Evil Relations (6 page)

The summers were hot and long in Ardwick when I was a little boy and the streets were safe. I thought it would last for ever.

* * *

David’s school, Ross Place Primary, was typically Victorian in structure, with soaring chimneys and a high brick wall around the playground.

‘I was a good boy for most of my years there,’ he recalls, ‘though the only lesson that really interested me was English. All I ever wanted to do was read and write. My compositions were so long that I used to take home my exercise book to finish them. I had a strange obsession with filling the page – if I came to the end of a chapter, I’d make sure I could think of enough to write to fill every line, right down to the last inch of paper, cramming in as many words as possible. I loved to read as well, not just comics but any books that happened to be within reach. Mum encouraged me in that, even though she wasn’t a particularly keen reader herself – the racing page was her favourite. And like every other house in the country, we had a full set of Dickens and the
Encyclopedia Britannica
, paid off at sixpence a week. I never glanced at the encyclopedia, but I read every line of Dickens.
Oliver Twist
stayed with me and not in a good way – the story of Nancy and murderous Bill Sykes scared me to death. Then I moved on to
Tom Sawyer
and realised that was who I wanted to be.’

The headmaster of Ross Place Primary was Mr Thorpe, a stern man with a booming voice. Together with Annie and the Duchess, he provided behavioural boundaries. ‘Rights and wrongs are learned in childhood,’ David states firmly. ‘Later on, as I was growing up, I did things I’m not proud of and would rather forget. But I always admitted any wrongdoing – that was one rule that stuck, along with what you might call “normal morality”, which was virtually ingrained from birth. Normal morality meant the basics: respect and manners. “Show some respect,” you were told, and you did. “Mind your manners,” you were warned, and you corrected yourself. If I
did
get into trouble at school, running home to Mum was never the answer. I’d be instantly marched back to Mr Thorpe and the corporal punishment he freely dished out – either six-of-the-best from the size-ten gym slipper, or the same from the fearsome, four-tongued thick leather strap. It was tough, but it worked for me. Between those three – Mum, the Duchess and Mr Thorpe – I learned that if you faced up to things and accepted the punishment that came with misbehaving, you’d come out all right. I was never a true rebel or anti-authority; I didn’t kick against it, not really. The biggest crime was to lie, to cover up either for yourself or someone else who’d done wrong.’

Jack Smith, David’s father, was never part of the equation in those early years. When the tall, rangy man in spectacles did put in an appearance, David was unable to summon any emotional response: ‘I didn’t feel as if he was my dad, even though I called him that. Mum would say, “Your dad’s coming home soon,” but I didn’t associate that special heartbeat with him. He was more like a kind uncle coming to take me out. I didn’t know anything about him, only that he’d been in the RAF during the war – that hero thing again – and of course I presumed he’d been a pilot and took some pride in that. In reality, he was a trained engineer and never left the ground.’

Returning from work at Fylingdales in Yorkshire, or further afield in London or Belgium, Jack spent much of his time in Ardwick reacquainting himself with the neighbourhood bars. ‘He’d get
steaming
drunk,’ David remembers. ‘I once woke up to a hell of a racket and ran downstairs to find Grandad in the parlour beating Dad with a poker. It was horrible, yet at the same time it was just a “domestic”. A fight between father and son – there were plenty of those about. Dad wasn’t a fighting drunk otherwise – he never laid a finger on me when I was small, and he didn’t go looking for trouble, though he could handle himself if necessary. But I always associated the smell of stale beer with Dad.’

Gradually, Jack’s visits became more regular and he made an effort to establish a relationship with his son, although his attempts often fell short of expectations. ‘He’d roll up with a pocket full of money and presents for me,’ David recalls. ‘But they were daft things, like the time he’d been to Belgium and brought me a great stack of comics back. The problem was that the comics were foreign,
Asterix
and
Tintin
, and I couldn’t read the words in the bubbles over the characters’ heads. That was typical Dad: his intentions were always spot-on, and he was never anything less than generous, but he never got it
quite
right. There was a time when I desperately wanted a guitar and, sure enough, he arrived home with one for me . . . but it was plastic. A lovely little toy guitar, but I’d set my heart on a real one. On another occasion, I went for a walk down Stockport Road and in the hardware shop I saw a toolbox full of planes, saws, gauges and markers – all these fantastic hand tools in a smashing box. I was about eight then, and had started taking an interest in woodwork at school. I told Dad about the toolbox and kept on at him about it. I wanted it more than life itself – a typical kid with his heart set on something. Anyway, Christmas came: I woke up early and realised that Santa had been. I scrabbled about for my toolbox and, sure enough, there was a gleaming new toolbox full of plastic planes, bendy plastic saws . . . oh, the disappointment! But it was as much my fault as his, because I’d been so spoiled by Mum. She got me exactly what I wanted every time, but poor Dad always fell at the last hurdle.’

At a loss for how to please his son, Jack frequently suggested a trip to Gorton’s Belle Vue, the vast entertainment complex that drew crowds from every corner of Manchester. Between its gates opening in 1836 and closing permanently in the 1970s, Belle Vue offered a variety of cheap, unrivalled attractions. Among its most popular draws were an amusement park and zoo, a circus, bars, dance halls, and a legendary speedway.

David recalls: ‘Dad would pick me up – reeking of last night’s booze – and off we’d go on the bus to Belle Vue. I can see us both now, heading through the gates on Hyde Road and pottering about the zoo with its different animal houses, each with their own strong smell. Mum would give me a bag of bread for the elephants and I’d join all the other kids walking around the moat, waiting for a great long trunk to come over the water to snaffle the crusts. There were two animals I
always
visited because I felt so sorry for them: the polar bear who was stuck in a concrete pit with a pool of dirty green water at the bottom, and the tigon, which was a cross between a tiger and a lion. He had predominant stripes and was massive, much larger than either of his parents, and lived alone without a mate. I used to stand for a long time watching those two – the polar bear endlessly circling the pool on a concrete ledge and the tigon pacing up and down a cage that was barely as big as an outside toilet. I didn’t know what repetitive syndrome was back then, of course, but I felt such sorrow for them – kids and animals do have a natural affinity. That part of Belle Vue was terrible, but otherwise it was an amazing place to have on your doorstep. I loved the rides, especially the Bobs roller-coaster. I remember having to stand next to a measuring stick to get on that and being delighted when I could go on for the first time. Dad took me to the speedway as well, and the dog racing. They were good days, really.’

He pauses and gazes outside, where the two dogs he and his second wife Mary rescued are stretched out in a patch of winter sunlight. ‘But everything was about to change and my world would never be the same again.’

I trust my mother. I trust everything about her: the stories she tells, the falsehoods that cover my birth and illegitimacy, the tale about her being a nurse at Manchester Royal Infirmary. We lie together in the attic, surrounded by photographs of her dead son, but I trust her love for me even when she buys me the biggest scarlet piano-accordion in the world, hoping I’ll learn to play it as well as Uncle Frank had done. It’s the real thing, that red-and-cream contraption, not a plastic imitation. I give it a cursory squeeze once or twice in front of her in the parlour, but it makes me feel something unnameable that I don’t want to feel so I smash it up, shouting, ‘I’m
not
Frank, remember!’ I trust her to understand, even then.

I still trust her after I find out she’s lied to me. One afternoon I take it into my head to visit her at work. I’m about eight years old and get hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of corridors inside Manchester Royal Infirmary. I ask someone where I can find Annie Smith and they point me down another corridor. Off I go, expecting to find her in a crisp white uniform, leaning over some patient’s bed, and instead I turn a corner and there she is with mop and bucket, washing the floor. It embarrasses her, but doesn’t alter my feelings. It’s only a little white lie, that one.

I go on loving her, untruths and all: I trust my mother.

* * *

At Ross Place Primary, David was entitled to free school dinners but couldn’t understand why he was singled out: ‘I don’t know why it bothered me so much – it wasn’t as if I was given smaller portions. But it niggled away at me and I asked Mum about it. She wouldn’t answer, so I kept on . . . and on. Until all of a sudden this hulking great skeleton came clattering out of the cupboard.’

He shakes his head at the memory: ‘I nagged and nagged. In the end she just snapped and shouted: “Your mum’s not dead.” The authorities knew that Joyce had walked out, leaving me the child of a one-parent family. It took the wind from my sails, I can tell you. Until then, I’d always thought that Joyce
was
dead – because that’s what I’d been told. As soon as Mum uttered that line, I went berserk. I lashed out with my fists and feet and wouldn’t stop thrashing and kicking . . . I was really hurting her, and I meant to do it. In the end, she had to defend herself, so she pulled out a thin tyre from an old pram that had a couple of metal strands running through the rubber. And she dealt me a good dose. In every which way, it hurt. But she didn’t do it to be brutal – she did it to quieten me down. Mum had never struck me before, not even a slap on the legs when I was being naughty, and she wouldn’t have done it then had I not completely lost it. I bloody well deserved that hiding.’

He regrets asking about the free dinner ticket even now: ‘I wish to hell I’d kept my mouth shut. Because once it came out, I felt cheated, especially by Mum. The unconditional trust I’d had in her crumbled a fair bit. I was in a terrible mardy for about a week afterwards and wouldn’t speak to her at all. Then I began calling her “Mrs Smith” instead of Mum. It took a while until things got back to normal. But if I’m truthful, I think that finding out about Joyce probably put that sizeable chip on my shoulder.’

In the aftermath of the row, David refused to eat school dinners and Annie resorted to giving him the money for fish and chips. His behaviour became deliberately disruptive and there were angry fights with the form prefects. Even then, chances are that he would have settled down again eventually. Instead, what happened next changed the course of his life for ever.

* * *

Events occur with bewildering speed. My cousin John, together with his brothers and the Duchess and Uncle Bert, move into a pub in the city centre. I miss them. John is the closest thing to a sibling I have and the Duchess is a second mum to me. She’ll appear again, many years from now, at times when I need a mother most. She’ll be at my side when Mum passes away and after the death of my daughter, Angela. The Duchess alone will understand and keep the secret of my soul when I’m charged with the murder of my father.

But the other change, the great upheaval, happens not overnight but during it.

I’m snuggled up and cosy in my attic bed when I hear distant noises, doors banging, and raised voices from two floors below. I think I’m dreaming until footsteps sound on the stairs, growing louder, and then the bedroom door hits the wall. I hear the thud of a hand on the light switch and my sleepy eyelids burn as the overhead lamp goes on.

‘Quickly now.’ Mum reaches for me, lifting me out of the warm bed. I blink and squirm, swamped with confusion. She stands me to attention, spits on her hand a couple of times and wipes her palm across my hair to flatten its pillow-chafed untidiness. ‘Quickly now,’ she says again in an unsteady voice. ‘No fuss.’ Her eyes glisten with tears.

She drags a blanket from the bed and wraps it around me so tightly that my arms are pinned to my sides. Fright stills my voice as I lift one foot and then the other to let her pull on my socks, followed by slippers. ‘Got to keep those feet warm,’ she mumbles, picking me up and carrying me down the two flights of stairs to the hallway. She leaves me there and disappears into the living room, swiftly closing the door behind her.

Bewildered, I blink at the parlour door, where the gramophone sits gathering dust and the settee still bears the imprint of the last time I nestled into its flowery bulk. I stand wrapped tautly in my blanket, listening not to cowboy songs but to a hysterical crescendo of shouting from the shuttered living room. My eyes are drawn down the long hallway to the frosted-glass panels of the front door. A huge, dark shape lurches into view, rattling the letterbox.

All at once, the shouting stops, the living room door opens, and I’m gazing up at my father. He has the knack all adults have of being able to alter his mood in an instant. He smiles at me and is immediately calm. I feel his large hand on my shoulder, as he guides me towards the stranger waiting behind the front door. Mum appears in the hallway, face drawn and eyes glittering with unwept tears. Grandad is nowhere to be seen.

The stranger is a taxi driver, and in the thick darkness of the street he climbs behind the steering wheel of his cab while Dad pushes me towards the back seat, then turns to Mum. His voice is unemotional as he tells her, ‘I’ll call for his stuff sometime tomorrow.’ I peer out fretfully at her: she holds herself very still, silent and more serious than I’ve ever seen her.