Billy Elliot (5 page)

‘You’re doing that again!’ I told him.

‘I fell in the bath, that’s all,’ he said.

I didn’t bother saying any more. I just rolled my eyes and left him to it.

He had me worried then. I had a word with Susan Harris down the road, but she reckoned I should take no notice.

‘He’s just a lad, he’s only twelve, he’s still a baby really,’ she said. ‘Let him be, Jackie, he’ll be all right. He needs to let off steam somehow.’

She’s brought up four of her own, Susan, so I thought she knew best. I suppose it’s not the sort of thing your dad lets
you do, but maybe your mam’d turn a blind eye.

I’ll give him this, though, our Billy, he did it. Whatever it was he was trying to do, he did it. I was coming back home from the shops with a pint of milk in me pocket and there he was in the yard doing his stuff. I stood and watched. Bolt upright, staring at the wall, arms out – bang, round he went two or three times, I couldn’t count, he was going so fast. And then came to stop like a slammed door, bang.

‘Yes!’ He was so made up, I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes, yes, I did it, I did it, I did it!’ He went dancing around the yard stamping and whooping. I never saw a kid so happy.

‘Yer did it then,’ I said, and he nearly fell over. He’d been so concentrated he never noticed me.

‘Ow, god, Dad! Ah! You scared me.’

‘Aye. So you’ve done it, then, have you?’

‘Watch!’ And he had another go, but he couldn’t do it this time, not with me watching. He was all over the place.

‘I did it just then, though. Did you see me?’

‘Yeah. Pretty good stuff. So have you tried it down the boxing club yet, then?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘Soon as I’ve got it right each time.’ He was already standing there having another go.

‘So, is this something George taught you, now, Billy?’

‘George? No. I made it up myself.’

‘Did you now? And what does he think about it?’

Billy looked sideways at me and grinned. ‘He doesn’t mind. He just lets me get on with it.’

‘Right. Well, you’ll have a surprise for him next Saturday then, won’t you?’

Jesus. Poor old George’ll have a heart attack. Well, I didn’t have the heart to ask Billy how it went, I knew what’d happen. He’d get away with it a couple of times, and then someone would come up and whack him while he was spinning round defenceless. He was going round so fast, all you’d have to do was hold your glove out and he’d knock his own block off for you. It’d be like putting a stick into the wheels of a bike as it went downhill.

He didn’t care, though. He was gone. It was jumps next. He started doing these poncy jumps – big jumps, mind, right high, big, long jumps, but with his arms up over his head like a bloody ballet dancer. It was beginning to drive me barmy. The spinning was bad enough, but he looked like such a prat doing this. And the noise he made jumping up and down – it went through the whole house. Bang, crash, wallop! Christ!

‘Is this another boxing move, then?’ I asked him.

‘Aye.’

‘So did you try the spin, then?’

‘Aye.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Not really.’

‘Right. Look.’ I decided to give him a hand. He was just going to get himself into a mess like this. George had obviously decided to let him fanny around on his own. ‘Look, son, you’ve got to keep your hands up at all times, even when you’re leaping. Keep your guard up!’ I put his gloves up round his chin. ‘Do a jump like that.’

‘I can’t, Dad, it’s balance, you have to be balanced, you see.’ Then he started to show me how he had to have his arms in the right place so he could leap properly. He had it all thought out, aye, a whole bloody philosophy of pratting
about. I gave up in the end. What’s the point? Maybe George was right, maybe all you could do was let him do his own thing and wait for some common sense to work its way into that thick head of his all on its own. Maybe if he got knocked down enough times, he’d start trying to fight back. I wouldn’t count on it myself. The only thing was the bloody fifty pences. I had to scrape and save for that money. I was paying for him to learn how to defend himself, not to prance about like a bloody girl.

I suppose George knows what he’s doing. I’ve stopped going down meself, after what happened last time. I’ve enough on my plate as it is without trying to turn our Billy into something you’d recognise. Tony, for instance. He scares me worse than Billy, he’s getting so wild. I’m scared the lad’s going to do something stupid.

The strike’s been going on for four months now with no end in sight. I’ve used up all me savings. I’ve never been so poor. Well, it’s getting us all down, isn’t it, but it’s worst for the young ones. I see my mates on the line and down the club and ... well, no one says anything. You can’t say any-thing, you can’t let the side down. But I reckon I’m not the only one who thinks the same.

We’ve had it this time. Things have changed.

It’s not going to end soon, either. Not this week or next week or next month. Maybe not even this year. But some time, sooner or later. It’s just a question of how much we suffer in the meantime and how quickly they close us down after.

I don’t blame Tony for being angry, but you don’t have to be stupid about it. I can see in his face how much he’d just love to give someone something they’ll remember. I’ve felt it myself. The only difference is, I’m not going to do it. He
might. Let’s face it – what’s he got to lose? His job? Like hell.

We were out shopping the other day, me and him. I was asking him about our Billy – if he’d noticed anything odd about him lately.

‘Odd? What do you want, a list?’ he said.

‘I’m worried about him.’

‘He’s a bloody fruitcake. If he mucks around with my records any more I’ll twat him one, that’s all. They’re getting all scratched.’

‘He’s your little brother.’

‘I don’t care who he is. How am I going to replace them when he’s finished ruining ‘em for me? I’m not exactly loaded, am I?’

‘I’m sorry I asked.’

He was fuming. Any little thing sets him off these days. It’s not fair, though. It’s not Billy’s fault we’re out. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate without having to play mam to Billy.’

‘He needs his mother,’ I snapped.

‘Aye, and who doesn’t?’ he snapped back.

‘He’s a kid. You’re a working man,’ I said. But I was sorry as soon as I said it. Tony doesn’t mention her to me and I don’t mention her to him, but he must miss her as much as anyone else. It was unfair of me to pull Sarah on him as if she was Billy’s mother and not his.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. But he was already off on something else. It had just come round the aisle of the supermarket. Gary Stewart with a nice full trolley of groceries.

‘Well, look at this,’ says Tony.

‘Careful now,’ I muttered. It’s only a matter of time before he lashes out, and then what? Straight into nick, that’s what. They don’t bother much about justice when they’re dealing
with us lot. They’re flinging the book at any miner who gets done and you can guarantee the company won’t be taking on anyone with a record at the end of it. One punch and that’s it. Steve Willis got three months for kicking someone up the arse. Oh, aye, don’t kid yourself. The law’s a weapon, and it’s not our weapon. When did working men ever have the law on their side? Lawyers, judges, police chiefs. Not exactly from working backgrounds, are they?

‘All right, scab?’ called Tony. You could tell Gary was a scab just by looking at his trolley. No striker gets a load of shopping like that six months into this strike. Gary had it hard, he had a lot of commitments, but who doesn’t? It’s this sort of thing that’s the worst of it. Gary and Tony went to school together. They were mates once. Not any more.

Tony was heading over there.

‘Scabs eat well,’ I called out.

‘Got enough food there, have you? What are you doing, eh?’ Tony banged his basket against Gary’s. I wanted to tell him to leave it out, but I bit me lip. He’s old enough to look after himself.

‘You were me best mate. First rule of the union, Gary, you know that. Never cross a picket line. We’re all f***ed if you don’t remember that.’

‘We’re already f***ed, Tony, mate.’

‘I’m not your f***ing mate. And if we do lose, it’ll be because of the likes of you!’

He was getting worked up. But Gary’d had enough. He pushed the trolley and let go. ‘F***ing hell,’ he said. ‘Bollocks! So it’s all my fault then. Fine!’ He turned his back and walked out. I thought Tony was going to go after him but he just stood there staring.

‘Shit. Pity he hadn’t paid for that food, we could have had it,’ he said. He picked up a bottle of wine from the top of the heap. It looked like bloody Christmas, that trolleyload.

‘F*** it,’ he whispered. ‘F*** it!’

He’s going to lump someone. I know it. I just hope it’s not a bloody copper.

* * *

On the picket line, Friday morning, it gets worse. More and more pickets, more and more anger. Everyone’s getting in on it. Students, commies, teachers on holiday, people from halfway round the world – and half the bloody police in Great Britain fencing us off from the scabs on their scab bus going in to do their scab labour. You wouldn’t get me on that bus, not for all the money in the Bank of England. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting.

There was eggs going over me head. Couple of bricks. Things are getting tough. I was right next to George, we had our arms linked and the whole crowd was heaving forward, and then the coppers were shoving us back, and we were heaving forward again. It was open bloody warfare.

There was a lull in between buses, George had a word with me. ‘Listen, Jackie,’ he says. ‘If it’s the fifty pence a session, forget it. I can do without it. I don’t do it for the money, you know.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘The boxing, man. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of young Billy for months, I was gonna say something but I thought it might be embarrassing.’

I was amazed. He’s been away every Saturday morning.

‘First I’ve heard about it,’ I said. ‘He’s always at it. He never has the gloves off.’ I didn’t tell him about the spins and the jumping, though.

‘Send him round to my house and I’ll knock some sense into him,’ said George. Then the police came surging forward. Someone lobbed a brick overhead – crash – right into the side of the coach.

‘SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB!’ We pressed forward so hard I was lifted almost off my feet. If you fell down in the middle of this lot, you’d never get up.

If our Billy was pocketing them fifty pences, I’d bloody kill him. He knows how hard things are. I meant to say summat to him that evening, but we had a meeting at the Social and I forgot. Next morning was a Saturday and I was going to get him at breakfast before the picket, but I never had a chance. He came running downstairs stuffing something up his coat and off out the door before you could say a word.

‘Oi! What about your breakfast?’ yelled Tony.

‘See yer!’ He was off and away. I just caught sight of him disappearing round the corner as I stuck me head out of the door.

‘Billy! Billy!’ I yelled. But he was gone. I thought, What the hell’s he up to? What’s he doing now?

I
was jumping so high, I could see out of the window and right over the shed where they keep the sports gear. Miss kept saying to me, ‘It’s not just height, Billy. Where’s your control? You’re not concentrating!’ Well, I was concentrating. I was concentrating on getting up high. It just made me feel so good, floating up over the heads of them little lasses. They were like little bits of fluff floating around me knees.

I could do all the plies and the jumps and font de bras and all that. Miss says I’ve got promise. She spends half the lesson just teaching me – she doesn’t bother with the others half the time. They’re always moaning on about it.

‘Can we have a go, miss? When’s it our turn, miss? It’s not fair, miss, just because he’s a boy, miss ...’

‘Shut up, Debbie, I’m busy.’

Oh, I’d got right into it. I was looking forward to the Saturday lesson all week. Once I started, I could just go on for ever. It was right what Debbie said about stamina. It may look easy, but it’s not. It’s hard. I’d got so fit it’d made me better at footy and running and everything. I could keep going for hours.

I must have been mad.

It had to happen. I was kidding meself. Michael kept warning me. ‘He’ll find out. What are you going to do then?’ I knew he was right, but it was like, if I kept on doing it and
not thinking about it, nothing’d happen. I kept thinking, Just this week, just one more lesson, then I’ll go back to the boxing. But I got more and more into it, and better and better at it, and Dad never turned up to watch me at George’s any more ... I just thought it was going to go on for ever.

And of course, when it did happen, it wasn’t just questions and getting suspicious and everything. He only bloody turned up right in the middle of class.

‘Pick up your leg, Billy. Swing it! Swing two three, round two three, up two three. What do you call that? Let’s have a bit of grace, Billy Elliot!’

I was swinging me leg round, slow circle, trying to make it as smooth as cream – and I looked up and there was me dad standing in the door.