White Goods (30 page)

‘
What’s wrong
with Russell?’ I asked, as we watched them descend the steps down
from the flats, and head off back into town. If they saw us, they
didn’t make it known.

‘
Nothing,’ Ian
said, watching them. His eyes were cold and glaring. ‘Nothing at
all, Scot.’

And it was true: there was
nothing wrong with Russell. Nothing wrong at all. The problem lay
elsewhere: with Ian.

13.

First Sunday after we
were back at school, we went to visit Mum again.

Della refused to come
with us.

‘Not if he’s wearing it
like that,’ she told Ian, before heading off in a different
direction - the Sheffield Road Estate.

She was referring to me.
I had my new parka on again, with the hood up, zipped to the full,
so a circumference of fur encircled my face. I wore it whenever I
could, maximising the opportunity for protection, as it kept me
hidden. The boys, including Roy Fallick and Clint, hadn’t been
anywhere near me since Adrian had scared them off, but I didn’t
want to take any chances.

‘But
only
you
wear
that stupid bloody coat, so they’ll know it’s you,’ Della had cried
at me, but I ignored her. I knew it kept me safe; bad things only
happened when I didn’t have it; when I took it off. ‘It’s not even
the one Mum bought you,’ she had continued. I’d ignored that too;
blocked it out, pretending she’d never said it.

‘Just you and
me then,’ Ian had said aloud, looking at Della, as she cleared off
to meet
Julie
. We
still hadn’t told her we knew. ‘Come on, let’s go and see
Mum.’

So, we continued on –
just the-two-of-us – taking our usual short cut through the
crematorium, out through the back and towards Mum’s new
residence.

‘You okay?’ Ian kept
checking, as we got closer and closer.

Once through the front
gates, we located the right building. Next, we had to sign in at
reception, and Ian did this on behalf of us both.

‘Take your hood off,
lad,’ the man behind the reception desk told me, and so I pulled
down the zip and slid it off my head. Suddenly, my little world got
bigger: my small circle view becoming panoramic and I saw things I
hadn’t seen before.

Behind the reception,
there were pigeon holes, with files stacked in them. Towards the
right, there was a door that led to an office out the back, where
the receptionist had disappeared to the very first time we had
visited. He had made a phone call, double-checking who we were, I
guess, before allowing us. This time, he seemed to recognise
us.

To the left of the
reception desk, there was a locked door; it had a window in it, the
glass reinforced with wire. Once we signed in, the receptionist
would unlock it and another person would take us on in to see
Mum.

However, that wasn’t all
I could see. To the adjacent right were French doors that led to a
garden, and through the doors I could see someone I knew. Someone I
hadn’t expected to see there.

‘I’m afraid your mum
won’t be allowed out there yet,’ the receptionist said, noting my
interest, jumping to the wrong conclusion. ‘You’ll have to see her
inside for now, in the secure visiting area.’

‘Okay,’ I said, taking my
eyes away from the woman outside. I wasn’t the only one to notice
her, though. Ian was staring too. And, without thinking, without
realising he was doing it, a name slipped from his lips. A name no
one would usually utter.

‘Jackie,’ he said, in a
barely audible whisper, staring at the woman in the
garden.

My brow crinkled up with
confusion and I looked again, as Ian broke his gaze, heading for
the now unlocked door that led to our mother.

‘Come on, Scot,’ he
called after me.

But I stalled, caught in
a moment. Confused by what I could see and what Ian had
whispered.

He’d clearly
said the name
Jackie;
but the only person I could see through those French doors
was Shirley White.

After the
visit, once we were home, I snuck up to my bedroom and took the
item I’d stolen from
Uncle
Gary from its hiding place and checked it over
again. A simple white envelope, sealed, with just one name written
on the front. I’d told myself I wouldn’t open it, that I’d keep it
as I’d found it; that when I eventually gave it back to
Uncle
Gary, the secrets
that were scrawled within would be just that: secrets.

But the
sighting of Shirley White that day changed things. I found myself
confused by events; I didn’t understand what was happening and I
needed to. And the letter I’d stolen from
Uncle
Gary’s flat just might have
had the answers I needed.

The envelope
was stuck down with sellotape, suggesting its seal had previously
come away. So, I had to hook my finger under the seal and rip it
open along the top. I slid out a single sheet of writing paper. A
letter; a letter
Uncle
Gary didn’t want me to have. A letter to
Jackie
written by Mum.

‘Dear
Jackie,’
it began,
‘this is the last time you’ll ever hear from me. You mustn’t
visit anymore. Not after what you did. You must stay away. But I
have enclosed what you asked for, and hopefully it is enough, this
time, to see off your debts…’

The letter
didn’t tell me everything I needed to know.
Not after what you did,
she’d
written – what had
Jackie
done exactly? What was so bad that my family did
their very best to ensure
Jackie
all but never existed? But the letter did make
that reference to money. Had Ian somehow been dragged into
what
Jackie
owed?
Were those older boys after Ian, when they should have been
after
Jackie
? It
had me thinking; it also had me more confused, like I now had too
many clues and far less answers than ever.

However, there was one
vital piece of information at the end of the letter that took me
closer to the truth.

So
that’s
who you are, I
thought, smiling to myself, overjoyed by this small triumph,
thinking how I’d had the answer at my fingertips all along.
Of
course
that’s
who you are…

14.

Another memory; another
Polaroid coming back to life.

I’m in a house; not the
house with the white picket fence and purple room. A different one.
I’m not on my own though, I’m with Jackie. Just
the-two-of-us.

‘In you go, it’ll be
alright,’ Jackie coaxes, pushing me forward.

We are just inside the
house, in the hallway. The wallpaper is brown and mustard, in
vertical stripes. There’s a smell, a damp, thick smell. To my left,
there is a door leading to another room, where the purpose of the
visit awaits me.

‘Go on, he’s in there.
He’s a nice man. Go on.’

And because Jackie is
asking me, I do as I’m told. Lovely Jackie, who we all look up to.
Lovely Jackie, who wouldn’t hurt me. Wouldn’t put any one of us in
any danger.

‘I’ll be out here all the
time, okay?’

There’s a man in the
room, sitting on a large sofa that has a pattern like the hallway
wallpaper: brown and mustard stripes. The room appears smoky; the
man has been smoking. He smiles at me, welcoming me in.

When I’m in the room, he
asks me to sit next to him on the sofa. I’m cold with fear, and I
want to go back into the hallway. Jackie is there, just outside,
looking back into the room. He nods at me, encouragingly, so I know
I should do as I’m told.

And Jackie is still
there, so I’m still safe.

Then the door back into
the hallway slowly closes, and the image of Jackie gets smaller and
smaller, until he is just a sliver peering through a
crack.

And Jackie is
gone.

And then it’s just me, in
the smoky, dingy room, sitting next to the man on the brown and
mustard settee.

15.

Three weeks
later and we were visiting Mum again. This time, it was all three
of us. Russell was seeing his nan, so Della was available for once.
Plus, I’d agreed to keep the hood down on my parka, so she didn’t
have to be
constantly mortified
by my appearance.

‘So good of you to drag
yourself away from Casanova,’ Ian had said, all sarky, when she
announced she was coming along.

There had been
a run of similar jeers from Ian since Della had finally come clean
about her relationship. She was ignoring him on the whole; she knew
there was something up between Ian and Russell, but she
wasn’t-been-dragged-in
and, as far as she was concerned
it-was-his-problem-not-hers.
This
didn’t stop Ian’s resolve to insult at any given opportunity and
the mocking jibes continued.

Della’s
phantom friend
Julie
had finally transformed into flesh-and-blood Russell the
previous weekend. Della had brought him home Saturday afternoon,
having spent the morning ‘make-up shopping’ with his alter-ego. Ian
aside, Russell received a positive welcome: Dad said he was glad to
see him back. I felt the same, but just expressed myself with a
warm smile and Auntie Stella had him on her evening-do invite list
within 30 minutes.

‘We’ll have to make sure
Della catches my bouquet!’ she’d enthused, causing much
embarrassment all round.

On the
journey to Mum’s residence, we were all a bit glum and silent,
apart from Ian’s predictable boyfriend sneers.
You got permission to be away from Romeo?
Whilst visiting Mum was getting a bit easier, especially for
me, it was never exactly fun. It was similar to dropping in on Nan
Buckley: a bit of a squeeze in a tiny room and you didn’t always
have something to say; she didn’t always know who you were and
sometimes she was asleep, too. Unlike Nan Buckley, though, Mum
wasn’t dead; not entirely. So, that was one clear
difference.

‘Do you think they’ll
ever let her home?’ I asked, as we approached the crematorium
gates, preparing to make our shortcut through the rear. No one
answered, not even with a shrug; Mum’s return to home was our great
uncertainty.

However, the overriding
reason for our sullen conduct was the aftermath of a row between my
siblings a few days before. Not about Russell for a change, their
argument had been about me.

‘We need to tell Dad.
Can’t keep this a secret from him.’ Della.

‘It’s sorted. Just leave
it. Adrian’s sorted it.’ Ian.

‘Ian, what if they
had...’ A pause. ‘Dad needs to know. I can’t believe you haven’t
told him.’

‘Adrian has-.’

‘Who cares what Adrian
Tankard has done. Dad should know! And why the hell are these boys
after him? What has he done?’

Della had looked at me at
that point, as if I had the answer. I’d simply looked at Ian,
wondering if he would finally elaborate. Wondering if he’d finally
confess what was going on. But it remained another unanswered
question, another great uncertainty. Instead, Ian changed the
subject and switched the blame, took it from himself and gave it to
Della.

‘
Maybe if you
hadn’t spent so much time with lover boy, you could have hung
around with Scot, kept an eye on him. Had you thought about
that?’

‘
What? That’s
not fair!’

‘
No? Neither
is thinking you’re gonna be strung up by your neck. Neither is
walking around in fear that it’s going to happen again. It’s
alright for you, swanning off with your head in the clouds. I’m the
one that’s had to look out for Scotty.’

You’re the one
they’re after, though
, I thought.
Tell Ian we want the money,
they had said to Justin.

Their
bickering match batted back and forth for another five minutes, the
blame ping-ponging from one side to the other –
You’re the one that left him there on his own! Oh, like
you’ve been queuing up to lend a hand!
–
until Ian delivered his set-winning one-liner –
Why don’t you just move in with Russell and abandon us like
all the other bloody women in this family!
– and Della had stormed off to her room in teary
defeat.

Days later, they were
still sulky with each other. Furthermore, once our dutiful visit
was complete, Della simply handed him even more ammunition by
announcing she wasn’t coming home; she was meeting up with Russell
in town.

‘Who’s gonna see Scot
home then?’ he pounced, when she turned to leave us. ‘I can’t, I’m
busy. Ever thought of checking the needs of others?’

‘I didn’t
think-.’

‘No, you didn’t. Come on,
Scotty, let’s get you home.’

I didn’t
think to protest; I didn’t want to be left to walk back on my own.
Since the attack at the
Barley Mow,
I still avoided going out on my own. True to his
word, Ian had started walking with me to school. So, despite what
Della had argued the night before, he was looking out for
me.