hadn’t
jumped the queue or anything. But there they were, staring and
Harry began speaking. To me, I realised after a bit.
‘ What is it
you want, Scot, lad?’
He was letting
me go first. They all were. An alternative to sorry for your loss. Something worth
having. Only, I didn’t have a clue what to order. I hadn’t thought
it through at all, not really. I just had that lovely smell of fat
and vinegar up my nose. But then time jumped again, like it had
earlier that day, and I watched my order going in waxy paper bags,
then wrapped in copies of The Sun and The Express. Portions of salty, soggy chips, battered
sausages, battered fish, a couple of fish cakes and some wooden
forks. Harry’s wife popped through to look, bringing with her
a Wavy Line carrier bag, putting all the newspaper parcels in there for
me. Harry refused to take the tenner.
‘ On the
house,’ he said, dropping me a wink.
Harry’s wife handed me the
bag of food, slowly, very personally, like it was a special moment.
Our moment. I felt it, too. Something about her. Something motherly
that drew me in. And then she opened her gob:
‘ Aren’t you
just a bit hot in that coat?’ she said. I said nothing in return
and, sensing she had said the wrong thing, she tried again, only
making it worse: ‘Sorry for your loss.’
And any meaning there, any
feeling, was gone.
Back at the house, no one
had been that bothered by my absence. Della and Ian made a few
comments, but that was it. Nothing from Dad.
‘ Saw you go
off with Uncle Gary,’ Della teased. ‘In his flash car?’
Ian had simply taken the
bag of food from me, feeling it for heat. It was still warm, but
not very.
‘ You’ve been
gone a while,’ he stated. My hands were in my pockets, feeling the
money: went out with just a tenner, but came back with
twenty.
I shrugged. Nothing else
was said. And Dad hadn’t even noticed. He was too drunk.
‘ Stick them in
the oven,’ Ian called to Della, as he turned from me.
She took them
with the message I’m-not-your-slave expelled in a single huff.
Whilst I’d been out, the
‘wake’ had shifted its gears and progressed to ‘a general piss-up,’
as Ian put it. The kind of event that Mum would have tutted at,
bringing it all to an end with a single glare. Only she wasn’t
there to do that. So, it had carried on.
Mum’s friends
and some older relatives had more or less disappeared – including a
great-aunt Sally I’d never met before (‘We really got an Aunt
Sally?’ I had sniggered, thinking of that Worzel Gummidge
programme.) The hangers-on (Dad’s phrase) were us kids, Auntie
Stella, Uncle Gary and Dad’s mates: Lazy-eyed Jim, Paddy, Beery-Dave and
Alfie-from-the-butchers, who had supplied a pig’s head for making
brawn as a mark of respect to Mum’s life.
‘ What’s
brawn?’ I had asked, but no one answered, stunned to silence, it
seemed, by Alfie’s moving tribute.
Justin and other Tankards
had also left, taking some of Dad’s beers and spirits with them,
according to Dad. So, Auntie Stella had popped out to the local
off-licence, accompanied by her completely sober boyfriend, to top
up supplies.
The house
smelt of beer, fags and farts by then, but you soon got used to it.
And when Auntie Stella and Uncle Gary came back with some whiskey, beers and
several more portions of chips from the chippy, their
sharp-yet-fatty scent soon took the edge off.
‘ Stick some
more songs on, Della,’ Dad had requested, and Della had instantly
picked out her Abba records – not thinking, I guess – and we had
Greatest Hits Volume One playing moments later.
‘ Mum didn’t
like Abba,’ I said, but no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to
remember just who the party was for.
So, I sat on
the stairs, just out of sight, thinking, whilst half the
neighbourhood celebrated the life of our
beloved one – words of the vicar
who didn’t-know-her-from-Adam – with chips, fags and cheap booze.
Thinking.
Thinking about how we
jumped the queue or anything. But there they were, staring and
Harry began speaking. To me, I realised after a bit.
‘ What is it
you want, Scot, lad?’
He was letting
me go first. They all were. An alternative to sorry for your loss. Something worth
having. Only, I didn’t have a clue what to order. I hadn’t thought
it through at all, not really. I just had that lovely smell of fat
and vinegar up my nose. But then time jumped again, like it had
earlier that day, and I watched my order going in waxy paper bags,
then wrapped in copies of The Sun and The Express. Portions of salty, soggy chips, battered
sausages, battered fish, a couple of fish cakes and some wooden
forks. Harry’s wife popped through to look, bringing with her
a Wavy Line carrier bag, putting all the newspaper parcels in there for
me. Harry refused to take the tenner.
‘ On the
house,’ he said, dropping me a wink.
Harry’s wife handed me the
bag of food, slowly, very personally, like it was a special moment.
Our moment. I felt it, too. Something about her. Something motherly
that drew me in. And then she opened her gob:
‘ Aren’t you
just a bit hot in that coat?’ she said. I said nothing in return
and, sensing she had said the wrong thing, she tried again, only
making it worse: ‘Sorry for your loss.’
And any meaning there, any
feeling, was gone.
Back at the house, no one
had been that bothered by my absence. Della and Ian made a few
comments, but that was it. Nothing from Dad.
‘ Saw you go
off with Uncle Gary,’ Della teased. ‘In his flash car?’
Ian had simply taken the
bag of food from me, feeling it for heat. It was still warm, but
not very.
‘ You’ve been
gone a while,’ he stated. My hands were in my pockets, feeling the
money: went out with just a tenner, but came back with
twenty.
I shrugged. Nothing else
was said. And Dad hadn’t even noticed. He was too drunk.
‘ Stick them in
the oven,’ Ian called to Della, as he turned from me.
She took them
with the message I’m-not-your-slave expelled in a single huff.
Whilst I’d been out, the
‘wake’ had shifted its gears and progressed to ‘a general piss-up,’
as Ian put it. The kind of event that Mum would have tutted at,
bringing it all to an end with a single glare. Only she wasn’t
there to do that. So, it had carried on.
Mum’s friends
and some older relatives had more or less disappeared – including a
great-aunt Sally I’d never met before (‘We really got an Aunt
Sally?’ I had sniggered, thinking of that Worzel Gummidge
programme.) The hangers-on (Dad’s phrase) were us kids, Auntie
Stella, Uncle Gary and Dad’s mates: Lazy-eyed Jim, Paddy, Beery-Dave and
Alfie-from-the-butchers, who had supplied a pig’s head for making
brawn as a mark of respect to Mum’s life.
‘ What’s
brawn?’ I had asked, but no one answered, stunned to silence, it
seemed, by Alfie’s moving tribute.
Justin and other Tankards
had also left, taking some of Dad’s beers and spirits with them,
according to Dad. So, Auntie Stella had popped out to the local
off-licence, accompanied by her completely sober boyfriend, to top
up supplies.
The house
smelt of beer, fags and farts by then, but you soon got used to it.
And when Auntie Stella and Uncle Gary came back with some whiskey, beers and
several more portions of chips from the chippy, their
sharp-yet-fatty scent soon took the edge off.
‘ Stick some
more songs on, Della,’ Dad had requested, and Della had instantly
picked out her Abba records – not thinking, I guess – and we had
Greatest Hits Volume One playing moments later.
‘ Mum didn’t
like Abba,’ I said, but no one seemed to notice, no one seemed to
remember just who the party was for.
So, I sat on
the stairs, just out of sight, thinking, whilst half the
neighbourhood celebrated the life of our
beloved one – words of the vicar
who didn’t-know-her-from-Adam – with chips, fags and cheap booze.
Thinking.
Thinking about how we
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