White Goods (36 page)

‘
See you
tomorrow?’ Justin had called after me, but it barely registered; my
mind fixed on other matters.

What I’d really wanted to
do was ask Justin a bit more about Crinky. A bit more about his
death. Didn’t he think it was odd: Crinky, having a bath? The
police, saying it wasn’t suspicious at all, when that’s exactly
what it was. And did he remember what I’d said in the playground?
What I’d said about Mum, so as not to admit the truth? Did he
remember the bath story?

But I hadn’t had the
chance, not properly. There was always another Tankard butting in
or hanging around. That’s why I’d wanted to go to the dump that
day, to get him by himself.

As I made my way to see
Mum – out of town, past Nan Buckley’s old flat, out towards the
crematorium and beyond – I started to think it over myself. It was
spooky, that was certain, and, whatever the police had decided, it
was suspicious too. But it had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? Even
though we had some dodgy people in our school, they wouldn’t have
taken my story and re-enacted it on some old, smelly fat guy. Would
they?

Turning these questions
over in my mind, I entered the crematorium, taking the short-cut to
reach Mum’s place. It was a bit creepy; walking between the beds of
memorial rose bushes, heading past the place where Nan Buckley’s
remains had been incinerated, and towards the place where Mum’s
remains were regularly fried.

That’s what
I’d heard Ian and Della discussing: once a month, Mum had
electrodes
placed on her
head and other places, and electricity was shocked through her
body. Frying her alive.

‘
Like in
America?’ I’d asked, surprising them with both my question and my
presence.

‘
No, not like
in America,’ Della had said quickly.

‘
Cos Mum isn’t
a murderer,’ Ian had added, defensive.

‘
Like a
lobster, then?’ I’d tried, only that was being boiled alive, so I’d
gone off track. They had both simply stared at me, not prepared to
elaborate any further on the details of Mum’s treatment.

‘
Just don’t go
and ask her,’ Ian had insisted, catching my arm, gripping it hard
enough to make me agree without any more fuss.

If she really was being
fried, boiled or whatever, I didn’t notice. And it didn’t seem to
make a difference to how she was. Each visit, she was the same: not
quite dead, but not quite alive. Not like she had been. See, whilst
Nan Buckley was dead, for absolute certain - her remains concealed
in an urn, perched on our front room mantelpiece – Mum’s version of
living was the very opposite: vague, blurred. Uncertain.

Once I’d
signed in at reception, I was led further into the building by a
nurse, who walked with a determined briskness, pausing only to
unlock and then re-lock a couple of security doors. Along the way,
there was a large room with a TV, pool table and a circle of
chairs, where residents and visitors could sit together. But we
never went in there. The manner of our home rental arrangements had
continued here for Mum: she had
gone-private.

‘
That’ll cost
you a fortune, Tony,’
Uncle
Gary had commented, when news of Mum’s
hospitalisation status was leaked by Auntie Stella.

Dad had declined to
comment further.

Going-private,
according to Ian,
ensured she got only the very best treatment. Only the very best
electrocution service.

‘
And her very
own room,’ I reflected, as we’d clip-clacked along the polished
wooden floors of the hospital.

There was something else
different about that day – it was my first solo visit. Previous
times, I had only ever come with Ian and Della.

‘
Where’s your
brother today?’ the nurse asked, as we’d continued on our journey.
‘How old are you again?’ she added, and I wondered if this was
going to be an issue.

‘
He’s just
five minutes away, at the shop, getting flowers,’ I responded and
that seemed to satisfy her, as the brief inquisition
ceased.

Then we had arrived. Two
steps ahead of me, the nurse rapped on Mum’s door, gently pushed it
open and announced my arrival.

‘
Just 30
minutes,’ the nurse told me, smiling flatly in Mum’s direction,
before leaving us by ourselves. Leaving me to wonder just what I
was going to do with 30 whole minutes.

Yet, I needn’t have
worried. It turned out to be a good day for Mum; turned out a
little of the old Mum had returned.

Her room was
simple and what Mum would have called
tasteful
.

‘
Dull,’ was
Della’s interpretation. Yet, I thought its plain colours and modest
layout made it peaceful. She had a single bed, covered in a pale
green candlewick bedspread, with a painted white table to its left,
where she kept a plastic jug of water, plaster beaker and a book.
There was also an armchair for visitors to sit in and a wardrobe
and chest of drawers. I’d checked through these once and they were
empty.

‘
They’ve kept
all her stuff,’ Della had explained, after that particular visit.
‘For her own safety,’ she’d added, like that explained it all. But
clothes weren’t dangerous – I knew that. I was the expert; I was
the boy with the parka that could protect me from everything. She’d
have been better off keeping them all on.

That afternoon, devoid of
her own life-threatening attire, I found Mum dressed in a
hospital-issue polyester nighty, looking like she had no life left
worth threatening. She sat in bed, three white pillows propping her
up and giving her three equally white chins. She wasn’t wearing
make-up and she wasn’t smoking a cigarette, two strange comforts I
associated with the person she had once been. But, just for once,
she was smiling; and she knew me instantly.

‘
Hello
Scotty,’ she said, patting the candlewick bedspread, indicating I
was to perch on the bed. ‘Just you?’

‘
Yes, just
me,’ I replied, moving forward gingerly, watching a change in her
face. A complete transformation. It wasn’t just her mouth smiling:
her eyes lit up and even her dull, pallid complexion seemed to
glisten. Joy; her face had been swamped with utter joy.

‘
Just what
I’ve been waiting for,’ she said, and suddenly the joy was a little
too much, the glow of glee about her a little ghostly,
creepy.

As I sat on one side of
the bed, she threw back the covers on the other side and swung out
her legs. She popped her feet into hospital-issue slippers, stood
up and made small, shuffling steps towards her chest of
drawers.

‘
Been waiting
for this moment, Scotty,’ she uttered softly, almost in a whisper.
‘Been waiting to get you on your own. Just you and me, like old
times.’

Next, she was bending
down, feeling under the chest of drawers, her skinny fingers
rattling around.

‘
You see, I’ve
made a friend. Betty. She’s a bit coo-coo in the head, but she’s a
good sort. Got me some paper and a pencil. Been good to me,
see.’

Then she was
back on her feet. And she was reaching out to me –
just you and me like old times –
pushing something in my direction: an
envelope.

‘
You’ll give
it to him, won’t you Scotty? You’ll give it to him?’

She was pleading with me:
with her voice, her body, and her face, where the spark was fading
in anticipation of my answer, fearing a refusal. From where I was
seated, I could see the name she’d scrawled on the
envelope.

‘
Just one more
secret mission, Scotty?’

I took the
letter.

When Mum had
lived with us, the routine for passing on these notes had been
different. She would wait until the moment was right. She would
have it written in advance, hidden about herself or in her bag and
then it would come out at the last minute. Like in Cornwall:
pushing the note in my coat pocket, pushing me into taking a ride
in a certain person’s flash new car, on my own.
Just between you and me, eh Scotty?
But there had been other times, many other times. She would
volunteer me for jobs at
Dontask
, but only when
he
was on duty, making
sure I had access to him. Never approaching him directly herself.
Always using me as her go-between, like that made her less involved
in whatever was going on.

‘
I don’t want
your Dad to find out,’ she had explained, explaining nothing in the
process. ‘He must never find out. And he’ll never suspect you. He’d
be suspicious of me. So, it’s our little secret.’

But that day, after the
hospital visit, it was different. It was urgent, she said. I had to
do it immediately. It couldn’t wait. Along with the letter, she’d
given me a ten pence piece, also from Betty, her mystery
benefactor. On leaving the hospital, I headed towards the telephone
kiosk across the road from the crematorium, dialled a number she
had scrawled on the back of the envelope and arranged a place and
time to make the handover.

Nearby, there
was the derelict house; the one I’d wanted to go to with Justin
earlier that day. We were not supposed to go in there.
Under-no-bloody-circumstances!
Mum, Dad, Auntie Stella, Chrissie and even Adrian
upheld this universal law. But maybe
Uncle
Gary hadn’t heard of it,
because when I said I’d wait for him there, he didn’t
object.

Sheets of corrugated metal
covered the windows and doorways, supposedly to keep you out. But I
knew this house - me and Justin had been in there before – and the
metal concealing the rear entrance was loose, enabling a small
person to squeeze their way in. Inside, the walls were black and in
the centre of the structure were the remains of a staircase, also
blackened. You could get upstairs, but it wasn’t safe, as the
treads were spongy, likely to split under your weight, and there
were holes in the floors above. So, once inside, I stayed on the
ground floor, listening for the approach of footsteps.

Uncle
Gary was with me in less than fifteen minutes.
Due to his wiry frame, he was able to fold himself up like a
zed-bed and crawl inside.

‘
Jesus, Scot,
why all the secrecy?’ he asked, but despite his words, I think he’d
guessed. Even through the shadows of the fire-gutted dereliction,
he could read my face. ‘You’ve got something for me?’

He moved a little closer,
but I instinctively stepped back. Not afraid, but
cautious.

‘
What is it?’
he asked, stopping where he was.

I’d been
thinking things over. A lot. Trying to piece things together: the
Shirley mystery; the photographs I’d found; the letter I had
stolen. I’d been thinking back, too: to conversations I’d
overheard; to things I’d seen; to memories I’d pulled out from the
long forgotten vaults in my head. And, despite the efforts of my
nearest and dearest, I’d found some answers. Not
all
the answers, but
enough to take me on.

‘
Scot?’

‘
I want to
know all about him.’

I said it slowly,
stressing the last word, making it clear what I was asking
about.

‘
I want to
know what you know.’

I retrieved
the letter Mum had given me from the back pocket of my trousers; it
was in an envelope with the single word
Jackie
scrawled on its front. Took
it out and held out my hand, urging him to take it.

‘
Tell me about
Jackie.’

Uncle
Gary drew in a long, deep breath. Taking the
letter from me, he turned it over in his hands. He didn’t open it,
though; just checked the envelope over.

‘
Anything
else?’ he eventually asked.

‘
Yes,’ I said,
thinking I might as well get all my demands out on the table. ‘I
want to know who Shirley White is.’

An hour later,
I was on my way home again. Armed with the truth, but not fully
armed. Yet, I had enough ammunition to proceed with an attack and
declare war against the army of lies that was assaulting me on the
home-front.
Uncle
Gary had offered to drop me off, but I needed a bit of head
space in which to plan my offensive. So, on leaving the derelict
house, I cut back through the amenity tip, went past Crinky’s and
made my way to Church Lane. I carried on past the Tankard house,
past the Checkers pub and then finished the last five minutes of my
journey home in a blur of excitement, fear and panic.

I was going to set things
straight! I was going to put Dad and Ian back in their places, show
them I was a force to be reckoned with! Show them that they could
lie and deny all they liked – I’d found out the truth in spite of
them!

It was tea-time. Everyone
would be home, I was certain. I entered our house via the back
entrance, hoping to catch them unawares, maybe even
mid-conversation.

I know who
they are!
That was the opening line I’d
practised.
I know who they are, so stop
lying!
But it wasn’t to be - I wasn’t to
get my moment. Not yet. Because I walked into the
unexpected.