Blood Relatives (19 page)

‘The who?’

‘Blandford Gardens. The Matterhorn Man. One bottle of Coke and a tonic water.’

I wiped my face and spat onto t’ ground. Eric’s face had more creases than an unironed shirt.

‘You mean it wor someone you met on t’ round? On our round?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned. But you’ve stopped seeing him?’

‘He skedaddled back to Scotland. But not cos of owt to do wi’ me. At least, I don’t think so.’

‘So that’s why you scratched his name out of t’ round-book t’ way you did that time?’

‘Aye. I wor riled up.’

‘I wish you hadn’t told me. It’s disgusting, that. I wish I didn’t know. Cos once I know summat, I can’t unknow it, can I? And I don’t like what I know now. I tell you, it ain’t natural. I can’t believe it. I thought I knew you. I thought I knew who Rick Thorpe is.’

‘This is who I am.’

We pushed on wi’ t’ deliveries. Cos of t’ bruised hip and grazed leg I wor walking wi’ a limp. A few of t’ customers remarked on my cut face, which I fibbed about, saying I hadn’t been looking where I wor going, and one kindly young woman gave me an elastoplast. She insisted on dabbing on some Dettol and putting the plaster on my cheek hersen, letting her finger rest there a moment. I thanked her and made my excuses.

I wor feeling like my innards wor hanging out and I couldn’t push ’em back in. I wor so cut up inside that I dropped a full bottle of Coca-Cola onto a garden path. What I’d wanted above all, I thought miserably, using a piece of wood to shovel the jagged pieces of glass onto some newspaper, wor approval. Eric’s approval. After all, hadn’t Eric shared shedloads of stuff about himsen which I then had to carry wi’ me, stuff I could have spilled to Craner, Karen, Lourdes, anyone I wor minded to? What wor Eric always blathering on about friendship? Real friendship is cemented in secrets. Some secrets bind you together, and some tear you apart. Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine. Prick our thumbs and press them together. What shite.

To my mind, Eric should have been chuffed at being the first, the very first, person I’d ever told. Even just … just what? What had I expected? ‘Truth is, Rick, I’m gay as well’? Never once had I fibbed to Eric. Never once had I pretended to fancy birds, Eric had just assumed it. When he wor knobbing some housewife on t’ round and I wor left waiting in t’ cab wi’ all my imaginings, Eric would say nowt afterward, save perhaps to utter a ‘Best get on.’ But it had been there, hadn’t it, in t’ complicit grins, the affectionate punches and teasing that sent lust and despair coursing through me?

Surely he’d now spill it all to Craner. And once Craner knew, the news would spread like wildfire. Most likely Mitch’s ears would be burning even now. I might as well hang out a banner. Switch on a neon sign. I might as well hang mesen from t’ next lamp-post.

I rolled the broken glass into t’ newspaper and tipped the pieces into a dustbin. Eric wor watching me. As I got back in t’ van, he said, ‘Once the cat’s out of t’ bag, even t’ devil himsen can’t coax it back in.’

‘Aye,’ I muttered, only half-getting what the friggin’ hell that meant.

We got on wi’ t’ round in silence-sodden truce. Every now and then Eric would catch my eye. I tried to thaw him out a little, asking him to pass me over a bottle of summat, or sorting out change. But as we pootled between one housing estate and the next, not a word beyond t’ necessary wor uttered.

After a couple of hour of this Eric cocked his face skyward and said, ‘The Matterhorn Man?’

I wor happy we wor speaking again.

‘Aye. That’s what I called him. Cos of t’ mural of t’ Matterhorn on his front-room wall.’

‘So did he turn you?’

‘What? Nah, course not. That’s rubbish, that is. You can’t turn people. You are what you are.’

‘Then how do you know? I mean, if you’ve never had a woman, how do you know it’s not better?’

‘Cos I just don’t fancy women. I look at men in t’ same way you look at women. You could turn that on its head. How do you know, if you’ve never had another bloke? Never tried it?’

‘Don’t get funny wi’ me.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying.’

‘And how do you look at me?’

‘Eh?’

‘You heard me. I said, how do you look at me?’

I could see he wor demanding an answer.

‘You’re my Corona van driver. How am I supposed to look at you?’

‘Well, I know which side my bread’s buttered on, and it’s not the backside.’

Craner scrunched up a piece of paper and fired it toward the waste bin. It missed.

‘Mr Thorpe, you’re staring at me like I’m Jane Fonda.’

‘Could never mistake you for Jane Fonda, Mr Craner. I wor miles away, sorry.’

‘Miles away, Mr Thorpe, is what you should be by now. Is your van ready?’

‘Just about.’

‘“Just about”? There are no “just abouts” in my depot. Only certainties, lad, certainties. Is it ready, or is it not?’

‘It’s ready. As good as.’

Craner threw his arms wide and rolled his eyes to t’ heavens.

‘We’re a driver short today, that is a certainty, so I’ve divided his round up among everyone else. You and Eric are to add Quarry Hill Flats onto t’ end of your round. You’ll be paid £1.50 extra.’

‘You can put me on someone else’s round if it suits you, Mr Craner.’

Craner fired another piece of paper at the waste bin. He missed again. ‘It does not suit me, Mr Thorpe. It does not suit me one bit.’

We got a new telly. Mother wor right, we couldn’t afford it. Mitch said he got it on HP, and it would be paid off within two year. Then he tried to tap me for a tenner.

The telly wor an immense bugger, bunkered in its own cabinet in one corner of t’ living room. The parchment sail lamp and Mother’s two china poodles looked lost on it. It wor louder than t’ old one, and lying on my bed I could hear it through t’ floor, although I couldn’t quite make the words out. The only place in t’ room where I could sit or lie down wor on t’ bed. The space between t’ bed and the wall wor long and narrow, and lying on t’ rug wor like a dry run for your coffin. I’d been miffed when we moved to this house six year ago, and half-sis got the bigger room and I got the box room. Mitch had said girls need bigger rooms.

I turned up John Peel on t’ radio. Peely wor playing a lot of Sly and Robbie dub and some friggin’ folky shite, but I wor waiting for t’ live session by Siouxsie and the Banshees. I’d bought a portable casssette recorder and I had the C-90 tape sitting on pause, ready to record, wi’ an external mic balanced on a book in front of t’ radio speaker.

As luck would have it, Mand wor kipping already, so her usual clod-hoofing to t’ Bee Gees or some such shite wouldn’t interfere wi’ t’ recording. The heating pipes wor knocking, but I figured the mic wouldn’t pick that up.

Half-sis wor twenty-two month younger than me, so Mother must have met Mitch pretty sharpish after I wor born. Three month after I wor born, or so she said, she took the evening job in t’ bowling alley, while Gran and Granddad looked after me. She wor happy to be out of t’ house and earning some keep, to be able to pay them a few pounds. What’s more, Mother said, she met new friends, such as Mavis, who worked wi’ her behind t’ bar.

I thought about Eric, who’d been brought up by his grandfolk cos his mother had walked out and his dad had hit the bottle. And Gerald, my real dad, who wor long since pushing up daisies. I suddenly realised that Peely wor introducing Siouxsie, and I freed the pause button just in time for t’ raw opening chords of ‘Love in a Void’.

Next morn, while Mother wor ironing, I pushed her a little further about Gerald. She sprinkled water onto a shirt and pressed the iron down hard; it hissed and steamed as she held it down firmly, her knuckles almost white about t’ handle.

‘The past stays in t’ past,’ she said, ‘dead and buried.’ She flapped the shirt and hung it across t’ back of a kitchen chair and said that I knew all there wor to know. But then she went on to tell me that Mavis had played matchmaker for her and Mitch. She’d resisted Mitch’s attentions at first, having decided that no man would have her while she wor still married to Gerald, and her wi’ a toddler dribbling down Granddad’s lapels. Then Mavis took it on hersen to put Mitch in t’ picture, so to speak, and to her surprise Mitch said he had no right to judge anyone, his folks and older sister having been killed in a bombing raid on Sheffield during t’ war. He wor t’ only survivor, dug out after someone heard him bawling. He wor just a three-year-old nipper. He wor sent to live wi’ a great-aunt over Keighley way.

‘Is that why he talks to things and sometimes acts so strange? I mean, cos he had a lonely upbringing?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Mother said, stretching a Buzzcocks T-shirt of mine across t’ ironing board.

I said I wanted to know about Mavis and the bowling alley. Mother said that Mavis wor all syrupy charm out front, and a bitch in t’ back kitchen. I said she hadn’t changed much in my opinion, and Mother snapped that Mavis had always been a loyal friend, and that it worn’t my place to cast judgements on her.

So I didn’t delve no further. I wor biding my time about summat else. The future. My future. I needed to move out, to have my own space. Find a bedsit or a shared house. It had been coming like a faint train whistle farways down t’ track. Mentally, I wor packed and ready.

Girls might need bigger rooms.

But boys needed a world to play in.

It had been over six month since t’ last Ripper attack. There wor speculation that he’d topped himsen, or wor inside for some other crime, or that he’d found a woman who worshipped him and so he didn’t need to go murdering.

Now that the business wi’ Gina and the attack on t’ Fenton had blown over my life fell back into its steady furrow of t’ FK Club, Gay Lib, Corona and the occasional foray to a gay bar or club. I wouldn’t wear t’ gay badges though, in case anyone back home found them or someone spotted me out and about. Even punk badges wor out of fashion now.

Not that the Gay Lib bloke wi’ t’ railway pins in his lapels gave fashion a second thought. Every time I clapped eyes on him he had a new one. In t’ bar afterward Fazel and badge-vomit man wor confabbing about all t’ demos in Iran to overthrow the Shah. I listened on, supping the head off my pint. Iran wor a country on another planet where things worn’t done right.

As for Blighty, Mitch wor saying as we all sat down to watch
Dick Emery Show
on t’ telly that more strikes wor looming. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘now that the Tories have a bloody woman at the helm, they haven’t a cat’s chance of winning any election. I mean, who’s going to vote for that stupid cow?’

‘I might,’ said Mother, without looking up from t’ competition on her lap for a two-minute supermarket dash. She sucked noisily on a boiled sweet. She wor trying to give up smoking again. The previous attempt lasted all of three week.

‘Callaghan and his cronies wor ruddy-well daft not to ’ve called an election in September. I tell you, they had it in t’ bag.’

‘Did they, luv?’ Mother said, biro poised aloft like a small dagger.

Mitch went on to warn me that when I wor old enough to vote I worn’t to do owt daft like voting for anyone other than Labour. ‘This is a Labour household through and through. It’s in our blood. Your mother ain’t really going to vote for that Mrs Thatcher. She’s just saying that to rile me.’

Mother clicked on t’ head of her ballpoint pen and then wrote summat down for her competition.

Wi’ my Christmas bonus I bought:

The Only Ones –
The Only Ones

Talking Heads –
More Songs About Buildings and Food

Wire –
Chairs Missing

Gang of Four – ‘Damaged Goods’ (single)

The Pistols wor washed up now that Sid had been accused of killing his Nancy, and all t’other half-decent punk bands wor signing up to t’ corporates and selling their souls for a deal.

Punk wor dead. Silencer off. Bang. Bang.

Three days into t’ New Year, the last year of t’ decade, and Mitch and all t’other union lorry drivers came out on strike. But not us Corona men. We wor out all hours in it during one of t’ rawest winters for many a year.

Mitch on strike wor a blessing and a bind. For t’ first few days he wor a Santa sack full of plans: getting the airing-cupboard pipes boxed in, uprighting the leaning washing-line post in t’ back garden, clearing the drive of snow, mending the latch on t’ kitchen window. But after a few days he wor sloughing about barefoot in his pale-grey tracksuit bottoms and Leeds Utd shirt, pale-ale bottle dangling between his fingers, Johnny Cash or Glen Campbell twanging away on t’ lounge record player. Mother badgered him into doing a few chores, but mostly he wor bored and moody. He footled about in t’ garage, but it wor too cold to hang about in there for long.

So instead he took Max for walks – the dog must have thought it wor being trained for summat, it wor so knackered from trudging through t’ snow – and smoked way more than usual. Most lunchtimes he spent in t’ Marquis wi’ Don and a couple of his lorry driver mates. Wednesday and Friday lunchtimes they had the added distraction of a rough-looking stripper and a bottle of baby oil to accompany their ploughman’s and pint.

‘There’s this lorry driver,’ Mitch wor saying one evening as
Opp Knocks
’ presenter Hughie Green wor smiling smarmily at the camera, ‘works for Clark’s over Shipley way, who’s known for keeping his lorry immaculate. Peter Sutcliffe’s his name. A bit of a strange one, a bit standoffish, but the gaffer likes him cos he’s such a good worker, and the other drivers like him cos he’s dead helpful to t’ new recruits.’

The clapometer at the foot of t’ TV screen nudged toward seventy.

Mother said, ‘I can’t hear t’ telly when you blather on so.’

‘Women blather. I’m telling you summat. I heard about him from another driver who used to work for Clark’s, and works for us at Maid Marion now. What I’m saying is, when it comes down to it, I wouldn’t trust a driver like that in a strike. Likely as not he’s nowt but a bossman arse-licker. A blackleg.’

Mother shrugged. ‘He sounds lovely. Just what you want. The state of some of those cabs …’ Distracted by t’ telly, she clearly thought the subject unworthy of any further consideration.