At My Mother's Knee (32 page)

The work at the
Department of Supplementary Benefits
, Steers
House, was mind-numbingly boring. Each claimant was
interviewed by a clerical officer who wrote the claimant's name
on a slip of paper which was given to one of the Searchers –
not the group, but me and a few other miscreants, the lowest
of the low, the clerical assistants – who then had to run around
the building searching for the claimant's casepaper which was
never in its proper place, filed away in the enormous bank of
filing cabinets that sat in the middle of the room, conveniently
located so we could lean on a few open drawers and talk to
each other over the top until our hysterical supervisor
screamed at us to stop talking and get some work done.

The CAs really were the drones of the hive, flitting from
table to desk in search of errant casepapers: Slow
Dave
, with
his blond feather-cut hair and dandruff, lurid kipper ties, and
permanent residue of white spit flecked in each corner of his
mouth;
Christine
from Wigan, who loved the song 'Johnny
Reggae' and went about her search for casepapers singing it
over and over again until the supervisor's nerves finally
cracked and he threatened to kill her; and
Flo
, who was the
eldest of the bunch and looked and sounded like one of Marge
Simpson's sisters.

Flo was one of the old guard who had been transferred from
Renshaw Street to Steers House. Renshaw Street wasn't pretty
or of any architectural merit; it was a dump, literally falling
down around its residents' ears, yet they loved it. An archaic,
derelict hovel, ill equipped to deal with the increasing number
of claimants looking for Supplementary Benefit, it was eventually
closed down before it fell down and the staff and clients
were transferred to the concrete and glass Steers House. They
hated it, lamenting the loss of their rat-infested, inadequately plumbed toilets and the cosy family atmosphere that had
apparently existed in the cramped and overcrowded office. Flo
had the knack of always managing to look busy; she was a very
crafty delegator and clever at getting others to do the running
around for her without their realizing it.

'It was never like this at Renshaw Street,' Flo would say,
tapping her lip thoughtfully as she studied a claimant's slip.
'We knew where everything was there, see, not like this place,
but I've seen this casepaper somewhere . . . now let me think.'
She'd close her eyes and concentrate as if she were a medium
trying to locate the name of someone's dead relative. 'I've got
it,' she'd eventually declare, pulling out a packet of Park Drive
and lighting up. 'It's on
Jim Shelley
's desk in Fraud. Run
up and get it, will you, while I have this fag.' Of course the
paper was never there; it was another of Flo's ploys to offload
an irretrievably lost casepaper.

Occasionally a claimant, tired and frustrated after waiting
all afternoon to be interviewed, would snap and provide us
with a bit of very welcome diversion. They'd abuse a member
of staff or throw a chair over the partition. The supervisor, who
was supposed to deal with situations like this, would always
overreact and call the police, when a few calming words and the
promise of a Giro would've done the trick. He was good at bullying
us, but not so brave when it came to dealing with the public.

We were always grateful for the odd bomb scare to break the
monotony of the daily routine. These phone calls were invariably
made by disgruntled punters who'd been turned down
for benefit, yet the police always insisted on evacuating the
office, much to the boss's disgust, allowing us half an hour's
freedom while they searched the building for any stray explosive
devices. 'Better to be safe than sorry,' we'd say to him as
we strolled back into the building after we'd been given the allclear.
Apoplectic, he would retire to the executive lav and have
a good cry.

*

I was sitting in
Cousin's café
eating my favourite lunch of
salmonsaladbarmcake, cup of tomato soup and a pasty,
washed down with a glass of Coke – a feast that cost all of
three luncheon vouchers – when
John, the schoolmate
from the
necking sessions in the park days, came back into my life. He'd
joined the merchant navy after leaving school and I hadn't seen
him since. Predictably, I'd considered, along with just about
every other profession, joining the merchant navy as a steward,
but jobs at sea were as rare as hen's teeth by the seventies. At
one time it was easy; someone who was already a merchant
sailor took you down to Liverpool pierhead dock office and
signed you up. You got a pass book with the name of the vessel
you would be sailing on and the date and off you went. One of
the Fawcett cousins offered to take me down to sign up, but
my dad put a stop to that.

'There is no way that he's going to sea,' he said, dismissing
the idea as a non-starter. 'He's too daft. It's not a life for the
likes of him.' I never got the chance to find out.

'Budge up then, Ogger,' John said, calling me by my nickname
from our schooldays and moving me along the seat with
his hip as he sat down next to me with his tray. 'Long time no
see. What'cha bin up to?'

He'd filled out and grown taller since I'd last seen him and
his recently acquired tan showed off his blue eyes and white
teeth in their full seductive glory. He flashed me a smile, and
somewhere in the room an almighty explosion went off. I
heard bells and whistles. The orchestra in the back of my mind
who were on permanent stand-by suddenly struck up the
theme from
Gone with the Wind
. Dizzy with lust, I could feel
my face slowly flushing a deep scarlet as I struggled with an
overpowering urge to drag him on the floor, right there in the
middle of Cousin's, among the barm cakes and office workers.

I managed to hide my sudden rush of excitement at seeing him again and conduct myself in a suitable fashion. We talked
about jobs, girlfriends and sex, mainly sex, and if John was to
be believed he'd had every woman from Rotterdam to the
South China Seas since joining the merchant navy: not bad
going considering we'd left school less than eight months ago.
We chatted about school, conveniently pretending that the
snogging sessions never happened, and parted after agreeing to
meet up for a drink later in the week. How was I going to wait
till Friday? I floated down the street like a lovesick schoolgirl.
I wanted him worse than bad and by hook or by crook I was
bloody well going to have him.

We went to New Brighton for a drink, and ended up in a
disco called the Golden Guinea. The pangs of jealousy I felt
when John chatted up a girl gnawed at me with the ferocity of
a rodent ulcer, but I kept up the 'get stuck in there, John' jovial
hetero banter befitting a best buddy. Talk about
Brokeback
Mountain
.

As usual, I ended up with the mate, whom I didn't fancy in
the least and who I knew in my boots felt exactly the same
about me, but we showed willing and after a couple of drinks
and a slow dance we went through the motions of a halfhearted
snog and a cursory grope at the bus stop.

Before long John and I were spending all our spare time
together, listening to records in my bedroom, going to the
wrestling matches every Friday night at the Liverpool Stadium
and attempting to pick up girls (reluctantly on my part) at
every opportunity. I'd buried my passion for John, as it was
clear that there was no point ruining a perfectly good friendship
by hankering all the while for a sexual one. The plotting
and manoeuvring to get him into the right situation was
becoming tiring, so I gave up hunting him down and enjoyed
what we had.

Then one night we were at a party in Liverpool, and the
father of the girl whose do it was asked John and me if we'd like to stay over, seeing as we lived on the Wirral, and adding
the magic words 'that's if you don't mind sharing a bed'.
Thank you, fairy godmother. We were both a bit pissed and the
room was cold so we wasted no time, getting undressed down
to our underpants and into the narrow single bed as fast as we
could. There was no slowly, slowly catchee monkee approach,
no tentative meeting of legs to test the water, no casual hand
falling where it shouldn't. We fell on each other like wolves
who hadn't eaten for a month, John obviously as keen as me
to see what all the fuss was about.

In the morning we didn't mention the intense night we'd just
spent. Instead we went about the business of washing and
dressing as if nothing had happened. It was only when we were
on the train home that John turned to me and asked if I
thought that the night's activities made us homos.

Homos were few and far between and hung about lavs wearing
dirty macs and women's suspenders, so no, we couldn't be
what you called proper homos. 'I think,' I said after a while,
'we're sort of blood brothers.' He thought for a second and
then nodded, not entirely convinced by my risible explanation
but letting it go for the time being. We sat in silence as the train
came out of the tunnel and into Hamilton Square station.
'Here's my stop,' he said, getting up. It was now or never.

'Are you sorry we did it, then?' He didn't answer me, just got
off the train. I knew there and then the meaning of 'I wanted
the ground to open up and swallow me'. Before I had a chance
to get the boxing gloves out and beat myself up he banged on
the window and gave me a sly smile, then ran off up the stairs
and vanished into the crowd. It was my very own
Brief
Encounter
moment: colours bled into sepia, an unseen orchestra
swelled to Rachmaninov's second piano concerto and the
train, belching great plumes of steam, slowly pulled out of
the gas-lit station, our respective hearts breaking, never to see
each other again.

As it happened, we didn't. He joined a ship a few days
later and wrote to me from Greece, concluding,
I fancy you
more than I've ever fancied a girl but I don't want to be a
homo, so I think it's best if we pack it in. All the best, your
mate, John
.

Can't say I was heartbroken. I'd like to say that I stood on
the dock clutching his letter with tears coursing down my
cheeks as I watched his boat sailing into the distance, but I
didn't. You see, I'd moved on. I'd discovered the Theatre
Darlings!

I'd read somewhere that the theatre was absolutely teeming
with homosexuals and so, inspired by this piece of information,
I joined the local
amateur dramatic
club in the hope of
meeting a few of these theatrical homos. The
Carlton Players
,
based on Grange Road West in a converted church known as
the Little Theatre, had been going since the thirties and was
very much a closed shop, their productions nearly always
featuring the same cast. It was hard for a newcomer to get a
toe on the bottom rung of the ladder, let alone be allowed to
appear on the tiny stage of the Little Theatre.

'You have to work your way up, laddie,' I was told by Mr
Harold Rowson
, the company's producer and main man – the
Binkie Beaumont of Grange Road West. His elderly wife, who
had once been a stalwart of the company but who now, due to
lack of mobility, rarely graced the boards, was treated like
Dame Edith Evans whenever she made one of her surprise
visits.

'Ah, our neophyte player. I've heard all about you,' she said
in a full, rich voice. 'Why have you come to us? What drew
you to the theatre?' I could hardly tell her that it was in the
hope of getting a shag so I mumbled something about wanting
to be an actor.

'Work hard, learn your craft and one day,' she said, her face crinkling up into a benevolent smile, 'you may be
fortunate enough to become a member of that distinguished
profession.'

I didn't know if I was meant to genuflect or not, but before
I could make up my mind she hobbled off. 'Who is he again,
Betty?' she said regally to the woman who was holding her up.

'Whoever he is, dear, we could certainly do with another pair
of hands backstage.'

Backstage? Backstage? I haven't come here to lug scenery.
I'm going to be an Actor. Did you hear me? An Actor, you daft
old . . .

'Are you a new member of the company?' A feller who'd
have looked more at home behind the counter of a branch of
the Halifax Building Society than in the green room of a
the-aterrr interrupted my train of thought. 'Welcome to the
lunatic asylum,' he said, weighing me up. 'Have you decided
on your audition piece?'

Audition piece? What audition piece? No one mentioned a
bloody audition piece to me. I'm not auditioning to get in here,
it's not the RSC, it's am dram . . .

'No, I don't need one cos I'm just going to help out backstage
or something, I think, so, erm, I'm not an actor or
anything . . .' I could hear my ma's gay little nervous laugh
ringing in my ears, only this time it was me who was making
it. I was also blushing to my roots. Piss off, Halifax, you're getting
on my nerves.

'Well, nice to have met you,' Halifax said cheerfully, rushing
back to his cronies to break the news that I was 'only crew' and
therefore not worth bothering with, 'unless he's lighting,
darling'.

The 'Actors' of the company jealously guarded their
positions within the pride and were deeply suspicious of any
newcomers who might tread on their toes or steal their limelight.
They prided themselves on their professionalism and were more 'pro' than the pros, obsessed with always appearing
as 'the utter professional'. This lot would've gone on wired up
to a life support machine if it meant not missing a 'performance',
and prided themselves on being 'off the book' by the
first day of rehearsal. There was less rivalry, gossip and petty
jealousy at the court of Elizabeth I than there was in the
rehearsal room of the Little Theatre. They watched each other
like hawks and were always on the lookout for one of their
number to step out of line, which gave the others the opportunity
to say in the pub afterwards, arms folded across chest,
superior expression on smug gob – and providing the offender
was out of earshot, of course – 'Well really, I do call that
behaviour highly unprofessional.'