - or at least her replacement - one more time. I went to
Beverley Courts at the end of January and knocked on her door. But
there was no answer. I held open the letter box and peered in. And
then I knew for sure. The flat was empty. Just the carpets left.
She was gone. Gone for good. And I thought that was it. But it
wasn’t.

A month
later, a postcard arrived. Addressed to ‘Sean’. Della picked it up,
read it out and then tossed it away: there was no one in our house
called
Sean
. But
something clicked in me and I took it back out the bin. Sean. That
was me, that was the mistake she’d kept making with my
name.

It was a picture postcard
and the scene on the front and the postmark told me it was sent
from Harrogate. From way up north. As well as the name and address,
there was also a message.

‘Dear Sean, just to let
you know I’ve settled in well. I know you meant well. Take care of
yourself.’ It was signed ‘Sylvie,’ with the word ‘Nan’ in brackets
afterwards. There was also a postscript:

‘P.S. I’ve opened a bank
account.’

And that was it. But it
was enough. It was the happiest ending I could have hoped for. The
happiest ending I’d had in quite a while.

10.

‘Oh great,’ was Della’s
reaction, when she saw me in it.

The coat. The replacement
one Dad had bought me.

‘Terrific.’

‘Leave him,’ Ian had
warned her, gently, still in Dad-mode. It seemed to be a permanent
thing, like Della’s inverted expressions.