Crappily Ever After (4 page)

Anyway, they manage to get me into bed and I hear Mum ask Mary if I’ve mentioned a   boyfriend?                                                                  
‘Nah. Luce by name, loose by nature,’ my sister cackles. From my coma I hear a slap and an ‘Oww’ – Mum is a perfect shot. Reactions of a cat. I make a mental note to add a slap to that one tomorrow for Mary being a cow about me. But I forget by morning.
           

Christmas Day arrives. Brighter than any day I remember. I groan and attempt to roll over and disappear into the darkness of the duvet. A heavy weight on my chest stops me and I open my eyes to see Poopsy staring intently at me with yellow eyes. This Taurean need-to-feed of my mother’s is most apparent in the cat – the one who lives there 24/7. Obviously, this is Poopsy’s attempt at
Humanaroo
. I chuckle at my own joke and stroke her soft, white head. She begins to purr. I remove her gently and get up to walk to the bathroom in my underwear. At some point in the night I have shed the rest of my clothing. I meet Mum in the hall carrying an artery-clogging full Scottish breakfast. 
‘Merry Christmas poppet,’ she kisses me on the cheek. ‘Hungry?’ I am actually, I observe.
 ‘Merry Christmas Ma. I am, thanks. Feeling a tad rough though. I’ll just go remove this   badger’s arse from my mouth and I’ll be right back.’
 ‘Can’t say I’m surprised, darling,’ she replies with only a touch of disapproval (it is Christmas after all).
 ‘You always tell me that the liver is a very forgiving organ,’ I remind her.
 ‘Yes lass, but your liver would require the forgiveness of Mother Teresa.’
 I smile at Mum’s joke and head off to de-badger.
                       

By lunchtime, I am surrounded by discarded paper with Poopsy somewhere underneath the lot, torpedoing out occasionally. I marvel at how Mum can always get it so right. Every present thoughtfully considered and with the individuality of the recipient taken into account. It doesn’t stop her from staring at me like Paddington Bear as every piece of sellotape is removed.
‘You don’t like it,’ she informs me. ‘That’s fine, I’d rather know, I have the receipts for   everything.’
‘Mum, I love it,’ I announce, laughing at her worried expression, which increases now that I’m laughing. ‘I’m only finding it funny because you’re looking at me like that. If I didn’t like it, I would say. I wouldn’t waste your money that way.’
She visibly relaxes. I’m talking money, so I must mean it. I do genuinely love it – all of it – but I also know that mentioning money when I’m broke is the best way to get that across to her.
‘Not the same without Scratcher this year is it?’ reminisces Mum.
‘Ahh no, it’s not. He was a poorly puss though.’
Scratcher, so named for his love of soft furnishings, had died in the summer. Mum and Poops still missed him lots.
‘Do you remember last year when I was writing Christmas cards by candlelight?’ I giggled nervously, not sure I was forgiven yet. ‘Scratcher flicked his tail through the candle and it set alight.’
‘It brought a whole new meaning to putting the cat out,’ Mum replied, and we both laugh.

‘You don’t think maybe that caused..?’

‘No!’ replied Mum firmly.
Tension dissolved, Mum began clearing away the wrapping paper, finding an astonished-   looking Poopsy underneath the deepest pile. 

I watched as Mum re-arranged the piece of tinsel around Dad’s photograph. She smiled fondly at him and stroked a finger down his face. Dad was sitting on Gran’s sofa with a can of lager in his hand and a pink party hat from a cracker sat lopsided on his head. Poor Mum found Christmas quite difficult to cope with. The photograph on the TV was the last Christmas she had with Dad. I was only a baby and Mum was pregnant with Mary when the news arrived. On 23
^rd
December, a year after the picture was taken, a frantic call came from Dad’s boss, asking if Mum had heard from Dad? He was a long distance lorry driver and had been taking a delivery to Glasgow. It was his last drop-off before Christmas and Mum and Dad were both looking forward to two weeks off together. There had been an accident on the M8 and Dave, Dad’s boss, had put a call out on the CB to all his staff expected to be around that area, letting them know to divert to another route. Dad hadn’t responded to the call. Mum immediately switched on the radio to hear the travel news. Gran tried to stop her and insisted she shouldn’t listen. The crackling voice spoke of breaking news, of a jack-knifed lorry on the M8. Two other vehicles were involved. Mum and Gran sat quietly and waited for the police. Dave came round and joined the vigil. Head bowed, hands hanging loosely between his knees and a cold cup of untouched tea on the floor next to his cap. There was a knock at the door. They were here.

It turned out two young guys and their passengers were racing along the motorway. One had cut off the other several miles back and a chase ensued. Eye-witnesses said that Dad had desperately tried to miss them, swerving left and right, ‘til he hit the central reservation. You didn’t have to wear seatbelts in those days, hardly anyone did. The boys were fine – just cuts and bruises. Dad was killed instantly after smashing through the windscreen. Christmas was a non-event that year. Despite me being far too young to remember, Mum had felt horrendously guilty that I had a bad first Christmas and has tried to make up for it ever since. Mum put Dad’s picture down gently and walked through the living room. She stopped briefly to kiss me on the top of my head.

 ‘You are so like him, Lucy,’ she smiled sadly.

Later that afternoon we all congregate at my mum’s sister’s house, my Auntie Betty’s. We

arrive to a cacophony of sound. A light-hearted argument over who was the funniest member of the family was the current topic. After doing the whole rounds of Merry Christmas wishes, I join in wholeheartedly and add my contribution – my sister, Mary. After all these years, she still cracks me up.

‘Remember how she always used to make up her own words to songs rather than learn them?’ I ask, smugly proud. Due to the fact that I had collected every issue of
Smash Hits
, I had the monopoly on knowing every word to every song from the 80s. Add to that the fact that I gained sound knowledge on trivia, such as what type of pants Ben from Curiosity Killed the Cat preferred, and George Michael’s shoe size.
‘I’ll never forget the time I caught her singing along to
Tesla Girls
by OMD.’ I double over with laughter.

 ‘Testicles! Testicles!’
 Everyone laughs and admits that this definitely puts her in the running.
‘No, no, there’s a better one,’ I announce. ‘How about,
Tonight, I Sellotape my Glove to You
by Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack?’ The room explodes into laughter. Mary, even though she hasn’t arrived yet and is oblivious, is the favourite in the running.
The subject turns to the most unsuccessful family member. Bloody hell, are they planning to start a family yearbook I think defensively, knowing full well that this is my
forte
. The attention immediately turns to me. Silence. I wait for the tumbleweed to sweep through the family room. It’s not that they don’t know what to say, that’s never a problem in my family. It’s more that they don’t know where to start.
My Auntie Betty goes first. She smiles affectionately and says:
‘Well, not too many people start their career in a 99p shop, pal.’

‘I was fresh out of college and had yet to put my stamp on the world,’ I state indignantly, but secretly enjoying a family title of some sort. Albeit a derogatory one.
‘And besides, I think you’ll find I was the Assistant Manager of a 99p shop,’ I smile smugly. This does not carry the desired respect I crave. Laughter, yes.

‘Oh, but her love life!’ announces my Uncle Robert. ‘Now that is where your lack of success really lies.’
This divides into sub-conversations throughout the family like a game of Chinese Whispers. With the aim of the game – whispering – somewhat wasted on them.
‘James, now he was one of the worst!’
‘Nah, Sean definitely, my own personal favourite.’
‘How about Paul though? Remember that time he…’
Mary arrives. Husband and kids trailing behind.
‘Who are we talking about?’ she enquires.
‘Lucy and her crap boyfriends,’ my Aunt Sarah supplies helpfully.
‘Oh, Alfie. Now he was undoubtedly the worst ever!’ Mary smiles knowingly at me.
The room nods as one.

‘To my niece,’ my Uncle Robert raises his glass and holds it in my direction. The others follow suit, ‘The Fairy Tale Princess destined to live crappily ever after’
A round of applause.

I think I’d better explain.                                                                                                                                                                     

                                                  Chapter Three        

The Wonder Years
… as in, I wonder what I was thinking? Despite the good intentions of my younger self, I have in total wasted 18 years – over half my life – on the biggest losers known to womankind. I have also lost a good few years of the 1980s to horrendously bad style. A fashion casualty, if you like. It’s also the time I took a wrong career direction; childcare – too stressful and low paid – in my opinion now. It’s also around this time I started smoking. Eighteen: you think you have it sussed, but for me, when I reflect on it now, it was the point when I made all my worst choices. Looking back, I am amazed I ever managed to even find someone who wanted to date me. These were the dodgy perm years. We all had them in the 80s. I was not alone on this. I had all mine done by a family friend’s daughter, who was a trainee. She charged £3.50 – £2.50 for the solution and £1 for her time. I grudged every penny.     

I tried to keep my emotions intact, having looked in the mirror for the first time after the deed. Being a trainee in a salon specialising in blue rinses hadn’t helped Marianne’s case at all. She had blow-dried me within an inch of my life. I stared at the elderly bouffant that looked super-imposed on my teenage face. It was strangely amusing and horrific, all at the same time. If it had been on someone else, I would have laughed my ass off. But, visualising having to take shares out in Insette on a college grant of £32 per week did not help. The industrial strength 1980s hairspray was a godsend to many a teenage girl and I must certainly put up my hand to a contribution to the hole in the ozone layer, along with my childhood budgie’s fatal asthma attack. Having done the walk of shame across the street, I am greeted by Gran at the front door, buttoning her coat on her way out.

‘It’s lovely, dear,’ she says. ‘The ladies at the Stroke Club will love it. You should pop by for a cuppa.’                 

I head straight to the shower attachment over the bath and immediately soak my hair through. I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare, long and hard. I have been warned by Marianne to only comb it with an Afro comb. Otherwise, the curl will be damaged. Good, I think – and grab a paddle brush belonging to my aunt. Half an hour later, I am still confronted with a mass of curls. Mortified, I decide to peek round the door of the bathroom, where I encounter Robert in the hallway, red-faced and speechless with mirth, pointing silently at me. A minute passes as he runs to fetch Mary and Betty. I loiter self-consciously, may as well get it over with in one go. Apparently, I am so amusing that tears are now streaming down their faces. Eventually, Robert finds the words he is searching for:

‘Pube head!’

Profound.

The others collapse against him, nodding frantically through their laughter. It is my new name for the next two months. Actually, it’s a blessed release from ‘pancakes’ – my previous name, due to my undeveloped chest.        

Anyway, back to the disaster that is my love life. The first, being Sean, with whom I lived with for almost three years. I was at college studying to be a Nursery Nurse. Oh, if only I could now talk to my seventeen-year-old self in so many ways. I was at college only fourteen miles away and therefore still lived at home. I met Sean in a student bar in Dundee. He was standing at the end of the bar smoking a rolly and leaning lasciviously towards the barmaid. A peroxide blond with a top on that left nothing to the imagination. Tight, short and what appeared to be the arse of a Sumo wrestler protruding out of the top. Yes, the early warning signs do seem to be the most correct. Something I will take years yet to learn. If instinct makes your feet want to move in the opposite direction, do please listen. I whisper to my friend, Holly, with whom I have bunked off for an afternoon of snakebite (no blackcurrant, it’s common) that I like the cutie by the bar.

‘Join an orderly queue,’ sighs Holly, tossing a glossy red lock over her shoulder and raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘That’s Sean Taylor. Studying music, he’s the lead singer in a band – The Magic Mushrooms. Everyone and their dog fancies him. He even has a huge gay following,’ she states in a ‘the subject is now closed’ voice.

‘Are you saying I have no chance?’ I question.

‘Well, of course you do.’ She examines a spot on my chin closely. ‘I just think it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Cut out the middle man and just go spending the next three months from now bawling your eyes out and listening to your heartbreak tape whilst eating your way through an entire tin of Quality Street.’                                                                                   

Holly is three months older than me and therefore thinks she is much more worldly. I sulk and light up a Regal Small. I hate smoking. Again, if I could talk to me then…  I do it because it gets me in with the rough mob at college. Always handy to have them on side, even if they did practically wet themselves on day two outside our college building. The ringleader, Jan, pointed at me, just in case there was any doubt about who she was humiliating, and spluttered:

‘
You
smoke?’

‘Have done since I was twelve,’ I lied, trying to hold in a cough.

Ignoring Holly, I take a large slug of snakebite, lean forward and shake my 32A bosom further up in its training bra and saunter casually towards the bar.

‘ID!’ barks peroxide Sumo tits.

‘Aww c’mon,’ laughs Sean. ‘Leave her alone Charmaine, she’s far too small and cute to pick on.’

‘ID,’ smiles Charmaine smugly.

‘No, that’s fine,’ I say. ‘I actually take it as a compliment looking young for my eighteen years. Means that
I
won’t look like a crack whore when I’m in my twenties.’

Sean explodes with laughter. Charmaine plucks my student card disdainfully from my hand and examines it. Even though I have checked it in various lighting since I doctored it with tippex and biro, it’s still a tense moment. Those were the days; laminated paper ID.  Thanks to a friend’s ultra-cool mum who worked in an office and actively encouraged under-age drinking. Our reasoning being that she hoped other girls would get knocked-up aged 14 and have as crap a life as her. My ID was freshly laminated.

‘Fine,’ states Charmaine sarcastically, tossing it in a puddle of beer on the bar and reluctantly pouring up two snakeys.

‘Are you in College?’ asks Sean. ‘You look fresh out of Primary School.’

‘Yep, but I have a boyfriend. Don’t get too interested,’ I say over my shoulder as I walk away.

‘Treat ‘em mean,’ my Gran always said. She had great success with men until she muddled up two letters to the RAF guys she was trying to decide between – and was dumped by both. I remember her telling me this as she glanced at my Granddad cutting his toenails in a basin of water, emitting a loud fart with the exertion of it all, and chuckling quietly to himself.

‘God works in mysterious ways,’ she sighed.

So anyway, I’m back at the table and Holly informs me Sean is looking over at me. I sneak a glance. He is indeed, incredibly.

‘Oooh, he’s coming over,’ she laughs behind her hand. I look the opposite way.

‘Fancy a game of pool?’ Sean slimes up to me, tossing his Andrew Ridgeley-style locks.

‘Only if you can handle having your arse kicked,’ I shrug, disinterestedly. ‘Oh, and it’s doubles only. Holly joins us, so you better look around for a mate to play with.’

Sean dashes off and comes back with some random bloke who had been minding his own business, reading a newspaper with a pint and a pie.                                                                     ‘This is Joe,’ says Sean breathlessly. ‘We’ve known each other years.’

‘It’s John,’ says “Joe”.

 ‘Anyway,’ breezes Sean, ‘let’s play.’ With an enthusiastic nod to us all, we stand up and join him at the pool table.            

So, I have been living with Sean for two years and nine months. Much to my Mum’s initial horror and half the family asking if I’m pregnant. It’s my first ever live-in relationship. Sean plays with the band every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Sundays are boys’ nights out, so it’s a fairly part-time relationship. Sean doesn’t like me to go out without him, so half an hour after he leaves on a Friday night, I get out of my pyjamas and into my party frock, heading out in Dundee City centre with Holly. I, of course, do nothing untoward behind his back, but it’s best he doesn’t know. I occasionally hear rumours doing the rounds about Sean’s antics. He sweeps them off dismissively and informs me that the other band guys play around, but why would he go for a burger when he has steak at home? I don’t believe the gossip anyway. It’s no secret that Sean is fancied the length and breadth of Dundee. There was even a ridiculous story from one gay friend of mine that Sean had slept with his ex-boyfriend. One of the many reasons why I didn’t believe anything I heard.

I worked Saturday and Sunday nightshift in Safeway. Not the best job, but a good crowd to work with. I remember being exhausted for two years juggling work and College. I hated College. I had assumed it would be very grown-up and cool, calling the teachers by their first names and all going out for lunch together. The reality couldn’t have been further from my expectations. It was exactly like school had been, but now the lecturers -good choice of name for them I thought – would inform us that we were supposed to be College, not High School students. Tardiness and bunking off was not acceptable in College. Funny that, my High School teachers used to say the same about not being in Primary School any more. What next? Due to my bad behaviour, my employer saying did I still think I was in College? I really expected people to have stopped bossing me around by the ripe old age of 18, and was most indignant. We had four tortuous weeks of College before our placements began. Did we need to know so much before being let loose on the children of the world? Or perhaps they were so awful that we needed to be educated on how to deal with them before we even met.

The day finally arrived when Miss Smith, the Senior Lecturer, handed out the slips of paper with the name of our nurseries on. Jan leaned forward in her seat and delivered a sharp punch to my shoulder blade. I tutted and turned to glare at her.

‘Oi, frizz-head! What nursery you got?’

‘Do you really need to punch me to get my attention?’ I scowled.

Jan ignored me and studied the name of my nursery.

‘Hey, Cragtonhill! You got lucky, one of the nicer nurseries, jammy bugger.’

 ‘Oh, great!’ I beamed my relief at her. ‘I was so worried I’d get a rough one where you have to check the kids for knives on the way in. Well, thank God for that.’ I turned back and smiled at my piece of paper. This would be a doddle.                                                                         

Monday arrived. Placement day one. I waited anxiously at the bus station. It’ll be fine, I reasoned. Jan said it was a nice nursery. All of them are, our lecturer had said. Dundee is a decent city, friendly people. Apart from the dodgy mob of three at college, everyone else had been nice to me. No reason not to believe her. There are one or two places with more ‘challenging’ children, Miss Smith had added cautiously (she did love to do those air inverted commas), but she had given those to the girls with previous childcare experience. I should be safe then; apart from babysitting my cousin Craig, I didn’t have any prior experience. Craig was fairly feisty but nothing three tubes of Smarties and
Button Moon
on repeat couldn’t control.

My bus arrived. I explained to the driver it was my first day and could he please shout me when we got to Cragtonhill School. He glanced behind me:

‘You on your own, are you?’

I nodded blankly. The driver gave a throaty chortle. ‘No problem, I’ll shout you when we get there.’ He gave another hearty laugh as if he found himself hilarious and shook his head. I walked to the back of the bus. This being my first mistake.

‘Missus. Oi, Missus. Yeh you, wifie, wi’ the nice hair.’ A snort from the other boy caused me to turn around. ‘You got a smoke we can have?’

I stare in shock at the two seven-year-old boys on the back seat.

‘No! Indeed I do not, and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t give it to two young boys like you.’ Ten minutes pass by ‘til the bus lumbers halfway up a steep hill.                    

‘Cragtonhill School,’ bellowed the driver, followed by yet another chortle. I get off the bus and walk up the remainder of the hill. Nervous, and now cigarette-less too. Seven- year-olds can be so cruel. Took my two pounds lunch money too, for another pack. It was my fault really; I should have had more than three smokes on me. I walk past a group of teenagers watching a rubbish bin blaze as they discussed possible accelerants for the next one, and into the school. The corridor was long and eerily quiet. The smell of disinfectant and carbolic soap hung heavily in the air. I walk the half a mile to the office and give a tentative knock.