I stood up.
‘Where are you going, young lady?’
‘To my room, I might listen to my Walkman.’
‘You’d rather listen to that radio thing than stay down here with your Gran?’
‘No, it isn’t that…’
‘You go off then. And keep the room tidy. It’s Kevin’s room.’
She was almost raising her voice. I rolled my eyes again and headed for the room my dad hadn’t even slept in before – Granny Bates had only moved to Sussex AFTER his death. Mad cow.
I spent the remainder of the evening staring at the ceiling, wishing my dad could rescue me. I opened up The Manual and picked up where I had left off.
So, instead of listening to your mum, you probably prefer to get advice from your mates. My best mate (as hopefully you still know) is Charlie.
Nope. Had never met him (at least I didn’t remember ever meeting him). Seen a few pictures of him and Dad together though, but that was it.
When we were your age it was always about me and him. He once told me to stick my head down the toilet and let him flush – so I did. No, not really, but when we were thirteen I would have – if he’d asked. All I’m trying to say is, not ALL advice from mates is the right advice. Really think before you do stuff, consider who it may hurt (and yes, this includes your mum), then make a decision.
I’m not asking you to listen to every drop of advice given to you by an adult, no. Because, as you will soon find out, people (including myself) can at times talk a load of codswallop. But if you can, take note of older people. And when I say old I mean really old. The elderly. They know stuff. You can almost picture the years of experience in their faces – and this can include the reality that life doesn’t always go according to plan, no matter how efficiently you think you’ve planned it. Remember, they’ve seen it, done it, tasted it, felt it, experienced most of what you haven’t yet. So try to cut them some slack when they have a go at you about things you may want to do. Their lack of support may just be a result of their own bad experiences while attempting to achieve something similar, and in their own special way they are merely trying to warn you against making the same mistakes. Make sense? You see, it’s not always just another way to spoil your fun, however much you may think so.
But for some reason or other, people won’t be listening to them as much any more – so do the complete opposite to these ‘other people’. Listen, absorb and plant at the side of your brain stuff you can use later on. It’s so invaluable. Things my granddad used to tell me, I still use to this day. Of course your granddad is gone, but you’ll hopefully have my mum and your other granny and granddad around to be getting on with.
One morning on the way to the supermarket, I decided to take in Dad’s words and make an effort with my father’s mother, by helping to carry the bags without being asked (I even carried more than was comfortable), and, back at the house, by packing away the groceries as she droned on and on about noisy neighbours and how she missed ‘back home’ and wished she’d enough money to go back forever. I brought up the subject of Dad, hoping it would bring us closer together, I suppose. Instead, she remained silent, staring at me as if I’d grown a third eyeball.
‘What was he like?’
Her face softened and I thought I saw a tear. ‘Your father…was the best son a mother could ever have.’
She walked over to a picture of Dad and held it, running her index finger over his chin, up to his full lips and then to his mole. She stared at it for what seemed like ages.
I broke the trance. ‘You must miss him so much…like I do…’ I know it was such an obvious statement, but I suppose I just wanted her to speak to me. For us to have some type of conversation. About Dad.
But my plan was – sort of – beginning to backfire.
‘Of course I miss him. Very much. He was my son, my little boy. I miss him every waking moment of every day. My life seems to have stood still since that day…the day he went…’
She moved over to the old-fashioned glass cabinet. Among the porcelain figurines and a cloth map of Grenada was a picture of my dad. She picked it up.
‘Me and his father always knew we wanted a good life for our children. That’s why we came to England in 1948. I always made sure my little boy was safe. I could never rest when his father took him out. Never knew what they’d be getting up to. Climbing trees, running about. If he came home with a scrape, I’d immediately put the antiseptic on it. Make it clean. Then when he was a teenager, I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until I was sure he was safely tucked up in bed. I never stopped worrying about him. The girls, Philomena and Ina, never understood. Never.’ She looked at me blankly again, then turned to pick up Dad’s picture. ‘Then he left home and moved in with…’ she placed the picture back down again ‘…your mother. And that was it. Never saw him much after that. My son.’
I wasn’t quite sure where to go from here. So I said the first thing to enter my head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry,’ she repeated blankly, placing the picture back into the glass cabinet.
Granny Bates seemed to shut down after that conversation. She’d say little words here and there, perhaps to answer a question to do with the whereabouts of the ketchup. It was as if an already dim bulb had blown – with no chance of a replacement any time soon. And I was quickly able to envisage the remainder of my ‘holiday’ as something I’d rather not endure.
I rang Mum when Granny Bates was in the loo, telling her I was ready to hitch a lift home if she didn’t get me out of here a few days early. She arranged for Carla’s dad to drive over, while a silent Granny Bates sat in her rocking chair clutching a picture of my dad.
As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d be in no hurry to see her again. Maybe I’d change my mind. Maybe I wouldn’t. I couldn’t have cared less. Okay, I did care. A little. For all her faults, she was still Dad’s mum and I suppose I would drop her a line in a few months (groan). But I’d survived this long on my own and now, I had my dad constantly keeping an eye on me and really didn’t need anyone else.
I was thrilled to be back in London with my friends, sleeping in my own bed and not having to be back at school just yet. My brief time away had seen a change in Carla. Her hair was a bit longer and she’d started to wear lipstick! Worst of all, she now had a boyfriend.
‘He’s over there!’ she whispered, as we passed Lanes Fish Bar, our old spot now occupied by a gang of spotty girls. Outside the alleyway stood a bunch of boys in back-to-front baggy dungaree jeans and identical orange trainers with huge white tongues sticking out. They did look cool, I had to admit.
‘His name’s Darren!’ she said.
The lovebirds caught each other’s gaze and Carla ran over.
‘Hi Daz,’ she said, all teeth and sloppy voice. I had never seen my best friend act like this before and it felt disturbing. The others were totally ignoring me as the couple lip-locked and Darren, or Daz, or whatever, stuck a huge furry-looking tongue into her mouth. It was utterly sickening.
Over the next few days it was ‘Daz this’ and Daz that’ and, frankly, I was relieved when he dumped her for the school slag, exactly a week before the beginning of term.
*
My fourteenth birthday, which took place at the ice-skating rink, was a totally contrasting experience to my thirteenth – especially when Mum brought out this huge babyish cake complete with dodgy pink candles as my guests