Tony Parsons - One For My Baby

I know that in all honesty she would probably have had a better time in the bar of the Eamon de Valera with some disco hunk with a pierced knob and the complete works of Robbie Williams.

She didn’t enjoy Chinese New Year at the Shanghai Dragon the way that, say, Hiroko would have enjoyed it.

I see for the first time that-despite her endless legs, her lovely face and her enviable youth-Olga is not the girl for me and I am not the man for her.

And armed with that knowledge, we go straight back to my place and make our baby.

THEY HAVE HAD SOME KIND OF ARGUMENT.

Jackie and Plum come into my flat and the silence between them crackles with resentment. Jackie goes straight over to the table where we work, moving surprisingly fast in those leopard-print boots, unbuttoning her raincoat with barely contained fury. Plum lingers in the middle of the room, staring morosely at her scuffed sneakers, her fringe dangling in front of her face, hiding her from the wicked world.

And then I say something stupid.

“What’s wrong?”

Jackie whirls on me.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Madam here gave her dinner money away, didn’t you? And her bus money. And her bus money, if you please.”

Plum peers up through her greasy brown veil, her face collapsing with agony.

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Jackie takes a step toward her daughter, and for a second I am afraid that she is going to hit her. The girl fearfully retreats a couple of paces. “She lets them walk all over her. Those bloody kids at her school.”

“I didn’t. I lost it. I told you.”

“Do you know how long it took me to earn that money? Do you have any idea how many floors I had to clean to get that money? That money you gave away? Do you?”

Plum starts to cry. These terrible, bitter tears running down her pudgy young face.

“I lost it. I did. Really I did.”

“She lets them walk all over her. If they tried it with me, I would have killed them.”

“But I’m not you, am I?” Plum says, and it sounds exactly like something I might say to my father. I feel a stirring of sympathy for this awkward child. “And I lost it.”

This feels like it could go on forever. I step between them, like a UN representative mediating between the Israelis and the Palestinians.

“Jackie, what were we doing last week?”

“Studying emotions in a dramatic extract,” she hisses, still staring angrily at her daughter. “From The Heart Is a Lonely pigging Hunter.”

“Okay. Well, can you get on with that while I take Plum round to my grandmother’s place?”

They both look at me.

“Your grandmother’s place?”

“My nan would be glad of the company. She’s going back to the hospital next week.”

“What’s wrong with her?” says Plum.

“She’s getting the results of the biopsy they took to find out what caused all that fluid on her lungs. She’s a bit nervous.”

“Okay,” says Plum.

“Fine,” says Jackie.

So while Jackie takes out her copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter and studies emotions in a dramatic extract, I take Plum round to my nan’s. We drive in silence for a while, as Plum flicks through the radio stations looking for something that interests her. Eventually she switches it off with a sigh.

“Who’s bullying you at school?”

She shoots me a look. “Nobody.”

“Nobody?”

She stares out of the window as the shabby end of north London drifts by. Rental agents and shabby pubs, kebab shops and junk stores.

“You don’t know them.”

“I probably know the type. Want to talk about it?”

“What good would it do?”

“Are they boys or girls?”

A moment’s silence. “Both.”

“What are their names?”

She smiles at me. It’s not friendly. “You going to come to my school and give them a detention?”

“Sometimes it helps talking about things. That’s all.”

She takes a breath.

“The girl’s called Sadie. The boy’s called Mick. They’re big. The way some kids are big, you know?”

“I know.”

“He shaves. She’s got tits. They’re only my age. And they’ve got this little gang. All the cool kids. The hard kids. The kids that have been having sex since the first year. And they hate me. They fucking hate me, don’t they? I can’t walk down a corridor without someone saying something. ‘Fatty Day.’ ‘Fat Slag.’ ‘Who ate all the pies?’ Every single day for two years. Since the very first day of the very first year. They think it’s funny.”

We pull up outside my nan’s block of flats. A small white block containing all those little old ladies living on their own. I can’t imagine Plum at that age. It feels like her teenage years are going to drag on forever.

“How much did they take?”

“I told you-I lost it.”

“How much?”

“Sixty pounds.”

“Jesus. You must eat a lot of school dinners.” I immediately regret it.

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s why I’m so fat. Didn’t you know?”

“Come on. That’s not what I meant.”

“I’ve got a problem with my glands, okay?”

“Okay. Why did you have so much money on you?”

“Dinner money for the week. Bus money for the month. And my savings.”

“Your savings?”

“I was going to buy a book.”

“A book?”

“A book called Smell the Fear, He-bitch. It’s a hardback. They don’t come cheap, mate.”

“Smell the Fear, He-bitch? Is it the new Salman Rushdie?”

“Who’s Salmon Rushdie?”

“Never mind.”

“Smell the Fear, He-bitch is the new book by The Slab. He’s a wrestler.”

“I remember. Sports-entertainment. So you lost all this money. How did you manage that?”

“I thought it might make them like me but-” She stops, laughs, shakes her head. “Tricked me, didn’t you? Typical teacher.”

“It takes your mum a long time to earn sixty pounds.”

“Don’t you start.” She is staring down at her hands. Her fingernails are chewed to the quick and there it is again-a surge of sympathy for this sad, lonely child. “I realize it takes her a long time to earn that money. I do know that. I’m not a complete idiot.”

I take out my wallet and pull out three £20 notes. “In fact, it takes anyone a long time to earn that kind of money.” I hold out the notes. “Be more careful next time, okay?”

She looks at the money, not taking it. “What’s this for?”

“You’ve been good with my nan. I appreciate that. So-just take it, okay?”

“I don’t need paying. I like her.”

“I know you do. And she likes you. I just don’t want you and your mum to fall out over a couple of creeps like Mick and Sadie.”

“How do you know they’re creeps?”

“I’ve met them.”

“That’s a lie. You never met them.”

“Their kind. I met their kind. Lots of times. When I was a teacher. And when I was a kid.”

She looks at the money. Then she takes it. “Thanks, Alfie.”

“Don’t mention it. And don’t tell your mother. Shall we go up and see the old girl?”

“Okay.”

After ringing my nan’s bell we wait patiently as her carpet slippers shuffle slowly toward the door. I turn to face Plum. She is still hiding behind her fringe, but looking a little happier.

“What is it with you and The Slab anyway?”

“The Slab?”

“Yeah. I don’t get it.”

“What do you think I should be into? Some dopey girl singer with long hair and an acoustic guitar going ‘boo-hoo-hoo, nobody understands me’?”

“Something like that. Why does The Slab mean so much to you?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The Slab doesn’t take shit from anyone.”