White Goods (38 page)

‘Want him to know what we
found that day? Want him to know what she did, why she’s ended up
the way she has?’

‘Yes, I do! I want him to
hear it, then you can’t deny it. Then you can’t cover it up, like
you have other things.’

‘And that’s what you
really want, the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of it?’

‘Yes, all of
it.’

‘And you want him to
stay? You want lover boy to hear it all?’

I didn’t hear Della’s
reply, but I felt it. A nod, I was certain, a silent response. Less
confident than before, as Dad’s fist of questions fingered at her
doubt.

‘Okay, if that’s your
wish, if you are ready, I will begin.’

Phrases
flashed in my mind as I waited for Dad to start.
Are you all sitting comfortably?
Like story time at school, sitting on the carpet,
crossed-legged, needing a wee, trying not to fidget. Like
Jackanory, only the presenter was our dad, and this wasn’t just any
old fairy tale. This was something darker altogether.
Okay, shall we begin?

My mind
flashed back over what they had said, rapidly scanning their
exchange for clues.
‘Want him to know what
we found that day?’
Dad had
blurted.
‘Want him to know what she did,
why she’s ended up the way she has?’
Della
had answered him yes; yes, she wanted Russell to hear. Had she
known what I knew, had she been able to align these snippets
with
Uncle
Gary’s
version of events, she might have answered differently.

Hammering at the front
door interrupted Dad’s familial narrative before it even
began.

‘Ignore it. Let them go
away.’ From Dad.

But it didn’t stop; it
just intensified. Then the hollering began, creating a twin assault
on our senses. The wood thumping and the banshee-like shrieking
were too much for Dad to withstand.

‘Jesus, what
does
she
want?
COMING! ALRIGHT?’

Auntie Stella hurtled
into the room with a similar intensity to Dad, but where he was all
flames, her fury had unleashed itself in the form of tears and
snot.

‘Where is that little
bugger!? Where is he? I want him to explain himself! I want him to
tell me why he did it. Scot! Scot! Where are you hiding that little
shit? Where is he?!’

She saw me
instantly. I was standing, my head poking just above the stack of
white boxes under the lean to. I had come to my feet when Dad had
charged for the front door, wondering just what or who was
battering it down. I couldn’t see much; the fur hood on my parka
had limited my vision. But when they all stared back at me, I could
read their expressions. I saw what each one of them was
asking:
how long had I been standing
there? how much had I heard?

‘You little shit! He’s
gone! Gone! Left me this note, said you knew all about it! Said it
was all your idea! Said you could explain the whole bloody
charade!’

She made her way through
the back room, slamming past Dad, Della, Ian and Russell, who
readily stepped out of her way, not wanting to be sucked any
further into our family wreckage. I tried to retreat, but like Ian
earlier, I had little room in which to manoeuvre. Like the back
room, the alleyway that led to our garden was over populated,
cluttered with piles of boxes, outdoor bins, a bike no one used or
admitted to owning, a couple of brooms.

‘You nasty little
bugger!’ she continued, charging forward, after my explanation,
after my blood. ‘You just had to go and ruin it, didn’t you? Didn’t
you? I just hope you’re satisfied, you nasty little
shit!’

At that point, she sprung
forward. Came out through the back door, past the piles of white
goods, and lunged as I retreated. None of my family tried to stop
her. Auntie Stella was rabid with anger: it frothed at her mouth
and would have scratched its way free with her long, glossy-red
fingernails if anyone had tried to contain it. So, they simply let
her slip through: stunned, apathetic or simply incapable? I
couldn’t tell; didn’t really have a chance to look. As she came at
me, I instinctively stepped back, falling into the abandoned bike.
Crashing to the ground, it both broke my fall and bashed into my
body, as I collapsed on top of it. But that didn’t stop her. For a
few more seconds, she kept coming at me.

‘You owe me an
explanation, you nasty little bugger! I knew something was going
on! I knew it, and now you’re going to tell me! You’re going to
explain, you nasty little shit! And you’re going to pay! I’m going
to rip you out of that fucking coat and make you fucking
pay!’

And I really thought that
that was it; really thought my frenzied aunt was going to kill me
with her bare fists, whilst the rest of my family looked on and let
it happen. But at the very last minute, something stopped her.
Someone stopped her. Someone who appeared on the scene behind
us.

‘What the
hell-.’

I turned my
furry-snorkelled head right and looked up, over my
shoulder.

There loomed Adrian
Tankard. He was covered in blood and held his thick, trunk like
arms in front of him. She lay across them; her head hung back, her
torso ripped open.

‘I’ve killed her,’ he
said and for the second time that year, Adrian Tankard saved my
life.

I guess I
need to take you back to earlier that day. To explain Auntie
Stella’s fury. To explain why she had every right to it. To fill in
the gaps, as well. You see, I knew a lot more now.
Uncle
Gary had been very
generous with his information. And, in return, I’d been quite
generous myself: I’d given him the letter I’d taken from his kinky
red bedroom and let him off the hook. For good, I promised
him.

When I think
back, it seems too much, the events too squeezed-in, like our back
room; it all happened in such a short space of time. Supermarket
bingo with the Tankards; the visit to my shadow of a mother;
Uncle
Gary’s confession
at the derelict house; the bedlam and bloodshed at 45 Victoria
Avenue: that was all one day. The rest of it – what was yet to come
– only took us to the end of the following day. Come the Friday, it
was all over; and lives were ruined, or no more. All in a matter of
days.

And all
because Della asked her questions, and
Uncle
Gary made his
confession.

‘
Tell me about
Jackie.’ I’d demanded, boldly, certain he would tell me, convinced
by my confident stance alone.

For over a
year before Mum had left us, they’d been using me to pass notes
between them: his would have
Theresa
written on them, hers
Jackie.

Jackie.
A mystery that had haunted me my whole life. A
shadow in a doorway. A glimpse around a corner. A name muttered
under breaths. And a silence, too. Yes,
Jackie
represented silence to me.
Silence grown-ups assumed whenever I interrupted these
Jackie
moments.
Jackie,
a mystery that
excluded me, until Mum needed my services.

It’s a secret,
Scotty. You mustn’t say anything. Ask no questions, either. And no
mentioning this to your father.

I had minded a
bit, regarding the passing of letters, but I was always well
rewarded. Mum would give me a fiver for any letters I brought back.
And then, after a few months, I got the idea that I could make even
more out of it.
Uncle
Gary was looking increasingly uneasy about the whole
situation, particularly as Mum’s reasons for sending me off
with
Uncle
Gary
were not always very natural –
Uncle
Gary’ll give you a lift to school; why don’t you take Uncle Gary
with you, to get me that milk?
Dad had
made a few funny comments about it too.
You like spending time with kiddies, eh Gary?
I knew from Dad’s tone and
Uncle
Gary’s reaction that this
wasn’t a good thing. But still Mum kept giving me the notes and
shoving me in his direction, increasing his nervousness. So, I went
in for the kill: he was gonna have to cough up too, or I was
telling everything to my Dad. Before I knew it, I was making ten
quid a letter: five from Mum, five from him.

‘
You must be
really scared,’ I’d said to him once, pushing it, as he was still a
grown up, whatever was going on. He didn’t reply, but I saw it in
his face. Whatever it was between him and Mum, he definitely didn’t
want Dad or anyone else to know about it.

The day I suggested he
move Auntie Stella in with him was the day I realised just what a
hold I had on him.

‘
Just move
in?’
he had questioned, driving me home in
his
Mandarin
Cortina.
‘Nothing else? That’s it?
Just move her in?’

‘
Yes,’
I had promised.

‘
Then that’s
it, Scotty. No more after that. She’s gone now, your Mum, so what
was going on, it’s finished. You got it? Cos, if you bring it up,
if you mention it to Tony, I’ll just deny it. I’ll deny it all. Got
it?’

I’d got it. And that’s why
I searched his room for evidence, for back up, in case he tried to
wriggle out of his promise. In case I needed his help or money
again.

But the day at the
derelict house was different: once he had told me everything he
knew, I really was going to let him go. Once he’d confessed, I
wouldn’t need him for anything else.

‘
Anything
else?’ he’d asked me, as I handed over one of the letters: the one
Mum had just written. The other I would part with later, once we
were done.

‘
Yes, I want
to know who Shirley White is.’

He’d nodded. There was a
wooden crate in one corner of the room. He dragged this over,
dusted it off as best as he could with his hands, and sat down.
Then, he looked directly at me, trying to work something
out.

‘
You’ve really
never met him?’ he asked.

‘
No.
Never.’

He’s just
someone I’ve overheard them talking about,
I wanted to confess,
but I know he’s
important. I know he is. And now I’ve read Mum’s letter, I know
just how important, but that’s it. That’s all I have.
But I couldn’t say that; if he realised just how
little I knew, he might not tell me anything else. Might not think
it was his business after all. I had to play carefully.

‘
Not even seen
a picture or photo?’
Uncle
Gary continued.

‘
Not of him,’
I answered, and he squinted at me through the dusty shadows of the
derelict room, as if that would help him understand my response. ‘I
found some photographs. At Crinky’s. You were in them, with
Shirley. Years ago. I saw some at yours too. Under your bed, in
that draw. So, I know you know Shirley, and I know you had the
letters that Mum wrote to him.’

Uncle
Gary had nodded, as if he understood, as if he
could appreciate my position of knowledge and my certainty that he
was the one with the answers I needed to complete my
story.

‘
I’ll tell you
what I can,’ he said, pulling a cigarette out from a packet with
his teeth, using a silver Zippo lighter to spark it up. ‘I knew
Jackie. Knew Shirley, too. Those photos you got your hands on?
Found them at Crinky’s gaff, did you?’ I confirmed with a furry,
hooded nod. ‘Long time ago, that. We were mates, me and Jackie.
Shirley, too, for a bit. Jackie and Shirley were a couple, but we
were all mates to start with.’

He drew hard on his
cigarette and let the smoke come out through his nose, slowly,
buying himself time to think his tale through.

‘At school, Jackie and me
were best mates. Known him most of my life. Then, Shirley came
along and we eventually lost him. Didn’t see him for years, but
then he got in contact with me again, about two years ago. He
wanted to see your mum. Wanted to come home. So, against my better
judgement, I said I’d speak to her, speak to your mum.’

Wanted to
come home.
I soaked up the significance of
this phrase. My instincts had been right all along: Jackie was
important to us, Jackie was family. The letter I’d stolen had
suggested this too, there was an affirmation in the
text.

‘I thought it would just
be once or twice, and then I’d be out of it. I didn’t want to get
caught up in a family dispute, particularly as it was your family.
Your dad. But after a few messages, the letters started. And it got
complicated – but you know about that bit?’

I did. See,
that’s where I came in. I wasn’t involved to start with – I wasn’t
part of their letter exchange business at all. But, then I found
one of the letter’s Mum had written, negligently left on the
kitchen side when she wasn’t thinking. Saw the name written on the
envelope:
Jackie.
Of course, I started asking her questions, questions she
couldn’t and wouldn’t answer.