bridge. Huge hoardings promised faithfully to change my
life if I bought a new car, cereal, shampoo: if only. Then I
was out the other side, glancing over at the A–Z spread out
on the passenger seat. Finally I was turning into Prentis
Road.
Streets like this used to be cobbled, but the council tarmacked
them over years ago. At the beginning of the road
two short blocks of terraces nudged the pavement. I know
these back-to-back houses, there’s enough of them in Bank
Top. The flat red fronts, the white doorsteps that nudge the pavement and, at the back of each house, a flagged yard
walled round six foot high and a door opening onto a
cinder track. The original outside privies would all have
been demolished in the sixties, and little narrow kitchens
built on to free up what had been the parlour. Then in the
seventies everyone had to go Smokeless, so the coal sheds
went. While they were at it, most people had the two
downstairs rooms knocked through and folding screens
put in (so much more versatile!). Anything so long as it
didn’t look Victorian. (You want to get them picture rails
tekken off an’ all.)
This was where my Real Mother grew up.
I parked the car and walked slowly along the pavement,
this stupid song going through my head, the one we
used to chant on school trips when I was in the juniors.
We’re goin’ where the sun shines brightly (BLACKPOOL!)
We’re goin’ where the sea-hee is blue (RIVER DOUG-ER-LAS!)
We’ve seen it in the movies
Now let’s see if it’s true (IS IT BUGGERY!).
Christ, I thought, I’m turning into Nan. But that should
have been impossible. At least I wasn’t singing out loud.
I started counting door numbers although I could see,
ages before I got to the end, that I was going to run out.
28 was the last in the row, then there was a grassy space
with a sign saying ‘Hollins Industrial Park’. Past this was
the first building, a sort of hangar, Naylor’s Body Work
Repairs. A row of courtesy cars was parked outside and
one of those revolving signs turned sluggishly: OPEN/SUNDAYS . A young lad in overalls came out, saw me
staring and shouted over.
‘Y’ lookin’ for summat? Boss is out the back.’
‘It’s OK,’ I called.
He shrugged, climbed into one of the cars and started
revving the engine with the door open. I walked a bit
further, to where I reckoned 56 would have been, and
silently blessed my mother. I knew she wouldn’t be here.
I’d known it all along. She was in London, with a Life.
Talking of which.
I’m supposed to be holding out for Mr Right, but what
do you do in the meantime? I was prepared to settle for
Mr Do For Now If You’re Not That Fussed, while I was
waiting. ‘Love ’n’ Stuff’ had sent me Davy, looked a bit like
that actor who played Jesus of Nazareth in the ’70s, only
not so holy. Same age as me but a completely different
attitude to life. Dressed young, smoked roll-ups. Tall and
lean. I’d seen him twice, once for a quick drink at the
Wagon and Horses (he had an appointment with somebody),
and once for an Italian meal in Bolton (we went
Dutch, but that was OK, it is the nineties). Right from the
word go he let it be known that he had a full and active
social diary. Well, I thought, I bet you don’t have a mother
with a high-maintenance colostomy and a daughter ready
to hurtle off the rails at any moment. I just smiled and said,
‘Good on you. Hope you can fit me in somewhere,’ which
sounded naff and desperate (again).
At Luciano’s he told me he was divorced, which I think
even now was probably the truth, and that he’d been in
a few different dating agencies but ‘Love ’n’ Stuff’ was the
best so far (he gave me a little wink when he said this line).
Then he did some tricks with a bread-stick which I thought
were screamingly funny, although in retrospect I’d had quite a lot to drink by then. He also said he was a rep and
so the only way he could be contacted
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