Essex, 1988
I swat the fly on the TV screen with the rolled-up newspaper, just like Maggie taught me, pleased with myself that I got it first time.
I’ve got used to the little back room where I sit when the betting shop is open. I know all the cracks in the walls, and the marks on the desk, and I know to remember to wear a coat every morning, even though I sit inside all day, because the radiator is broken and it is cold. It’s someone else’s coat that I wear; it has her name sewn inside in case I forget. But it’s mine now. My name, my coat.
I spend my time reading, watching TV, or listening to the Story Teller tapes on my Fisher-Price cassette player. When I run out of other people’s stories to read, watch, or listen to, I make up my own about a little girl who lived in Ireland. I tell myself the story of me so that I don’t forget. I whisper it so that nobody else can hear, and enjoy seeing little puffs of my own breath when the words sneak out of my mouth. Sometimes I pretend that I am a baby dragon, and that one day I’ll learn how to fly away home and burn down anyone who was ever mean to me.
The shop is noisy and loud. I hear the sound of the horse races all day long, and the men who watch them shout things like, “Go on!” really loudly at the TV screens out there, as though the horses can hear them, which is silly because they can’t. Sometimes I look through the stripy plastic curtain that hangs between the shop counter and the phone room, and I see them, the customers. They all look sort of the same to me, wearing blue jeans and mean faces, from what I can see through the fog of their cigarette smoke.
I know when the shop has closed because the noise stops and everything is quiet again, except for the sound of John’s adding machine going clickety-click. I think he must like maths because he uses it a lot. He comes into the little back room, pretends to like a picture I have drawn, then opens the back door.
“See you later, alligator,” he says, his gold tooth shining at me.
“In a while, crocodile,” I reply, because he likes it when I say that. I’ve seen pictures of alligators and crocodiles and they look awfully alike. I don’t understand why people are always pretending that things are different when they are the same. A name doesn’t change what a thing is, it’s just a name.
“I think it’s about time you started earning your keep, Baby Girl, come with me,” says Maggie, locking the door behind John and walking back out to the shop. I’m guessing it’s just me and her tonight. John goes out sometimes and doesn’t come home. I’m not sure where he goes, but it makes Maggie sad and cross at the same time. She calls it his “disappearing act,” and for a while I wondered if John might be a secret magician.
The shop is a mess. The big black leather stools are all over the place, and there are betting slips and cigarette butts and chocolate-bar wrappers all over the floor.
There is also a broom.
“I want you to sweep all this up, put the stools back against the walls, then, when you’re done, come and get me,” Maggie says, and walks through the open metal door that leads upstairs to the flat. I hear the television turn on up there, then the sound of the TV show she likes so much where they all speak like John: EastEnders.
I start with the stools; they are taller than me and very heavy. I push them back against the walls where they are supposed to be, and they make a horrid scraping sound against the tiles. When that’s done, I pick up the broom, pretend to fly around the shop on it like a witch, then start to make little piles of rubbish. I don’t know how to make the piles go inside the black bin bag Maggie left behind, so I use my hands. When I am finished, they are dirty and sticky. I stand at the bottom of the big stairs and call her name several times.
“Maggie!” I yell on the third try, but she still doesn’t reply. I’m tired and hungry. I think we’re having spaghetti hoops on toast tonight; we normally have something on toast for dinner. It can be beans or cheese or eggs, but whatever it is, we eat it on toast. Maggie says toast goes with everything. I think of something and try calling her again. “Mum!”
“Yes, Baby Girl?” She appears at the top of the stairs as if by magic.
“I’ve finished sweeping.”
She comes down and looks around at the shop floor, nodding. “You did good. Are you hungry?” I nod. “Would you like McDonald’s?” I nod again, twice as fast. McDonald’s is what she buys me when her face is happy. McDonald’s is way better than anything on toast. It comes in a box with a toy and I like it a lot.
“Well then, just you wait there.” She walks to the back of the shop, through the door that leads behind the glass counter, and out back behind the phone room where I can’t see. I hear the sound of water, then she comes back with a mop and bucket; it’s steaming and has bubbles like a minibath. “I want you to mop this whole floor, including the customer toilet, and I’m going to go and get you a Happy Meal. You just do it like this.” She drops the mop into the bucket, then lifts and twists it, squeezing out almost all of the water, before sliding it backwards and forwards across the floor. She puts the mop in my hand and walks to the front of the shop. Then she takes out the enormous set of keys that she carries everywhere, unlocks the door, and slams it shut behind her. I have never been through that door, I don’t even know what’s out there. I haven’t been outside at all since I first arrived. I wait for a little while after Maggie has left before looking through the letter box. I can see a row of houses, a road, an old man with white hair walking his dog, and a bus stop. I wonder if I caught a bus from there whether it might take me all the way home.
I start to mop the floor. It’s pretty big and dirty so it takes a long time, and the bucket is too heavy for me to lift, so I have to keep stopping to push it around with both hands. I have never been inside the customer toilet before. It smells bad, so I stay standing in the doorway. The toilet seat is up, there are lots of yellow and brown stains on the inside of the white bowl, and little puddles on the floor. I don’t want to go in there wearing my favorite socks, so I just mop everywhere else instead.
I hear the door at the front of the shop and think Maggie has come back with the McDonald’s. But it isn’t Maggie.
“Hello, little girl, what’s your name then?” says the old man. He’s the one I saw when I peeked out the letter box earlier. He has a white beard like Father Christmas and a dog, so I think he must be nice.
“Ciara.” It sounds strange to hear the sound of my real name inside my ears again. I bend down to stroke the ball of fur next to him. It’s a little brown-and-white thing, with big eyes and a waggy tail. I think he looks like Toto from The Wizard of Oz.
“You’ll have to speak up, child. My ears aren’t what they used to be.”
“My name is Ciara,” I say a little louder, distracted with rubbing the dog’s tummy. I think he likes it.
“That’s a very pretty name.”
“We’re closed,” says Maggie.
I look up and see her standing right behind the old man. She is holding the McDonald’s Happy Meal, but she does not look happy.
“Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake.” He shuffles back out of the shop, as though his feet are very heavy.
Maggie closes the door behind him, locks it, then turns and hits me hard across the face.
“Your. Name. Is. Aimee.” She looks around at the shop floor. It’s all wet, I haven’t missed any. She walks towards the back of the shop, her shoes leaving a line of dirty footprints behind her, then she stops outside the customer toilet, looking inside. I know I’m going to be in even more trouble, I’m just not sure how much. She comes out of there so fast, it’s as though she is flying. With my Happy Meal in one hand, she pinches the top of my arm with her other, then drags me across the wet floor, my socks slipping and sliding all over the place.
“I told you that your name is Aimee, and I told you to mop this floor. Did you mop this floor, Baby Girl?” She points inside the customer toilet.
I look at the sticky yellow puddles. “Yes,” I lie, already wishing that I hadn’t.
“You did? Oh, well, that’s all right then. It really looked like you didn’t, but you wouldn’t lie to me, would you? Not after everything I’ve done for you, putting food in your belly and clothes on your back when your daddy didn’t want you anymore?”
I wish she’d stop saying that about my daddy.
“No,” I whisper, and shake my head, thinking maybe she doesn’t know that I lied and can’t see the puddles and dirt.
She tips my Happy Meal all over the floor of the customer toilet, then mushes it and slides it around with the heel of her shoe, until all the french fries are flat and all the chicken nuggets are broken.
“Eat it.”
I don’t move.
“Eat. It,” she says again, louder this time.
I pick up half a chip, the one farthest from the toilet, and put it in my mouth.
“All of it.” She folds her arms. “There are only three rules we follow under this roof. I keep telling you what they are, but seems to me you keep forgetting. What is rule number one?”
I make myself swallow the chip. “We work hard.”
“Keep eating. Why do we work hard, Aimee?”
I feel scared and sick, but I pick up a tiny corner of a mushed chicken nugget. “Because life doesn’t owe us anything.”
“That’s right. Rule number two?”
“We don’t trust other people.”
“Correct. Because other people can’t be trusted, no matter how nice they might pretend to be. Rule number three?”
“We don’t lie to each other.”
“How many of the three rules did you break tonight?”
“All of them,” I mumble.
“I can’t hear you.”
“All of them.”
“Yes, you did. I need you to learn a lesson, and it has to be a hard one, Baby Girl, because I need you to remember, and I need you to grow up. So, you’re going to eat all of your dinner off of this floor, no matter how long it takes, and then I hope you’ll never lie to me again.”