At My Mother's Knee (38 page)

'What is it?' I asked in all innocence, staring at her cigarette,
which now seemed to be belching out a hell of a lot of
strangely fragrant smoke.

'It's grass,' she said, unable to believe that I didn't know.

I had no idea what she was talking about. Was she smoking
lawn clippings? Because if so, I wasn't sure it was wise. The
place reeked.

'You know, pot,' she said, offering me her joint. 'Take a toke,
man. It's from Amsterdam, the best you can get.'

The gates of hell opened up before me. Drugs. I was sitting
on the stairs of a strange house with a drug addict, and what
was worse she was offering me some of the infernal weed,
inviting me to join her in her drug-infested mire. Should I make
a run for it or sit here and brave the storm? It was the first time
I'd encountered drugs. I really knew nothing about them.
Nobody at school had ever taken them and the idea of popping
a few pills or smoking a joint had never come up. I wasn't
interested and certainly wasn't tempted, declining the spluttering
roll-up with a curt 'No thanks.'

Despite my uptight attitude to her joint we got on well. Her
name turned out to be
Millie and she was back home in Virginia Water
from university for the holidays. She had Tara
King's green eyes, and after we had knocked back the rest of
the poisonous Campari we ended up in one of the bedrooms,
where we soon got down to some serious necking and heavy
petting. Standing up, she calmly took her dress off and let it fall
to the floor; next she removed her bra and stepped out of her
knickers. Apart from seeing
Diana Rigg
get her kit off in
Abelard
and Heloise
on stage in Liverpool (tastefully and discreetly
lit, of course), I'd never actually seen a female naked in
the flesh before – and I'd certainly never seen one at such close
quarters.

'Fuck me,' she said, sliding back on to the bed.

I was momentarily shocked to the core by her frankness.
What kind of species was she? I'd only ever encountered
Birkenhead girls and they kept their knickers on, at least the
ones I'd gone down the back entry with had.

'Well, go on,' she said, giving me a dig. 'Aren't you going to
get your kit off?'

I hastily tried to undress under the covers, terrified that she
should see me naked.

'Come here,' she said, throwing the covers back and proceeding
to undo my belt and jeans. I was rigid, not from sexual
arousal but from fright. Had this girl no shame? Within seconds
she had my kecks off and was tugging at my underpants.
I hung on for grim death and fought, in the words of the song,
'like a tiger for my honour'.

'What's up with you?' she asked, laughing.

'I haven't got a Durex,' I blurted out, playing for time,
neglecting to add that even if I had I wasn't that sure how long
it would take me to get it on. I was starting to get annoyed with
myself. This was actually it. The moment I'd been waiting years
for – the chance to finally go 'all the way'. I was desperate not
to blow it and show myself up as a ham-fisted virgin.
Nevertheless, eager as I now was to get on with the job in hand
I didn't want our one-night stand to end in fatherhood.

'That's OK,' she said matter-of-factly, 'I'm on the pill.'

Staggering back to the Wheatsheaf, my cherry well and truly
popped, slightly woozy still from the combination of cider and
Campari, I was the happiest seventeen-year-old in the world. It
really was Christmas and I'd just had the best present ever.
Now all I wanted to do was fall into my bed and go to sleep,
contented for the first time since I'd got here.

The bar manager was still up and waiting for me when I got
back. By the expression on his face I knew something was
wrong. There was no sign of Finch. He'd retired to bed feigning
exhaustion when in reality he was too pissed to stand and
had left his underling to deal with me.

'Did you steal a full bottle of Campari from the Cellar Bar?'
The man's face was pale and drawn at the best of times, and
tonight he looked like a death's head. I wanted to say I was
hardly going to steal an empty one, but instead I tried to
explain that I'd 'borrowed' one but fully intended to replace it
in the mor—

'Did you or did you not steal a bottle of Campari from the
Cellar Bar?' he asked again, cutting me short. He was enjoying
this. Aunty Chris was right. Put a gobshite in a position of
power and watch it invade Poland.

'Yes,' I said, trying to sober up, 'I suppose I did, but I'm
going to replace it, honest.' I was too pissed to really care. Why
all this fuss over a lousy bottle of Campari?

'I'm sorry, but theft will not be tolerated and I have no
alternative but to telephone the police,' he said, picking up the
receiver and taking a perverse delight in watching the blood
drain from my face.

Four coppers turned up to
arrest
me. I was handcuffed and
taken to the police station where two of them questioned me
for three hours, using the predictable good cop, bad cop
routine. It transpired that cuts of meat and turkey had been
going missing
from the Wheatsheaf's
deep freeze as well as
alcohol and money from the tills and I was their chief, and for
the moment only, suspect. They then removed my belt,
shoelaces and watch in case I should attempt suicide and
locked me in a cell.

I empathized with Mr Toad. Not much chance here of disguising
myself as a washerwoman and escaping, though, I
thought as I sat on the floor and looked around the filthy cell,
feeling sick and hungover and more than a little worried. A
maudlin drunk somewhere in a cell nearby was shouting for
his mother. How was I going to explain this to mine?
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, they let me go, telling
me that I would be receiving a summons to appear in court
some time in the new year.

'Happy Christmas, Scouse. Let's not keep in touch, eh?' the
'bad' cop said, handing me back my property and smirking like
the cat who got the cream. 'And try and keep your sticky
fingers out of the till in future.' I silently cursed him, ignoring
my ma's warning that curses like chickens always came home to roost, and instead wallowing in pleasurable visions of the
imaginative and painful death I would like to inflict on this
obese, swaggering turd. God, being down here was turning me
into Attila the Hun.

Having no idea where I was, I followed a road sign for
Virginia Water. It turned out to be a longer walk than I'd
anticipated and I spent it cursing Thelma Brailey, Chef and
Brewer and the police force and all their works. When I
eventually found my way back, the Wheatsheaf was closed.
The bar manager let me in. The police had rung him to say I
was on my way and he'd been waiting up for me. 'Get your
things and leave. You have ten minutes,' he said coldly. 'Before
Mr Finch sees you.'

I went to my room and packed my clothes. I was completely
worn out, both mentally and physically, so I lay on the bed for
a moment to gather my wits. Within seconds I was in a deep
sleep, only to be woken by a hungover and extremely angry
Finch.

'Get up, get up!' he screamed hysterically, shaking me like a
doll. 'Get out of my hotel, you little cunt,' and grabbing me by
the hair he pulled me off the bed and on to the floor. 'You
thieving Scouse bastard!' He was slapping me repeatedly
around the head in a blind rage. 'Get out before I kill you!'

I'd hated this man since the day I'd first set eyes on him, and
he had it coming. I pushed him off me and landed him a long
overdue and highly satisfying punch in the face. He staggered
across the room and fell on the sink, detaching it from the wall
completely. I was amazed I'd actually done it, and even more
stunned to see I'd scored a bullseye.

'Help,' he screamed, rolling himself up into the foetal
position and covering his face with his hands. 'Don't hit me,
don't hit me!'

Resisting the overwhelming urge to kick him round the
room in case he called the police and had me done for assault, I picked up my holdall and ran down the stairs and out on to
the road and kept on running until I thought I was far enough
from the hotel to be safe.

Hiding in a bus shelter, crouched down low so that nobody
passing in a car could see me, I got my breath back as I
weighed my situation up and tried to work out just how I was
going to get home
to Birkenhead
on fifty pence, the total sum
of my finances. First thing I had to do was get to London. I
thought about hitching a lift but after a halfhearted attempt
I realized that I just couldn't do it. Pride got the better of me
– I didn't want anyone to know that I didn't have any money
and couldn't afford the fare to London. I was no Blanche
Dubois, and stupidly refused to let myself rely on the kindness
of strangers. Besides, if Finch had called the police I didn't
want a charge of GBH added to my fast-increasing criminal
record, so best not to draw attention to myself, I reasoned.
With no other choice, I walked, making it as far as Richmond,
starving, exhausted and close to cracking, some time in the late
afternoon. Out of the fifty pence I bought a ticket for Euston,
a bag of crisps and a bottle of Tizer. (Try that today.)

Euston Station concourse was packed with people going
home for the holidays. Outside the station a Salvation Army
band was gathered around a large Christmas tree playing 'Silent
Night', and the sense of loneliness and desolation was overwhelming.
I sat on the floor of the concourse and tried to work
out how to get on a train home with no money. It seemed my
only hope was to throw myself on the mercy of the transport
police and hope that somehow they would put me on a train.

I told a very sympathetic copper a cock and bull story of how
I'd had most of my luggage, including my train ticket and money,
stolen from under my nose as I was buying a paper. I didn't have
to fake tears: they came readily, I was feeling so dog-tired and
desperate. The copper took pity on me, and leading me through
a door that bypassed the ticket collector and took us directly to the platform told me to board the train and tell the guard, when
he came round to punch the tickets, that I'd lost mine. In all
probability he would simply take my name and address and
allow me to stay on the train. He did, thank God, and with my
newly issued ticket in hand I relaxed for the moment, found an
empty seat and fell gratefully into a deep sleep.

'What in God's name are you doing back?' my mother
exclaimed, nearly dropping the tray of mince pies she was
taking out of the oven as I burst through the back door. 'Don't
tell me you've had the sack.'

'I've left,' I lied. 'Couldn't stand it any more. And besides, I
wanted to come home for Christmas.'

'You haven't got the police on your tail, have you?' she
asked, eyeing me suspiciously. 'You look like you've been up to
something, my lad.'

No time, let alone Christmas Eve, was going to be a good
time to casually let drop that I'd been sacked and banged up in
a police cell, and was awaiting a summons to appear in court
for nicking a bottle of Campari, so I kept shtum. I was too
tired for a drama so I gave her the less inflammatory version
that I'd thought up on the train.

'I knew you wouldn't stick it,' she said, pursing her lips and
wiping her hands on her apron. 'I warned you that you'd be
treated like a skivvy. Well, I don't know where you're going to
sleep. Annie and Chrissie are coming tonight. Wait while I
phone our Sheila,' she added, making for the phone in the hall
to ring my sister. My dad was out on his rounds, visiting the
elderly and housebound, as he'd done for years as one of
the
Knights of St Columbia
. What the hell had he done to
deserve me? Maybe my ma was right, perhaps I was a
changeling, accidentally swapped at birth by a distracted
maternity nurse in St Cath's.

The house was warm and smelt of Christmas. The twelve-inch artificial tree that had been dug out from the loft as it was
every Christmas sat tilting slightly to the right on a little table
by the television. The crib that my dad had made out of hardboard
and a National Dried Milk tin perched on top of the
bookcase, complete with cotton-wool balls on the roof to
represent snow and nativity figures bought from Woolies.
Christmas cards were strung across the wall and fireplace on
lengths of wool, a fire burned in the grate and Val Doonican
was on the telly. It was good to be home.

'Our Sheila said that they're looking for porters in St Cath's,'
my mother said, coming in from the phone and going straight to
the fire. I hadn't been back five minutes and she had a job lined
up for me. The word unemployment was not in my ma's vocabulary.
'I'll make you a bite to eat in a minute,' she said. 'You look
half dead to me. Jesus, it's perishing in that lobby. The wind
howls under that door and straight up the stairs into the lav.' She
shuddered as she warmed her hands at the fire. 'Well, you'll just
have to sleep down here while Anne and Chris are staying, and
you can come to midnight mass with me and Annie.'

I was dropping on my feet but only too happy to agree to sit
through midnight mass, I was so glad to be home. I was grateful
that she'd taken my version of my exit from the Wheatsheaf so
calmly. If only she knew what had really happened . . . but I'd
worry about that later. Right now I just wanted to enjoy every
moment of
Christmas at Holly Grove
.

Aunty Chris had retired from the buses and was working as the
manageress of
Ashe and Nephew
, an
off-licence
in Prenton
Hall Road. Her bus had been involved in an accident with a
motorcyclist and she'd witnessed his decapitated body hanging
from a nearby tree, so she'd hung up her ticket machine and
handed in her badge and turned her attention to the retail of
alcohol. Strange choice of profession for a woman who no
longer drank and claimed to hate the stuff.