rounds. I’d been embarrassed more than once by the exaggerated care she took when she was in a crowded place, among ‘the golliwogs’, as she called them. It was a small, dark shock to me, that she was prejudiced.
‘No, Tess,’ Maureen said. ‘They’re all right. Some people don’t like them, but in my experience, they’re decent enough.’ She sat with her cup in mid-air, her cigarette glowing in the half-light. ‘No,’ she continued, pursing her lips. ‘It’s the Irish you’ve got to look out for. I don’t like to speak ill of my own, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that. When an Irishman goes bad, he goes all the way.’
That night, Maureen must have believed all her predictions had come true. My father got to the door and tried the handle. There was a long silence, then he knocked. Not loud, just a knock. If my mother had locked the door on him at home, he would have broken it in without a moment’s hesitation. But that was how he worked. It’s how so many drinkers work: at some level, a ghost of common sense still operates, and he knew Maureen wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. ‘Maureen?’ He waited. ‘It’s Tommy,’ he said. ‘I’m locked out here.’
We’d all been awake, and now we were up, Maureen downstairs in the hall, my mother, me, Margaret and a Maureen-clone in frozen attitudes all the way up the stairs and on to the landing. Maureen looked at my mother. ‘I’m not letting him in,’ she said.
My mother shook her head. ‘Go back to bed,’ she said to me. I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to stay to the end either. Not out there on the stairs. ‘Go on,’ my mother said. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
I didn’t believe her, but then, as I lingered, Maureen spoke. ‘Off to bed, you two,’ she said. ‘And not a squeak out of you.’ She smiled sadly. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Your Dad will be fine.’
That night was the end of our Birmingham adventure. My father tried to hang on, doing what he always did in such situations – acting as if nothing had happened, as if everything was going fine – but with Maureen watching him as closely as my mother had been, he couldn’t keep up the pretence. My mother had contacted the council in Cowdenbeath and found out we could have our old prefab back and, soon, we were on the road, traipsing from one bus to another with our boxes and suitcases, stopping off on the way at Blackpool for what was billed as a family holiday. It didn’t work out that well, though: after we’d got settled in our digs – a seedy, cramped guest house a few streets from the front – my father disappeared to the pub and we hardly saw him for the next ten days. What I remember best about that holiday is that Emile Ford and the Checkmates were playing in Blackpool while we were there. Somehow, my mother found the money to take me and Margaret to see them. Emile Ford was one of my heroes at the time, an extraordinarily good-looking man from Nassau, whose biggest hit, ‘What do you want to make those eyes at me for?’ was number one in the Hit Parade for several weeks in 1959.
After the show, we waited around at the stage door till he came out, and I got his autograph on a black-and-white Postcard from Blackpool showing the famous tower looming over the sands. Emile Ford told me they had a tower just like it in Paris, then he patted me softly on the shoulder and got into a car. I remembered him for months afterwards and, whenever anyone asked me about our trip to England, I talked about Emile Ford.
That was the year we got television. Till then, we hadn’t been able to afford it, and my mother had been against it anyhow, preferring the radio that played all the time in her warm kitchen, making an island refuge of the place while she cooked and boiled laundry on the stove, filling the room with steam and the smell of hot starch. She liked to listen to Sing Something Simple on a Sunday night, and there were children’s
‘No, Tess,’ Maureen said. ‘They’re all right. Some people don’t like them, but in my experience, they’re decent enough.’ She sat with her cup in mid-air, her cigarette glowing in the half-light. ‘No,’ she continued, pursing her lips. ‘It’s the Irish you’ve got to look out for. I don’t like to speak ill of my own, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s that. When an Irishman goes bad, he goes all the way.’
That night, Maureen must have believed all her predictions had come true. My father got to the door and tried the handle. There was a long silence, then he knocked. Not loud, just a knock. If my mother had locked the door on him at home, he would have broken it in without a moment’s hesitation. But that was how he worked. It’s how so many drinkers work: at some level, a ghost of common sense still operates, and he knew Maureen wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. ‘Maureen?’ He waited. ‘It’s Tommy,’ he said. ‘I’m locked out here.’
We’d all been awake, and now we were up, Maureen downstairs in the hall, my mother, me, Margaret and a Maureen-clone in frozen attitudes all the way up the stairs and on to the landing. Maureen looked at my mother. ‘I’m not letting him in,’ she said.
My mother shook her head. ‘Go back to bed,’ she said to me. I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t want to stay to the end either. Not out there on the stairs. ‘Go on,’ my mother said. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
I didn’t believe her, but then, as I lingered, Maureen spoke. ‘Off to bed, you two,’ she said. ‘And not a squeak out of you.’ She smiled sadly. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Your Dad will be fine.’
That night was the end of our Birmingham adventure. My father tried to hang on, doing what he always did in such situations – acting as if nothing had happened, as if everything was going fine – but with Maureen watching him as closely as my mother had been, he couldn’t keep up the pretence. My mother had contacted the council in Cowdenbeath and found out we could have our old prefab back and, soon, we were on the road, traipsing from one bus to another with our boxes and suitcases, stopping off on the way at Blackpool for what was billed as a family holiday. It didn’t work out that well, though: after we’d got settled in our digs – a seedy, cramped guest house a few streets from the front – my father disappeared to the pub and we hardly saw him for the next ten days. What I remember best about that holiday is that Emile Ford and the Checkmates were playing in Blackpool while we were there. Somehow, my mother found the money to take me and Margaret to see them. Emile Ford was one of my heroes at the time, an extraordinarily good-looking man from Nassau, whose biggest hit, ‘What do you want to make those eyes at me for?’ was number one in the Hit Parade for several weeks in 1959.
After the show, we waited around at the stage door till he came out, and I got his autograph on a black-and-white Postcard from Blackpool showing the famous tower looming over the sands. Emile Ford told me they had a tower just like it in Paris, then he patted me softly on the shoulder and got into a car. I remembered him for months afterwards and, whenever anyone asked me about our trip to England, I talked about Emile Ford.
That was the year we got television. Till then, we hadn’t been able to afford it, and my mother had been against it anyhow, preferring the radio that played all the time in her warm kitchen, making an island refuge of the place while she cooked and boiled laundry on the stove, filling the room with steam and the smell of hot starch. She liked to listen to Sing Something Simple on a Sunday night, and there were children’s
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