That was the night I first met you – the night I walked out of Satin, rejected.
I made my way to Victoria Gardens, noticing that the streets were quiet, much quieter than Saturday. The people in town had a shifty air, as if they should have been at home in front of the TV or something. I knew there was a good chance Mac and everyone might not be in the Gardens but I didn’t want to think as far as that. I just wanted to walk, to move away from what had just happened.
Got to the Gardens. There they were. Just Mac and Steve. I quickened my pace, my mouth preparing itself to smile. Steve acknowledged me with a nod. I sat by them.
“Where’s Taz?”
“Somewhere or other,” I said. Even though he betrayed me, I wasn’t going to split on him.
“You two had a row?”
I shook my head. Steve and Mac seemed a bit down, not their usual selves. I didn’t feel I knew them well enough to ask why. Steve was singing something slow to himself, tapping his foot on the asphalt. Mac just stared.
I looked around the gardens. Saw a man asleep on a bench, an overcoat over him. You were on the bench almost but not quite opposite us. When I looked at you, I noticed you were looking at me. Big embarrassment. So we immediately averted our gazes.
Then I thought it was odd to see a girl by herself. I don’t think I’d have stayed in the Gardens if Mac and Steve hadn’t been there – I don’t like being alone. The fact you didn’t seem to care made me think something had happened to you. Maybe you’d been thrown over by some bloke, had a row with him. Or maybe you were a junkie waiting for your supplier. You were my age, but you had a look that made me think you might be older. I noticed your long hair and its centre parting, the fact you were wearing a skirt, and your three-quarter-length sheepskin coat, a rather tatty one. It was far too big on you. You were listening to a Walkman too.
It was rude to stare, so I stopped paying you attention. Instead I told Mac and Steve I had some booze with me. I brought out the vodka. The bottle was still over half full. There was a stirring of interest. I passed the vodka between us. I was aware that you were watching us closely now.
“Who’s she?” I asked Steve, who was sitting next to me.
“Dunno. She’s been there half an hour or so.”
You still had your eyes on us. I knew you wanted some of the drink and I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t offer you some. I didn’t feel sorry for you. It wasn’t that. I felt that you were one of us, and it would be wrong to leave you out. Also, I wanted to find out what you were doing there. And I wanted to cheer myself up, to forget about what had just happened to me. It was still quite early, just after nine.
I got up and walked over to you.
“D’you want to join us?”
You looked up at me and grinned.
“Yeah, all right, then.”
You sat next to me on the bench and I noticed how thin your legs were. So thin that I didn’t even feel jealous in the way you always do when you see a girl thinner than you. I wondered for a moment if you were anorexic – there was a girl in our class once who had an eating disorder. Your sheepskin coat stunk. It was musty and old. I passed you the vodka and you took a long, grateful slug from the bottle.
“I’m Cat,” I said.
“Jan,” you said quickly.
I noticed you held on to the bottle. I didn’t mind. Maybe you needed it. I wasn’t going to ask you any questions ’cause I knew that could be scary. I just hoped you’d talk. And to my surprise, you did. A lot of it was f-this and f-that, which I wouldn’t have thought so much of, if it was coming from a bloke. And don’t worry, I won’t repeat all your bad language here – it will give totally the wrong impression.
“These your mates?” you asked. Didn’t wait for an answer. “They’ve been here for ages. Don’t do much. I’ve been listening to Queen Latifah. She’s top. I’m not saying I don’t like blokes doing hip-hop – Dr Dre is cool and that, and I like Snoop, but she’s wicked.”
Your words came out like machine-gun fire, like your mind was working faster than your mouth. You still hadn’t let go of the vodka but I didn’t care. I just couldn’t work you out. From the outside you looked like you might be homeless or something, or someone from one of those really bad housing estates that are in the local papers all the time. And your voice was coarse and aggressive. But what you were saying struck me as clever, as clever as anything I’d read or heard. So I had to re-assess you. I wanted to keep you talking.
“But what about the violence in rap? A lot of it is against women.”
“Yeah, right, I know that.” You carried on with the vodka. “But it’s like, you don’t listen to the words in that way. You listen to the music too. The beat. And it’s like, you’re one who’s rapping. You don’t listen and think, this guy would beat me – you think you’re doing it to someone else? Like you think of someone you hate when you listen to Snoop.”
“I suppose I do,” I said, interested.
“Here,” said Mac. “Pass it along.”
Your eyes darted in his direction. I noticed you flinched. Very reluctantly you handed me the bottle. I gave it to Mac and Steve who took some. I had a mouthful myself then passed it back to you. For some weird reason, it felt as if it was yours now.
“Listen,” you said. You passed me one of the earpieces of your Walkman and I put it in my ear. We listened to Queen Latifah together. I liked it. It was raw. When Mac and Steve got up to go I didn’t mind. I was slightly pissed, I liked you, I liked the music and everything felt cool again.
I wondered then if I could probe a little.
“D’you live round here?” I asked.
“Yeah – not far – with my mate Sally. She’s all right.”
So you weren’t homeless but it sounded as if you’d left home.
“Are you at college or…?”
“No.” This briefer answer told me to lay off for a while. I volunteered some information about me. I told you I was at school but it was pissing me off. I thought you’d look down at me for mentioning school – it has to be the saddest word in the English language – but you didn’t. You started one of your rants again.
“School? Yeah – crap, isn’t it? Except for English. I liked my English teacher. He read us these brilliant poems and then we had to, like, write our own. He said, make up your own rules. A poem has to have rules, he said, but you can make them up. So I used to do these crazy things, like write poems all round the edges of the page, and colour in the rest black or something. And he freaked and said it was good. Really good. And then sometimes he just read us stories. Good stories. There was one, once, about this kid who built a cart or something – no, his Dad did, and then he went down the hill in it and some bus ran him over. It made me cry. Mr Shepherd, he was good at reading. Yeah.”
I wondered if you had any GCSEs but it’s not a thing you can ask. Even though to everyone I know it feels like such an important thing. By now I was happy to let you have all the vodka. I reckon that was why you had so much to say – you were getting completely leathered. I wondered if you were an alcoholic, only you seemed a bit young to be one. An alkie was an old bloke, reeked of beer, hunted around in bins and staggered around the town centre late at nights, or sat in the Gardens looking wrecked. The vodka was making you higher by the minute.
“I like it here,” you said. “They leave you alone here. It’s, like, the only bit of town like that. Well, some of them leave you alone. But you meet some right bastards. Your mates seem OK. D’you come here a lot?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said.
“I’ll see you again, maybe.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.” I was telling the truth. I’d found everything you’d said interesting. You were different to Lucy and Fliss and Toni and everyone. It also felt good to have a friend in the Gardens who was female. I got on with Bex OK but it felt kind of superficial. You and me, Jan, we were sitting sharing a Walkman and vodka and it was good.
“I’ve had a crap evening,” I said suddenly.
“Yeah? Why?”
You were genuinely interested. I told you about discovering Taz had a boyfriend, and how stupid I felt not realising. Though you were drunk and getting drunker by the minute, you listened attentively.
“Queers are all right,” you said. “It doesn’t matter, him being a poof.”
Your language shocked me. I only ever used the word ‘gay’, or ‘homosexual’ if we were having a discussion in class. But I liked the way you forgave Taz on my behalf. It helped me to begin to forgive him.
I knew it was late now, and that I’d better be getting home. I guessed I should be able to get a taxi easily enough. You’d finished the vodka and I was beginning to worry about you. I thought it would be wrong to leave you completely out of it in the middle of the Gardens. You wouldn’t be able to look after yourself.
“Hey, Jan, I’ve got to go,” I said. “Do you want to share a taxi?”
For a minute I thought you were going to say yes. You looked pleased, grateful. Then your mind kind of stumbled like it does when you’re pissed.
“No,” you said. “I got to be somewhere. But look, do you have any change?”
I got out my purse. I only just had enough for the taxi and I said so, but gave you a couple of 20p pieces I found.
“No, thanks anyway,” you said, and gave them back to me, not angrily, but like it wasn’t enough. I hesitated. Ought I to give you my taxi money?
“I need the rest to get home,” I said guiltily.
“It don’t matter,” you said. “I’m all right now.” You looked far from all right. You were fumbling with your Walkman as you tried to stop the tape and fit everything into your pocket. You hair hung over your face like a curtain so I couldn’t see your expression.
“I’m all right now,” you said again. “Like, effing brilliant. I’m going to this party. All my mates are there. And my boyfriend who’s dead fit and he’s got this ring for me, he’s gonna ask me to marry him. But I’m late, so I’ll see ya, Cat. Thanks for the booze. I’ll see you again.”
I was scared now as I thought you might be mentally ill. I’d heard my mum going on about care in the community and I knew that lots of mental patients were on the streets. Because that stuff you were saying about a party, it was crap and we both knew it. And I think I would have stopped you if you hadn’t got up then and walked away fast, determined, as if you wanted to get away from me.
No, I didn’t feel sorry for you. I liked you, plain and simple. I hoped that by hanging round the Gardens I might see you again, like you said. You were someone I could talk to, if I needed. So I left the Gardens and went to hail a taxi.