White Goods (3 page)

‘
You finished squirt?’ Ian
asked after a long time, knocking on the door.

‘
Yes,’ I said, putting my
clothes back on, my pants pasted to my still-wet bum, getting
caught up when I pulled up my cords. When my coat was on again, I
slid back the lock and Ian laughed.

‘
If you were gonna put that
filthy thing back on, you might as well have stayed dirty,’ he
said, mocking me. ‘Right, let’s get back,’ he added, pushing me
towards the exit.

The cold air hit me as I got outside
and I almost cried out with joy. I loved that feeling. The slap of
cold after the sting of heat. I wanted to tell Ian, but I kept it
to myself. He thought I was weird enough as it was.

That night, we were all going down to the night club that
was on the campsite. Right in the centre of the grounds, there was
this grand old building. It looked like an old castle from the
outside and inside the rooms were tall and majestic; big old
fashioned doors, flag stones on the floor and bits of antique
furniture scattered about. But it was modern, too. There was a
reception area as you walked in and a dramatic staircase, which
curled around the wall, taking up half the room. It had a thick,
red carpet that led you up to rooms and
sweets
,
according to Dad. This didn’t entirely make sense, because he kept
saying that we’d have to save up if we wanted to stay in one of
them.

‘
How big is this sweet, then?’ I asked, quizzing the
apparent expense.

‘
Big enough,’ was the
reply, ‘got a separate loo and bathroom, according to the
details.’

‘
A
sweet?
’ I asked
again, just to check.

‘
Yes!’ he replied, in a tone that meant
what’s-this-twenty-questions-or-something
? He usually said that when I’d asked just one or
two.

I stopped asking.

From the reception area, you could go
off in different directions.

Off to the right was a restaurant; we
never went there. (‘Bit lardy-dah,’ was Dad’s excuse; ‘Tight
bugger,’ was Mum’s retort.) Also on the right was a hallway that
led to the games rooms. First of all you came to a few rows of slot
machines, in a bit of a corridor; then beyond this was a slightly
bigger room, with a pool table, a snooker table, and a darts
board.

Off to the left was our destination
that evening – the bar. Two large, modern glass doors separated the
bar from reception. The bar itself curved round to the right and
this arc led you into the dance hall.

The seating
in the dance hall was split into two levels: there were circular
tables and chairs set around the dance floor itself, plus a raised
area off to the right, where there were more tables and benches
with high, padded backs. The dance floor itself was parquet
flooring, and right in the centre, hanging down from the ceiling,
was a huge glitterball, shining little mirrors of light all around.
For most of the night, you had to listen to the resident band, but
sometimes you got 30 minutes of disco when the musicians took a
break. The rest of the time was broken up with silly dances,
knobbly knee and talent competitions. I’d entered the fancy dress a
few years ago – as a girl selling flowers. Ian and Della would
never let me forget it; Mum and Dad didn’t want to talk about it.
This year I wasn’t entering anything, though. But our clan was
still being represented. By Ian.

‘
What’s he gonna do up
there?’ I asked Della. She laughed and was about to say something
rude, but Dad threw her a stern look and she stopped.

‘
He’s going to sing,’ said
Mum all proud. She had built up to it all day. Her moment of true
joy.

You could tell that Dad wasn’t over
keen - much as he hadn’t been the year I had last entered - but he
didn’t make too much of it. He had sensed Mum’s beam of pride and,
for once, wasn’t going to upset her.

So, in the wake of Ian’s impending stardom, there was more
fuss made than usual that night. When we got ourselves ready, it
was as if we were
all
going up on that stage. And I
didn’t
just
get sent off to the shower blocks
with Ian. I had to have clean socks, clean pants and a clean shirt
as well. There was also a threat of ties that came to nothing. A
last minute
lick-on-that-tissue
wash across my face and a bit of gel in my hair -
flattening down the permanently sticky-up bit at the back – and I
was ready.

Ian got a brand new shirt for his
performance,
as
Mum called it every time Auntie Stella referred to it as his
turn.
‘He’s singing, not having a stroke,’ Mum reminded her, but
Auntie Stella still called it a
turn
, finding it
funny. Dad did too, but he had to hide his smirking from
Mum.

Mum had forgotten her iron, so Ian’s
shirt had creases in the fabric, from where it had been folded up
in its oblong packet.

‘
Oh, look at that. Let’s
hope they fall out before you’re up,’ she fussed, disappointed,
pulling at it, tucking it further into his waist, as if that would
straighten it out.

Yet it was
Della’s and Mum’s outfits that caused the real fuss and
upset.

Mum got ready in her room, whilst Della
took over mine and Ian’s for the occasion. Both came out at the
last minute, hoping it would be too late for anyone to insist on a
change, should there be complaints about what they wore.

They took so long that we had begun to
wonder if they would ever be ready.

‘
You’re gonna make me
late!’ Ian had cried out a few times.

‘
Dying of thirst here,’ Dad
had claimed, mimicking a pint in his hand, laughing, losing control
as he farted, too. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised to Auntie
Stella, who had been standing just behind him, bending over her
bag, putting her lipstick away.

‘
Just lovely,
Tony.’

‘
Fuck-a-duck!’

Mum had finally made an
entrance.

The swearing came from Ian. He would have got a slap if we
hadn’t all been so gobsmacked by what Mum was wearing. We’d all
seen the outfit before: a pale blue two-piece skirt suit; a frilly,
navy blouse; high heels to match; a pink silk carnation in her
lapel; and the hat. She’d chopped off the veil, but the wide brim
and the daisies were still there. Last seen at a christening –
child of a second cousin to Mum we hardly knew. At least Mum’s
perfume – a big cloud of
Charlie
– mingled
with Dad’s guff, giving us some relief.

‘
Who’s getting married?’
said Dad, followed by the biggest belly laugh ever – he did have
the biggest belly, so it wasn’t too much of an
achievement.

I could see Auntie Stella, struggling
not to join in.

‘
You look lov-.’ She began, but then she cracked-up too,
holding onto her sides in apparent agony in next-to-no time,
clinging onto
Uncle
Gary, whose face gave nothing away
at all.

‘
You forgotten your pills,
Theresa?’ Dad added, still laughing, but his laugh lessened a bit,
realising too late it was something he shouldn’t have
said.

Ian looked to the floor, simply annoyed
at Mum’s unnecessary effort; I just saw her hurt and wondered how I
could save her. But I didn’t need too: Della did it
single-handedly.

‘
You gotta be fucking
joking!’

That time it was Dad swearing –
suddenly sobered by the sight of his then 13 year-old
daughter.

Della had on
this t-shirt. Extra-large in size, it sloped off her left shoulder
and was tied in a knot at the bottom of the right side. It was
white, with a big gold bird on the front; an eagle, I think. Her
tights were fishnet and her heels were high – very. Luckily the
t-shirt was long and covered her down to just above the
knees.

‘
I think she looks lovely,’
said Auntie Stella, whose comment indicated she had clearly had a
hand in this.

‘
You what? Where the hell
did all this stuff come from, that’s what I’d like to know?’ Dad
said, his words coming out as a shocked croak.

Then Mum moved in, seeing a chance to
make an ally and get some kind of revenge for Dad’s mocking
her.

‘
Come on Della,’ she had
said, taking her arm, leading her forward, much to Della’s horror,
who had not looked too pleased to be partnered with Mum’s powder
blue monstrosity. ‘We’re gonna be late for Ian if we don’t get a
move on.’

And off they went – out of the caravan, leading the way –
The Queen Mother and Debbie Harry, as Auntie Stella began to call
them. And the rest of us followed. Della kept looking back for
help, her face suggesting she was being held against her will, but
none was coming. Auntie Stella could barely control her hysterics,
hanging onto
Uncle
Gary, who threw Mum an embarrassed
look, like an apology on her sister’s behalf. Dad was cross, but
defeated. Yet Ian was the most furious – we were going to ruin his
night.

‘
Fucking Clampits,’ he
muttered, swearing again, but lucky for him no one heard. And lucky
for the rest of us, as we neared the castle that was host to the
evening’s entertainment, Mum had second thoughts and ditched that
hat.

‘
Don’t let me forget that
on the way back,’ she told me, slipping it behind a
bush.

‘
Better hope it don’t get
nicked, Theresa,’ joked Auntie Stella, but Mum didn’t say a
word.

I guessed we
should have all noticed, back then. I think the grown-ups did. We
should have guessed what was happening to her. The exaggerated
outfit, the way she had eagerly embraced Della’s. We should have
seen where this was going and done something.

The next time I saw her abandoned hat,
it was the day we left for home: a ring of sodden fabric daisies
floating in the empty, outdoor pool; drowned, lost and
forgotten.

That evening, despite the pantomime
costumes and Carry-On comments, our family had a quiet, beautiful
moment that shut us all up. A voice spoke through the darkness:
Ian’s voice.

It was about 8:20 when they called him
up. Spotlights had illuminated the room, casting dazzling stars on
the walls and the polished parquet dance-floor, as they reflected
off the glitterball that hung centrally.

We were seated to the right of the
stage, halfway along.

Ian wore his new green shirt, a brown and grey tank top and
black trousers. They announced him and then, standing in front of a
mike that was up just a fraction too much, he opened his mouth.
The
Twelfth of
Never
, by Donny Osmond, came
belting out. It was a bit dated, even then, but he was good. Mum
was close to tears from beginning to end, Della did a sly sick mime
with her fingers, and I could tell that Dad was itching to make a
poof comment. But, despite the mixed outward display, I knew one
thing for certain – we were all proud. None of us would say it, but
we were. He was one of us and he wasn’t embarrassing. Just this
once; a rare moment for us all.

Ian received a big clap and, when he
came back, it was cokes, crisps, bitter and G and T’s all
round.

‘
You’ve got to be the
winner!’ Auntie Stella chorused, but he wasn’t in the end. Some
woman, who sang in Welsh and sounded like a bloke, took the glory.
Mum was disgusted.

‘
It’s prejudice,’ she said,
not offering further explanation.

Dad made some loud comments about
bloody taffies
and got some dirty looks from a couple of tables
nearby.

‘
Just enjoy the evening, have another drink,’ Auntie Stella
suggested, patting Dad’s hand long enough to get looks from
Uncle
Gary
and
the Queen Mother.

‘
Another G and T, please
Tony,’ uttered the latter, holding her glass up in a manner that
was oddly regal.

We headed back at 10:45.

‘
Hurry up, or we’ll be too late for supper,’ said Dad, as
Mum took just a little bit too long to gather herself. She was
looking for something, but you could tell she couldn’t quite
remember what. I knew it was the hat. I could have reminded her
where she’d left it, but I didn’t say anything. ‘Come
on,
girl.’

There was a chippy down by the outdoor
pool. In the daytime it sold drinks and ice cream, but at night it
was just open for hot greasy food. It closed at 11pm. In the end,
Dad’s impatience got the better of him and he dragged Ian off ahead
of us.

‘
Me and the star will queue
up, if you get the plates out,’ he yelled at Mum, the compliment
for Ian out before he could help himself. But it did them both
good, you could tell. Something in Ian’s walk said he was chuffed
and Dad patted his back a couple of times. Then it was back to
normal and Dad chided Ian for being so slow. ‘Keep up,
boy.’

Chicken and chips, that’s what we
usually had. Just the smell was enough for me. I had opted for a
burger one night, just to try something different, but I regretted
it. Wasn’t the same. That chicken: bliss. No other way to describe
it.