Blood Relatives. Stevan Alcock
say nowt, except ‘Don’t be late.’
The Marquis wor a large, noisy pub wi’ swirly blue-and-green carpeting, a jukebox and a dartboard.
Mavis, Mother’s mouldiest friend, had pitched up, as had the neighbours, Nora Gudgeon, her diabetic mother Denise, and her daughter Janice. Mavis squeezed her ample backside onto t’ bench seat between Gran and me. She wor wearing a trowel-load of slap over t’ thin veneer of abuse doled out by hubby Don, and a pong so raking I thought I’d gag if I so much as flared a nostril. I spotted her abuser, across t’ bar, through t’ curling smoke, wi’ Mitch and two other blokes I didn’t know, drinkin’ themsens into a slurry.
Janice wor sat opposite me, face like a pickled egg. Struck me she wor all dolled up like she’d been planning on being elsewhere. I could sympathise. It didn’t suit me none, sitting wi’ all t’ brassy women, but Mother wor being as stubborn as a goat, using that ‘family together’ baloney to blackmail me into feeling guilty for wanting to stay at home and play my records.
Janice fiddled wi’ t’ buckle of her wide, white belt. Her nipples wor pushing pertly up against her cheesecloth smock-blouse.
‘Our Janice is getting spliced soon,’ chirruped Nora.
‘Married? Is that right, Janice?’ said Mavis, leaning forward, her glinting hoop earrings leaning wi’ her, her breasts bunching together in her low-cut glitzy top. ‘When wor all this decided?’
Janice dropped her chin, and all eyes followed to t’ gentle bump. Looked like it wor decided about four month gone, I thought.
‘So, come on,’ Mavis said. ‘Who’s the lucky fella?’
‘He’s called Drew,’ Janice said, lighting a ciggie and blowing smoke from t’ side of her mouth. Denise flapped the smoke away wi’ a flash of pink nails.
‘Drew? Short for Andrew, is that? So where is he? When do we get to meet him?’
Janice crossed her arms over her stomach. ‘He’s on a geography field trip. Wi’ t’ school.’
Mavis said, ‘Kids today, eh. Who’d have ’em?’ Then wi’ a toss of her head toward Mother, she added, ‘If I remember right, Pam, you married dead young, didn’t you?’
‘He wor a mistake,’ Mother replied waspishly. ‘We wor divorced before a year wor out … Oh, Janice, luv, not that I mean that it won’t last between yersen and … and …’
‘Drew.’
‘Drew … just that I married a wrong’un, that’s all.’
‘What wor his name …?’ Denise asked, pitching in her tuppence worth. Mavis snatched up her lighter, clicking it furiously against t’ tip of another ciggie ’til Nora struck a match for her, then lit one for hersen.
Mother hissed, ‘You know damn well, Denise. You know damn well his name.’
Mother stretched out a smile. I didn’t know if she wor shunting off the topic for her own sake or mine. What wor to know that I hadn’t learnt already by earwigging and nosing about? Some friggin’ carpet salesman, twice her age, who she’d married and divorced like t’ church had revolving doors. It all happened a friggin’ age before I came on t’ scene. And owt that happened before me didn’t really happen. Except in history books and on t’ telly. Of course she didn’t want to blab on about it.
Denise worn’t done yet.
‘Didn’t he take you down to London on honeymoon? Started out wi’ a stall in Leeds market and before you could say shag pile he had his own warehouse in an old church, heavin’ wi’ carpets and linos. Proper little peacock, he wor. Always wore a suit, and drove a car wi’ a walnut dashboard.’
This wor a stinking, fresh cowpat of news to me.
‘What kind of car?’
Mother looked like her hair wor on fire.
‘A bloody posh one,’ said Mavis.
‘So, Janice,’ said Mother, trying to park the conversation elsewhere, ‘any name yet for the … for the …?’
‘Damien,’ Janice said. ‘Or Rosemary, if it’s a girl.’
‘What unusual names, Janice,’ Mother said.
‘I think,’ said Mavis, ‘we should all drink a toast to Janice. And to Nora on becoming a grandmother.’
Nora bridled. I fathomed that ‘grandmother’ didn’t sit well wi’ her just yet. She nodded at me, and said to Mother, ‘Well, I’m sure this one will do you proud when t’ time comes.’
‘Not me. I’m never getting married,’ I said.
The women guffawed.
‘I’m not.’
Behind Janice’s head I could see Don’s barrel bulk heading our way, parting the drinkers like a shire horse fording a river. Denise, who hadn’t clapped eyes on him yet, wor saying, ‘Course you will, Rick. Some lovely lass will catch your eye, and then before …’
‘I told you, I’m not getting married. Ever.’
Mother’s brow knitted painfully.
‘All right, ladies?’ Don’s eyes combed across Janice’s breasts. Janice averted her gaze.
‘We wor,’ piped up Denise, ‘until we saw you waltzing over our way.’
‘Gerald!’ said Gran, as if she’d just hit on t’ answer in a friggin’ crossword puzzle. ‘His name wor Gerald. Had his own carpet business and a big house up Alwoodley way wi’ a garden, a big car and …’
Mother flashed me a pleading look. I said, ‘Gran, we know. Give it a rest.’
Gran cocked her head at me. ‘A gin and tonic, please, young man.’
‘You’ve got one, Gran. Look – right in front of you.’
It wor odd for Gran to call me young man. She usually only called anyone young man whose name she didn’t know or couldn’t recollect. She picked up the glass, downed it in one. ‘Gerald,’ she murmured, looking pleased wi’ hersen. ‘His name wor Gerald.’
The next morn, Mother wor leant against t’ fridge, watching me wolf down beans on toast before heading off to work. Our fridge wor covered in friggin’ fridge magnets. Sunflowers, London buses, Smurfs, Disney characters, cacti, flags, all plastered over t’ ruddy thing like fridge-magnet acne.
I wor wanting to ask her about Gerald and his car wi’ t’ walnut dashboard and that, but I could see she worn’t going to spill. Her face wor taut, her hair still unbrushed and she hadn’t put her lippy on. Mother said little above t’ necessary to make brekkie function.
‘I might be late again,’ I said.
Mother repositioned one of t’ fridge magnets.
‘Again? I’ll keep some cold ham and beetroot for your dinner.’
She spoke slowly, like she wor really saying summat else. I scraped back my chair.
‘It’s all right, I’ll get chips.’
Mother winced.
I rattled Mrs Husk’s letterbox. ‘Corona pop!’
‘It’s open, luv.’
Mrs Husk wor swilling out a teacup under t’ kitchen tap. She shuffled into her front room wi’ t’ teacup dangling from one finger. After a momentary difficulty freeing her finger from t’ cup handle she said, ‘Did yer get my whisky?’
‘Yer whisky?’
She eyed me beadily. I laughed and took the small bottle of Bell’s from my coat pocket and set it on t’ table, together wi’ her usual ginger beer. The things we’re friggin’ well asked