Blood Relatives (15 page)

As we left, I let Mother go on ahead through t’ double swing doors and out into t’ grounds. I saw her umbrella go up as plops of rain began to darken the gravel drive. The girl in t’ foyer office wor there, wi’ Bobby. I walked in without knocking.

‘What do you give her?’

The girl smiled sweetly, nervously, and tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘What’s with your hands?’

‘It’s nowt. What do you give her?’

‘I don’t give anyone anything, but if you mean the nurses and doctors, they do give the patients a few sedatives. To calm them down. When people like her, I mean your gran, well, sometimes they get confused, over-anxious or aggressive. We don’t have the staff to …’ She trailed off and grimaced tightly.

‘Mmm. Nnnmmm. Hnnnn,’ Bobby wor going. She reached forward and adjusted his mouth-stick, then flipped over t’ page of his book for him and wiped his mouth. She wor done wi’ me, and I wi’ her. Bobby wor looking directly at me wi’ wide, sad eyes and rocking his chair like he wor trying to tip it over. ‘Hnnnn. Hnnnn. Mmmmmm.’

Just before Christmas I went back to work. Sales went ape. Worse, folk kept inviting us in for Christmas toasts – vodka and some chewy bikkie wi’ t’ Ukrainians or t’ Poles, rum and Coke wi’ t’ West Indians, tots of whiskey wi’ t’ Irish. It wor nearly 10 p.m. before we finished up and the van wor dry. Eric and I wor both on t’ wrong side of sober. When we tried cashing up our fingertips wor too cold and we kept losing count. So we took a tenner each for tips, and Eric upended the rest into a carrier bag and staggered off into t’ night, saying he’d come back for t’ van in t’ morning.

Wi’ my Christmas bonus I bought:

The Only Ones – ‘Lovers of Today’

Dead Boys – ‘Sonic Reducer’

The Rezillos – ‘(My Baby Does) Good Sculptures’

Buzzcocks – ‘Orgasm Addict’

Penetration – ‘Don’t Dictate’

I played them all over and over at full volume ’til Mitch wor yelling from t’ foot of t’ stairs to ‘Turn down that fuckin’ caterwauling!’

I formed my fingers into a pistol and fired through t’ floor. Pow! Pow! Silencer off.

21/01/1978

Mitch went to see a man about a dog. The dog wor a three-year-old Alsatian called Max. Mitch said that some mate of his and his family had been moved into a new council flat, which meant they had to give t’ dog up cos pets worn’t allowed. Likely story. Whenever Mitch said ‘some mate’ and had a long story attached to it, you knew he wor fibbing. The dog barked the whole friggin’ time and crashed into t’ furniture. Mother wor bloody livid about it.

After t’ Christmas spree, January Corona sales had been a stone-cold morning after. We could take our time, take a proper hour for lunch in a warm caf serving chips wi’ curry sauce, then a half-hour unthawing on Lourdes’ horse-piss tea, and still be done by 6 p.m. It wor quiet for Lourdes too: the weather wor bitter, the punters broke, and the few that wor desperate enough had been scared off by t’ police presence.

‘Means mi has to take risk,’ Lourdes said. ‘Mis no like takin’ risk, stayin’ out late, not bein’ choosy. Gotta eat, gotta pay dem solicitin’ fines, but yous sees it – duh place is crawlin’ wi’ poleece.’

Her mirthless cackle died like a siren winding down. Eric said, ‘My girlfriend, Karen, she’s expecting.’

Lourdes’ eyelids flickered. ‘You’s gonna do duh right ting, ain’t you, Eric?’

‘Spring wedding.’

Eric, married at twenty-three wi’ a sprog on t’ way. He didn’t sound too sold on it. I guessed it wouldn’t be long after t’ wedding before Eric wor slipping that ring into his nylon Corona coat pocket and getting up to his usual antics.

Eric said, ‘Well, we wor going to wait … but I guess it’s been decided for us.’ He scratched his right sideburn like he had eczema. ‘Can you believe she wor going to have an abortion? Go through wi’ it, the whole shebang, and not a word to me. Me! The dad! Told her mother, told her sister, told her best friend, but did she think to tell me? Did she ask me what I want?’

‘And what’s dat, hmm?’ said Lourdes, her tone softening, like summat wor melting on her tongue.

‘Well, I want to keep it.’

‘Men always want to keep it, honey. Dey just don’t want to raise it.’

‘I’ll make sure she comes round to t’ idea. I’m already on t’ council house waiting list, and maybe I’ll have to find a better-paid job, and Karen might have to do some hairdressing from home, but we’ll cope. I told her we’d cope. But we talk and talk and it all gets tangled in knots. She says it’s for her to decide, cos she’s carrying it. But it’s all I’ve got now.’ He stopped pacing. ‘We’ll cope. I told her we’ll cope.’

We needed to get on. I set down my mug of horse piss and I threw a pleading glance at Lourdes. Lourdes read me and stood up. ‘You’s got customers waiting. Maybe I’s gat dem too.’

Eric slung the money satchel over his shoulder.

‘Come to t’ wedding, Lourdes. Bring people. The more the merrier.’

Lourdes laughed like an unhappy child.

‘Me? Lourdes? Come to your wedding? What’d yer new wife think o’ dat?’

Mother wor watching
The Good Old Days
on t’ telly.
The Good Old Days
wor broadcast from Leeds City Varieties theatre on t’ Headrow. It wor a recreation for TV of an old music hall, wi’ singalongs, circus acts and saucy comedians. The audience wor all decked up in hired costumes from t’ period and a frothy compere introduced each act as ‘The fantabulosa, the phantasmagorical …’, the audience oooohing and aaahing ’til t’ compere smashed down his gavel and the applause thundered out. Mother loved it.

A Houdini circus act came on. A man in a white suit wi’ a leggy blonde assistant in a shimmery get-up. The man lifted chains and padlocks from a box and showily bound and chained his toothily smiling accomplice. She stepped daintily into t’ open suitcase and the man put his hand on t’ top of her head and pushed her down. He locked and chained the case, and made a show of rattling the outsized padlocks and pretending to swallow a giant key. The audience oooohed. Drums rolled. ‘10–9–8–7 …!’ the audience shouted down t’ seconds in raucous, shambolic unison. Mother wor chewing on t’ end of a biro. We knew it wor an act, the young assistant would escape without question, but how, Mother said aloud, did the poor soul cope in t’ meantime wi’ being cooped up in such a confined space? Did she not feel like it wor waking up in your coffin? Wor she ever afraid that she wouldn’t escape? Would he let her out if she banged on t’ underside of t’ lid?’

‘It’s just an act,’ I said. ‘She’s faking it.’

Sure enough, as the dying seconds wor counted down t’ case locks began to rattle, then on t’ count of one the top burst open, and there wor t’ magician’s assistant, dressed in a different shimmery number, arms spread wide, smile glued on, as if she’d just emerged from a fitting room. The audience whooped and cheered and applauded riotously. Mother pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and blew on it hard.

The main report on t’ 9 o’ clock news that followed wor about HIM. Then t’ scene switched to a reporter, clutching his tulip-headed mic. We recognised the street behind him. He wor standing next to a newspaper billboard in red letters that reminded me of Hammer horror film posters:

HAVE YOU ANY INFORMATION

ON THE RIPPER MURDERS?

RING LEEDS

36168 OR 36149

Mother said she’d make us both tea, and went into t’ kitchen to fill t’ kettle.

Blandford Gardens wor up for sale. And empty. The net curtains and velvet drapes had been taken down. I pressed my face to t’ window, staring in, reconstructing the room in my mind – the settee beneath t’ mountain, the rug before it, the Turkish table wi’ t’ orange telephone on it, the books on t’ bare shelves. On t’ far wall, across t’ empty room, I could make out the shadow of t’ Matterhorn.

Further along t’ street some curtains flurried and a neighbour appeared, eyeing me as if I wor looking to brick the window. I walked away. When I glanced back from t’ end of t’ street, she still had me fixed in her sights.

I ducked into t’ Fenton and found Dora parked on her bar stool, wearing a short, gaudy green dress and no stockings, so that she showed off her varicose veins. She told me Jim had gone in a hurry.

‘Trouble wi’ some young’un,’ she said. ‘Some ungrateful, spiteful little tyke …’

‘Did he leave you an address?’

She laughed emptily. ‘No, luv, he did not. Why would he?’

I made to place my hand over hers, but she pulled it quickly away.

‘Everybody leaves,’ she sniffed. ‘Either they die or they leave. My son left. Can you believe that? Left his mother one day nigh on twenty year ago, and I haven’t heard owt from him since. Not a peep.’

‘I didn’t know you had a son, Dora.’

‘Hmphhh. For all it matters, luv, I might as well not have.’

The dolls’ house Mitch had been building in t’ garage wor a kennel. A cartoon Scooby-Doo kennel wi’ red planks and a sloping green roof. So he’d planned the dog all along.

The dog didn’t take none to his new home. We looked on while Mitch ordered, coaxed, threatened, shouted, even went down on his knees and pleaded, which just befuddled it into licking Mitch’s nose. When Mitch tried to drag it into t’ kennel it lay down, dug its paws into t’ ground and stubbornly refused to go near it.

Dog 1, Household 0.

So Mitch tied the dog to t’ washing-line post by t’ kennel’s entrance. The first two nights the dog whimpered and barked all friggin’ night to be let back in. It wouldn’t go in t’ kennel, not even for a trail of bikkies. No one got a wink of sleep. On t’ second night Mother got up, effing on about t’ ruddy dog. She let it in, laid a blanket down on t’ kitchen floor. It whimpered for a while, its nose pressed against t’ bottom of t’ kitchen door, but eventually the whimpers stopped. Next day Mother bought a basket, a dog blanket and a rubber bone.

Dog 2, Household 0.

Mitch went into a lovey-dovey, baby-talk phase. ‘Here Maxy, luvverly Max, who’s a good boy then? Yes, you are, yes you are,’ slobbering into t’ dog’s chops, smothering the poor mutt one moment then ordering it about like some sergeant major.

‘Sit, Max! Stay! Good boy! Who’s a good boy then? Who is? Maxie, Maxie Maxie is a good boy, aren’t you? Aren’t you? No! Sit! Max! Sit!’

Max sat. Alert, twitching to be off again. No sooner had Mitch taken his eye off him than he jumped up, barking wildly.

Dog 3, Household 0.

‘Sit! Sit, Max! Good boy. Who’s a good boy then?’

Noses rubbed again. Wet dog nose against runny human one. More barking, then jumping up for a dog bikkie. The whole spectacle wor making me squirm.

‘Next time I want summat from you,’ I said, ‘I’ll bark for it.’

After a week the dog began to settle, and Mitch took to taking it wi’ him in his lorry.

‘Looks like I’m a dog widow,’ Mother said.

I lay on my bed, hands behind my head, listening to my records. Life could be summed up as:

1 Matterhorn Man skedaddled.

2 No Tad.

3 Foul, dark winter.

4 The Sex Pistols split. All Nancy Spungen’s fault for leading fuckable Sid by t’ nose.

5 Stupid dog.

31/01/1978

The Leeds gay scene wor nowt to write home about: the New Penny of course, a couple of back bars in straight pubs, Charley’s – a skuzzy nightclub wi’ fake wood-panel walls and thin red carpeting that stuck to t’ soles of your shoes – and a monthly Gay Lib disco at the Guildford Hotel. The Bradford scene wor even more pitiful.

All t’ buzz wor about some new club over Huddersfield way called the Gemini which wor being touted as the Studio 54 of t’ North. Wherever t’ Studio 54 of t’ South wor I had no notion. In London, I supposed.

I took a weekday evening train to Huddersfield. Beyond my own mooning reflection in t’ train window I could see t’ yellow lights of a snaking road, the squishy red of tail lights moving along it, the blistering white lights of t’ industrial estates or nearby towns. The train rattled on bleakly, causing me to nod off ’til I wor jolted awake by t’ screeching of t’ brakes. Friggin’ Huddersfield.

Once I wor off t’ train, the wet winter night air slapped me to my senses. I scurried along, head down against t’ driving rain, passing a gaggle of goths huddled about a burger van, on past the shuttered shops, the blaring pubs and dark side ginnels, ’til I came out on a main road.

I’d come full circle. The railway station wor directly behind me. To my right, a roundabout and a straggle of terraced houses dipped away toward t’ dual carriageway. Somewhere here, under my very nose, wor t’ Gemini club. But where, for Christ’s sake? I spotted a couple of baldy men in leather jackets heading for an unlit warehouse building across t’ street. They approached an unmarked door. One of them pressed a small bell. Then t’ door opened and they stepped into a warm block of light.

I hurried across. This had to be it, although there wor no sign saying so. I pressed the bell, and moments later the spyhole winked. I wor left waiting much longer than t’other men. I glanced nervously about. It crossed my mind that maybe the door wouldn’t open, that for me it would stay shut. But then it opened. The doorman gave me t’ once-over, scanning up and down t’ road as he did so.

I’d found it. The Studio 54 of t’ North.

The ground-floor reception wor all red and gold. A wine-coloured carpet and damask walls decorated wi’ gold-sprayed plaster-cast cherubs. More red and gold in t’ cloakroom. I made my way up a very narrow, straight stairway that opened up onto t’ club proper on t’ first floor.

I wor way too early. Emerging at the top of t’ stairs wor like walking in on a cancelled reception. It wor t’ biggest and poshest club I’d ever clapped eyes on. I couldn’t imagine how they wor going to fill it on a midweek night. To t’ left there wor a sleek long bar, to t’ right an L-shaped dancefloor that led through to a restaurant area. A glitterball rotated over t’ dancefloor, refracting the strobelight beams onto t’ floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The disco music porp-porped as one solitary soul in white-bummed flares (Y-front panty-line visible) pranced and twirled, dancing wi’ his mirrored sen, while t’ raised dancefloor flashed light squares of red, blue and yellow.

I bought mesen a lager and lime and supped it slowly, watching from my bar stool as the place slowly filled up.

Boney M’s ‘Daddy Cool’ came on, causing a minor rush for t’ dancefloor, and the twirling dancer was swallowed up in a sea of flaying arms and bobbing heads. I remained on my bar stool, supping my pint, watching the dancefloor dramas being played out.

I emptied the dregs and circled the dancefloor twice, cut into t’ bogs for a leak, where a lean man in jeans, vest and leather US police cap flashed his semi stiffy at me. Like I wor that easy. I passed up his firm offer, returned to t’ bar stool and ordered mesen another pint. I caught my image in t’ smoked-glass bar mirrors slumping like a hunched chimp so I straightened up. Then I felt two hands placed over my eyes.

‘Guess!’

No guessing wor needed. The voice, the hands. ‘Tad!’ I shook mesen loose and turned round on t’ stool. ‘What the heck?’

He wor smirking at me wi’ skew-jawed wonder. His hair had grown to a sandy stubble. Gone wor t’ drainpipes wi’ t’ thin red braces; he wor in flared black jeans and a plain white T-shirt. No rings, no chains, just the one stud in his left ear. He had a small white plaster on his cheekbone where he’d nicked himsen shaving.

‘You are kidding me.’

‘It’s my local. What’s your excuse?’

‘Boredom or desperation. Take your pick.’

He laughed. If he wor embarrassed at finding me here, he didn’t show it. I kept looking down at t’ floor, then looking up at him and grinning like a mad’un.

‘What?’

‘What? You know friggin’ what, you shit. While I wor having my fingers sewn up you scarpered.’

‘Aye. Well. It wor just bad timing.’

I worn’t going to argue. Tad wor t’ last person on earth I thought I’d bump into in this place. He bought me a pint, and a vodka and tonic for himsen. It didn’t take long for t’ talk to turn to Paradise Buildings, to Gina, Jeremy and Julia and the rest of t’ junkies. Tad said that after Julia had overdosed and the bailiffs had cleared out the place he’d thought it best to lie low awhile, so he’d scuttled back to his parents’ farm up on t’ moors above Huddersfield. He spoke wi’ a strained urgency, as if it wor important that I understood. All t’ time he wor blathering his fingers stroked my forearm or my knee.

Tad said, ‘You know about t’ Fenton?’

‘The Fenton? What about it?’

‘Believe me, I didn’t agree wi’ it. Smashing it up like that.’

I jerked my head. ‘When wor this?’

‘About a week back. I thought you would have heard. It wor in t’ paper – on t’ local news. A load of NF went in and starting chucking chairs about and glassing folk. I didn’t want no part of it. I had a big falling-out wi’ Gina over it.’

‘Gina?’

‘She started the whole thing. Got about twenty of them together. This poor old girl ended up needing ten stitches in her face and neck.’

‘Dora!’ I could feel my cheeks pounding, as if someone had slapped me.

‘You know her?’

‘If it’s who I think it is, yes, I know her. Jeez, Tad, couldn’t you have warned anyone? Not the cops, but you could have let the pub know or summat.’

‘The NF would have known it wor me. They would have gone for me. They still might. I’m a marked man now. A traitor for refusing to take part. It’s not that I disagree wi’ what they’re all about. But smashing people’s faces in ain’t going to win ’em any friends. And wi’ all t’ Pakis in Huddersfield and Dewsbury, my dad says …’

‘What about gay Asians, then? I mean, there are a few in here tonight.’

‘Dunno. I dunno what I feel about that. Don’t bother me none. The ones that are here can stay. I just don’t want any more coming in, destroying our culture …’

‘Wi’ their curry houses? Which you like.’

‘You can think what you want. I don’t feel like a hypocrite. Christ, if it comes to hypocrites, the NF’s full of ’em. Rumour has it some of t’ NF top dogs are as gay as they come.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Wish I wor. If owt, they’re t’ worst, cos they’ve got more to hide.’

He burrowed his head into my neck, and I kneaded his bristly hair. It felt nice, like a soft boot brush. He straightened himsen up and pulled me off t’ bar stool.

‘Let’s dance.’

‘To this?’

This being Thelma Houston’s ‘Don’t Leave Me This Way’.

‘Yeah. To this.’

By t’ time we left the club it wor sleeting outside and the wind wor whipping round corners and rattling the lampposts. Tad had use of his mum’s mustard-yellow Austin Allegro. We drove out of t’ town and up into t’ wall of night, climbing onto t’ moors, the headlights scanning verges left and right as the single track twisted through t’ inky blackness. We juddered over a cattle-grid and the road dipped sharply, then suddenly we turned onto an unmade track.

A farm loomed into view, the headlights arcing across one end and the side of a shippen as we pulled into t’ farmyard, setting the sheep dogs off into frantic barking. I caught a strong whiff of chicken droppings and manure. The farmhouse itsen had a long, low roof and small, deep-set windows, so it seemed to be cowering from t’ elements. Apart from a solitary light from an upstairs window, all wor pitch dark. Up here you could see all t’ stars.

Tad killed the engine. An outhouse door, not properly tied, could be heard banging. Tad leaned over to me and we snogged. The upstairs light went out.

‘Mother,’ Tad said. ‘She always stays up ’til I get home, then goes to bed. Pretends she doesn’t, but she does. She won’t worry us.’

‘How much do they know?’

In t’ shippen, the dogs wor still barking brainlessly.

‘They know what they need to. I do what I want, and there’s nowt they can say about it. Course, I can’t say they’d be too chuffed to find you here. Dad says I don’t get this place ’til I marry and breed some offspring. Like I’m a prize bull. Says if I don’t he’ll cut me out of t’ will. I’m only back here for a while ’til things blow over. I don’t want to inherit this fucking dump anyway.’

The house creaked like old joints as I trailed Tad through low-ceilinged, darkened rooms full of heavy furniture and up the rickety stairs. My nerves jangled. Any moment Tad’s old man wor going to jump out t’ shadows wi’ a friggin’ axe. My innards would be pig feed. My bones would be groundmeal for t’ chickens. We crept along a narrow passageway and into Tad’s room.

Tad clicked on a bedside lamp and drew t’ curtains. The shade had a pattern of pink roses and carmine tassels. The polished dark wood of a heavy wardrobe glinted in its soft beam. The old bed wor very high and a little short, wi’ a roughly carved headboard. Generations had slept in this bed, likely as not been conceived in it, born in it, died in it, and now two men wor going to fuck in it.

Tad wor already down to his underpants. His firm, smooth body wor contoured by t’ lamplight, the tattoos like ink splodges applied in anger. The room wor icy cold, so we quickly dived under t’ covers. Tad squirmed.

‘Christ! Your feet are freezing!’

‘Sorry.’

He laughed and bit into my neck wi’ a playful growl. ‘I’ll soon warm you up!’

Sometime in t’ night I awoke. My arm, which lay beneath Tad, had gone numb. I pulled mesen clear, shaking my fingers ’til t’ feeling returned.

I lay awake, watching a small shadow dance on t’ ceiling. Tad wor having some dreaming argument. I spooned mesen against his back and curled my hand around his. His fingers gripped mine like a newborn’s and his dreaming grew still. I lay there, listening to t’ wind rattling in t’ trees, to t’ one dog still barking at the moon, to t’ restless complaining of t’ weary old house, ’til at some point I must have fallen back into sleep.

I awoke early to t’ smell of burnt toast, hen shit from t’ yard below, and the keen edge of winter. I wor alone. Tad’s side of t’ bed wor still muskily warm. From somewhere outside came t’ high-pitched whine of a chainsaw.

I wor ravenously hungry. I threw back the covers and quickly got dressed.

Wiping a hole in t’ frost on t’ windowpane, I looked out over a sloping field, sparsely dotted by raggedy sheep. Below my window, in t’ yard, stood the rusting hulk of an old car. Overnight, the moor tops had been dusted wi’ snow that gleamed where it wor caught in t’ pale morning sun.

Tad came back from t’ bathroom, towelling down his hair and neck. I wanted to explore t’ farm, but Tad made it clear that worn’t an option. His folks, he explained as we headed for t’ kitchen, had been up and working for two hour already. And they weren’t well-disposed to him bringing strange men home at all hours. Which made me wonder if he’d done this before.

Seated at the old farmhouse kitchen table wor a young woman having breakfast. On seeing me she scowled at Tad.

‘This is Rachel, my ever-loving sister,’ Tad said. ‘I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t think Rachel will make us any. No, I thought not. You see, Rick, my folks really would prefer it if you wor a sheep.’

‘Baa,’ I went, unable to help mesen. Tad sniggered. Rachel’s face hardened as she rose from t’ table and stomped out into t’ yard, slamming the back door so hard it rebounded ajar.

Tad drove me back into town. We drove in thick silence. In my head I wor going over t’ right way to say it: ‘Are we going to see each other?’ ‘Will you call me?’ ‘So, is this it then?’ – but none of it felt right. Whatever wor t’ right thing lay buried beneath all t’ wrong’uns.

As we approached Huddersfield town centre Tad said, ‘I’ll drop you near t’ station.’

‘I want to walk a bit. You can drop me here if you like.’

He pulled the Allegro into a bus layby. We sat there, Tad waiting for me to get out, me waiting for Tad to kiss me, only just then two burly blokes wor passing by on t’ pavement, so nowt happened.

As I got out Tad stretched out an arm as if to hold me back, but it wor too late. I walked a little up the road, then looked back over my shoulder. Tad wor drumming both his fists on t’ steering wheel. I took a couple of steps back toward t’ car. Then he gunned the engine, did a u-turn and drove off wi’ a squeal of tyres.

Gordon set his battered old camera and light meter on t’ table and ordered tea and two rum truffles, one for himsen and one for me. The absurdity of it: Gordon in his threadbare three-piece, and me wi’ my spiked-up hair and proto-punk attire, pale as a pall-bearer, sitting in Betty’s posh caf in snooty old Harrogate.

We’d spent a goodly portion of t’ previous hour photographing the cottage opposite t’ park gates. I told Gordon that if we carried on like this, snapping pics of men’s lavs, we’d get oursens arrested for being pervs.

‘I’m on a mission,’ he explained, ‘to save as many as I can from closure and dereliction. You would hardly credit how many marvellous public facilities have been closed down in the last few years. Take the cottage in the park at Burley in Wharfedale, for example. It has the most superb original Victorian faucet, and some excellent architectural features. And now it’s threatened with closure. It’s an absolute scandal. I’ve written to the local council about it.’

‘What for?’

‘To try and get it listed. If I can get the cottages listed, they can’t knock them down. Seeing no one is interested in my book,
Urinals of Yorkshire
, that’s my next plan of action.’