Byker Books

 

 

If I fortify myself with a double gin, I can quite happily sit with Sandra in the room above the shop, look out into the back lane, snigger at Bethany next door hanging rows of grey knickers out to dry, same as back then. She hasn’t changed at all. Still looks (and sounds) like an extra out of Byker Grove, still wears that nylon thing she bought from Peacocks, how long ago?

 

Who fucking cares. You’re not here any more.

 

There’s nobody to make up tales about her that would leave me in stitches, however often repeated, while you dragged on spliff after spliff, hiding them away when Sandra came upstairs for her break, but of course she knew. How could she not? She emptied your ashtrays. She saw your eyes.
And you stank. You fucking stank. That’s why she wouldn’t let you help downstairs. It was in your hair, your beard, everywhere. Only smokers don’t know how much they stink. You were rank. I felt I was going to throw up if I got too close to you, but I had to get close. Had to. That’s why I started to drink. To dull the senses. Some of the senses.

It’s not that you were dirty or anything. You washed your hair everyday, and would smell like a fucking wet dog for half an hour or so. I’d run my fingers through your hair to dry it, feeling the heat of your scalp on my knuckles, giggling because you wouldn’t use conditioner so I’d end up tangled in your mane, where let’s face it, I wanted to be. We’d laugh, and you’d grab my wrists and pull me down and we’d have a snog and then I’d gag on your foul breath and say I could hear Sandra on the stairs, and you’d let me go just in case, never knowing – or maybe you did – that it was a lie.

Then you’d build another spliff and I’d sit too far away, but for fuck’s sake, I needed to breathe. You’d think I’d gone all shy – needed a break after being so close – so you’d encourage me to have another drink, and another, and then I wasn’t so shy any more, and we’d end up with a good half hour before Sandra closed up shop.

The painting still hangs downstairs, over the till. ‘Proprietor: Billy Thompson’ it says on the label. I painted it for you. You were so proud; you hung it there for all the world to see – and know – that you wanted me for more than just my artistic talent. Fair enough. I wanted more too. Much more. Fucking got it too. I wonder why Sandra still keeps the picture. Perhaps she just likes it. Could be, though I doubt it, as she’s not exactly Kirsty whatserface off the fucking culture show, or whatever it’s called.

I wish I could like her. You liked her enough to marry her, so she must have something. She’s got massive boobs, so I suppose I can see the attraction. Just wish she wasn’t so thick, the daft bint.
You know what? Despite everything, she still keeps your ashtrays and lighters; still tends that stupid little apple tree in its plastic pot, out in the yard. It used to produce half a dozen manky apples each year, and in springtime was covered with blossom that made me want to cry out to you, Chrissake, don’t smoke! Stop! Breathe the air, breathe the blossom! Breathe me – please, breathe me, touch me, taste me. (But gargle with some Listerine first.)

Too late. When I come to work now, Sandra greets me kindly enough, though still with that suspicious look. She knew some things, guessed others. Wouldn’t have been hard, but it doesn’t matter any more. She welcomes my help in the shop, and when she closes for lunch, we go upstairs and she makes me a cup of tea. Pours in a slug of brandy. We both need it. I sit in your chair. Put my hands where yours used to be. We chat, pass the time of day, but she never tells me stories like you used to. We don’t even talk about you, just our kids, and what they’re up to now. I tell her about ‘Jemima’ and ‘Peter’, talk about piano lessons and elocution. She never thinks Puddleduck and Rabbit, more fool her; never wonders about the posh names, never realises I live in two streets away in Fenham, never even been to Jesmond; never realises I’ve no life outside the shop, no kids, nobody, nothing. Not now you’re gone.

She thinks I’m better than she is, and I’m not about to tell her otherwise. Not fucking likely. I’m git posh as far as she’s concerned, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

The tree doesn’t produce apples any more, she says. It stopped when you... I want to pour a bottle of gin on its roots, a libation, an offering, a promise, but I think you’d be somewhere up in the branches laughing at me, and I know it’s a silly idea, but still.

I’d take up smoking if I thought – but no, you’d laugh even more, and I’ve no wish to stink.

Maybe I should tell her. Maybe not. Maybe I should suggest a bottle of gin and see what happens next. She really is pretty. Who knows. You used to say – you’d describe – is that what you want us to do? Really? She’s blushing. Did you tell her? Yes, of course you did. You told us all. How many were we? Ten? Twelve? More? You claimed dozens. I never believed you. I think, in the end, there was only ever Sandra and me.

Sandra and me.