There were never any seaside holidays or weeks in Spain. I didn’t even get day trips to Windermere or Grizedale or Blackpool. Nothing like that.
The only trip away I could remember was to a Pontin’s in North Wales. I must have been five or six years old. A dim memory of a dark pub with seats upholstered with a blue plaid fabric like the seats on the City buses. It was a variety night with Orville the Duck. I was sitting between Donald’s legs under the table pouring a can of cheap supermarket bitter into an empty pint glass. Barbara had bought a pint of lemonade, made me drink it, and then kept the glass in her lap. My mouth and hair were sticky. The brown fluid turned white as it hit the glass, and it fizzed over her patent leather court shoes.
‘Tip the glass! Tip the glass!’ I remember her hissing, and kicking her feet out of the puddle.
It was because of the money. Neither of them worked. Barbara had been a cleaner, a dinner lady and an office help, but now she was nothing and Donald got money from the City to stay at home and she had an allowance of some kind for looking after him. It was also because of Donald. The more interesting and colourful Donald’s spare room became, the less he needed to leave it to go into the outside world. The things going on in his head were much more real to him, more real, even, than the documentaries and nature programmes he liked to watch on the television. Gradually I learned that if we wanted to talk to Donald, we had to go into that place with him.
Even so, we weren’t that unusual. We might have been bigger home-bodies than most, but no one we knew left the City very often. It just wasn’t done.
When we got to the shopping centre, Barbara took Donald’s arm and pulled us through the revolving doors together. The three of us were wedged into a single segment of the turning mechanism. The blast of the hot air heater was directed down at us, and Donald started to sweat heavily.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, and pointed through the glass, ‘they’ve still got the Christmas trees up.’
‘Your father isn’t a child,’ Barbara said, and I let the sigh out, very slowly between my teeth so she couldn’t hear it, and the door completed its revolution and we were spat into the warmth and twinkling lights of the shopping centre. It was still prickling with silver tinsel and the air was clogged with the dry, solvent smell of spray-on frost.
‘Where are we going?’ I said, and peered across Donald to Barbara, who was heading towards Boots and brandishing a handbag so brown and shiny it looked like it was made of wood. Brandish is right – she carried it over her wrist, held in front of her like a weapon. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to turn and melt into the crowd like a curl of steam. I knew, then, what she was going to do, but Donald was smiling and tugging me gently along, a fold of my new coat gripped between his finger and thumb.
The decorations in Boots were more subdued. When we got to the perfume counter the woman who was supposed to be serving was kneeling on the top of a short stepladder. There was another ladder on the back of her tights, disappearing up her skirt. She was winding a red ribbon around the display cases on the shelf behind her. Red, heart-shaped stickers dotted the boxes and bottles because there was a special offer for Valentine’s Day and they were putting the displays up for it already. She didn’t notice us until Barbara dropped her handbag heavily on the glass counter.
Barbara coughed. ‘Excuse me, miss?’
The woman turned then hopped, heavily, down from the ladder, staring at Donald and tweaking the hem of her skirt downwards. I wanted to say, ‘He’s not like that ,’ loud, and in a tone like Barbara’s – but Barbara spoke first.
‘My daughter,’ she said, with such clear dignity I could tell she had rehearsed it, and imagined her standing barefoot on the linoleum in her bedroom, straightening the rosebud cover
The only trip away I could remember was to a Pontin’s in North Wales. I must have been five or six years old. A dim memory of a dark pub with seats upholstered with a blue plaid fabric like the seats on the City buses. It was a variety night with Orville the Duck. I was sitting between Donald’s legs under the table pouring a can of cheap supermarket bitter into an empty pint glass. Barbara had bought a pint of lemonade, made me drink it, and then kept the glass in her lap. My mouth and hair were sticky. The brown fluid turned white as it hit the glass, and it fizzed over her patent leather court shoes.
‘Tip the glass! Tip the glass!’ I remember her hissing, and kicking her feet out of the puddle.
It was because of the money. Neither of them worked. Barbara had been a cleaner, a dinner lady and an office help, but now she was nothing and Donald got money from the City to stay at home and she had an allowance of some kind for looking after him. It was also because of Donald. The more interesting and colourful Donald’s spare room became, the less he needed to leave it to go into the outside world. The things going on in his head were much more real to him, more real, even, than the documentaries and nature programmes he liked to watch on the television. Gradually I learned that if we wanted to talk to Donald, we had to go into that place with him.
Even so, we weren’t that unusual. We might have been bigger home-bodies than most, but no one we knew left the City very often. It just wasn’t done.
When we got to the shopping centre, Barbara took Donald’s arm and pulled us through the revolving doors together. The three of us were wedged into a single segment of the turning mechanism. The blast of the hot air heater was directed down at us, and Donald started to sweat heavily.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, and pointed through the glass, ‘they’ve still got the Christmas trees up.’
‘Your father isn’t a child,’ Barbara said, and I let the sigh out, very slowly between my teeth so she couldn’t hear it, and the door completed its revolution and we were spat into the warmth and twinkling lights of the shopping centre. It was still prickling with silver tinsel and the air was clogged with the dry, solvent smell of spray-on frost.
‘Where are we going?’ I said, and peered across Donald to Barbara, who was heading towards Boots and brandishing a handbag so brown and shiny it looked like it was made of wood. Brandish is right – she carried it over her wrist, held in front of her like a weapon. I wanted to walk away. I wanted to turn and melt into the crowd like a curl of steam. I knew, then, what she was going to do, but Donald was smiling and tugging me gently along, a fold of my new coat gripped between his finger and thumb.
The decorations in Boots were more subdued. When we got to the perfume counter the woman who was supposed to be serving was kneeling on the top of a short stepladder. There was another ladder on the back of her tights, disappearing up her skirt. She was winding a red ribbon around the display cases on the shelf behind her. Red, heart-shaped stickers dotted the boxes and bottles because there was a special offer for Valentine’s Day and they were putting the displays up for it already. She didn’t notice us until Barbara dropped her handbag heavily on the glass counter.
Barbara coughed. ‘Excuse me, miss?’
The woman turned then hopped, heavily, down from the ladder, staring at Donald and tweaking the hem of her skirt downwards. I wanted to say, ‘He’s not like that ,’ loud, and in a tone like Barbara’s – but Barbara spoke first.
‘My daughter,’ she said, with such clear dignity I could tell she had rehearsed it, and imagined her standing barefoot on the linoleum in her bedroom, straightening the rosebud cover
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