In Loco Parentis (2 page)

I've been growing it especially for the last couple of months. People have been commenting like having more than an inch of hair means I've changed in some way.

Bleached it all yesterday. Thought I was going to look like Billy Idol. I didn't, of course – can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and all that. Instead it looked more like I had a head of yellow straw, highlighted the fact that I'm thinning, something I don't usually see because there's not much there.

I put more of the bleach on. Left it on for ages, till I couldn't take the burning any more. Still didn't look like Billy, I just got more yellow.

Soon as I put in the purple dye I knew I'd be all right. It seemed to suit the brown of my eyes. Gave me a real punk look.

I look in the mirror as I shave, the tiny purple hairs missing the bin and covering my shoulders like I've got a disease.

Of course it doesn't make me look handsome, but it makes me look like I feel. Reflects my inner-self, a purple streak of anger.

analysis

There's one last parking space outside Dr India's. I just about manage to get into it, even though I'm a good foot from the pavement. It'll do.

Five minutes till my appointment. I've never been early yet.

There's the book programme on the radio. English romantic novels. I try and listen in case I'm ever stuck with Emma and Tony again. It's dry talk and I'm soon drifting off, watching the world go by. Mainly it's traffic at the roundabout and young people who look like they're in the money.

Dr India buzzes me in as soon as I knock. There's a two way system, one in one out. Stops the patients meeting.

I smile at him. I always smile, but this time it's different. I'm waiting for him to say something about the hair. He doesn't. Nothing but hello.

Over a year I've been sitting across the desk from this man and he'll never speak until spoken to.

Maybe it's the haircut, but I'm feeling rebellious. I decide to keep my mouth shut, too. I look at the walls, the framed certificates and the still-life pictures on the wall. He's a man of taste, that's for sure, and at forty pounds an hour it's no wonder he can afford such luxuries.

Five minutes I've tried, watching the second hand tick. I don't feel rebellious, I feel like a child. A child about to get a telling off. I need to think of something to say.

“I'm going to Preston,” I tell him.

Dr India leans forward on his desk, keeps the tips of his fingers together and pushes his palms away as he rests his chin on his thumbs. He's staring at me expectantly. I feel the need to go on.

“For a party.” Sadness surges through my body, a sadness I wasn't expecting. It's something the room does to me, I reckon. “A thirtieth. Fancy dress. The Seventies.” I feel a monologue coming on, but he surprises me.

“And how do you feel about that?” How do I feel? It's always about the way I feel.

“Looking forward to it,” I tell him, the sadness gone like it was never there. “There'll be my friends from school and I'll get to stay with Jenny.” I think about reminding him who Jenny is, but he's got the memory of an elephant with a laptop and so I decide not to bother. “Yeah, it'll be fun.”

The bastard can see through me at a million paces. “And when was the last time you were there?”

“Three years. Maybe four.” I want to get it right. “Four. It was just after Mum passed on.”

“Passed on?” Like he wants to know where she went.

“Died. You know. Four years since she died.”

“And has the haircut got anything to do with that?”

“It's fancy dress,” I remind him. “Seventies.”

“About the death of your mother?” It's like he's just punched me in the face and he's pretending he didn't do it.

I try to think of the answer, but my head's doing loop the loops on the inside so I'm getting travel sick. All I do is fall back into the chair. Let the soft leather wrap me up and cuddle me like nothing can touch me. Like nothing can hurt me anymore.

the girl in the pink bikini top

When she called I was still in bed. Didn't tell her that, of course. No point letting her think I'm a lazy bastard. “Been down to Camden,” I said. “Bought a couple of CDs and a book.”

I wasn't sure about going over when she asked. Didn't want things to get too sticky. Wanted her to see the new me, though. The real me. We agreed I'd stop by on the way to the M1. If you turned the map on its head, it was kind of in the right direction, after all.

“You've got purply, pinky hair,” Vince announces as he opens the door. The directness of the young, I think. No time for even a hello.

“I'm being a ballerina,” he says, then shouts for his mum.

“I can see that. I love your leotard.”

“It's a tutu,” he corrects. “Like Angelina.” Game set and match to the toddler.

Emma pokes her head round the door.

I walk over. Kiss her on the cheek. Try not to look at her breasts in the pink bikini top, but can't help myself. Small, I see, smaller than I expect, but deliciously tantalising the way the fabric clings.

I get that melting feeling in the pit of my stomach. Allow myself to enjoy it.

“Can't stay long,” is what I say. “You look gorgeous.”

She ignores the comment. “Beer?”

“Coffee.”

We go through into the kitchen.

It's small, but with the balcony doors open and the sun streaming in it has a spacious feel.

Sheena's there, feet up, threading beads onto a string.

The whole time she was in my class I couldn't get her to shut up. Always last to the staffroom I was.

“Wow, love the hair,” she says and I'm relieved that it's business as usual. She's straight up onto her feet as I sit down. Comes over and gives it a stroke. Tells me all about the holidays so far.

Emma comes over as soon as she's switched on the coffee machine. Eases Sheena out and gives the Mohawk a stroke. Runs her fingers back and forth then lets them slip down to my neck when her children aren't looking. She makes a noise like a human purr, as if something in her is melting too.

I want to take her there and then, wished the kids were far away. And I remember the new me. The good me.

“Sugar?” I momentarily kid myself she's being endearing rather than talking about the coffee.

“One please.” Only when I'm out. Wouldn't want myself to become a bloater now, would I?

The coffee's great, not the instant I use. There's a sprinkle of chocolate on the froth. Very homely.

She opens a beer for herself and slouches into the wicker chair.

When she pulls the sunglasses down from her head I see how subtly she's made up. Her hair, the pink of the round lenses and the paleness of her lipstick match perfectly. There's a look of a movie star about her from the days when it was all about class. I look around the room to stop myself staring.

“Go and play,” Emma says to the children.

“No,” Sheena snaps.

“Just for half an hour.”

“No,” Vince says, stamping his foot at the same time.

“When no means no,” I say, remembering a poster on Jenny's bedroom wall.

Emma sits up straight. Pushes the glasses back as far as they'll go. She looks hot and bothered, her skin reddening at the top of her shoulders.

“Go to the living room now. Take your sister with you.” Her mouth's all out of shape. Turned down at the corners. It's the first time I've ever seen her look anything but beautiful.

Sheena stares at her mother. She's not the brightest star in the galaxy, but she's got roots that go deeper than most.

It feels like I'm about to witness a battle.

Sliding her sunglasses to the tip of her nose, Emma gives a stare back.

I don't know what invisible message has just passed between them. “Come on.” Sheena's voice is high and full of warmth. He follows her without another word.

The grown-ups are alone.

“Is there anyone special going to this party of yours?” Emma's voice is aloof, like me being there's a chore.

“Yeah, most people there.”

She lights up a fag and I roll one.

“You know what I mean.” I don't. Give her a confused look. “200 miles is a long drive for a night out.”

I light my own cigarette. Feel better with something to hide behind.

On top of the bookshelf I notice a copy of ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee'. I lean over and pick it up.

“Roger's reading it,” she tells me.

“It's great,” I say. “ All about...” and my mind empties. I can't think of a specific detail to mention. “...the way the Native Americans were treated by us.” I use us as if we still carry the load.

“He told me.” It's like I've been put in my place only I don't know what my place is exactly.

I try being a teacher. Assume the role. Put my coffee down and sit back in the seat. “So you think Sheena might be dyslexic,” I say and for the next half hour we talk about the fors and againsts. Before I know it, it's time for me to go without us having reached a conclusion.

Vince runs into the room. Jumps onto my lap, his knee almost catching me in the privates. He's singing Spiderman and flicking his wrists into my face.

I drop my cigarette into the ashtray, put my head down and hum along with the tune.

All Quiet On The Preston Front

I come off the motorway and the rest is auto-pilot. Bamber Bridge, Lostock Hall, Penwortham.

When I see the beech tree spreading out across the road I slow down without thinking. I pull up outside the old house and spend a while looking at it.

Four years it's been. I wonder how it's changed.

I get out of the car and walk up to the gate. I see the place where I scarred my knee, the spot where I ruined our pup, the marks on the wall from where I scored goals in international matches.

Don't recognise the gate though, newly treated wood with luxury posts.

I don't know why I push it open or why I wander up to the door.

Shakespeare's head has gone, replaced by a shiny brass ring knocker. I lift the ring and give a couple of bangs.

The lady who answers is not the one I'm expecting. Not the young thing who bought it when Mum passed away. Takes me by surprise. I don't know what to say.

“Sorry to disturb you, ma'am.” I want to ask for a tour. To go and touch my bedroom walls. “Do you have a minute to talk about God?”

She picks something from her teeth. Looks at it, then back at me. Turning her head she shouts inside. “Roy.” The accent's broad. Make her sound thick. “Roy. There's a man ‘ere wants to talk about God.”

Through the gap I see a man get to his feet.

They must spend most of their time round the table in there just like we did, only they don't belong here like I do.

Roy comes to the door, wiping his hands on his overalls. “All right mate. What can I do yer for?”

“Do you have a moment to talk about God?”

He looks at the woman and pulls a face at her. “Jesus Christ, Mary, what've I told you about opening the door to nutters?”

I'm impressed by his technique. He pulls the woman back into the house and shuts the door in my face. I hear the lock turn in the door.

My hand reaches up and scratches my scalp. I remember the haircut and laugh out loud, but when I stop I feel empty. Wish it was Shakespeare who was looking back at me like he used to.

Shang-A-Lang

“We sang shang-a-lang as we ran with the gang, doin doo wop be dooby do aye.” Col's clinging on to me because he's drunk himself silly. He's too close. Shouting the lyrics into my ear, the drops of saliva raining onto me and into my pint. “With the jukebox playing and everybody saying that music like ours couldn't die,” and I wish it was me that could die and that the Bay City Rollers never existed.

I used to hate them with a passion for no reason I could understand other than they were Jenny's first crush. The first time we'd seen the world differently. Her bedroom was all tartan, pearly-white smiles and tight denim.

Dr India told me once I was jealous. “Of Woody?” I barked. “No way.” But he had a point.

I slip out from under Col's arm and loop his hand around Jenks' neck. Haven't seen Jenks since I was at school and wouldn't care if I never set eyes on him again.

In the toilet I meet Carl. He's clad in silver and a Gary Glitter wig.

Always had a thing for me, Carl.

“JC. Great night, eh?” He's shaking himself off. I pick the urinal a couple of stalls down. Don't want him getting too good a look.

“Aye,” I say and try to pee.

“Want half an E?” he asks as my stream starts. “Don't need a whole one.”

I think about it. Finish off and put myself back.

I've just driven 200 miles sporting a purple Mohican and a dog collar to end up in a working men's club in Ashton for possibly the worst party I've been to in my life. “Course,” I said, not caring if it's a ruse to get me to give him a snog. “Good man.”

He pulls it out of his pocket, a dove stamped perfectly into the pill. Breaks it into two and puts half in each palm before closing his fist.

“Which hand?”

I go for the left. It's the right choice and I get more by far.

We take them straight away. Use the beer on top of the hand-drier to wash it down and to get away the bitter taste. There's that moment when I wonder if it's a Paracetamol, then I decide I don't care – worse that can happen is that I'll wake up without a hangover.

By the time the bar closes, I'm standing on a table punching the air singing at the top of my voice, “Do you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang...” watching Carl making a move on Col and wondering why I ever left the town behind in the first place.

Waterproof

We swore at the beginning of the evening that we wouldn't do it.