SOME KIND O’ BEGINNIN

Mike Jenkins

The sound o’ voices rises from-a street. More banterin’ ’an arguin’, but it still brings back tha’ night. There’s too many thin’s remind me. Ev’ry time I see Dave on telly playin’ fer-a- the Jacks. Ev’ry time I go out to a club (though tha’ int often nowadays) an’ there’s a barney.

Puttin’ on my face, layer ’pon layer, I carn ’elp thinkin’ ’ow she must afta dollop it on t’ cover over wha’ I done. An’ there by my mirror is-a cuttin. People might think I’m sick or summin, but I jest don’ wanna forget. It’s a warnin: NEVER AGEN!

Wish I wuz goin’ out with them girls. Theyer jokin pierces-a glass an’ ruffles-a curtains. A whool gang of ’em I bet, like we woz in Merthyr: me, Nadine, Andrea an Jayne (with a ‘y’ don’ forget, she’d always say).

I long fer theyer voices now goin’ up an’ down like-a mountains an’ valleys.

Funny tha’, it’s flatter down yer an-a way ’ey talk ave got the same music to it some’ow.

Mascara, face cream… ’owever much I put on, I could never be like ’er. My teeth stick out in funny ways an’ I got ooded eyelids like my dad wuz an owl or summin. I light up a fag an’ burn an ’ole jest above ’er ead. I ’member wha ee once said, ‘Martine, I’m sorry t’ tell yew, but yewer breath’s mingin’… yew should try an’ give up.’ But all ’em months in the Centre I needed ’em so much. I’ll never stop now, not even if I seen im agen.

The thin’s the papers said, an mostly true, I know. But oo cun understand all-a-goadin’? All-a-gangin up an’ pickin’ on me er friends done? It woz like Cardiff ’gainst-a Jacks, we all knew it wuz gunna go off sometime, but no one spected I would make it ’appen.

I blow smoke at ’er picture. The ’eadlines blur. I yer my flatmate Chrissie come in from work: tidy job in-a travel agents, all dolled up. She’s like me, tryin’ t’ make a new life. She’ve ’ad ’n ’ard time, brought up in-a ’Omes. Carn understand ’ow she’s so sorted though. TV on, cuppa tea next…

‘Hey Martine! D’you wanna cuppa?’

‘No ta, Chrissie! I’m off soon!’

She knows all ’bout me, but it don’ bother ’er. She reckons er dad done worse thin’s than tha’ to ’er an’ ’er mam.

Tha’ bloody burn above ’er air looks like a friggin ’alo! I feel like askin’ tha’ photo once an’ fer all, but instead I stub-a fag out on-a mirror, right where my teeth jut out comical.

Chrissie looks so relaxed in-a sittin’ room when I enter, feet up an’ sippin’ away. As she turns ’er head, fer a moment she reminds me of ’er, tha’ beaky nose an’ pointy chin, but…

‘Martine, you look great!’ she says, an’ I do feel ready t’ face the world, even though I wan’ more.

‘Aye, but oo cares in tha’ poncy ’otel?’

‘Well, maybe you’ll meet someone tonight. Some millionaire soccer star’ll be passing through and propose to you over his lasagne!’

‘Soccer star?’

‘Oh… sorry Martine!’

I larf an’ she wriggles in ’er chair an’ echoes me. Soon it’s S’long!’ and ’Bye!’ Me wonderin’ ’ow she cun talk so posh with ’er background an’ ’ave survived.

The streets o’ Abernedd turnin’ inta Merthyr by the second. Cack-jumpin an’ spottin where yesterday’s shops ewsed t’ be. See-through windows replaced by-a environmentally-friendly sort, perfect fer graffiti an’ posterin. Local bands like Panic Stations an The Pocket Billiards advertisin gigs. I woz inta football when my friends listened t’ the Merthyr equivalents o’ them. I woz turned on when Merthyr played the Jacks (Dave wern with em ’en) an stood with Dazzy an’ the boys loathin an’ chantin at them players an’ losin’ myself.

Wassa time? Shit! Four minutes late an moany ol cow Thorpe’ll be bound t’ dock me.

Car beeps me. Two boys in overalls, all over painty. Give ’em a V and see ’em mouthin’ off at me.

There it is at bloody last, The Dog and Duck, Abernedd’s finest, 3 star, AA. Looks real tidy from-a front an’ all, but I could blow it open, wha’ with ol’ Thorpey an’ ’is stingy ways… scrapin-a mould off of fruit an’ tha’ ol’ can opener sheddin rust!

‘Yer! Wha’s this in my peas, waitress?’

‘Oh, I believe it’s some sort o’ garnish, sir.’

When in doubt, call it garnish, tha’s wha’ ee tol’ us t’ say.

Just as I’m gaspin’ fer a fag an’ fumblin’ in my pockets, Thorpey ’ops through-a door t’ greet me.

‘Martine, you’re five minutes late again. It’ll have to stop, Marteen!’

Sayin my name like I woz ‘n alien. Feel sorry fer ’is missis, I do. Imagine ’im on top on the job… ‘You’ve had your ten seconds heavy-petting, dear. Now we’d better hurry up and start breathing faster!’

‘Marteen! Stop grinning and get ready, will you!’

Soon I’m all frilled up an’ layin-a tables, all-a time chattin t’ Michelle oo on’y jes started las’ week an’ oo keeps cockin’ ev’rythin up. She’s so nervous an’ tryin t’ please, but Thorpey give ’er so much jip when she wrote-a orders down wrong, she nearly give up on ’er first day. An’ the bloke what ’ad steak ’n’ kidney pie ’stead o’ steak! I thought ee wuz gonna crack ’er one on-a spot!

Lee, the main chef, ee takes-a piss outa Mich no end. Ee tried it with me when I begun, so I tol’ Mich t’ take no notice. But she don’ know when ee’s bullin or not. Ee tol’ ’er the correct way t’ serve chips wuz with a fork an she believed im. By-a time she’d got ’em on-a plate, they’d frozen agen!

Friday evenin’, but it’s real quiet. I serve a family with a stroppy veggie wife an’ two kids insistin’ on avin’ adult portions.

‘What’s this Vegetable Steak Casserole?’ she asks.

‘Oh no,’ I says, ‘tha’s vegetable casserole with steak in it.’

‘But it does say Vegetable Steak, doesn’t it?’

This coulda gone on forever, on’y ’er ol’ man tells ’er t’ ave-a veggie lasagne.

Lee’s outa’ is ’ead as per usual. I reckon ee’s on summin, I do.

‘One veggie lasagne, but I reckon there’s some rat in it somewhere, Martine… Look! There’s its brother!’ ee yells, pointin ’is spatula at-a corner of-a kitchen. I twirl round like a ballerina, then give ’im a shove in ’is bulbous beer gut an ’ee makes out t’ swat me like a fly. Mich comes in lookin all excited like she seen some lush pop star. She catches old o’ my arm, while I’m on-a lookout fer ol’ Thorpey, oo always seems t’ rush in when we int workin’ tidy.

‘Martine! There’s these really ace boys!… Yew gotta come an’ give me an ’and! I’m on pins!’

‘Aye, I will, arfta I done this one table. OK?’

So I takes in the veggie lasagne an’ the ’usband’s ’ome-made pie (what comes straight from-a freezer) an’ ’ave a gawk. There’s a loada tables put together an’, jest as Mich said, a pile o’ stonkin’ men and boys in posh suits an’ flash ties. Then I see Thorpey chattin’ to an older man oo wuz with ’em an’ ee glares over at me, so I make out I’m busy servin’ the famlee.

As I’m dishin’ out-a veg, I yer a Merthyr voice an’ ’n unmistakable one at tha’. I practically fling-a veg onto the bloke’s lap an’ spatter ’im with gravy. The back end o’ Dave’s ’ead, I’m shewer.

‘Excuse me!’ says the bloke.

‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ I grovel, in case ee should call Thorpey. I do a rapid runner back to-a kitchen an’ grab ’old o’ Mich, oo’s gotta ’andful o’ prawn cocktails.

‘Well, Martine, what d’yew think, eh?’

‘Mich! Lissen! There’s this boy I ewsed t’ know there… I think theyr Swonzee football team… I gotta do the next servin’, right?’

Coz I’m so ’igh-pitched an’ wound up, Lee yers me over ’is sizzlin chip-oil an’ steak-bashin. ’Is face is a pumpkin grin.

‘Ne’ mind the rat, where’s the fuckin’ poison? I could never stick the Jacks!’

‘Don’ be darft, Lee. Ee’s from Merthyr.’

‘’Ey, Mart, I thought yew woz a true Bluebird.’

‘Tha’s all in-a past… Right, Mich, give us them prawn cocks!’

Michelle’s nearly creamin’ er knicks on-a spot, she’s so worked up.

‘’Ey, we could be on yer… I fancy the big black one, I do!’

‘I gotta black puddin’ in the fridge, if yew don’t get off with ’im,’ shouts Lee.

‘Shurrup Lee, y’ racist dick!’ I yell as Mr Thorpe comes bustin’ through-a door. Ee’s tampin’ an’ ’is ’ard white face ’its me like a breeze block.

‘Martine,’ ee whispers snakey, ‘just get on with the job or you’re out! Right?’

I feel like tellin ’im t’ stuff it, but I ’iss back ‘Yes, Mr Thorpe!’ I go calm but quick inta the dinin’ area an’ make a point o’ servin’ Dave first. I glance over t’ see Mich urryin towards the big black fella, oo looks real chuffed. Dave’s busy talkin, so I lean right over ’im, cranin’ t’ face ’im like I wuz goin t’ give ’im a peck.

‘Yewr prawn cocktail sir!’ I says, so deliberate an’ sarky ee turns straight away, lookin’ curious till ee recognises me. ’Is eyes ’n mouth narrow t’ three blades. Then ee turns away with a flick o’ is ’ead like ee wuz ’eadin-a ball or summin.

As I return to-a kitchens I yer ’im callin’ me back. I don’ wanna respond, but thinkin’ o’ Thorpey’s warnin’, I decide to.

‘Uh… ’scuse me, waitress, but can I ’ave my steak well done, please? I carn stand the sight o’ blood!’

An’ all-a players larf, like it woz some private joke.

‘Yes, of course sir!’ I feel like spittin’ out-a words, but I control myself, savin’ it up. Inside, I’m so angry coz ee treated me like I woz nobody. All ’is indifference brings it back: ’ow ee ewsed me against ’er, ’er against me. I seen ’ow ee wanted us t’ be total enemies. An’ I played ’is game orright… a Stanley knife I on’y brung fer protection… she wuz ’avin’ a go at me all-a time… ‘Martine, yew’ve lost ’im, yew bitch! Le’s face it, yewr a loser!’… Blood everywhere. Now I gotta remember. ’Er blood on my clothes an’ ’ands: I knew I’d never wash off them stains. An’ when Dave says ’bout ’is steak jest then it seemed aimed, like ’is sharp eyes shinin’.

I decide t’ take in these special steak knives we ’aven’ ewsed frages an’ Lee thinks I’m darft.

‘Wha’ yew wanna bother with ’em for? I need ’em f’ choppin up the rats anyway.’

‘Lee do me favour an’ chop yewrself up, they’ll be one less rat then.’

I rub my ’and cross-a blade o’ one. I feel scared an’ thrilled at-a same time. Mich comes in grinnin’ all over ’er body, as if she’ve orready got tha’ fella. I ’old up-a knife towards ’er.

‘’Ey, Martine! Go easy! I never spoke to yewrs. ’Onest!’

‘It’s OK, Mich. This one’s fer ’im!’ I clatter-a knives onto a tray, leavin’ Michelle stunned.

This time I take it real slow, as if I woz strokin’. I know wha’ I’m doin’, so I ask oo’s ’avin’ steak an’ watch ’is face as I carefully place each knife. I ’old each one a while before puttin’ it down an’ I cun see ’is panic risin’. Ee cun see I’m leavin ’im till last an’ ’ow much I’m relishin’ it all. Looks as if ee’s shittin’ ’is load when I finally come t’ ’im.

‘Yew ’avin’ steak, sir… Well done, wern it?’

‘Er… aye… ta!’ ee tries t’act so cool, but ’is ’ands ’re fiddlin’ with ’is other cutlery, as if ee’s searchin’ f’ weapons!’

I take ’old o’ the las’ steak knife an’ prepare t’ show ’im. Now ee’ll get the message. I cun take down tha’ cuttin’. I cun wash off tha’ red. I sweep the knife up to ’is face an ee jerks back in ’is chair, nearly fallin’. At-a same time, Michelle comes in screamin, ‘Don’ do it, Martine! Don’ do it agen!’

An’ I says t’ Dave, real calm… ‘Is this done enough fer yew sir?’

Ever’thin’ ’appens so quick, I think I’ve sliced ’im without knowin’. Is teammates ‘re laughin’, Michelle grabs my arm an’ Thorpey’s fussin’ an’ pullin’ me back t’ the kitchen. Ee drags me outa the door inta the yard. I still gotta knife, but there’s no blood anywhere t’ be seen.

‘This is no joke, Martine! How dare you treat our customers like this? Who do you think you are? You can’t…’

I fling the knife to the ground an-a sound severs ’is words, leaves ’em angin’.

‘Yew cun stick yewer bloody job, Mr Thorpe! I wozn messin’, fer yewr information, it wuz fer real. I owed tha’ boy one!’

‘I should never have taken you on… I knew about your record, you know… They told me you’d changed… Now, get out of my hotel!’

I undo-a apron an’ scrumple it up as ee shoves past me. I fling it in-a bin an’ feel a real buzz, though ee never seen me.

As I stride away down-a street, a coach passes an’ faces stare at me with a ‘Wow!’ on theyr lips. All of ’em ’cept one, that is. I lost so much to ’im: my body, my freedom an’ now my job. I’ll go ’ome an’ take-a scissors to ’er photo. Cut it up inta tiny pieces knowin’ tha’ won’ be the end, but tha’ problee, this is some kind o’ beginnin’.