M word, p.6
M Word, page 6
Pangs still remain.
‘But, Maggie,’ Davis says. ‘While it can mean the flaps of a tent, it also means the …’
‘Yeah, I’m aware what it also means, Davis,’ I go. ‘It’s inspired.’
‘But we’re not a girl band,’ Alfie pipes in.
‘So,’ I go.
‘So, we can’t call our band after …’ Davis points to my crotch. ‘After … that.’ I could’ve straddled him. Just for a kiss – nothing sinister.
‘Far too weird,’ Alfie goes.
‘OK, hands in the air for the Flaps,’ I go.
Two girl hands in the air.
I joke-snarl at the lads.
They look at the floor.
‘Sorry, Plum, I tried,’ I go.
‘I didn’t think they’d go for it anyway,’ she says.
‘When we decide to dump these two losers, we can call ourselves the Flaps, deal?’ I go.
‘Deal,’ Plum goes.
‘What’ve you got, Maggie?’ Alfie asks.
My turn to look at the floor.
Pure rotten being all-mouth-and-no-action girl. That’s just me, I guess. I lightly tap my thighs. Then it comes to me.
‘The Scars,’ I blast out.
Silence.
‘The Scars?’ Davis goes, face knotted.
‘We can’t call ourselves the Scars. People’ll think we’re mental,’ Alfie snorts. ‘They’ll slaughter us when they realise we’re just four completely normal people.’
Normal?
Oh, if he only knew the half of it, or saw my thighs. Don’t think normal lives in my brain.
‘People’ll laugh at us if we’re crap not cos of our name,’ Davis goes.
‘Not after we practise and get shit hot they won’t,’ Alfie goes.
‘What do you think, Plum?’ I go, hoping for some female backup.
‘It sounds pretty aggressive to me, Maggie,’ says the Flaps girl.
‘OK, hands in the air for the Scars,’ Davis goes.
Dead space.
I don’t even vote for myself.
‘You’re such squares,’ I go.
I take my boot in the balls with poor grace.
And so, we’re officially branded.
Welcome on stage … the Damp!
*
I position myself in front of the mic. The others warm up by plucking, twanging and sounding their instruments. I want to be sick. Mortos. Feel like I’m walking naked around town. OK, I’m ready.
Alfie beats us in. Plum follows. Davis hits the strings. I lean into the mic.
First proper practice. We sound worse than shit. Davis hasn’t exactly mastered the guitar. Anything other than A, D and G chords confuse the hell out of him. Alfie has about as much rhythm as dads at a wedding. My voice rasps like I’m undergoing root canal. FFS. Plum is the only genuine talent among us. A proper musical whizz; makes you sick. God knows why she’s chosen to be in a band with those two. And me. I know she’s not my type, but I do like the cut of her jib.
The Bank
Mum’s practically exploded my phone with messages. Needs me to pick up some food before the place shuts. Heehaw in the cupboards. Fridge empty. She must be starving. Why can’t she do it? It’s not as if she’s snowed under with work, is it? I know she’s unemployed but that’s no excuse for laziness. What am I, a pure skivvy?
You can’t just waltz in off the street, doesn’t work like that; Mum’s made an appointment for me to make the collection. I say nothing to no one. Before we attempt ‘one last song’ I make some dodgy excuse about having stomach knots and bolt. Plum gets women, the lads don’t. We agree to rehearse same time next week. I want to tell Davis to batter round to mine later to talk songs, creative direction and stuff, but I doubt I could take the humiliation of a lame excuse; rejection slap. Doubt Mum would roll out the welcome mat anyway.
Knots do actually twist in my stomach as I approach the place. I glance around to see if anyone recognises me. Check over my shoulder. Coast clear. Free school dinners are one thing, but this is red neck times fifty. God, if ever Mum needed a rich guy in her life, or even a guy with a wage, this was it.
You can’t take a list with you and simply pick from the shelves; no automatic doors to let you in and out; no glum security guard following you as if he’s James Bond. There are no aisles. No checkout. No cards. No money. No payments. Best thing about the food bank? It’s free. Worst thing? Everything else.
At the hall of the gospel church I press the buzzer. Look around again. Door opens. I can’t keep my head upright. Hate this bit.
‘Can I help you?’ some old dear with a blue rinse goes.
‘I have an appointment,’ I go.
‘What’s the name?’
‘Maggie Yates. My mum phoned earlier.’
She checks. Green light. I’m in.
I do like the worn-out wooden floors. Would make a decent rehearsal space. But I’m not a singer now, I’m a shopper. An errand slave. A scrounger. I don’t even get an opportunity to browse; they’ve already made the bags up. Would it be rude to rifle through them, saying, ‘Don’t like that, won’t eat that, that stuff’s vile, that’d make me vom, you can keep those’? Would that be too offensive? Probably.
Five bags. Mean, how the buggery am I going to carry five bags home? Five bags with a ton of tins in them: beans, soup, rice pudding, tuna, ham, more soup and more beans. Dead heavy things like sugar, rice, jam and potatoes. Who needs a gym? Few trips home from the food bank and your muscles will never need a steroid again. Five bags of different sizes and companies; everyone will know where I’ve come from. Devastating for the street cred. But this is the new helpful, caring and mature daughter in me. I’ll be all over that soup like a pig in a trough.
My hands are falling off me. I battle on. No rest. It’s an endurance test; see how long I can deal with pain, similar to when I’m under the shower with the nozzle turned all the way to red. Steam everywhere.
My arms feel wobbly with the stress. I know I should stop, have a breather. Means I’ve lost though, doesn’t it? I’ve let it defeat me. No chance that’s happening. I’m a warrior. Xena without the tits and leather. I lumber on, sweat all over the place: back of my knees, puddle in my belly button, moist thighs. Teeth gritted with every step. Pre-art-school Maggie might’ve chucked the five bags all over the road. Moya would’ve been with me, urging me to do it. Pure army of tins rolling about and us trying to kick them off each other’s shins. And we’d have sat pissing ourselves as the birds tried to suck up alphabet spaghetti. If only.
I practically crash through the front door, into my cheerless house. Council don’t give a shit about light, or people like us. Mum’s watching Dinner Date, which is looped on some dodgy channel. I hear it. I’m guessing she’s watched six in a row.
‘That you, Maggie?’ she goes.
Who else would it be?
‘Yeah,’ I go.
Whatever you do, don’t get up to help, just sit there on your cake hole.
‘Get the stuff all right?’
‘Yeah.’
Honestly, don’t dare get up and help.
No, no, no, you sit where you are.
You OD on Dinner Date; don’t mind me.
I’ll unpack as soon as I oxygenate my lungs again and stretch the rawness out of my hands.
I’m pure raging, want to go full metal racket on her; do something. Anything. Can life be that bad? Mean, seriously, it’s such a luxury being flaked out in front of the telly every day. Wish I could do it.
I drag the bags into the kitchen and start unpacking the loot.
‘What did they give us?’ she shouts.
‘Soup,’ I shout.
‘What kind?’
I rummage.
‘Tomato … lentil … chicken … another chicken.’
‘That’s decent,’ she shouts.
‘Want some chicken?’ I shout.
‘No.’
FFS, no joke.
Larry
Right, that’s it, I’ve had my last Pot Noodle in here while Mum watches mind-numbing TV. Don’t want to be a total heartless bitch, but it’s nicer spending time on my own. It’s not that I don’t give a hoot about Mum getting laid off; I do. Who wants to be worse than poor? I just don’t know how to be around her; can’t keep nipping her head about jobs or asking if she managed to get out of her chair today, can I?
I take the food to my room. Open Instagram. God, I hate Instagram. Close it. Do the same with Twitter and Snapchat. I should be with her.
It’s time to find her a man: some trouser who’ll make her feel wanted and vital. Some sad cardigan who likes nothing better than sofa nights watching people on talk shows who think they’re important. Some boot-cut who’ll part the clouds for her. Who knows what the power of a man charmer will do: keep her afloat? Be a human life jacket?
Maybe I should get one for myself; Davis is definitely on the list. Oh, I see him put on his best personality when he’s around me, trying his hardest not to be a dick. To ooze cool and appeal. Or is that just me who’s doing that?
If he thinks I’m easy, he’s pissing in a typhoon. If he snares me – or whatever – then he’ll be keeping it well tucked away. Be assured.
It was Anna’s idea that I keep a diary. Course it was Anna’s idea; who else would suggest such life-coaching guff? She wants me to fire all my thoughts and feelings into words: charting the progressions and regressions kind of compost. Even gave me a flowery notebook to kick it off; much better than social media purging. You won’t catch me fishing for comments or hoping to get triple figures in likes or RTs.
Disclosure, I did try the whole diary thing out, mainly cos I’m a numpty. I was rubbish, all I did was drew pictures of ‘the Maggie Yates Autumn Range’ and commented on the clothes that Alexa Chung, Beyoncé and Lady Gaga pranced around in.
After designing a maxi dress fat people won’t look ridiculous in, I scribble the heading:
Finding Mum a Fella
Then a subheading:
Maggie’s Six-Point List: (the dream)
1.Must be easy on the eye. (Needs to be someone who gets housewives foaming: a George Clooney or Gerard Butler.)
2.Must be loaded/well off. (Shirt and tie gear has to be worn to work with a monthly wage coming into a bank account.)
3.Must own his own house. (Not some flat above a kebab shop – this has to be a proper front-door-back-door gaff.)
4.Must be childless. (There’s no place in this situation for a pain-in-the-arse twiglet.)
5.Must be healthy. (Not freaky though, like drinking his own piss for breakfast or anything like that.)
6.Must be liked by me.
Larry’s perched on my bed, the little slothy lamb that he is. Old enough to be my age. Old enough to be my best friend. I gaze at him. He tries to return my stare, but it’s Moya’s eyes that reflect back: clear, energetic and present.
I need her to check this list out; want to see her head shake, her cheeks balloon, her tongue rip the piss.
No way, Mags. You’re off your nut if you think you’ll find someone like that.
What?
Dream on, headbanger!
Girl’s got to dream though.
But, Moya, there must be some …
You’re surfing a rainbow, she goes.
Why? I go.
Cos guys like that don’t exist.
Some do.
In la-la land, maybe. Not round here.
Got to aim high.
There’s aiming high – she nods to the list – then there’s this.
It’s called ‘blue-sky thinking’, Moya, I go, doing that two-finger thing. Hate when people do that.
Blue-arse thinking if you ask me.
Her laughter sheets its arms around me; my body radiates as if it’s been Tasered.
It’s good to dream, I go.
Agree, girl, but the guys who’d make this list – she points to my pages – are either married or living in films.
You think?
I’d bet your virginity on it.
Well, it’s no harm to see what’s out there, is it?
I’ll tell you something for nothing, Mags.
What’s that?
Erm, HELLO! Wake up, smell the shit: male dreamboats don’t live around here.
Just thinking what Mum would like, Moya.
But, you’ve got another problem, haven’t you?
Which is?
Your big chick is only ever attracted to dickheads, isn’t she?
True, I go. Dickheads, deadbeats, tools, wankers. You name it. That’s why drastic action is required. Especially now.
Agree, Mags, but that bar needs lowering.
Our eyes don’t shift from each other’s; Larry looks drunk the way he’s flopped on my bed. Needs a scrub too. White wool gone grey; a bit rank. Yet, it’s her voice that bleeds through me, so lucid. Can’t believe this is happening again, thought the other day was a one-off. Thing is, it doesn’t feel as bonkers as I know it should. Moya had a soft spot for Larry too, even though she used him to point out my non-existent sexploits.
No, you’re dead right, Moya, I go.
Yeah, I know I am.
She gives me one of those trashy American you-go-girl finger swipes; can’t explain how much this gesture makes me want to commit mass murder, a flapping red rag to the king bull. Moya always liked being right.
I bite my tongue. Literally. Dead sore; makes water piss from my eyes. I set about making a second list, writing in a fever. When I’m done, she goes, Cross the palm, and extends her hand to me. No joke, she does.
Larry doesn’t flinch.
Maggie’s Six-Point Realistic List
1.Must have both eyes pointing in the same direction. (At least a 5/10 on the good-looking scale.)
2.Must not be a scrounger. (Won’t be constantly skint at the end of each month.)
3.Must have some sort of transport. (Doesn’t matter if it’s a clapped-out banger, just as long as he’s not hoofing everywhere on foot like a freak.)
4.Must not live at home with his mum. (We don’t want him moving in with us after six hours.)
5.Must not be a diabetes wannabe. (A pot belly’s OK, but not some massive killer gut hanging over trackie bottoms. Or a takeaway obsessive. No slob for this job!)
6.Must have my seal of approval and abide by two rules: 1. Don’t enter my space. 2. Don’t try to be cool talking about bands and films and fashion. Things you know NOTHING ABOUT.)
This is more like it, Mags, Moya goes. I can almost see her waving the list in the air. This we can work with.
Glad you approve, I go.
How we gonna do it? Can’t just pounce on randomers in the street and ask them if they fit the bill. That won’t work.
Oh, really? Duh alert!
Unless you guarantee they’d get their hole.
Fuck’s sake, Moya.
From your mum, I mean. Not you.
Yeah, know what you meant. Still!
But it’s true.
How’s it true?
That’s what old people do, isn’t it?
What?
Watch a bit of telly, drink wine, then go for a ride. She has that smug look on her face; know it well. It’s all they’ve got, Mags.
Mum won’t be drinking too much wine, I go. Doesn’t mix well with the purse strings.
She’ll still be watching telly though, and lack of cash won’t affect her ability to ride …
Mum won’t be riding anyone, got it?
Sake, Mags, chill the pill out.
I’m not doing this so Mum can get her hole, Moya.
I know, but …
But nothing. She’s not exactly feeling God’s gift. Last thing she’d want is for some bellend clawing at her. That’s not why I’m doing this. I just want her to enjoy someone’s company without any thoughts of shagging, OK?
Larry’s plastic peepers glint. I can’t hear Moya any more. His head droops. I don’t hear her answer.
Got it? I go, louder.
OK, she goes. Voice soft, but I make it out.
Cos my mum needs a break, she needs some happiness; she needs to meet someone who isn’t a complete dick. Not too much to ask, is it?
I’m trying to hold it together. I feel it floundering at the back of my throat. I clench my fists. Tense legs. Can’t let Mum hear me. God, imagine she did. Imagine she just burst into my room and saw me shouting at Larry. She’d have me sectioned.
I count to ten; Anna swears by it. I don’t actually count, just breathe heavily through my nose and circle my wrists. My voice lowers. It’s not much, Moya, is it?
No, she goes. She can’t look at me. It’s not much.
Right then, I go, not knowing how to continue our confab. Or rant.
I scrunch my toes hard, nearly crack them. The pain shoots up my legs until it hits the mark. Mission accomplished! Reward and release at the same time.
For some reason, I want to swing Larry around my head and bounce him off every wall in my room. It’s tragic looking at his permanent string smile.
I boot the bed’s base. Bad move. Hope Mum doesn’t hear the thud or my howls when the stinging sensation kicks in. Dinner Date is far too important.
Big toe on my left foot has its own heartbeat it’s pulsating so much. Might’ve given myself a fungal infection. Black toenail. Misshaped. Looks like a conker. Not a perfectly smooth, oily one that you can’t stop stroking. No, this is one of those sorry-arsed deformed ones that you’d rather crush with your heel. Sometimes I think my brain looks like a deformed conker, too.
Toe is sore as hell.
So, this is happening then? she goes.
Maybe.
Suppose I’ll help then.
How? I go.
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t answer cos she’s full of shit; trying to push my buttons, tease me. Reminding me of what I’m missing. Anyway, she can ram it. I don’t always need her.
There are ways, Mags, she goes. There’s always a way.
Believe
She sat on my bed as I pure grilled her about missing school. Felt like a teacher. Told me she was hanging around with some guy most days.
