Disconnected Page 6

  To Taz (4)

  The vodka helped, didn’t it? It changed your mood. And telling me helped too, I think. You were able to get it all out of your system. At least I hoped so. I felt sorry for you, I admired the way you stuck by your mum, and that made me like you more. I also looked up to you because I could see your life was hard in a way mine wasn’t. You already knew stuff I didn’t. And I reckoned it must be strange to look like one thing and be another. Because anyone looking at you would write you off as a typical Asian boy, but you weren’t. That was like me too, I thought hazily. I look like a nice well brought up middle-class girl, but I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t want to be, not any more. I wanted to choose.

  OK, Taz, I’m lying. I don’t suppose I had any of those thoughts then, that night. That’s just how it seems to me now. What actually happened that night was that we got smashed. The more vodka we drank, the more foul it tasted. The Greek stuff was even worse and we had to drink it like medicine, holding our noses. We watched a helicopter with a searchlight looking up in the skies. You asked me to tell you about me.

  I just said I was taking A-levels but I wasn’t sure that was what I wanted to do now. You just listened. I said nothing made sense any more, and all the people around me made me angry, my parents, my teachers, even my mates. They led such narrow lives, they could only see in terms of their own rules. They couldn’t see that people could be different to them, and that it didn’t matter if they were. Maybe I was feeling your anger and I thought it was mine, just like I didn’t know whether it was my hand inside your parka pocket or yours.

  Then it was too much of an effort to talk so we did what any boy and girl would have done, we started to kiss. I remember the warmth of your mouth on mine and how nice it felt. We kissed, hugged, got as close to each other as we could. I wasn’t at all scared of being alone with you like that. I really didn’t care what happened.

  Of course nothing happened. We were both pretty drunk. Once all the booze had gone there was a bit of an anti-climax. Then you said you were feeling better and it was still Saturday night and you were up for a good time now. I also felt a rush of energy. We stood up and hugged each other once more and kissed again, confidently, because we’d learned the shape of each other’s mouths, we knew each other. Then we scrambled down the embankment laughing about something or other and feeling ridiculously happy. Soon we were back in town in a brilliant mood, finding everyone absurd and funny, the couple walking towards us in matching specs, the bloke on a bike with a headlight that kept flashing – you were going on about him flashing at us, which creased us up – anyway – we found ourselves in the centre of town without any money.

  “I know where my mates are,” you said.

  So I followed you to Victoria Gardens. I knew people hung out there. Kids at school bragged about going to Victoria Gardens. It was just a scrubby open place in the centre of town that was too bare to be called a park, although there had been some attempt to grow grass there. Even the trees didn’t look like proper trees but outgrowths of old wood, knotty, gnarled and tired. The moshers and other people sat on the benches. The bins were full to overflowing. Some old woman was rooting around in one of them. Then you saw your mates.

  “Hey, look, it’s the Paki,” Steve said, but you smiled and didn’t seem to mind.

  We went over and you introduced me properly to Steve and Mac. I liked them immediately because they just accepted me. I was your friend and that was good enough for them. I was Cat. Nothing else mattered. They squeezed up to make room for us so you sat on the bench and I sat on your lap. They asked us if we had anything and I felt bad that we’d drunk all the booze between us. I would have liked to have had something to offer them. But there was a joint being handed round and eventually it came to you. You took a draw or two and handed it to me. Did you know that was the first time I’d even smoked a cigarette, let alone weed? I tried not to let it show. I copied what you had just done and held the smoke in my mouth. I tried not to cough. Then I passed it on.

  No one said much. There was a bit of conversation about some people I didn’t know, about some bloke who’d moved on to Sheffield. But otherwise we just all sat together. The together bit was what mattered. There were other people to watch, some drunks, a kid throwing up in the bushes, a group of girls who had come from a club and were gawping at us. Then I thought back to my other life at home and Victoria Gardens seemed unreal. Then I thought, hey, this is real, and my other life was the one that wasn’t real. Like, who was Catherine Holmes anyway? The name was meaningless if you said it over and over again. What was I? Only a construct of my parents, a name on a list between Hill and Iqbal in the register at school. Cat was real, Cat who came out at night.

  That little voice, that gnome, told me it was late, told me to look at my watch. It was almost too dark to read the time. 2.30am – as late as that. I knew I ought to think about getting home, only I didn’t want to make the first move. And I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get home. There were no late buses where I lived. You noticed I looked at my watch. You said you thought you ought to be getting home too.

  So we walked. We walked out of town, along the New Road past the car showrooms, miles and miles, it seemed, hand in hand, and you watched me run down my road and let myself in with the key. And on the way home you memorised my phone number, and I memorised yours. As soon as I got to my bedroom, I wrote it down.

  And my father came into my bedroom and said, we’ll talk to you in the morning, young lady. Bang. The prison doors slammed shut.

  To My Mother (2)

  Perhaps the next thing wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t grounded me. Or perhaps it would.

  My crime, apparently, was not ringing to let you know where I was. You had no objection, you said, to me staying out late, but you needed to know who I was with, where I was, and how I was coming home. At the time I thought you might as well plant a tracking device on me. What was the point of going out if I had to keep myself linked to home all the time? You were less bothered about the vodka I’d taken, and believed my lies about the party I went to being an all-nighter.

  The idea was that if I was grounded, I would be so bored I’d catch up on my work. Fine, except now you’d given me a motive not to work – to spite you. OK, I know that’s childish, but you and dad were pretty childish screaming at me because you didn’t have the kind of daughter you wanted. I don’t know what’s happened to you, Catherine! Do you understand the effect this is having on the family? I can’t sleep, I’m so worried about you!

  OK. So it was Easter Monday. You’d invited round Auntie Megan and Uncle Joe as usual as well as some of Dad’s Rotary friends. I had to be there too. The thought was like torture to me. Even in the olden days when I was a good little girl I got really bored at those sorts of gatherings. I was never sure what I was supposed to do at them. Just hang around, bring in trays of food and stand there while you boasted about me. When I was quite a bit younger I liked being boasted about, but in the last couple of years it had got dead embarrassing. Worst of all were Dad’s friends who would look straight at my chest and say, Catherine’s getting a big girl now. That’s why I told you I was going to stay in my room.

  I remember the look on your face when I told you that. Anger, but not just anger – there was fear too. I could see you were scared you couldn’t handle me any more. I was pleased in a nasty sort of way, but I was scared too. Part of me wanted you to sort me out, to stay in control. The other part just wanted to defeat you. There was a stalemate. Then I had another idea, which, if I was clever, I could make out was a compromise.

  “OK,” I said, sounding as if I was climbing down. “But you’ve got to understand it’s boring for me, with no one there of my age.”

  You saw what I was getting at and took the initiative.

  “Do you want me to invite someone of your age?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who? Lucy?” Your tone of voice was conciliatory – pleased, even.

  “Well, I
was thinking of a new friend of mine. A boy, actually”

  Mothers are so transparent. I could see your mind working. You hadn’t bargained for a boy, but on the other hand if you could get this boy into your territory, so to speak, and find out what he was like, you’d know what you were dealing with. It would be far less embarrassing for you than having me locked up in my room while all the guests were there. I knew I was in a strong bargaining position.

  “Do I know this boy?”

  “No. He’s a friend of Brad’s. My age,” I said. “Taking A-levels.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Taz – it’s a nickname.”

  “Taz!” You laughed indulgently. “Well, all right.” You picked up the paper again but I could tell you weren’t reading it. You put it down again a minute later. “So, this Taz,” you continued. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I wish I knew. I honestly couldn’t say.

  “No,” I replied. It was the safest answer. A few kisses meant nothing. And besides, the last thing I wanted was you probing, and giggling, and telling everyone that Catherine’s got a boyfriend. Not that my reluctance to say anything stopped you telling Megan. I don’t blame you – she is your sister. I guess if I’d had a sister, I would have told her everything. Did you know I overheard you?

  You two were in the kitchen preparing the food. I had actually come down to help you, had put my hand on the doorknob and realised you were talking about me. So I stopped. Then I found I couldn’t tear myself away.

  “It’s so out of character! My greatest worry is that there’s something physically wrong with her. It had even crossed my mind that it’s chronic fatigue syndrome as she seems so listless, but she goes out for long walks, and was out very late the other night. But on the other hand, she sleeps in for hours, and she still isn’t working, Megan. Or maybe it’s even a form of depression. If so, I can’t think what has triggered it. Everything was going so well at school. After those superb GCSE results we were certain that Oxford or Cambridge was on the cards. She has everything going for her! She’s always been so bright, so hard-working. Why should she suddenly switch off? I wondered if she was in with the wrong set of friends, but they’re the same friends she’s had throughout school, and they’re all working. I even thought she might be experimenting with drugs. That’s still at the back of my mind. I think I’ll have to have a talk to her. Because I can’t accept that she should throw away everything just on a whim. That makes no sense at all. There has to be a reason.

  And you can imagine how this makes me feel. To watch my only daughter, with so much promise, risk so much. I thought we were so similar, so close. I thought she was just another version of me. What hurts most is that she won’t explain, Megan! That she won’t see sense. That she doesn’t seem to understand what I’m going through. Yes, I will pour myself another glass of wine. It’s not too early, is it? I need something to fortify me while I prepare the cake. It’s as if she’s deliberately set out to hurt me. And it’s not as if she can catch up that easily. If she has to repeat her AS-levels next year, then that means an extra year’s school fees, and where are we going to find those? Peter was hoping to retire. She doesn’t think about that, does she? The young are so selfish. My only hope, Megan, is this boyfriend of hers. Maybe it was all just hormones! Perhaps we should have encouraged her to go out with boys earlier. He’ll bring some balance to her life. He sounds like a nice boy, at college, she tells me. Her age. No, I haven’t met him. Well, here’s hoping he’ll put her back on the straight and narrow. Hooray for men, that’s what I say! Whoops! Is that slice of cake retrievable? Better put it in the bin. Do you think I should have a coffee before the guests arrive?

  Yes, I heard all that. And I thought, if I’m so like you, I can get pissed too. So I went into the living room and poured myself a large sherry. Drank it, then poured another. I needed it. I felt awful about inflicting you and all of this on Taz, but I had to see him. Because I was grounded, it was the only way I could think of.

  Dad and Uncle Joe came in from the garden then and found me drinking. They just said to pour something for them, which I did. Uncle Joe felt in his pocket and gave me a twenty-pound note.

  “Buy yourself an Easter egg with this,” he said.

  I thanked him. I’ve always liked Uncle Joe. God knows what he saw in Auntie Megan. Or how she ‘lowered herself’ to marry him. Even though really he owns a factory where they make bathroom accessories – yes, toilet roll holders, loo brushes, and the like – Auntie Megan always says he’s ‘in business’. You can’t even mention what Uncle Joe does for a living unless you turn it into a joke. Uncle Joe was always dead generous with me, though. We had a little chat.

  “So how old are you now, Catherine?”

  “Seventeen,” I said, amicably.

  “Seventeen. You should be learning to drive. We gave Brian and Nick driving lessons for their seventeenth birthdays. Both passed first time. Then Brian pranged Megan’s car.” He laughed at the memory. “So are you going to learn?”

  “I might do,” I said.

  “Girls are less interested in motors than men,” Uncle Joe said as an aside to my father. That riled me.

  “Not so,” I said. “Quite a few of my friends at school are learning, and Melissa’s actually passed her test. She did an intensive course.”

  And didn’t we all know about it? Her parents had even bought her a second-hand Mini as a runabout. She had it fitted with a CD player.

  “I must move with the times,” Uncle Joe said, genially enough. “And it gives a girl a lot more freedom to have a car. Less dangerous than using public transport. Though when I was a lad…”

  I’m sure you don’t want me to repeat the rest. Uncle Joe’s reminiscences could bore for Britain.

  The guests started to arrive then. I was on red alert, waiting for Taz. I hoped he hadn’t lost his nerve. I could hardly blame him if he had. You and Dad’s friends were the pits. Sorry. I know they’re probably nice people and everything and I accept I don’t know any of them that well, but together they just depressed me. They were so stiff. And it was all small talk. The weather, holidays, the sales at John Lewis’s – it was just talking for talking’s sake. Like, I thought none of you really cared about each other. Well, I knew you didn’t. I knew you and Dad had invited the Rotary chairman and his wife, Ted and Valerie Porter, even though you couldn’t stand them. You felt obliged. There you were air-kissing Valerie and complimenting her on the suit she was wearing.

  I offered to pour the drinks. I abandoned the sherry as it was pretty sickly, and moved on to the wine. Where was Taz? I was lost in a sea of flowery dresses and designer handbags, and men in suits with swollen paunches, tinny laughter, pathetic plates of finger food that the women were guzzling down while pretending not to be eating, a guffaw of laughter, clinking glasses, and you in the middle of it all, half-cut, looking both pleased and frazzled. At that moment my mood was precariously balanced. If Taz came, I would be on a roll, reckless; if Taz stood me up I would be finished, destroyed.

  Only I heard the doorbell because of the volume of noise. I wriggled out of the crowd and opened the front door. Taz hadn’t let me down after all. We just smiled at each other. Really smiled. I wanted to kiss him but didn’t. I knew I was more drunk than he was and I wanted him to catch up with me. He’d made an effort with his appearance. He was wearing black combats and a black vest top and his leather jacket. He’d spiked up his hair with gel and I reached out and touched it.

  “Cool!” I said. I took in his olive skin and dark brown eyes and thought that Taz was beautiful, in a way. Men can be beautiful too. I don’t think beauty is just an attribute of women. I thanked him for coming because I realised that he must be feeling nervous. I was nervous on his behalf and I hoped I hadn’t been selfish inviting him.

  And then it started. I took him into the living room and went up to you, and said, “This is Taz!”

  The look of shock in your eyes. The way the people in your group loo
ked at you to see what your reaction would be. The way you tried to cover up your shock.

  “Taz! How nice! Catherine has told me so much about you!”

  Except, I thought, that he was Asian.

  Taz was all tensed up, cracking his knuckles again. You just kept coming out with this crap about how lovely you were able to come, did you find the house easily? You were playing for time so you could recover your composure. Taz’s eyes were darting everywhere, taking in all the plates of food, the piano, the country garden style three-piece suite and all the polite haw-hawing from your guests. I took his hand and squeezed it.

  “Taz?” said Ted Porter, who had been busy chatting you up. “What’s that short for?”

  “Tariq,” he mumbled. I knew he was squirming with embarrassment and I felt selfish for bringing him.

  “Tariq. Ah. You wouldn’t be Dr Patel’s son? Good chap, ears, nose and throat.”

  “Patel is a Hindu name,” I interrupted. “Tariq’s family is Muslim.” I couldn’t be bothered to be entirely accurate.

  “Pardon me!” Ted Porter said, humouring me. “So what branch of medicine does your father practise in, Tariq? Or is he a GP?”

  “He’s not a doctor,” Taz said. “He had a job in a distribution warehouse but he’s been laid off.”

  Ted Porter glanced at you in surprise, and you raised your eyebrows – my God! It was as if you had forgotten we were both there. Being drunk is no excuse, Mum. All my life I’ve been brought up not to be rude and there you were being such a snob – and showing it in public. In a way, it was funny. I realised that Taz’s colour wasn’t an issue. If his father had been a consultant surgeon or company director he could have been lime green, you’d have still been delighted to see him.