Half Plus Seven (21 page)

Mother Superior was the axis of ecumenical evil on which St Ignacius Roman Catholic High School span. She ruled her kingdom with silent menace, extraordinarily expressive nostrils and a legion of cruel nuns, callous monks and ambitious laypeople eager to do her bidding. This regime had little bearing on the minds of my contemporaries, who were some of the sickest, most perverted little fuckers I've ever known.

And I work in PR.

She had died last year and received a quiet funeral and an obituary in
The Times
. Apparently she'd worked with Mother Teresa in Calcutta, so it just goes to show you never can tell. The replacement headmistress – Sister Beatrix – was a moderniser, a reformer, a new, hip, youngish nun-slinger keen to pull the Catholic church kicking and screaming into the 21st century. Which is where I came in. The school was putting together a week-long itinerary of talks, trips and trade fairs that reflected the shifting industrial sands of the brave new world in which we lived. I was joined on the bill by a graphic designer, an app designer, an interior designer and an experience designer, whatever the fuck that was. It was like an even shitter Glastonbury with equally righteous headliners, less drugs and cleaner toilets. A letter had landed on Miles' desk and when he clocked the St Ignacius insignia, he assigned me to the job. Said I'd probably be better able to relate to the kids, whatever the fuck that meant. Couldn't help thinking it was a veiled kidney punch at my perceived juvenility. And yes, I realise that is a somewhat teenage reaction. I was just getting into character.

Which was apt for how I felt on the way to meet Christy. I had worse butterflies than a council estate zoo. I was on at
2 p.m., the warm-up for a comic book artist. Miles had given me the afternoon off, thanking me for putting a tick in Morgan & Schwarz's CSR box. Following on so soon from my stint serving food to the bums, I was close to becoming the company's most altruistic member of staff. Just had to try not to punch anyone this time. It wasn't so long ago that given a few hours off I'd have run straight to the nearest boozer and sunk a pint or six. Instead I was en route to meet Christy in a coffee shop near the campus. I fucking hated coffee shops. Christy was on a day's leave to deal with some ‘family issues' (Jill's inverted commas, not mine), but had insisted she could still make our date. Well, not that we'd said it was a date. But it kind of was. Wasn't it?

Anyway, the sickness somersaulting around my stomach was not helped by passing the public houses I'd escaped to from school. Past The Good Companions where I'd got served my first pint, using a self-laminated fake ID claiming I was a 22-year-old Theology undergraduate (ambitious on both counts). At any one given time, there could be up to twenty Rob Burgesses in the pub at once. We'd all photocopied the same classmate's older brother's NUS card. Past The Pig and Whistle, where I'd tried to show off to Stacey Taylor by challenging a shaven headed cider drinker to a game of winner stays on. I'd put my 50p on the side of the pool table, swallowed hard and eyed the scene with a nonchalance that could only be attributed to spending all my dinner money on strong continental lager. Inwardly, I was shitting myself. Stacey seemed indifferent and more interested in the video jukebox. I was a swan. An underage drinking swan. Paddle beneath the water, Billy boy. On my first shot, I ripped right through the cloth and spilt his pint on the follow-through. I bolted out of there so fast it was the only time I'd ever made double economics on a Tuesday afternoon.

When I arrived she was sat in the window, reading an indistinguishable Penguin classic. She looked so perfect I decided to stay and watch her for a moment. It was a slightly risky manoeuvre. If she caught me stood there, staring, I'd have to do a star jump and mouth: ‘surprise'. I figured it was worth it. Anyway, I could do with a minute to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I'd seen a million girls in a million coffee shops over the years (okay, pubs) and wondered who they were waiting for, where they'd been and where they were going. On the occasions I'd found their story out it'd either been a bawdy limerick or a long-running series with no discernible character development. But not this time. The girl with the alive red hair, the girl with the black blurred eyes, the girl with the warm, beautiful face was waiting for me. Bill McDare. Granted, to accompany me to a talk to some jumped-up teenagers. But still.

‘Bill…'

‘Christy…'

Ah, the awkwardness of the greeting. A handshake? A hug? A kiss? On the cheek? On both cheeks? Or play it cool? I'd once headbutted a date, mistakenly going for the lips when she offered the shoulder. Mild concussion had been the early death knell for a Werner Herzog classic and a sharing platter at an arthouse cinema. I'd decided against fighting over the prawn tempura and sacked the subtitles off for cold beer and clinical cocaine. Let's hope lightning didn't strike twice.

I adopted the laissez-faire approach a life at capitalism's coalface had made inevitable and just stood there. She took the lead, put her bare hairless arms around me and squeezed. For two seconds. Which might not
sound
like a long time, but caught in the moment time turned malleable, stretchable. I could have ran marathons in the time she held me. I could have completed a Rubix cube in the dark. Instead I thought about putting my hands on her arse.

I didn't.

‘Ooooh.' She made a noise more at home in the shakedown to close a yoga session. ‘It's good to see you.'

I'd only seen her yesterday. I hadn't returned from the Western Front. What could this mean?

‘Likewise, likewise. Thanks for doing this. You know, you didn't have to, especially if you've got other things on your plate.'

I was fishing. Suggestion was my maggot.

‘No, it's fine, Bill. I wanted to,' she replied.

‘How's your day off so far, then?' I repitched my rod.

‘Christ, Bill, I think I need something a bit stronger than a latte to start opening that box!'

‘…would you like a…'

‘…no it's fine I'll…'

‘Let me get you a…' We both stood up. The small table rocked and her book (
Crime and Punishment
) lost its place. ‘Look, Chris, sit down, take a deep breath and I'll get you a drink.' She smiled a smile that wouldn't have been out of place on a nurse's face at the end of a night shift. Her dark eyes looked tired.

‘Thank you.'

‘Now, there's no booze in this place so how about I get you an Americano and we both perk the fuck up?'

She laughed.

‘Thank you.'

I hit the coffee bar. After my early indecision, I was playing the assertive role popular culture led me to believe womenfolk liked.

‘It's my brother,' she said. I smiled. I tried my best conciliatory eyes. ‘Again. He's been expelled from school this morning.'

‘Oh no, Christy, what did he do?' If I had the details I could help her. I was a helper. I had tissue shoulders.

‘He flipped out two days ago and called the teacher a cunt.'

‘Jesus, that seems a bit harsh…' She just looked at me.
‘…Expelling him for that I mean. If we had the same rules at Morgan & Schwarz, we'd have to leave Carol and Pete man the fort.'

‘I think it's a bit different in school, Bill.'

‘Yeah, I suppose so… any advice in handling errant children in light of this afternoon's engagement?' Her face screamed ‘too soon'. I'd tried to lighten the mood. I hadn't banked on getting a mouthy teenager in my hot-new-girlfriend bundle. Christy took a deep breath and exhaled, pushing her average-sized breasts towards me.

‘Oh, Bill, it's not his fault. He barely gets any sleep because of the nightmares, which means I barely get any sleep, and he gets irritable and the teacher was pushing him about a piece of homework he hadn't done. I'm not trying to excuse his behaviour, you know, just trying to understand it.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘I thought you'd said everything was great the other day though?' I'd known it hadn't been. Those eyes couldn't hide from me.

‘Well, it was. It is. Kind of. I'm really getting into my new job and don't feel like the incompetent new girl anymore, but I'm just about holding it all together.' She took another deep breath. ‘I could do with my fucking dad being around.'

Silence.

What to say?

‘I could help.' She downed her coffee.

‘Thanks, Bill.' Her eyes said I couldn't. ‘Come on, we'll be late.'

The first thing that hit you was the smell. Just like catching the scent of a woman waiting next to you at the traffic lights could bring a forgotten girl from your deep, distant past rushing back, flooding your unprepared mind with memories of the sex and the fights, the tears and the love bites, the institutional smell of a state school with undertones of vomit and gravy had the same effect. It's not something you notice at the time but somewhere down the track it'll get you, leaving you lost for more than a moment contemplating a part of your life you'd put away into a box and thrown away the key on. Smell was an unrequested locksmith.

My first sober public speaking in god knows how long and it was to a bunch of over-gelled, uber-confident little fuckers. We were never like this. Our bravado happened behind the bike sheds. The nuns ruled with an iron rod. Sure, rules would be broken and authority challenged in the jostle for position inevitable among 800 puberty cases. The odd complicit layteacher would be co-conspirator against the horrible habits, turning a blind eye to a Benson and Hedges or a bum feel down the secluded grass banks. But on the whole, we were nothing like Generation Meh. It all comes too easy for them. Fucking hell, I'm sounding like my dad here. The digital revolution had made scoring girls easy. These little shits were definitely getting more sex than I was as a 16-year-old spotty oik. BBM, SMS, DM me, a few pokes on Facebook and it's (a smiley emoticon here, a LOL there) game on. They didn't even have to grunt a word to their prey until unclasping their sports bra. Compare that with mustering up the manhood to call the object of your teenage affections. On the house phone. Which her chastity-protecting father answered. Or her violent virginity-keeper of an older brother. Your voice squeaking when asking for Alison, giving reassurance that this high-pitched homo couldn't break a hymen if he tried.

All that gone.

All those nerves, those half dials, those preparatory nips from the spirit cupboard. Gone.

Nice one, Zuckerberg.

At school, girls had been exotic, mysterious, unreachable. At least until Laura Stanton. Every nun under the age of forty risked becoming wank material. The only sight of bare flesh we ever got was if we were lucky enough to happen upon the sticky pages of a dirty magazine strewn across the woods at the back of the school labs. These little Justins and Brandons had it beamed into their peepers 24/7 thanks to search engines and slack parental controls. The jammy cunts. Anyway, let's see if I can ruin their futures by convincing them of the merits of this sham of a career. After all, making shit sound believable was what paid the bar bills all those years.

Bars.

I'd let these kids wind me up so much I needed a drink.

‘Bill… Bill?' It was Christy.

‘What…? Oh, yeah. Hi.'

‘You drifted off there. Seemed like you were in a world of your own,' she said.

‘Yeah, it happens.' We were stood at the side of a stage waiting for the last kids to file in.

‘You set?'

‘As I'll ever be.'

‘Then go get 'em.' She shot me a wink.

Okay, here goes. Time to sink or swim. My introductions had been made.

‘So I bet your teachers are telling you that now is the time to focus on your future. Your life after St Ignacius. They'll be telling you to focus on what you want to be. On a profession that serves society and makes you happy. On a profession that makes your parents happy. They're no doubt telling you to be doctors, lawyers, bankers—'

‘You're a banker!' shouted a shrill voice from somewhere stage left. An adult voice broke over them.

‘Quiet, Year 12. Quiet. Mr McDare didn't come here for you to waste his time…' Just a few sniggers hung in the hollow. ‘QUIET. Or do you want to waste the rest of your lives?'

Silence.

‘I thought not. Thank you.' I recognised the voice. It was my old English teacher, Mr Warhurst. Old Johnny Warhurst. A St Ignacius legend, confidante to the kids, nemesis of the nuns. Like the smell, I'd forgotten all about him. I coughed and continued.

‘Well, as I was saying, everyone around you is trying to point you in a certain direction. I'm here today to tell you to ignore everyone else and listen to me. Someone who just a few years ago was someone like you. Someone who wanted to leave my mark. Someone who wanted to control situations, control people, control destinies.' They were listening now. Rows and rows of quiet, closed-mouthed Chelsea, Jadyn and Josh's. Listening or ignoring; one of the two. Either way, they most definitely were not heckling. My eyes found Christy, sat down to my right. She smiled encouragingly. Date number one had finally picked up.