‘It’s not a dirty picture.’
Vince had once found his father’s stash of 1950s pornography in the attic. Jazz mags, the lads had called them at school. The colours were very bright. Very blue skies, very orange skin. Vince had wondered why the fifties were so colourful, the sixties so black and white. ‘Not by your standards it’s not.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I threw them all out. After you found them.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘All right, I sold them.’
‘And bought my Christmas present with the proceeds. How would you like to have a bike bought with profits from dirty magazines?’
‘I’ve tried so hard for you. I’ve made so many sacrifices —’
‘I knew we’d get to that. Even though you’re trying to be so bloody liberal.’
His father turned to go.
‘Is this the only way you can deal with it? Pretend that I’m still like you? Why didn’t you talk to me?’
He followed his father on to the dark landing. He found him slumped against the wall, forehead resting on Gene Pitney, who was grinning. ‘I just wanted to understand.’
‘But it’s not the same, Dad. Not the same.’
His father looked up. ‘Isn’t it?’
Dinner was almost finished when the kitchen door flew open, and Fran and the kids were treated to the sight of Frank, home from work and already drunk. Gary stood a little way behind in a similar state, and smiling inanely in his snorkel hood. Fran went to the oven, where Frank’s tea had spent the last half-hour coagulating.
‘What was the excuse for celebration tonight?’ she asked. The kids kept quiet, unsure.
He made to take the plate but she pulled it away. He’d burn himself. ‘Consoling Gary.’
This forced Fran to acknowledge the army man. She was reluctant after the summer holiday street-fighting. ‘What’s the matter with Gary?’
He stood where he was on the doorstep, face dark inside the furred hood, teetering slightly. ‘She’s left me.’
‘Oh. Another one.’ Fran put the plate down. The heat was scorching through her damp tea towel. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I threw her out. She took the kid. She was too weak.’
‘Frank, come and get your tea.’ All the heat of the kitchen was vanishing out the door. Into the army man’s snorkel hood, Fran thought grimly, and wished he would go. Frank had his head in the fridge.
‘Aren’t there any cans left?’
Gary said, ‘She couldn’t hack married life. Married life’s about being stuck in the same house together sometimes twenty-four hours a day and surviving. No matter what happens. It’s not about breaking down. That’s weak.’
‘I’d give you a can if we had one,’ Frank apologised.
‘No. I’d better go home.’
There’s male bonding for you, Fran sneered. Only a little while ago they were threatening each other with axes in the street. Gary stood a moment, as if regaining his bearings, and turned to leave. At the garden gate he was startled in the dark, yelling, ‘Who the fuck’s that?’
There was a quick, wet crash, the kids giggled and Fran groaned.
‘It’s me,’ Tony gasped, appearing in the doorway. ‘I’ve smashed a bottle of milk. Here’s two more, to pay you back. I never knew she’d been taking them off you.’ Fran automatically took the bottles. Tony stood frozen, mouth open, apparently fascinated by the Elastoplast on Fran’s thumb. He asked, ‘Have you seen her yet?’ The streetlight made his thickly curled hair look blue, the same blue as his anorak.
‘Have you fed your Vicki?’
‘She’s had Lion King pasta shapes. Where’s Nesta?’
‘I don’t know.’
Tony began to look very scared. Fran pulled him into the kitchen, still with an eye on Gary the army man making his unsteady way up the street. He was singing ‘Respectable’ by Mel and Kim.
‘I think the police ought to know.’
Tony looked sick. ‘Is it that bad, do you think?’
‘You’ve got two bairns, one of them not out of nappies. You can’t go out searching the streets while you’ve got them to see to. I’ll phone the coppers and you can sit with Vicki and the baby. I’ll come and tell you what’s happening.’
As Fran ushered Tony out, Frank sat down heavily at the head of the table. He eyed his kids as they resumed their meal, their chips cooled by the outside air.
‘All the women are going,’ he told them. ‘They’re all leaving the street. You lot keep hold of your mam.’
Fran paused on her way to the phone. ‘I’m not going anywhere, am I?’
Cliff was sliding on a white shirt, never worn. It had hung alone in the bedroom of his small flat, waiting for tonight. He shivered, listening to its creases unfold, rumpling closer to his body’s shape. Like the shadows of clouds, goose bumps appeared and faded on his ruddy flesh.
Matching jacket and trousers. His interview suit. His facing-the-public suit. The thin black tie, draped around his neck, down his chest, alive of its own accord as he pulled it on before the mirror. Music played in the next room. The Human League, ‘Don’t You Want Me?’ This kind of excitement always sent him back to the music from his teens. Music on trannies, from the time of hanging around the streets in gangs. Music on radios, he corrected himself.
Dressing, he made slow but steady progress. He was taking his time. Making sure that all the bits were right, especially for dinner with Liz.
Vince’s father ate both platefuls of fish fingers, beans and oven chips, by himself in the kitchen, looking out at the back yard. He had played Gene Pitney’s Sixteen Greatest through three times over. Vince was upstairs, adrift on his mattress and refusing to speak.
The flesh beneath the grilled orange crusts was, in places, an unhealthy grey. Cheap fish fingers. He felt sick. What was it Vince wanted him to cook? Pasta, rice, foreign things, but
