The gate shrieked and clanged on its hinges behind her as she went up the garden path. The yard was in a dreadful state, with its rusted engine parts and old car batteries strewn on oil-blackened grass. Imagine someone tossing a match on that lot! Since the lads took the house over, the place had turned into a slum. They were living out their animal instincts, Elsie thought. She knocked on the kitchen door, wondering what Billy and Desmond Forsyth would say when they came back to the estates and saw all this.
One of Craig’s mates - Steve, she thought he was called - came to the door. He had one of those home-made cigarettes in his mouth. She could tell it was drugs he had because there was a whiff of Schwarz spices, like her spice rack. Once, up the Sugar Factory, there’d been a craze on grass. They smoked it break-times, when the hooters sounded. Then Alison - what was her surname? Ginger lass from school - crushed her right hand on the production line when she went back to work stoned and Elsie kept off it after that.
This Steve was built up and beefy like the rest of Craig’s gang. His skin was sunbed-tanned the colour of creme caramel. Elsie had tried that on her honeymoon in the big hotel at Scotch Corner. Her husband then, Craig’s natural father, demonstrated how it would wobble like jelly on the plate and drool brown syrup down its sides. If you made a split in its skin with a spoon, it would heal itself seamlessly. This boy’s flesh was precisely that buttery caramel shade, even on New Year’s Eve.
“Yeah?”
Elsie rustled her carrier bag. “Is Craig there? I’m his mam.” With this she reasserted her composure and authority. She wouldn’t be outstared by this boy in his singlet and sweat pants. He had bleached hair grown long down his back, like one of the Gladiators. Like Craig himself, Elsie realised. That was what her son was setting out to be. He wanted to be like the Gladiators.
“He might be upstairs,” Steve said and drew in a deep lungful from his joint. The dark was coming in strong now and, Elsie thought, there was a sparkle in the air. She used to love New Year’s Eve, but these past few years with Tom, he’d dissuaded her from having any fun. “It’s an excuse for the worst forms of licentiousness,” he sneered. He’d used his vocabulary on her. Once he had taught RE at, as he put it, ‘secondary-modern level’. So that had put a stop to seeing in all the new years of recent memory. Tonight, the cold snap and the sudden dark, the weight of drink in her bag and the usual dance music coming out of the house behind Steve, all brought to mind for Elsie the idea that, if she really had a go, she could enjoy herself tonight. She asked Steve for a drag on his home-made ciggie.
“Fetch him, pet, would you?” she asked. There was an immediate kick from the joint. Her tonsils seemed to swell and the inside of her ears went prickly. “Tell him his mum’s brought him some tinnies.”
“Oh,” Steve said and turned to go. “Listen — I’m sorry about your feller’s trouble. Craig said something about it.”
Elsie shrugged and took another sip of that delicious, spicy smoke before giving it back to him. “Just go and fetch Craig,” she said. When he went she stepped woozily inside the kitchen.
It was as filthy as she expected, though not as bad as some she’d seen. The sink was stacked as high as the taps with dirty glasses and plates and even foil dishes. The kitchen surfaces were atrocious with ashy dog-ends and smears of tomato sauce. That Steve had been making a sandwich for himself right on the side, no plate or chopping board. He might catch anything. Oh, but they’re invulnerable at that age, Elsie thought, and forced herself not to go all mumsy. He was making himself a salad-cream and crisp sandwich. What kind of a meal was that? Elsie was planning to go home and have a microwave balti. Put a lining on her stomach before she started drinking. She would hate to throw up in someone else’s house.
She felt a pang of self-disgust. It was sharp and took a few moments to quell. Who was she, in her forties, to be planning a night out at someone’s house, and taking precautions, making plans, not to vomit? Wasn’t that sad? To be her age and to be carrying on as if she might well disgrace herself? The thought made her sad. What was saddest, she thought, was that there was no one here for her to be disgraceful with. It was never as bad if you had someone egging you on to go daft and act as though you were middle-aged. You need pals about you, like Fran had Jane, or Judith had Big Sue. When they were all together, they didn’t care if they were acting like kids and making a show. Simon and Sheila were married and they were each other’s best pals. They had a laugh together. At the last Phoenix Court do, round Judith’s, Simon had brought their karaoke machine and it was the life and soul of the party. I should have Tom, Elsie though miserably. Tom should be a laugh. He should be a sport. Look at Sheila and Simon — they were the street’s dirty family, they always had that piddly smell about them. Why should they always have the nicest time? It was so typical, when Simon had the karaoke machine going, when his fat wife was singing ‘Venus’ and getting everyone to laugh, Elsie was
