she stopped being the person that mattered and became simply the drudge – the one that brought food into the flat that could be taken from the cupboard,
fridge or table, the one that locked the door at night and paid the telly man and the club for clothes. She simply was the flat – a place to hide or sleep. And she was money, either by asking
or by theft.
Gary was the only one who didn’t get older. Didn’t stop needing her. Didn’t stop smiling at her and hugging her and creeping into her bed at night. When it got to the stage of
them all being out with the gangs of other kids on the estate, she and Gary had the flat to themselves. She’d cook a tea for him and herself – the others came and went as they pleased,
grabbing food when they fancied it or begging money for pies and chips.
She and Gary would eat sausage butties in front of the telly; he would help her to dry up, carrying cups one at a time from the table to the cupboard, performing each task with the careful
interest of a child. He would talk about his day at school, the teachers and the story he’d been read; bring home misshapen drawings of people with huge heads and stick bodies, as the others
had done when they were little, before school became a dirty word.
He’s a good boy. He loves his Mum. I tell him he can make us a cup of tea. He fills the kettle, with the tap running slowly, watching it, careful. Turns the tap off before he moves the
kettle out from under it. No splashing. Checks the switch is off; plugs it in. It always takes a bit longer than you think, it’s like he’s the other side of glass – or water. I
think sometimes, he’s just putting his hand through, he’s just putting his eyes through. When it’s plugged in he switches it on. Waits, till he can hear the noise of the element
heating. Then he gives us a smile. He’s got a lovely smile. He’s so busy smiling he’s forgot what’s next so I point to the mugs. He puts them there side by side. Pushes them
carefully a couple more inches back from the edge, like he’s arranging them for a bleeding display. Every little thing matters to him. I like watching him, when I’m not in a hurry.
It’s soothing, like watching them fish at the dentist’s.
Only he’s not like the fish cos I know what he’s doing, I know why. He pushed the mugs in from the edge so’s they won’t fall off; he puts a tea bag in each cup, and
when he’s put them in he has another look to make sure they’re in. When the kettle boils he watches it till it switches itself off – I’ve told him not to touch it,
it’ll boil for a good minute before it goes off though. Then he pulls out the plug, holding the handle of the kettle as if it’ll bite him, turns it round awkwardly so’s he can
grasp it with his right, lifts it slowly and pours into each cup. He never spills a drop. When he puts it down he gives me a look again, checking I’m watching. Then he squashes the bags with
a spoon, he likes that bit, sometimes he starts to hum to himself. He does what I’ve told him – pulls a saucer by the cup, fishes the bag out, drops it on the saucer. Then the other
cup. Then he’s getting the milk out the fridge – carrying it carefully, with both hands, taking the top off careful, careful, with his big clumsy fingers.
It can take him fifteen minutes to mash a cup of tea, I’m not kidding. But he’ll do it. And be pleased as punch, when at last he’s coming towards me carrying the mug high,
not a drop spilt – grinning from ear to ear.
I know every movement. Every move he does, I know. Like I made him. I tell him how to do it. And when they learn him something new at school he comes home and shows me; he can write his
name. When he does something wrong, I tell him. He doesn’t get let off. He learns from it.
She tried to keep up with the others. Scolded Tracey and locked her in after the first time she stayed out all night. Went down the school to see the teacher when she got
fridge or table, the one that locked the door at night and paid the telly man and the club for clothes. She simply was the flat – a place to hide or sleep. And she was money, either by asking
or by theft.
Gary was the only one who didn’t get older. Didn’t stop needing her. Didn’t stop smiling at her and hugging her and creeping into her bed at night. When it got to the stage of
them all being out with the gangs of other kids on the estate, she and Gary had the flat to themselves. She’d cook a tea for him and herself – the others came and went as they pleased,
grabbing food when they fancied it or begging money for pies and chips.
She and Gary would eat sausage butties in front of the telly; he would help her to dry up, carrying cups one at a time from the table to the cupboard, performing each task with the careful
interest of a child. He would talk about his day at school, the teachers and the story he’d been read; bring home misshapen drawings of people with huge heads and stick bodies, as the others
had done when they were little, before school became a dirty word.
He’s a good boy. He loves his Mum. I tell him he can make us a cup of tea. He fills the kettle, with the tap running slowly, watching it, careful. Turns the tap off before he moves the
kettle out from under it. No splashing. Checks the switch is off; plugs it in. It always takes a bit longer than you think, it’s like he’s the other side of glass – or water. I
think sometimes, he’s just putting his hand through, he’s just putting his eyes through. When it’s plugged in he switches it on. Waits, till he can hear the noise of the element
heating. Then he gives us a smile. He’s got a lovely smile. He’s so busy smiling he’s forgot what’s next so I point to the mugs. He puts them there side by side. Pushes them
carefully a couple more inches back from the edge, like he’s arranging them for a bleeding display. Every little thing matters to him. I like watching him, when I’m not in a hurry.
It’s soothing, like watching them fish at the dentist’s.
Only he’s not like the fish cos I know what he’s doing, I know why. He pushed the mugs in from the edge so’s they won’t fall off; he puts a tea bag in each cup, and
when he’s put them in he has another look to make sure they’re in. When the kettle boils he watches it till it switches itself off – I’ve told him not to touch it,
it’ll boil for a good minute before it goes off though. Then he pulls out the plug, holding the handle of the kettle as if it’ll bite him, turns it round awkwardly so’s he can
grasp it with his right, lifts it slowly and pours into each cup. He never spills a drop. When he puts it down he gives me a look again, checking I’m watching. Then he squashes the bags with
a spoon, he likes that bit, sometimes he starts to hum to himself. He does what I’ve told him – pulls a saucer by the cup, fishes the bag out, drops it on the saucer. Then the other
cup. Then he’s getting the milk out the fridge – carrying it carefully, with both hands, taking the top off careful, careful, with his big clumsy fingers.
It can take him fifteen minutes to mash a cup of tea, I’m not kidding. But he’ll do it. And be pleased as punch, when at last he’s coming towards me carrying the mug high,
not a drop spilt – grinning from ear to ear.
I know every movement. Every move he does, I know. Like I made him. I tell him how to do it. And when they learn him something new at school he comes home and shows me; he can write his
name. When he does something wrong, I tell him. He doesn’t get let off. He learns from it.
She tried to keep up with the others. Scolded Tracey and locked her in after the first time she stayed out all night. Went down the school to see the teacher when she got
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