Cath Staincliffe - Looking for Trouble

‘Yeah, he bloody well is.’

I shook my head. ‘No chance. He’s up to his eyes in debt. Where’s he going to get that sort of money from? We should just cut our losses.’

‘No way.’ Ray was getting steamed up, the skin round his lower lip white and taut.

‘Ray, he isn’t worth it. ‘I put my hand on his forearm. ‘He’s a little shit and I don’t want to waste any more emotional energy dealing with him.’

‘Where are we going to find eight hundred pounds?’

‘It’s not that much.’

‘It is. Six hundred pounds rent, the rest in bills – more, if you include this quarter’s.’

‘Oh God, not now.’ I held up my hands.

‘Okay.’ Ray pushed back his chair and picked up the empty salad bowl. Told me he’d be back about five.

I wanted a shower and asked for a fresh robe. There wasn’t one. The nurse managed to dig out two hand towels, stiff with months of boil-washing. I shuffled to the bathroom, feeling unsteady on my feet. My weak ankle had returned to normal size. I guess it couldn’t keep up with the competition.

I surveyed my face dispassionately. The inch-long cut on my cheek, with its neat black stitching, looked ugly but I’d been told the scar would be very faint. There was bruising around both my eyes and the left one still had its maze of red spidery threads and small clots across most of the white. I couldn’t see my ear, which had been torn and stitched. The hair around there was harsh with dried blood and dirt.

I undressed and it was then that I caught a glimpse of my body, reflected from the full length mirror and back into the one above the basin. Bruises; huge savage purple and yellow mottles on my thigh, above my buttocks. Looking down, another the size of a saucer below my breast. I looked away.

In the cubicle, I turned the shower on full, hot as I could bear it. Under cover of the streaming, steaming water, I gave in to the pressure that had been swelling like a balloon in my chest. With my fists balled, I mouthed all those age-old clichés, railing against my pain, my outrage and sorrow. Over and over again. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, you bastard, you bastard, you fucking bastard, it’s not fair.

With an unusual sensitivity, Maddie treated me with great love and attention on my return. It wasn’t just in the way she was physically careful, sitting beside me rather than clambering on my lap, but also in the quick glances I noticed, where she seemed to be checking I was still okay. Her solicitude made me feel all teary.

I’d no energy and I was tucked up and sleeping before nightfall. When I finally hauled myself out of bed, eyes wincing at the harsh daylight, I was perversely pleased at the way my body ached. If I was physically in pain, it didn’t leave as much space for worrying about the deeper hurts, the anxiety and fear below the surface.

Downstairs, the house was a tip. At least Nana Tello and I didn’t compete over housework. She loathed cleaning. I’d no need to worry about sticky shelves and a smelly fridge.

I had tea and toast while she talked about the crime wave, about the Ordsall riots, the Moss Side shootings. She went through all the acquaintances she had who’d ever been mugged or burgled. She blamed the parents, she blamed the teachers, she blamed godlessness and the lack of National Service. She never mentioned poverty or inequality. Then she began to lecture me about not looking after myself, out at all times of the day and night, these places…

‘It was broad daylight. I was walking a few yards from my car to Diane’s door – what should I have done?’ I demanded.

‘Well…’ She was stuck for an answer. Her eyes shifted about, looking for a safer topic. ‘Clive’s a nice boy, you lucky to get a lodger like that.’

‘Clive’s a little shit, actually. We’re gonna chuck him out.’

‘Sal!’ She exploded.

‘I’m going back to bed,’ I said, ‘I feel sleepy.’

She clicked her tongue. Her face set with offence. I was too cross with her to apologise.

I wasn’t sleepy. I didn’t get into bed. Instead, I sorted out my drawers. I reunited pairs of socks, cleared out knickers with holes or dead elastic. I folded T-shirts and sweaters, put aside some for jumble, others for dusters. I cleared out my jewellery box. I dusted the clutter of little bottles on my shelf by the mirror and hung up the heap of clothes on the chair by the wardrobe. My thoughts fluttered about. I avoided trying to concentrate on anything. I lay down again and listened to the rain, the blackbird and the chatter of the magpies. I slipped into sleep and woke stiff and tense, with fragments of an ugly dream dissolving into obscurity.

Knocking at my door. ‘Come in.’

‘Sal, I brought you tea.’ She held up a mug.

‘Thanks.’ I wriggled up to a sitting position. My ribs hurt like hell. ‘I’m sorry about before.’

She sucked her teeth. ‘You should be,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for a woman, this language.’ She put my tea down and began to smooth the edge of the duvet with her hand.

‘We are asking Clive to go, though.’

‘Why?’

Didn’t Ray ever tell her anything? ‘He doesn’t pay the rent or the bills. He’s unreliable, he lies…’

‘He’s young,’ she said, her voice dripping indulgence. ‘He has to learn.’

‘Yeah, well, we’re teaching him a lesson.’

She sighed. So did I. She couldn’t see beyond Clive’s gross flattery. While I could imagine the savage way he’d caricature her to his friends. The crazy Italian Mama with the thick accent.

Tears came from nowhere and dripped in my tea. I put it down, astonished.

‘Oh, there, now lovey.’ She pulled my head to her bosom. I cried a bit but the jerking hurt my ribs. I quietened and pulled back.

‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ I said.

“Cos they hurt you; you hurt, you cry.’

That simple.

‘Mrs Fraser cried for weeks and they didn’t mess her face up like they do you. I said to her, you cry, you cry all you like. Now,’ she stood up and put her hands on my shoulders, ‘I’ll get you some nice food, you see.’

I waited till she’d closed the door before giving in again to soft little sniffles of self-pity. Easier on the ribs but, even then, the way I screwed my face up tugged at the embroidery.

Invalid food Italian-style was a rich tomato soup followed by a creamy macaroni cheese pie. I ate like it was mid-winter and I was a navvy. Nana Tello beamed with pride. We were at peace for all of two hours. Till the kids came home.

Ray had gone to Asda. The rest of us were watching children’s television. I went to make drinks and caught the remarks as I came back into the lounge.

‘Knees together, Maddie, that’s right.’ Maddie was perched on the edge of the sofa, knees and ankles pressed together.

‘You don’t have to sit like that, Maddie.’ I tried to keep my tone light. Nana Tello glared.

‘Nana said.’

‘Well, I don’t think you need to bother about it.’

‘She’s showing her knickers,’ Nana hissed at me.

‘She’s four years old, for Christ’s sake.’

She drew breath sharply at my blasphemy but ploughed on. ‘There’s a lot a funny people about.’

‘I know, but that’s nothing to do with how Maddie sits or what she wears – don’t start blaming her.’ It was the old ‘she asked for it’ mentality. I was tempted to chuck in Martin Hobbs as an example, but I didn’t want to escalate the argument. I could see Tom looking worried. ‘I’m going in the garden.’

The rain had stopped, everything was sodden. Fresh sweet-peas decked the canes. The grass needed mowing as soon as it dried off and I was up to it. I pottered round, dead-heading window boxes and tubs, making a mental note to tidy up the rockery, where periwinkle and alyssum were fighting for space.