Essex, 1988
Today is Sunday.
It’s the only day of the week when the betting shop isn’t open, so we all stay in bed until lunchtime. We do this every Sunday, and I didn’t used to like it, but I do now.
John takes me to the video shop next door on Friday afternoons, and we choose two films to rent all weekend. We always watch the first one together on Saturday night, in the front room. The Christmas tree is still up in the corner, even though it is February now. I thought that maybe it was bad luck, but Maggie says it is fine, so long as we don’t turn the twinkly lights on. I think I believe her, because Maggie doesn’t lie.
We eat curry on Saturday nights too, and I like eating something that isn’t on toast. I’d never had curry before I lived here. It tastes wonderful and you don’t even have to cook it yourself, somebody else does. The food comes all the way from India, which is a faraway place where everything is hot, including the food. It’s still hot when John brings it home in a brown paper bag. It’s called a takeaway because you take the food away and eat it at home.
We always watch the second VHS on Sunday mornings, in John and Maggie’s bed with bacon sandwiches. Maggie calls them something else, which sounds like bacon buddies, but when I called them that for the first time, they both laughed. We all call them bacon buddies now, even though I know it is wrong.
John chooses one of the videos every week, and I choose the other. I don’t think Maggie cares much; she reads newspapers and magazines most of the time while the films are on, and covers my eyes and ears for some bits when John chooses a film that says eighteen on the front. Sometimes she forgets and I see bad things, but I know they aren’t real, so I don’t get scared. Today we are eating bacon buddies and watching a film called The NeverEnding Story. It’s the best film ever! We watched it last weekend too. I think we should watch it every Sunday, but Maggie said this might have to be the last time for a little while, which means a long while. For some reason, I start to think about what my Sundays were like before I came here. They were not like this.
“Why don’t we go to church on Sundays?” I ask, still watching the film.
“Because God doesn’t answer prayers from people like us,” says John, lighting a cigarette. He’s started smoking again since the bad men came. I’m a bit glad about that because it means he and Maggie argue a bit less.
“Shut up, John. Don’t listen to him. Do you want to go to church, Baby Girl?”
I think about it before I answer. Sometimes her questions are tricks. “No, I don’t think so.” I’m still staring at the screen. It’s nearly my favorite bit in the film, with a flying dog that is really a dragon. John seems bored, maybe because we’ve watched it before. I pretend not to see, but he keeps trying to touch and tickle Maggie. She tuts and slaps his hand away each time because I don’t think she likes it when he does that. I know I don’t like it when he does it to me.
When the film ends, I feel sad. Sometimes I wish I could stay inside the stories in films and books and live there instead. Maggie tells me to go to my room, close the door, and listen to one of my story cassette tapes, but I’m not ready to go from one story to the next yet. She thinks I don’t hear the noises they make, but I do. It always sounds as if he is hurting her, and I don’t like it. I hear Maggie use the bathroom afterwards and then she comes into my room and I hit Play on the tape machine, so that she thinks I was listening to it and not them the whole time. Her hair is sticking out all over the place and her cheeks are red.
“Put some proper clothes on, we’re all going out,” she says, then turns to leave.
“Out?”
“Yes, out. It’s the opposite of in. Hurry up.”
We leave a little while later through the back door. I have never been out the back door before, and when I step through it, I see lots of gray concrete, and fences that are too high to look over. There is a red car too, which I think I have seen before. Maggie pushes the front seat forward so that I can climb in the back, and when I do, it smells like a memory.
I’m not sure how long we drive; I can’t stop staring out the windows. I think I had forgotten that there was more than just the shop and the parade. There are so many roads and houses and people, and the world seems very big all of a sudden. We stop at a pub, which is a place where people go when they are thirsty but don’t want to drink at home. I know this because my real daddy liked to do that a lot.
Inside, Maggie and I sit down at a table, while John gets some drinks: a pint of Guinness for him, a Coke for her, and a lemonade for me. We drink in silence, and Maggie’s face looks strange. I’m not sure what we are doing here, we have fizzy drinks at home. John says maybe we should go, but then two men come over and everyone except me hugs or shakes hands. One of the men rubs me on the head, messing up my hair, which had just been brushed.
“Remember me?” he says, with a smile that doesn’t fit his face.
I do not remember him because we have never met, but he does remind me of someone.
“I’m your uncle Michael, and last time I saw you, you were just a baby girl.”
“She’s still my Baby Girl, aren’t you, Aimee?” Maggie gives me that look that says, Be quiet, without her actually having to say the words.
His hair is orange, just like Rainbow Brite’s, and he has small hands for a man. He is not my uncle, but then Maggie is not really my mum, and John is not really my dad. People here seem to like pretending to be someone they are not. The two men sound like Maggie, not John, and the way they speak reminds me of before, when my home was in Ireland. I think Michael must be Maggie’s brother; they do look a lot alike with the same sort of lips and eyes.
They talk for a long time and I start to feel sleepy. Maggie tells me to stop fidgeting, but I can’t help it. I’m bored, and I would have brought one of my Story Teller magazines if I’d known I would just have to sit still all afternoon.
“I’m telling you, the last three shops they went after all had Irish links. The feckin’ eejits think we’re IRA just because we speak with an accent,” says Maggie.
“Keep your voice down.” John sees me staring. “What you gawping at, Pipsqueak? Why don’t you go play over there.” I look where he is pointing and see three colorful tall machines standing in the corner, all with flashing lights and buttons. John puts his hand in the pocket of his jeans and gives me some coins, but I don’t know what to do with them.
“She’s too little, John. She doesn’t understand.” Maggie sucks through the straw in her empty glass, making a funny noise. She tells me off when I do that.
“Nonsense! She’s bright as a button! Always got her head in a book, this one. Here, let me show you.” John lifts me up. He carries me to the first machine, then drags a chair from an empty table and stands me on top of it, so that I can reach. He lifts my hand in his to push a button, which plays a tune. “This is Pac-Man and I think you’re going to love it.”
“She’s turned into a proper little daddy’s girl,” says the man who says he is my uncle.
Everyone smiles, except Maggie.