WHAT CAN I GET YOU, duck? Sausage? Egg? Cup of tea? Don’t worry. You’re here now, so you can stop looking at the floor. I welcome all lids that don’t fit and spouts that don’t pour. Who told you about me? Though you look familiar, duck. Like I know you. Who’s your mother? Does she live on Werrington Road? It’s the eyes, you see. I never forget a pair of eyes and you’ve big eyes, duck. They give you away. I hope you don’t mind me saying that, but eyes like yours are sad stories. You tell them whether you like it or not.
Come and get warm. That’s it. You need some sugar in that tea—you’re skin and bone—but I haven’t got any. Food bank was that busy last week you forget what you need. Do I not get to choose? Can I not get some of that? What am I supposed to do with kidney beans? Her from number 9 chinning about the veg again: I’d rather frozen if you’ve got it, duck. Those carrots last month went black. I said to her, ‘Next time you chuck stuff out chuck them to me. I can make meals out of onions.’ She says, ‘Well give us a fiver then and I’ll see what’s on the turn.’ Course, some faces don’t want you to see them. Make out like they don’t know you when they sat aside of you in school. Others turn up with a couple of shopping trucks, next door’s baby, and barefaced cheek. It’s like there’s a war on, rationing all over again. My mother would say, ‘If there’s men in the world there’ll always be wars.’ And my father would go, ‘Hester. As long as there’s women there’ll be men and dunna forget that it only took one woman to bring down a lifetime of men.’ And off he’d go again: there was a time when you couldn’t eat a meal in any decency without the potters from Stoke. Pride of every dinner table we were till those slow boats from China promised cheap, cheap, cheap. Can’t grow a bloody teapot for toffee any more. Four thousand kilns gone later and it’s gone that dark over Bill’s mother’s you realise just how much daylight those kilns let in.
Saw everything through sad eyes did my father. Said they’d pulled the plug on Stoke while the likes of Manchester got rewired. ‘Bright lasses want bright lights,’ he’d say. But that was emigration as far as mother was concerned. Daughters should stay at home.
Have a sausage. Go on. It’s on me. How long have you been like this? Sorry, that’s your business. But I probably did. I probably knew your mother. Was she a redhead with glasses too big for her face? I used to know a lot of people round here but there’s that many faces with their heads down now you don’t get to know anyone like you used to. Dumping ground this road. Watched a sorry business only the other week. You’d think they’d have done it without fuss, but no. Blue flashing lights, three from the Social, kiddies crying—Mama, Mama—Ukraine, someone says. Next stop Dover. Some disused factory they’ll get held in before they’re shipped back. Makes you wonder. It’s got to be bad where they’re from to want to sneak in here. Blimey, is it dinnertime already? Hello, Benny. You’re looking brighter. Had yourself a bit of sleep have you? It’s sausage today, duck. Few mushrooms. No, that’s fine. Fifty pence is grand. Just don’t give all that butty to your dog. Me? Oh you know me, Benny, still waiting on the knee and our Keeley to call but you get ill if you dwell, don’t you? You take care now. Ta-ra.
You won’t believe me, but once upon a time he was one of the royal gilders was Benny. Only worked in gold leaf. Rumour has it he always worked with a penny in his shoe, keep his luck and a steady hand. Course, he got the boot like everyone else except he’s gone and bought his house hasn’t he? My right to buy, he says putting in a new conservatory, and shrouds don’t come with purses. Next thing you know, he owes more than he’s borrowed and he’s down the bookies trying win the repayments, then takes to the booze on the never-never. Says he’d rather learn to limp than take that penny from his shoe because one day his luck will change. Won’t tell me his real name. Says that’s the only thing he’s got left worth something. I call him Benny. Otherwise he’s just another one of them that you don’t know by name but by how long they’ve been on the dole. Come to the window. Let me show you out here. See him? Fourteen months. And then him, with that tartan trolley? You can tell by the way he won’t look you in the eye that it’s been almost five years. No one wants them you see. Nothing doing. And her, with all those carrier bags? She’s spent longer out here than she ever has in a house. Slipped through the net. Forgotten about. Can’t remember what it’s like to matter when all self-worth’s been bound in paid employment, yet she won’t have you fussing her. Not when there’s nowt in those carrier bags but pride.
What about a toastie? Let me do you a toastie. I’ve got a bit of cheese left. I’ll slice this onion. Let me tell you this: I had a big life once. He were a big brute in the end, but it was a big do, a big day, we even went Barbados and came back to a big house, new baby on the way an’ all; and I tell it like this because it’s supposed to be a big society, isn’t it? But then his big job went, ping went the big dreams, and the big house got sold at a bargain-bin rate. Then he goes and leaves me and the baby for some broad who’d been growing bigger in secret and I find out that all that big debt of his was in a joint account. I remember standing in the shop, shortly after he left, seven pence short of a split bag of rice. Seven pence short of a split bag of rice. That’s when you start to think you’d rather die than ask the big queue behind you for a bit of small change.
Anyhow. The council finds us a house. Except our Keeley—that’s my daughter by the way, and she’ll be eighteen next week you know? Eighteen! I’ve got her this bracelet, let me show you. You can try it on. She’s got thin wrists like you. Look at that! It fits a treat. Anyway. Our Keeley leaves home at sixteen. Thinks she’s in love and he loves her and next thing I know, someone from the council comes to see me. Handsome devil, didn’t tuck his shirt in, wouldn’t take a cup of tea. Says according to new laws I’ve been doing a family-in-need out of a home. ‘Under-occupying’, he calls it. Reads me the riot act then shows me a stack of grainy pictures on his computer of this place and that, no room to swing a cat. All meters and storage heaters and a two-bar gas-effect fire. I thought to myself, someone’s been on the snitch here, so I said to him, ‘Who’ve you been talking to, duck?’
He said, ‘It’s a period of review, Mrs Johnson. Time to discuss your options.’
I said, ‘I thought the point of paying in taxes was so you could get summat back from the state when you really needed it.’
He said, ‘Have you got any savings, Mrs Johnson? Anything you’ve not let on about?’
I said, ‘I’ve not a bean, duck. Why would I when you know I’m still paying off my husband’s debts?’
He said, ‘Well, we’d better get things moving then because these homes today are pot luck.’
I said, ‘What about my daughter? What if she wants to come home?’
But he’s on his mobile chinning away and telling me I can move in end of the month.
Course, they shift me that quick I can hardly get my bearings and it’s as damp as dishcloths in here. I’ll have pneumonia soon: summat bronchial I’ll be put on another list for. No beds in hospitals, no houses available. Waiting lists as long as both arms. My mother always said that we’d queue for a cod’s head if they said on the telly there were no fish in the sea. Only got to look at how we went queuing for petrol. Folk like us are a government’s bread and butter. We bankroll the rich whether we like it or not. Take this place. Not council, not social, but private. And that means a landlord who’d skin a gnat for its hind and it’s all run on greedy-guts meters that keep the shareholders warm as toast. Take the phone. It guzzles pound coins. Though I don’t think my daughter gave me her right number.
Where did you live, duck? I knew your mother didn’t I? From Werrington Road. What happened? Whatever it’s about, it’s not worth it. Take me and our Keeley. Always so angry and rushing through life. Says, ‘It’s my life, Mam. Not yours to have a second chance at’—and that there’s no company car to be had in making butties. Going to be an optician she was. ‘You want eyes in the back of your head round here,’ she’d say. ‘What with you feeding the five thousand and everyone on the take.’
I said, ‘I don’t ever see you helping anyone out. I could rent your room out the amount of time you spend on the lash or holed up with whatever bloke catches your eye.’
And she goes, ‘Well now I know how you really see me,’ and I haven’t clapped eyes on her since.
It’s her birthday soon. Did I say? I’ve got her a bracelet. Bake her a nice cake.
Oh here comes trouble! Blimey, Mickey! What’s happened to you? Is that blood? Use the bathroom, wash your face. Shall I do you a butty? I’ve a rasher of bacon left. I could fry you an egg. You’re probably too young to remember this, but you used to go to work on an egg. That’s right. Go to work on an egg. What did you call me? Cooped up mother-hen? You want to watch it, sunshine. You’ve already had one thump today and too many eggs give you boils. Go on then. Take that bit of cake with you. See you tomorrow. Ta-ra.
He’s a rum bugger is Mickey. No family to speak of and all of a wander. One of them kids, you know? In and out of care then in and out of cells. If it wasn’t for me he’d starve. But like I say, who wants to cook a meal for one every day? It’s not illegal and I’m doing nothing wrong. I’m needed, that’s all. Needed. And we all need our daily bread.
Have you finished, duck? I’m not on the take but I’d be grateful for a pound for the phone to call my daughter if you’ve got it. No. Thirty pence is thirty pence. Look after the pennies and it all adds up. You’ve got a bit of fuel inside you now so remember: the road goes up, not just down, and it goes left and right. You know where I am now so call again. Ta-ra. Keep safe.
Hey! Hang on minute. You’ve got our Keeley’s bracelet! Hey! Come back! Stop her, someone! Damn these bloody crutches and my knees! Please, someone! Tell her to come back. You there! Are you listening? I need your help.