at the house, at the
wake.
‘ Yeah, bit,’ I
said.
Feeling my stomach rumble,
I decided to get something to eat.
In the back
room, a selection of food had been out on our dining table. A spread, Mum would have
said. Quiche, savoury biscuits, cheese, pickled onions still in the
jar, fish paste and ham sandwiches, prawn cocktail crisps, peanuts,
cheese and pineapple and sausages on sticks. A fruitcake sat in the
middle of it all. Like a party. A celebration.
‘ Of life!’
someone had slurred, raising a bottle of beer, but it wasn’t true.
More lies being told. A death had occurred, not a life. She’d died;
was dead. Gone. Not alive or lost or any of those other things.
Just ended.
I picked up a sandwich,
but it was already curling at the edges, so I put it back. My
stomach could rumble on.
The Tankards had come back
to our house, minus the controversial Tina.
‘ She’s not
house trained,’ Adrian Tankard had said, his dirty belly laugh in
tow. Adrian was Justin’s dad. Chrissie Tankard – his mum - gave her
husband a look . A
look that could have been Mum looking at Dad; one of her silences
that said it all. Which was funny, because Mum didn’t like
Chrissie; hadn’t approved of her.
You’re no
different from us, Theresa Buckley! A
snippet of a conversation that came back to me; one of many
conversations not-for-little-ears.
Sharon Tankard
– their daughter – was attracting attention as she tried to scab
cigarettes off other guests. Her parents said nothing. Adrian
Tankard was too busy forcing down drinks and forcing out big hearty
laughs. Chrissie, when she wasn’t giving the latter looks , was taking in our
house – the house of the woman who thought she was better than her.
You could tell that Chrissie was wondering where Mum got her ideas
from.
‘ Above her
station,’ she’d muttered at one point, I’m certain.
I thought of
saying something, of blurting out that she was disrespectful, but I
didn’t. Adrian Tankard was a big scary man, even Dad thought that,
despite being in business together. And Justin was my best friend and I
didn’t have that many friends full stop – so I couldn’t just attack
his mum and get away with it. In any case, Justin had suddenly
appeared at my side, trying to distract me.
‘ Shall we do
something?’ he asked, hands in his pockets.
‘ Like
what?’
He shrugged.
In mine and
Ian’s bedroom, Justin went through Ian’s record collection, whilst
I sat on the edge of my bed, near the door. Listening out. Ian
wouldn’t be happy ‘having that poof go
through my stuff,’ as he would have put
it.
Justin hadn’t been in
there before – a first. He wasn’t normally allowed in our house,
just like I wasn’t allowed in his, according to Mum’s rules. I
watched him taking in the grey carpet and green and brown curtains.
Debbie Harry was on the wall, but he hardly gave her a glance. Then
he saw Ian’s 45s and he was lost in them.
‘ Be careful,’
I said, knowing how precious Ian was about them, knowing he really
wouldn’t want Justin in there, touching them. Not sure even Dad
would, let alone Mum and her rules.
‘ Let’s put one
on,’ Justin said, holding up one in a black paper sleeve, no
picture cover.
Ian had a mono
record player that packed up like a small briefcase. It even had a
handle so you could carry it around. I did that once, pretending I
was important, a bank manager or something, but I hadn’t done it up
properly and the lid fell off, the arm swinging back and the needle
had to be replaced. Leave it alone, right?
Just don’t touch my stuff.
Ian’s singles
were in two fake-leather boxes, with a lid, a clasp and a lock. A-N
in one box, O-Z in the other. I was allowed to keep mine in there
too, but I only had a few and, after the bank manager incident, I
was only allowed to play them under-supervision.
Justin had
picked out ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ - one of mine. Mum had liked
that one; it was one of the reasons I
wake.
‘ Yeah, bit,’ I
said.
Feeling my stomach rumble,
I decided to get something to eat.
In the back
room, a selection of food had been out on our dining table. A spread, Mum would have
said. Quiche, savoury biscuits, cheese, pickled onions still in the
jar, fish paste and ham sandwiches, prawn cocktail crisps, peanuts,
cheese and pineapple and sausages on sticks. A fruitcake sat in the
middle of it all. Like a party. A celebration.
‘ Of life!’
someone had slurred, raising a bottle of beer, but it wasn’t true.
More lies being told. A death had occurred, not a life. She’d died;
was dead. Gone. Not alive or lost or any of those other things.
Just ended.
I picked up a sandwich,
but it was already curling at the edges, so I put it back. My
stomach could rumble on.
The Tankards had come back
to our house, minus the controversial Tina.
‘ She’s not
house trained,’ Adrian Tankard had said, his dirty belly laugh in
tow. Adrian was Justin’s dad. Chrissie Tankard – his mum - gave her
husband a look . A
look that could have been Mum looking at Dad; one of her silences
that said it all. Which was funny, because Mum didn’t like
Chrissie; hadn’t approved of her.
You’re no
different from us, Theresa Buckley! A
snippet of a conversation that came back to me; one of many
conversations not-for-little-ears.
Sharon Tankard
– their daughter – was attracting attention as she tried to scab
cigarettes off other guests. Her parents said nothing. Adrian
Tankard was too busy forcing down drinks and forcing out big hearty
laughs. Chrissie, when she wasn’t giving the latter looks , was taking in our
house – the house of the woman who thought she was better than her.
You could tell that Chrissie was wondering where Mum got her ideas
from.
‘ Above her
station,’ she’d muttered at one point, I’m certain.
I thought of
saying something, of blurting out that she was disrespectful, but I
didn’t. Adrian Tankard was a big scary man, even Dad thought that,
despite being in business together. And Justin was my best friend and I
didn’t have that many friends full stop – so I couldn’t just attack
his mum and get away with it. In any case, Justin had suddenly
appeared at my side, trying to distract me.
‘ Shall we do
something?’ he asked, hands in his pockets.
‘ Like
what?’
He shrugged.
In mine and
Ian’s bedroom, Justin went through Ian’s record collection, whilst
I sat on the edge of my bed, near the door. Listening out. Ian
wouldn’t be happy ‘having that poof go
through my stuff,’ as he would have put
it.
Justin hadn’t been in
there before – a first. He wasn’t normally allowed in our house,
just like I wasn’t allowed in his, according to Mum’s rules. I
watched him taking in the grey carpet and green and brown curtains.
Debbie Harry was on the wall, but he hardly gave her a glance. Then
he saw Ian’s 45s and he was lost in them.
‘ Be careful,’
I said, knowing how precious Ian was about them, knowing he really
wouldn’t want Justin in there, touching them. Not sure even Dad
would, let alone Mum and her rules.
‘ Let’s put one
on,’ Justin said, holding up one in a black paper sleeve, no
picture cover.
Ian had a mono
record player that packed up like a small briefcase. It even had a
handle so you could carry it around. I did that once, pretending I
was important, a bank manager or something, but I hadn’t done it up
properly and the lid fell off, the arm swinging back and the needle
had to be replaced. Leave it alone, right?
Just don’t touch my stuff.
Ian’s singles
were in two fake-leather boxes, with a lid, a clasp and a lock. A-N
in one box, O-Z in the other. I was allowed to keep mine in there
too, but I only had a few and, after the bank manager incident, I
was only allowed to play them under-supervision.
Justin had
picked out ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ - one of mine. Mum had liked
that one; it was one of the reasons I
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