Right.
You are married to an occasional drug user. This is how she sees it. At any rate you are married to two people. One is a fairly normal bloke, The other uses heroin. You have a child. This child must be protected at all costs. This is the most important thing in the world. In the world. More important than you. More important than your drug taking Husband. We have had many conversations with you. We have been called upon to referee in shrieking arguments. You have pleaded with him. He has made the usual empty promises. But it’s different now. There’s another person in the mix. There’s another life for him to fuck up. And he will. Believe me, he will. So. The question is what do you do now? I know. We’ll have another child. What? “What?” We say. They both come to visit. Her, smiling. Shorts, shiny straight legs. Him, glassy eyed. But smiling. They make the announcement. We dig our pleased masks from the cupboard. My face is stiff. No.1 Grandchild is smiling. Everyone appears to be happy. Mummy is less grumpy. Daddy is playing with him in a maniacal way. Grandma and Grandad appear to be pleased. All is well in his little world. He doesn’t know we are filled, yet again, With terror and dread. Again. They leave. It’s a spring day. There’s a veiled sun, A light breeze. They clamber into the car. They look every inch the happy family. I know there’s no such thing, But the charade looks good. He looks handsome today. She looks pretty. Child is happy and laughing. We wave them off. Husband turns to me “Perhaps this’ll make him see sense.” I look at him. “No, it won’t.”
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Dont get me wrong.
We didn’t keep the drug use a secret. We didn’t discuss it with her. Son told us he had spoken to her. Told her he’d taken drugs in the past. Not entirely true. Told her it hadn’t gone on for long. Not entirely true. Told her it was recreational. Not entirely true. Told her he’d always been able to stop when he wanted. Didn’t tell her that he usually relapsed. So. An edited version of the truth. Not really the truth at all. Should we have told her more? Once again we fail But we want him to be happy. This time it’ll be alright. The old lie. Kick the problem down the road. All is quiet for a while. We wait. After a week’s silence An early morning phone call. It’s Son. She’s screaming in the background. I can hear Grandchild crying. Horror. Husband leaps up. “I’m going.’ I’m still in pjs. He crashes out of the door, Car engine starts. A roar. Silence. Radio murmurs. My heart pounds. Time passes. I want to know. I don’t want to know. My insides are mangled. I shower, tidy up. Stare outside. A grey day. The garden starting to come to life. Bright green shoots on clematis and cherry tree. A lone blackbird flickers into a mass of ivy and wisteria. The door bangs open. Little feet pattering on the hall tiles. “Grandma.” He hugs my knees. He is beaming. He is grubby. Husband looks fraught. “I’ve left them to it They were screaming and shouting in front of the child.” I look at his sweet little face. What have we done? They bring a child into the world so casually. A precious life to be played with. Whirled and swirled to suit their whims. How can we save him? What do we do? The door bangs open. Wife stamps in. Picks up child. He protests. She storms out. We are helpless. Act 2 Scene 1
3 years later. The same pleasant room. A mass of twinkling lights round the fireplace Sparkle and glow. There are artfully but casually arranged silent stars. There are silver, red and gold balls Gleaming in pots and vases. A big bowl of lilies, ivy, holly and various trailing foliage Droops on the table. Not quite so Handsome Man perches on sofa. He is uncomfortable, impatient. Sweaty. He stares down at his scruffy trainers. His jeans and sweater are creased. Man and Woman have aged. They both wear jeans. She wears Converse Boots. He wears walking boots. They both look anxious and shocked. A door bangs outside. The door of the room bursts open. A golden haired child rushes in. “Daddy, Grandma, Grandad.” Smiles replace the tension. He hurls himself at his father. “We saw Santa and a penguin. I got a present.” Not quite as Pretty Woman follows him. Her mouth is a little tight. She and the Golden Child both display Santa emblazoned Christmas sweaters. He has a fluffy beard And a white pompom on his cap. She ignores everyone. Golden Child runs to a corner Drags a big box of toys out. His little fat fingers pull out Balls, spacemen, cars, tiny puzzles, green trains, silver robots. Objects whirr and squeak, Small items ping and bounce around the room. He laughs with delight. Not so Pretty Woman snaps at him “Put it away. We’re going.” His face crumples. Older Woman reaches for him. Not so Handsome Man stands. Picks him up. Tickles him. “We’d better go.” They sweep out. Golden Child is screaming. His plump round legs are flailing. Older Woman bends down and slowly Starts to put the toys away. She throws Older Man an anguished look. “She knows.” The edifice crumbles. The mirror crack’d from side to side. The stage set collapses. Older man walks slowly over to her. They pick up the remaining Planes and blocks and crayons. She kicks the box back to its corner. They are both stooped, Their faces are lined. “The spirit I have seen/May be a devil, And the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.” They leave the room. The curtain falls. . Act 1 Scene 2.
Interior. A Chinese restaurant in Manchester. A dimly lit room. Red as murder. Gold dragons creep and loom round the walls. Tongues out, nostrils flaring. Huge jade figures stand in judgement. Intricate carvings stand in glass cases. Fringed lamps in alcoves. It is busy with Chinese families With their picturesque children Peeping out from behind jet black fringes. In the middle of the room. A family. They sit round the table. They chat amiably. Middle aged woman looks on. Dark green dress. Clanking silver bangles. Middle aged man at her side. Pink shirt, jeans. Opposite them The Couple. Handsome Man. Worn Marvel TShirt, jeans. His arm on the back of the seat On which sits Pretty Woman. She wears pink silky blouse. Buttons undone exposing creamy flesh. Blonde hair held back by flowery clip. Middle aged woman glances at the door. Finally, in walks Attractive Young Woman. Artfully messy hair. Faded Smiths TShirt. Straight jeans. Doc Martens. Glinting silver necklaces. Smiles and greetings. Shaking of hands. Kissing of Parents For these are the Middle Aged Couple. The waiter appears. Drinks are ordered. Menus are opened up. Plastic covers slap on the table. Pages are turned. Contents read out. They’ve had the same favourite dishes for years. Made the same jokes. There’s an interloper now. She is quiet, shy. Expresses no preferences. Just a murmur to Handsome Man She likes prawn toasts. This is not on the schedule. Glances exchanged. Meanwhile. The drinks arrive. A toast. They clink glasses. A diamond flashes on Pretty Woman’s hand. The food is ordered. A selection of their favourite dim sum, Including prawn toasts. Peking Duck. Three main courses. Yang Chow Fried Rice. Jasmine Tea. The dishes appear. Towering steamers. Small bowls of richly coloured sauces. Dishes of gleaming, fragrant meats, Shiny vegetables snake across the plates. A dexterous waiter forks apart the Peking Duck. His tiny hands moving swiftly. He smiles at everyone. Delivers chopsticks and bowls. The family dive in. They lift lids from steamers. Their scented contents exposed. Pretty Woman hangs back. Handsome Man scoops food into her bowl. She is unsure. She asks him to get a fork for her. The Women help her. Wickedness behind their kind words. Murmurs of pleasure. Clattering of dishes. Chopsticks poking and lifting. Food piled into bowls. The dishes are emptied. A bowl of crescent shaped orange slices. The family suck on them Wiping the stickiness from their hands With wipes that smell of chemicals and lemon. Smiling waiter brings the bill. The performance is drawing to a close. The family start to fiddle around for bags and coats. The chairs clatter. The more eagle eyed in the audience Might have noticed a slick of sweat on Handsome Man’s face. A certain brittle quality about Middle Aged Woman’s exchange with the waiter. A tightness around Attractive Young Woman’s mouth. Middle Aged Man and Pretty Woman seem oblivious. The evening is done. The performance is over. They exit the restaurant. The curtain descends. And so the theatre of our lives rolls on.
The curtain rises. Act 1 Scene 1 A pleasant room. Big pictures. Ceramics. Coffee table with correct books artfully strewn. Polished wooden floor. Middle aged man in jeans and black T shirt. Middle aged woman in jeans, red shirt, Doc Martens. They sit on opposite sofas. They are both nervous. Radio 4 plays quietly in the background. Sound of front door opening and closing. Scuffling. Giggling. Male voice calls cheerfully “Hello!” Clatter of footsteps on tiled floor. Door into lounge opens. In steps a handsome man. He wears jeans, brogues and blue polo shirt. He turns. “Come in.” A pretty woman enters. She wears short swirly skirt, oversized sweater and ankle boots. He is beaming. She is smiling shyly. There are introductions. There are shaking of hands. They all sit down. Handsome Man chats easily. Pretty Woman gazes at him. Middle aged woman leaves the room. She returns with cafetière, brown sugar cubes, hot milk in designer jug. Small cakes and shortbreads on matching designer plate. Handsome Man pours and hands out drinks. They all converse. A little uneasily. Questions and answers. Gossip. Bit of discussion on films and TV. She is monosyllabic. He appears to be smitten. After a reasonable length of time. Not too long. Not too short. “We’d better go.” “Nice to meet you.” Some awkward pecks on cheeks. They leave. The curtain comes down. The actors relax. Their masks discarded. Husband and Wife look at each other in amazement. They dissolve into laughter. “Fuck me.” Says Husband. “Who was that?” Says Wife. You may wonder.
You people with your regular family lives. You may wonder. Why we allowed a heroin addict to remain under our roof. You may wonder. How we lived with someone who lied to us and stole from us. You may wonder. Why we paid his drug debts and covered up his habit. You may wonder indeed. Well. A drug addict doesn’t appear in the family fully formed. He doesn’t go out one day a normal boy And return at night a heroin addict. No. It inches. You adapt. It gets a bit worse. You adapt. You change your stance. You rewrite the rules. You regroup. This is your baby. Your toddler. Your schoolboy. Your teenager. Your troubled teenager Your young man with problems. Your young man using substances socially. Your drug addict. Each day brings a problem. Each day that problem has to be addressed. There is no plan. Just. Tomorrow it’ll be better. Tomorrow it isn’t. We are inching along in a fog. As are a lot of people. All the skinny rock singers took heroin. All the emancipated, beautiful models took heroin. All the romantic poets took heroin. And. All the scumbags took heroin. All the sad, average troubled boys and girls took heroin. All the middle aged failures took heroin. The heroin has made them middle aged failures. People living in miserable little towns took heroin. Shadowy, unexpected people take heroin. We have tried. Believe me we have tried. We have taken decisions. We have let things slide through sheer bewilderment. We have asked professionals. We have read books. We ask the addict for help. However there’s always an agenda with him. Never full disclosure. While we struggle with the ups and downs. The ducking and diving. Time creeps on. We argue. We forgive. Daughter harvests all the glory. He slips away from us. Time creeps on. The books tell you one thing. Real life is completely different. While we sort the daily troubles. We avoid the confrontation of the main dilemma. How do we make it stop? It’s trial and error. It’s living with the anxiety. Some days I can rule the world. Some days I’m hiding in a hole. Still time slithers on. Days and days. On and on. And then one day. I find myself in the car with my Son. Paying drug dealers... I’m in the garden.
The sunshine is dazzling. Everything looks bright and happy. I’m watching a shiny black beetle. It’s scrambling lopsidedly over some blades of grass. I move my chair into the shade. The beetle overbalances. It’s feelers flail wildly. I pick up a twig and flip it over. It scurries on Seemingly unconcerned by its brush with death. Son appears at the kitchen door. “Morning. Coffee?” “Yes, please.” He clatters about. I can hear the next door neighbours. Chairs are scraping into sunny positions. I can hear the murmur of their voices. We have lived alongside them for 10 years. We have an easy relationship. Stereotypically, we chat over the garden wall. They are normal ordinary people. They think we are normal ordinary people. On this lovely morning Chances are they’ll invite me over for coffee. I can’t tell them I have an appointment with Son’s drug dealer. Can’t tell them That if he doesn’t get paid today Son will be beaten. I creep into the house. “Your coffee’s there.” “Have you got a time and place?” “I don’t know yet. I’m waiting for a call. Have you got the money?” “Of course. I’ve always got the money.” We wait for the call. We have to go straight away. They call the shots. Husband is in Guangzhou. A city north west of Hong King. On the Pearl River. It sounds exotic. However, I’ve accompanied him on a few business trips. Seen some wonderful sights. Also endured some grinding boredom. There’s a lot of travelling And a lot of socialising with dull people. He’s good at it. He manages to be patient and charming. He says the Chinese are the most subtle of businessmen And of course, the food is amazing. The phone rings. I look out of the window. The sun flashes on the water in the pond. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. We get in the car. He tells me where to go. We are in a quiet back street. “Pull up on that corner.” We wait. We sit. A bee buzzes in through the open window. It bashes it’s furry body against the windscreen. We bat it outside. A car pulls alongside us with a swish. Tinted windows slide down. A ratty face stares at me. “Alright love?” He leers. I want to spit in his face. I look away. Son gets out of the car. Climbs into the back of theirs. They drive off. What happens now? I sit in the silent car. My heart is pounding. My hands on the wheel are sweating. I wait. And wait. Suddenly, he’s here. He opens the door. His face is red. “Drive.” He says nothing. I say nothing. We pull up outside the house. Soon I’m in the garden. Neighbour calls over the wall “Have you been out?” “Yes.” “Do you want to come for a coffee?” Normal service is resumed... She has left for university
A little shiny girl. She leaves the sibling rivalry The constant contests between Brother and Sister. The yoke of parents. The sharpness of family life. I still remember that small cell on campus. We watched her from her window As she walked with another older student. She looked small, vulnerable. My heart almost stopped. You prepare for this moment. You prepare for this moment. But the thoroughness of it is inconceivable. I am ill-equipped for it. We leave her there. I put my hands on her head. I can’t protect her from the world. I can barely protect myself. She seems sharply alone Although surrounded by people. “All in the same boat.” Friends say. Damn them for their stupidity. Damn them for the simplicity and thoughtlessness of those few words. Damn them for shrinking such a monumental deed into a sweeping inanity. But I’m unkind. They’re trying to help. Sorry. There is no help. None for her. None for us. Just time and time slipping by. We walk from sunshine to shade. The days and weeks go by. We feel her absence. She shrinks into her other world. Her visits shorten The gaps in between longer. It is inevitable. Like Odysseus she roams. The capital absorbs ber. She disappears into the void. She floats and laughs and loves. With people I do not know. She works hard for ungrateful employers. She is sustained by her northern working class grit. She has her Father’s clever tenaciousness. With a splash of my fancifulness. I visit her life. She shows me dizzying things. I see her lost corners. I see her deep pleasure and pride. She has strength. I see it. I am sustained by it. We’re distant. But we don’t let go. The silken thread stretches tight between us Across the land, through the air. She’s on the edge of the radar Winking on the edge of my mind. A silver fairy brings her to me. A twitch on the thread. Then she’s gone again. She winds up living alone but not lonely. In a middle class market town. Self contained. Well thought of by her employers. I visit there. We are close together in her little flat. Laughing. I felt the wrench as I left her Despite her air of self assurance and poise. And then. A whisper in my ear. In the air. Like candytuft. “There’s a job in Manchester.” My heart explodes. “I may come back up north.” The words dropping like pearls into the ocean. “Don’t bank on it too much.” Too late. She returns. Tiptoeing back on fairy feet. She stays with us for a few weeks. Little spidery hands going through books and clothes. She is given back to us. She is not the same. We are not the same. Manchester drew her back into its grubby arms. She leaves the South behind. It is done. Returned. Different. The same. |
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