[Phoenix Court 01] - Marked for Life

language. He’s been in business and done courses. I’d call him a greedy bugger, actually, but to give the bloke credit, he’s turned this place into a goldmine. But it’s for no-one’s benefit but his own. He serves his community, like he says, but it’s also for his community that he’s got broken bottles cemented roud the wall at the back of the shop. What about that bairn—he was only a bairn—trying to break in round the back that night with his mates? Slashed all his legs, top of Eric’s back wall. Severed tendons, the lot. And what does Eric say? Serves the thieving get right.

That’s what I mean by a different language. Eric’s forgotten. Now I know the family that kid’s from. They live by us. They’re not that different to what Eric’s lot were like.

Yeh, I remember Eric from when we were at school. He was starting at the secondary modern when I was finishing. He lived by us. Like I say to Pauline, I’ve had the time to forget all-sorts from my schooldays, but some things just don’t go. Na, they don’t. Mind, Eric hasn’t let on that he remembers me. I’ve said nothing to him and I won’t do neither. Just let it go by.

I daren’t think about all the water under that bridge, mind. I look a bit bloody different now. I was in my prime then. I was a bonny lass and they noticed me. Now I’ve—what’s it they say in the slimming magazines? I’ve ballooned. That’s it. I’ve friggin’ ballooned.

So to Eric, I’m just like any of the other clapped-out, hard-faced, fat-ankled women round here. Just the woman behind his till he pays a pittance to.

Eric’s got a wife a bit younger than him and she’s not from around here. He’s got a smart son who’s up at the new university in Sunderland, doing business. Eric let’s the kid run this place in his holidays for practice.

Now him, he talks a different language again, that kid. Alex, they call him. But he’s got the same shaved neck, the same soft-looking smile and the same tucked-in arse that Eric used to have, bless him, so I forgive him bossing me about when he’s down. Even if he is a short-arsed nineteen-year-old and really, in this town, I’m old enough to be his granny.

I’m a glamorous granny! They have special nights for them down the Rec. What do they call them? Grab a Granny nights.

I went once, for a laugh, when I felt like I was looking a dog. I went to cheer myself up and feel younger. Sure enough, it was a load of old witches in there trying to cop off with all these old fellers who’d come in a bunch from the British Legion over the road. You could tell they were from the British Legion because they wore them blue blazers with badges and caps and they reeked of booze.

Among that lot I was like a babe in arms. I was like one of them tarts off Baywatch who you never recognise but with all the tits and hair. Dead sexy like, at least, compared with the competition. All them hags in their mohair jumpers and thick tights. So I could have had me pick of any old feller there.

I’m not desperate, mind. I stayed around, flirted a bit and had a few offers, but I laughed them off. I pissed off out of there before some old sod took me serious. You have to cover your back.

I only went to give me ego a boost. Cheer myself up a bit. I looked a million dollars beside the grannies. Even in a room of British Legion men they still danced together and ignored them. I scooted out of that ballroom and into the ladies’ and I cried buckets in one of the stalls. I don’t know why.

When I went to splash some water on my face I met some young pregnant lass from the antenatal dance-class thing that was on the same night. She looked ever so bonny. Had I been to the ballroom dancing classes, she wanted to know? I think she was just making conversation. Dabbing a bit of eye shadow on, close as she could get to the mirror over the basin. I think she must have had triplets on the way, size of her. She said I might enjoy the ballroom dancing more than the less formal Grab a Granny do’s. The thing about ballroom dancing is that you’ll always get a friend. I said I might give it a go. She smile and went back to her class. Her common-law husband was keeping the mat warm, she said.

That was the last night I had out by myself. Now I make sure I’m with someone who’ll pull me out of myself when I get maudlin. Which is usually when I’m on the gin, I must admit, and that’s all I can drink anyway, because after a couple it tastes like pop and I’ve never really liked the alcoholic taste.

I said once to my husband—he’s long gone, the first one—that that made me ladylike, me not liking the taste of alcohol. He said he’d like it more if I did get pissed more often. He liked me flat on me back with me mouth open. Oh, he was a pig and the one after him was no better, although we shouldn’t speak ill of those who met with tragic endings.

Like I say, I’m a glamorous granny—I’m fifty now—but I’m not a natural one. What I mean is, I don’t have any grandchildren. Most of the women my age I know have got them by now. But I’ve always been young for my age and they know that. I’ve still got jet-black hair. Dyed, of course, but it’s a symbol more than anything.

So even though I ought to be, I’m not a real granny yet. My bairns show no signs of sorting themselves out in the kiddie department. That’ll