Evil Relations by David Smith with Carol Ann Lee Page A

question. In the end, out it comes: ‘So, how’s Mam then, Mobee?’
    Maureen’s answer is quick, practised and level: ‘She’s fine, Myra, she’s fine. She’s gone out with Brenda Johnson from number six. Yes, she’s fine. She’s OK.’
    ‘And how was
he
last night?’ Myra never refers to Bob as anything other than ‘he’. ‘Pissed as usual?’
    ‘Oh, he wasn’t bad. Mum got herself off to bed the minute he came in. She gave him his supper and left him in his chair. Everything was all right, Myra. I swear it.’
    Myra frowns, her pencilled eyebrows meeting beneath the blonde cloud. ‘Well, if he steps out of line, you come and get me. Do you hear me, Mobee? Even if it’s the middle of the night, you come and get me. No matter what, if he fucking kicks off, you leg it round to our gran’s and you get me. Promise me you will, Mobee.
Promise
.’
    Maureen agrees, but Myra isn’t quite finished. ‘Never let anybody hurt you either, and if they do you come and see
me
, understand?’ She flashes me one of her special hard looks to emphasise that she’s in the ‘all men are bastards’ mood. I stare back, then shrug my shoulders, thinking, ‘Screw you, Myra, you’re some bit of stuff.’
    The girls go into the kitchen. Maureen washes Myra’s hair at the Belfast sink. I listen to them laughing together and re-stack the Dansette: time for a bit of Eddie Cochran to liven the joint up. I picture Bob and Nellie drinking in their separate rooms at the Steelie. Poor lonely sods. After all these years they’ve finally lost each other, nothing to show for their lives but two daughters, nothing else in common any more.
    The girls enter the living room. Much preening of Myra’s hair follows, a lot of backcombing and lacquer fizzing overhead. It smells like a proper salon, all wet and then slightly scorched. They chat about the latest mascara brands and whisper about their monthlies. A real rock ’n’ roll Saturday night out for me.
    Myra takes a turn at the Dansette and Mobee greets her choice with a scream of approval. The girls grab each other and dash to the middle of the room. I quickly push the Formica coffee table out of the way and the girls begin to jive. Mobee spins like a whirlwind, out of control. Myra catches her, mirroring every move as they sing ‘Da Do Ron Ron’ at the tops of their voices, laughing hysterically – just happy girls together.
    *
    Two or three weeks later, the Saturday after Good Friday. Why
do
we Catholics call it Good Friday? In Gorton, there’s nothing good about Fridays. Pay day and getting double-pissed, the wife’s housekeeping to one side and the undeclared leftovers down your sodding throat, screw them all, the long, the short and the tall. That’s Friday in Gorton.
    Late afternoon finds me in Siv’s again, preening myself and messing about with the jukebox. Maureen comes in without her usual giggle and tease; she’s white-faced and drawn, smoking like one of the filthy locomotives that pass my window day and night.
    ‘Dave, it’s Mam. There’s been a bit of trouble –
he
kicked off again last night . . .’
    Good Friday.
    ‘. . . and he’s at it again today. Come to the house and talk to him. He’ll listen to you.’
    Will he
fuck
, I think, knowing Bob is long past listening to anyone, stuck as he is in a two-up, two-down shit hole, surrounded by angry females and nursing his memories. He used to be a muscled paratrooper, now he’s an unemployable cripple; why the hell should he listen to anyone, least of all me?
    ‘He’s not himself, Dave. If Myra finds out, she’ll go off her head.
Please
come to the house with me – have a cup of tea or something.’
    I know Bob’s safety isn’t paramount to Maureen; she’s frightened about what might happen if Myra and he come to blows.
    I slide reluctantly off my chair and follow Maureen’s clacking heels down Taylor Street, insisting there is no
way
I’m arguing with Bob. His reputation at the back of the