Gaffar tipped his head, bashfully (although he found himself a perfectly fitting receptacle for Kane’s panegyric). ‘Uh…an’ look…’ he clumsily stuttered, in his make-shift English, pushing his hand into his suit pocket and deftly withdrawing a small, neat disc of semi-transparent plastic ‘…Under sofa, lid, eh?’
Mrs Dina Broad had a wonderful facility for getting total strangers to do exactly as she wanted. It was something to do with her size, the tone of her voice (at once wheedling yet strident), her filthy tongue, and the considerable force of what a quality horse-breeder might call ‘her character’.
Dina’s manipulative genius was a happy coincidence, because she simply adored to be waited upon (to be bolstered and escorted, indulged and cosseted). In fact she absolutely demanded it. The cornerstone of her ideology was: if you don’t fuckin’ ask, you don’t fuckin’ get – a maxim which she used so often when her kids were young that – during a fit of high-spiritedness while working Saturdays in a print shop – her eldest son had designed her a t-shirt with this, her favourite slogan, emblazoned across the chest.
If Dina’s life was a carousel (which it was anything but), then there was only enough room on the rotating podium (midst the high-painted roses, the mirror-tiles, the lovely organ) for a single pony; and Dina’s was it (there was her name, in exquisite calligraphy, on a beautifully embossed tag around the neck…And just look at the mane: real silk. And see how straight the brow! How flared the nostril! How long the tail!).
Dina flew up and down (as her moods – and her blood-sugar levels – dictated), and the carousel just kept on spinning, with the music (Ah, the lilting music) never seeming to stop. It was Dina’s show, entirely – paying customers could cheerfully go hang (Dina would supply the rope; would even – although it was a great deal of effort, and she hated effort – tie the noose herself. She was good like that).
The Dina Broad Show (like Celine Dion in Las Vegas) was a show that never ended (it just went on and on and on); but this low-budget extravaganza (in perfect Technicolor) by no means ran itself.
Nuh-uh.
There was the buffing and the oiling (to be regularly undertaken); the electrics (the wiring, the lighting, the amplification), not to mention the construction, the deconstruction, the reconstruction (this was a mobile – well, semi-mobile – proposition, after all), the ground-rent, the barkers, the cashiers, the crowd control…A whole battery – in other words – of tedious, time-consuming rigmarole.
Taken in total, The Dina Broad Experience had a technical staff numbering well over a dozen (the doctor, the social worker, the neighbour, the policeman), and Kelly Broad (poor, skinny, weak-boned Kelly) enjoyed the unique distinction of being at the very heart (or – depending on your take on things – deep in the colon) of this hardworking, poorly rewarded, long-suffering division.
Dina would not perform without her: Fin.
By a series of complex, Machiavellian ruses (there were two people in Casualty – aside from her own daughter – who were currently sharing a single crutch between them) Dina had somehow managed to commandeer a ‘spare’ wheelchair in the foyer, and a rather bemused-looking member of the general public (a willowy and slightly effete man in his sixties called Larry who was meant to be visiting his ninety-year-old aunt in an adjacent ward) was making a brave attempt at pushing her around in it.
‘Aw shit, man!’ Kelly gasped, grabbing a tight hold of Beede’s arm. ‘What the fuck’s she doin’ here?’
‘She’s your mother,’ Beede explained patiently. ‘She’s visiting. It’s part of her function.’
Kelly gave him a quizzical look. ‘But she’s never troubled herself visitin’ me in hospital before…’
He stared down at her for a moment, almost with tenderness. It was difficult to decipher from the inflexible set of her gaunt features, but wasn’t there a sudden, tiny gleam of childish delight (mixed in with an overwhelming air of bemusement) at the prospect of this most basic of demonstrations of maternal care?
His heart promptly went out to her.
‘I should probably get on,’ he muttered (not wishing to involve his emotional self any further).
‘Don’t go!’
She tightened her grip on his arm.
‘I’m working, Kelly,’ Beede explained, trying to disengage her claw-like fingers.
‘But you don’t know what she’s like…’ Kelly started off (almost pleading with him now), ‘or how ticked-off she’s gonna be with me…’
‘It’s not real anger,’ Beede counselled, sagely, ‘it’s just worry…’
Kelly rapidly changed tack. ‘Either you stay,’ she threatened, ‘or I’ll tell Kane all about the drugs,’ she reached for her broken phone with her free hand, ‘I’ll ring him. I’ll text him. I swear…’
This was a foolish manoeuvre.
‘Do exactly as you wish.’ Beede coldly shook his arm free.
‘If you go…’ her eyes scanned the surrounding area, frantically, ‘then I’ll…I’ll leg it.’ She threw back her blanket and revealed her injury. He winced at the sight of it. She sat up and shifted her weight, as though fully preparing to hop off.
‘Okay, okay,’ he snapped, flipping the blanket back over again, ‘I suppose I do need to have a quick chat with her about the dogs…’
Kelly’s eyes flew wide. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘She’ll flip. She’ll go spare.’
‘What?’
‘Just…’ Kelly put her hand over her mouth and spoke through a pretend-cough ‘…trust me.’
Dina (now perilously close), had already espied her daughter and was waving her walking stick at her (like a Dr Who Dalek, intending to exterminate).
‘D’YOU HAVE ANY FUCKIN’ IDEA,’ she bellowed, from a distance of 12 or more feet, ‘WHAT IT’S TAKEN TO GET ME HERE?!’ (Her prodigious rage came as a complete surprise to Larry, who’d been chatting with her, perfectly amiably, only moments before.) Several people turned and stared. The less-busy porter glanced up, grimaced, and then quietly sidled off.
‘You shouldn’t’ve bothered, Mum,’ Kelly murmured, all the stiffness disappearing from her backbone (rendering it floppy as a stick of soft liquorice). ‘All’s I did was break my stupid leg…’ (she cuffed the leg, weakly, as if it was the limb’s fault entirely), ‘and I smashed my stupid phone, so I couldn’t even…’
‘SCREW YOUR STUPID LEG!’ Dina yelled (indignant tears already brimming in her curiously mesmerising pipe-tobacco eyes). ‘I’VE BROKE MY FUCKIN’ ARSE GETTIN’ HERE TODAY, KELL. SO WHAT EXACTLY D’YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT THAT, EH?!’
The whole party was quiet for a moment, as if jointly considering the most feasible solution to this perplexing dilemma (I mean what could Kelly do?). No suggestions were forthcoming, although Beede (for one) appeared to be deriving a measure of laconic amusement from Dina’s proximity. The woman was a legend, after all; she was Jabba the Hut with a womb, chronic asthma and a council flat. She was an old-fashioned bully – that much was clear – but her fury was swaddled by her considerable upholstery; her rage hijacked by blubber and then rapidly redirected into teary vulnerability.
Dina’s