Forever Is Over (40 page)

“
No.
”

No point me elaborating, he wasn
’
t interested. He was off
again.

“
When I was a child, I used to swim for the county. I used to go
swimming seven days a week. Every day before school and after school,
I used to swim. I used to start at six o
’
clock, every day for seven years, I
did a couple of miles before school and a couple of miles after.
”

Ray was really, really winding me up now. I should have just let him
go on, but I found myself displaying my annoyance.

“
Ray, that doesn
’
t make sense!
”

“
Of course it makes sense! What are you on about?
”

“
You said on the way down, when you asked if I played badminton,
that you represented England at badminton and you used to have
badminton coaching every day before and after School.
”

Ray was temporarily taken aback, but soon managed to wriggle his
way out of this awkward spot. He was adept, probably from experience,
at piling new lies on top of old ones.

“
Why doesn
’
t that make sense, Richie? I did swimming six until
seven every day,
then badminton seven until eight. Then after school, swimming
four until five and badminton five until six. It was hard work, but I did
it, I was dedicated.
”

I was going to ask Ray whether he swam in his badminton kit with
his racket in his hand and played badminton dripping wet, but didn
’
t
bother as he would no doubt have said he did, as a handicap, as he was
so much better than everyone else.
“
Did you do any sports at school, Richie?
”

“
Just rugby.
”

“
Right. I played for the school at football. Centre midfield. I played
for the school, Town Green Boys, Craven Minor Representative side
and Lancashire. Scored fifty goals from midfield one season. Liverpool
and Everton were both after me.
”

They probably didn
’
t sign him as the first team would have been
embarrassed that they were nowhere near hi
s level. It would have
knocked Kenny Dalglish
’
s confidence if Ray Walker had arrived at
Anfield in his speedos, badminton kit and football boots and run rings
around him!

I was relieved to finally get into the ground as at least the cheering
and the singing managed to drown the arsehole out!

Kelly

My feelings towards my mother, all things considered, were pretty
neutral. Other than the fact that she brought me into the world and
somehow kept me alive until I was old enough to fend for myself (or at
least old enough for my older sister, Jemma, to care for me). My mother
was not an easy mother for a daughter to have a fondness for. I appreciate
that for a lot of mother
’
s and daughter
’
s, there is a special bond, but in
our family that bond was between Jemma and I, not Mum and I and
most certainly not Jemma and Mum. On the whole, Mum was just not
a likeable person, unless of course your raison d
’
etre was partying hard.
Mum lived for her Friday and Saturday nights out and if there wasn
’
t
booze, fags and sex involved, the night was deemed a disaster. There is
apparently an Asian saying which translates as,

“
If your head
’
s at the top of the bed or at the bottom, your bellybutton
is still in the middle
”
, which pretty much means
“
things balance out in
the end
”
.

Jemma had learnt this from a friend at school, taught me it and
then developed a similar phrase which she felt suited Mum. Jemma
’
s
phrase was,
“
Whether her head is at the top of the bed or at the bottom, there
’
s
always an arsehole in the middle,
”
which I took to mean that whether
Mum was up on a high or down on a low, in Jemma
’
s eyes, she was
always an arsehole!

Jemma hated Mum. I remember someone once said to me that you
should not hate anyone as that means you wish them dead. Hate was
therefore a good description of Jemma
’
s feeling towards Mum. She
wished her dead, absolutely despised her and she had every right to.
Jemma had virtually brought me up single handedly, certainly from the
age of eight or nine, but she was never a beneficiary of Mum
’
s kindness,
just a victim of her selfishness. She learnt to live with that, as did I. Even
before we were teenagers, most of our weekend mornings were spent
unblocking our sinks or toilets of Mum
’
s vomit, whilst she lay comatose
in bed. Due to being comatose, we lived in a house that stank like wet
nappies and changing urine soaked bed sheets was also a weekly chore.
Heartfelt gratitude or embarrassment were never expressed.

We grew accustomed to strange men watching TV with us on
Saturday and Sunday mornings, making themselves a cup of tea and a
piece of toast (or sometimes cereal) before heading off. Rarely did we see
the same face twice and if we did, she tended to allow them to move in,
and sometimes even marry them, so for short periods, stepbrothers and
sisters would arrive. Looking back, it was all very strange but for Jemma
and I, at the time, it was normality. It was only when we became young
adults that Mum changed from being a drunken idiot to an aggressive,
drunken idiot. That was when the problems really started.

My
“
GCSE
”
results probably spawned the aggression. I took nine
GCSEs and to Mum
’
s horror, passed nine. This meant that as far as
the school, Jemma and I were concerned, Sixth Form and subsequently
University, were options. This was not an option Mum entertained
though, as all Sixth Form meant to her was that less money would come
into the house and more money would go out.

Jemma only ever wanted the best for me. She knew I was intelligent
enough to go to University, to get a degree and for her, this was my ticket
out of there. An escape route. Jemma wanted me to pursue this dream.
Perhaps it was not an altogether unselfish strategy. Perhaps Jemma
thought if I left Ormskirk, went to University, got a degree and a good
job then created a home elsewhere, at some point in the future she could
follow. I think Jemma
’
s dreams were dependent on my success.

             
At sixteen, Jemma had started
working in a bank in Ormskirk,
which kept Mum happy as it meant that Jemma contributed to the
household expenditure. Jemma viewed it that the State paid the bills and
she paid for Mum
’
s piss ups! As a financial contributor, Jemma felt this
gave her a say in matters in the house, which in effect meant she felt she
had the right to question Mum
’
s authority. Mum was a strong minded
woman who did not like to be challenged, so when Jemma, at eighteen
years old, stated that she thought Mum was completely ridiculous for
not allowing me to stay on at Sixth Form, a heated row ensued which
culminated in Mum punching, kicking and spitting on Jemma. It was
hideous. Mum scared me when she went off on one and I went into self-preservation mode, keeping out the way and doing anything she asked.
I was disgusted with myself for being such a coward. Jemma would do
anything for me, but I was so intimidated by Mum, I didn
’
t have the
strength of character to help her. Mum had often related tales of her fist
fights on the streets of Ormskirk and Southport. Women only had to
look at her the wrong way and a full-on hair pulling, rolling along the
ground, fist fight, would often ensue, but prior to this attack on Jemma,
she had never used her clenched fists on her own offspring. This, by no
means, is meant to cast her as a fairytale mother, as we grew up she had
often administered a severe smacking on any occasion we were deemed
to be a nuisance, but this kicking and punching incident was the first of its kind, but unfortunately not the last.

The incident seemed to offer Mum, a woman of limited intelligence,
an opportunity of clinging on to some control over her eldest daughter,
who had long since become her intellectual superior. On a weekly basis,
once the beatings started, Jemma took one beating after another and
every time, I am ashamed to admit, I just looked on and did nothing.

The single most horrific beating w
as one that was delivered on a
Saturday morning at 4am. It transpired that this was the final beating
Mum ever delivered, although we were obviously oblivious to this
statistic at the time. That night, Mum must have staggered in from
whichever watering hole she had tarnished, probably feeling frustrated
that she had been unable to snare a man, she stumbled into Jemma
’
s
room, clambered onto her bed, straddled her and whilst she was still
sleeping, Mum punched her square on the nose. Jemma shot up like
a tortured Jack-In-The-Box and as she did so, Mum smashed into her
again with a second right hook, knocking her straight back down. I was
woken by Mum drunkenly slurring,

“
My fucking knuckles are killing me!
”

Did I go to Jemma
’
s aid? No, I buried my head in my pillow and
cried myself back to sleep.
Jemma arrived in my bedroom the following morning looking like
a Formula One racing team had borrowed her face to use as a crash test
dummy. It was the final straw.

“
If Vomit Breath lays her fingers on me one more time,
”
she
promised,
“
I
’
m going to fucking kill her!
”

That Saturday afternoon, Jemma
’
s boyfriend Ray, having witnessed
the mess that Jemma previously called her face, came round to our house
to remonstrate with Mum, threatening to get the police involved. To
be fair to Ray, despite being charmless and probably hiding a tattoo of
a penis somewhere underneath his hairline, he loved Jemma and it was
honourable that he was trying to help her in her battle with Mum. It
made me feel even guiltier that even an arse like Ray was doing right
by Jemma when I was failing her.

As far as defining moments in my li
fe go, whatever happens in the
rest of my life between now and my dying day, nothing will ever cause
such a seismic shift in my life, as the moments in the early hours of
Sunday 16
th
April 1989. The day before had witnessed an afternoon of
unparalleled tragedy for supporters of Liverpool Football Club. There
was no final figure on the death toll, but by Saturday evening, it was
widely known that many, many people had died at a football match at
Hillsborough, Sheffield. The dead were all Liverpool fans. Men, boys,
women and girls. All just football fans enjoying a day out, following
their team.

Mum didn
’
t understand tragedies that didn
’
t directly effect her. If
she didn
’
t get a shag on a Saturday night or had no money left to go
out, that was a tragedy in Mum
’
s selfish world, people who she did not
know dying, that was someone else
’
s tragedy. Mum went out that night
into Southport, there was probably
a sombre mood around the town,
understandably given the massive tragedy that had taken place that
afternoon, but Mum would not have empathised so she arrived back,
earlier than normal, aggressively drunk. Jemma and I were both still
awake, we had spent the evening together, as our boyfriends, Ray and
Richie, had gone to the other FA Cup Semi-Final, involving Everton.
I was in Jemma
’
s room, just chatting, when we heard the door slam.