The Lesser Bohemians (17 page)

Anyway, it passed eventually and she began to get up again. Next, the other two stopped getting packed off but she stayed very highly strung. Lots of rules were introduced to help her cope. Everything from the volume you spoke at to not kicking a ball. They got very precise too and more every day. By the time we were at school it was like a military inspection. Couldn’t think of leaving the house without being immaculate. She’d sometimes keep you washing and re-washing your hands until you’d be late. We’d just stand there, every morning, hoping to make the grade because if you didn’t, fucking hell, she was quick with whatever came to hand: dustpan, poker, heel of a shoe. It got much worse over the years and I got the brunt because the other two were their father’s sons while I was hers alone. And she beat the shit out of me. He almost never interfered. Certainly never raised a hand to me himself – not that I ever gave him cause. I wouldn’t have said boo to a goose between those four walls. Though sometimes he’d come home from the pub to find me out on the step in the rain. That would piss him off so he’d bring me in. Then there’d be all kinds of
shouting and screaming. She didn’t like to be told what she could or couldn’t do to me. So I got used to having my lip split for nothing reasons and soon learned to say it was my brothers’ fault which – considering they never had a fucking mark – wasn’t all that great. Mostly though the stepfather didn’t notice me. If he ever remarked on a bruise or black eye, it was usually just Annoying your mother again? Good lad! which was weirdly comforting.

But almost worse were the gaps of time when she’d blank me. Completely freeze me out. She’d just seethe around, nursing some imagined slight – like shouting an answer from the hall or forgetting to switch off a light – then suddenly, without warning, all fucking hell would break loose. I’d be accused of everything bar the invasion of Poland and belted until I cried – later on I learned how not to, which had its own reward. Of course the next day was like nothing happened. Everyone played along. Over time I think she actually made herself forget. I remember once mentioning her chipping my tooth and she started roaring I never did that, my God, it scares the things you invent! Her denials were always so extreme that I’d end up wondering if she was mad, or me?

And he checks my eyes. And I check his. I do not cry. I would not do that to him. That much I know for sure.

This’ll probably sound strange but, even after all these years, I still think there was something of love in those beatings. Like, when she hit me, she really felt it – and she can’t have felt much because there always was a lot of medication sloshing around. Plus I know she felt guilt. If it had been very bad, if she’d cut me or     burned me    she’d come upstairs that night with cake. And lie into the bed with me telling stories while I ate. I always
felt better after it but     I did eat a lot of cake as a child. Still have a very sweet tooth.

Then he smooths a canine with his tongue, as if naming it the one, some treacherous left behind. The tic again. I love his mouth even as he presses on it now.

The most difficult thing though, as a child, was the food. It’s hard to describe how bad that was. I don’t know if she was anorexic, or phobic, or what but, when I was seven or eight, she started this    starving herself and    really    down to nothing at all     and as it got worse – whatever it was – the rest of us as well. It seemed to come out of nowhere because     she was beautiful, my mother. At least I always thought she was and then, this thing began and it turned her into     I can’t explain but    you could almost see through her in the end     it must’ve been the anger that kept her alive. It started with just not eating, herself. Then not being able to watch us at it. Then cooking it, handling it – especially meat – and that was bad news for us. That was very bad. I spent years dreading going home for tea – all three of us did – because you wouldn’t know what would be waiting when you got in. We’d hang around out the back until she’d call us. Then we’d troop in, starving, but steeling ourselves against the inevitable slop and it always was     you know mince burned to a crisp    or chicken that looked like it could defend itself     fucking mouldy peas and her going off on these crazy tirades     Jesus the number of times I got smacked round the head for just sitting there trying to swallow that awful shit. The fucking anxiety of it    every fucking meal. The only thing she could bear to make was cake and that was only once a week. We’d have our tongues hanging out for it by Sunday evening
but one little piece, that was it. I just remember being hungry every day, sneaking down in the middle of the night to fill up on stale bread. We were all so underweight there were letters home from school. Even the boys got whacked for that and I got the ruler until my knuckles bled. Apparently it was my fault we were these perfectly turned-out but half-starved boys.

I touch his foot and his eyes come back to smile at that. I think he’s only finding light though for my benefit. Everything else in him seems growing still. Just watch, I promise Wait with him. Don’t let him be alone.

It wasn’t all bad though. Fridays were good because he’d arrive home with fish and chips. Then they’d go out and leave us with the wireless, or later TV and sweets. Plus, every summer we had a week at the seaside – ice cream, running on the beach, all that. She was so lovely then and so easy to be with. You’d wish you never had to leave. It was the only time she ever smiled. Also, she read like anything so there were books all over our house. She taught me to when I was pretty small. She was patient like that and with homework and stuff. She’d probably have made a good teacher if she hadn’t been so fucked up. But then, maybe if she’d done that instead of having me she’d never have had those problems at all.

And what about your father? I say. He shakes his head, like mock and disgust. Another cigarette. Easier though, like these waters are clear and he can see him somewhere far away.

Ahh, my father     where to begin? He’s a useless bastard at the very best of times. Five or six marriages I know of. Countless
kids. Never understood the point of all the marrying myself but     he seems to like it and – not that I’m one to talk – he could never keep it to himself so I’m probably related to most of the North. I’m the eldest I think although that only means I’ve never heard of one older than me. Can’t say much about the rest. Now and then one of them pitches up here and it’s weird to open your door to versions of your father wanting answers to stuff you don’t know anything about, like Why was he in prison? Is he a bigamist? Nothing would surprise me but     I don’t know, I never saw him, growing up. There were only a few months when I was about ten and some wife wanted to ‘heal the rift’. Some kind of hippy or something. There was a letter one day. My mother lost her reason of course but was, somehow, persuaded because, from nothing at all, I was suddenly in Liverpool once a month. At first I was excited because he was ‘Oh my son’ and ‘These are the lessons life’s taught me’ but that didn’t last very long. By the third round, he was slinking off down the pub, leaving the wife to instruct me on how miraculous he was but – as the bottle went down – that he was a cunt. So I preferred going out with him, even if it was my job to get him home. Even when he’d pick someone up and talk himself back to hers. Good luck on those days consisted of sitting outside her bedroom door. Bad luck was on the bonnet with them in the back seat. Really bad luck was rain and me in the front desperately turning the radio up. Don’t tell – whoever she was – he’d say after     especially if he’d paid. I didn’t give a shit. She got sick of me anyway soon enough, or he got sick of her. Either way the visits soon stopped and he never bothered after that except for birthday cards – mostly one month late. Wedding invites now and then, very much dependent upon my being owned or not. I went once or twice but all I’ll say is that,
after my mother, he liked them good and thick. So I didn’t miss him, except in the abstract or when the stepfather’d take his to the Wednesday matches and I’d be left at home. That was kind of shit. Still hate the fucking football now.

That’s sad, I say. Not really, he shrugs And the lack of a father turned out to be the least of my worries. She was always the one.

Over the years I’d worked out ways to avoid the rage. How to calm her down, get her to laugh instead – she didn’t have a bad sense of humour when she wasn’t being insane. And when I was twelve things really changed. We moved to a bigger house on a nicer street. She was delighted with that. Going up in the world. Bought a piano. I got a room of my own and, for a while, life became very normal. I hardly knew myself. Even the food thing improved. Anyway, it was all looking up until I hit fourteen. Started getting tall. She said Like him – I never saw it myself. It was just that I was growing up really but enough to set her off again. The paranoid rages and the ritual amends – bed and her slice of cake but getting different now, wanting to talk about him. The strange thing is, it didn’t seem strange because I was interested I suppose. I wanted to know about him. I mean, I was the only evidence that life had existed and it wasn’t great always being the odd one out. Besides, it started off as harmless enough. Things you wouldn’t mind. How the first time they met she’d sneaked out to a dance. He was so drunk he spilled something all down her dress but he was the best-looking man there so it didn’t matter. The next week he was at the school gates to walk her home after and all very covert because of her father. To go away together, she’d faked some
pilgrimage with something like the Legion of Mary. Ingenious really but I can’t help wondering how that ended, probably with me. It was love though, she always said, which apparently made up for everything else. Some nights she’d tell me about what he was interested in: boxing, racing, anything with an engine. I liked hearing all that because I still hadn’t grasped what an utterly worthless fucker he was. It began to feed on itself though, all that talking. Opened some door that should have stayed shut. Started extending itself into what I had no business knowing about. About marrying my stepfather. How she’d done it for me, how she hadn’t wanted more children but he was a pig. Then the stories about my father becoming more involved. More explicit and the way they were told, over and over, as if I hadn’t understood. As if she wanted a reaction I didn’t know how to give. And she got    and it got     I dreaded her coming in. I’d pretend I was asleep and when she hit me I’d pretend it didn’t hurt just so she’d leave me be. It was so bizarre, like she was     pouring herself into me, trying to stop my brain making the difference between     and I got so confused and it got so hard to breathe     the fucking weight of all the talk, all the paranoid shit, all the memories and     like she was creeping all over me. Then one night, after she’d already been and gone, I was doing what you do when you’re a fourteen-year-old boy. I was pretty practised by then so I’m sure I took care but when I opened my eyes     after     she was there. Watching. I nearly died of fright. I thought she’d kill me but she didn’t say anything. Just turned and went and     After that it got different again. The way she was with me. The way she’d lie in the bed and I’d be completely still, trying not to touch. Saying anything I could think of to get her out but     God even to remember it now makes me feel sick.

We are down in the down in the. Hold myself rigid and do not fail to meet his eyes. But now the busy tic’s got so bad he has to pause and rub at it.

Alright     alright – still calming it – Alright then     here it is. I put it off for as long as I was able to. I kept out of its way for as long as I could but     I realise now it was always going to happen. At the time I thought it was my fault. Because of my mistake. I walked a girl home from school – first and only time I ever did. I remember being all pleased with myself because there’d been no awkward silences and I’d made her laugh. When I got in though, the other two legged it pretty quick so I knew I was in the shit. I just started with Sorry, sorry, straightaway, you know, trying to placate. She was just shouting Where were you? Where were you? so I panicked and lied about seeing some dog get hit in the road. She screamed Don’t lie! Where have you been? When I stuck with the dog, I got belted round the kitchen but I kept to it until she started on my face. Then I told because     I liked that girl and I didn’t want a bruise to explain. I walked a girl home from school, I said. The next thing I remember is blood on my teeth and thinking she’d broken my nose.

I was just useless and sore and went straight up to bed, cursing her for a fucking bitch under my breath. Hoping by some miracle not to bruise or that the stepfather would take her out, which he didn’t. And once they’d all gone to bed, there she was I brought you some cake. I pretended to be asleep but she wasn’t having any of it. Got in beside, saying all the stuff – I wish you wouldn’t make me treat you like that but you’re too young for fooling around with girls yet and     putting her hands into my pyjama top. I just lay there,
pretending, hoping she’d give up but. I love you, she said You know that, don’t you, son? You know you’re my favourite. You know I’ve always loved you best, just tell me you still love me and let that be an end to it. I wouldn’t though. I hated saying it but she wouldn’t stop so eventually I said I love you. And then Is your face sore? she asked. No, I said. Is your face sore, darling? No, it’s not. But when she asked the third time, I knew I had to give up. A bit, I said. She said A bit what? A bit sore Mum. She said I can see that and I know what will make it better, love.

She was up and out after, saying Goodnight, like she’d been tucking me in. I just turned on my stomach thinking Did that really just happen? Was it some kind of mistake? She couldn’t have meant to but there was the stain and     I remember getting out of bed, eating the cake, fucking stuffing it down, trying to get myself straight, but it was like my eyes wouldn’t adjust and I had to go puke it all back up. I must’ve sat for an hour on the bathroom floor, listening to her roam around below – closing doors, checking plugs. The taste of the chocolate sick in my mouth and when I went back to bed, I couldn’t sleep     I had another wank to knock myself out, fucking crying all the while. I remember that so clearly and   just not knowing what was going on.