Читать книгу Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café - Debbie Johnson, Debbie Johnson - Страница 12

It’s my own fault, I think, as I make my way towards town. If I hadn’t passed out in front of the goggle box, she wouldn’t have been able to sneak past me and into the night. I’d known she was more upset than she’d been letting on – about the letter from college, about life in general, the potential move to Dorset– but I’d let her escape to her room and fester in it.

I didn’t even bother doing the usual ring-round of her friends. She’d moved on from them. I did, however, ring Steph – the police lady who had become half a friend. After bringing Martha home that night, we’d bumped into each other a few times in town, and she’d always been kind, not only asking how Martha was, but asking how I was as well. So few people ever asked that, and I was pathetically grateful. Funny how you can present a tough front to the world, but a random act of kindness from a virtual stranger can bring on the waterworks.

So tonight, I took a chance, and called her, trying to sound light-hearted but feeling the weight of the world bearing down on my shoulders. The rational part of me knew Martha would be all right – but the part of me that read a lot of books was extremely concerned with serial killers, rohypnol in drinks, and strange European men who kept girls in sound-proofed cellars for years on end.

“Yep, I’ve just seen her,” Steph confirmed. “She was with the same people as before – that gang that hangs round the bus station – and it looked like they might have been heading for The Dump.”

The Dump is a local nightclub, on the edge of Bristol city centre, and it’s about as lovely as the name implies. The Dump isn’t its real name, of course – but it’s how it’s known to locals. It’s had about five different names since I’ve been old enough to pay attention, and seems to change it all the time in an attempt to revamp its slightly dodgy image.

It’s a squat 1970s building on the edge of a small strip of kebab shops and tanning salons, and it’s been there forever. Me and Kate used to go there, and it’s never once gone out of fashion. Probably because it was never even in fashion – it’s not a cool club.

Its floors are sticky with decades of sweat and spilled beer; it always smells of smoke despite the ban, and the fire exits are rickety old metal steps corroded by rust. I’d had many very fine nights there myself, in a different lifetime.

After I finish talking to Steph, I decide that I will simply go and find Martha, and bring her home. I don’t know why I’m freaking out so much – but some kind of instinct is telling me that this is important. That if I let this one slide, it will be followed by an avalanche. That I’ll never get her back again. I’m sure I’m over-reacting, but trust that instinct anyway.

Wearing flannel pyjama trousers, Kate’s Glastonbury hoodie and my Crocs, I march all the way to the club. I’m slightly out of puff as I arrive, and definitely out of patience. By the time I bump into Steph, I probably resemble a furious gnome who buys her clothes in a charity shop.

“Did you see her go in?” I ask, after we’ve said hello. “Because you know she’s only 16 … they shouldn’t be letting her in at all …”

“I know, I know,” she replies, placatingly. “And this place is overdue a raid. But I didn’t actually see her go in, no, so there’s nothing I could do. You know how it is.”

I nod. I do know how it is. When I was younger, I adored the fact that the doormen at The Dump didn’t pay too much attention to how old you were. I was coming here from the age of 15 onwards and nobody ever batted an eyelid. All it took was seventeen layers of foundation, a push-up bra, and a lot of attitude.

“Wish me luck,” I say, trying for a smile, “I’m going in.”

I stamp over to the doorway, and see a large, beer-bellied man with a shaven head, smoking a cigarette and looking at a video on his phone. I try to walk past him, through into the dingy entrance I know so well, but he holds out a hand and stops me.

“Do you have ID, love?” he asks, with half a smile. He probably thinks he’s being funny. On a normal night, I might think it was funny too.

“I’m 38,” I snap back, glaring at him. I’m feeling angry now – angry at the whole world. Me and Martha have more in common than she’ll ever understand. “And I’m looking for my … my daughter. She’s only 16, and I think she’s in there. Bet you didn’t ask her for ID, did you?”

The bouncer takes a smart step back, and I realise I’ve been right up in his face. Or his chest at least, which I’ve also been poking with my finger as I spoke. I’m not a tall woman, or a big one – truth be told I could fit into Martha’s clothes if I was so inclined – but in my experience, most people are a little bit afraid of an angry ginger. Especially an angry ginger who looks like she’s just got out of bed, and could explode like a nuclear missile at any moment.

This man is almost a foot taller than me, and probably weighs in at twice the amount. But I am not in the slightest bit concerned – I have the eye of the tiger, and he’s going to hear me roar. It’s funny how easily I slip back into this: the tough girl; the angry girl; the girl who takes no shit and is always ready to rumble. The old me, in other words.

“Okay, okay, calm down …” he says, now completely backed up into a corner, holding his ham-sized fists up in a gesture of surrender. “Go in and look for her. I won’t even charge you. And if she is 16, I’m sorry – I do check IDs, honest, but the quality of the fakes these days is unbelievable …”

I back away, and clench my fists at my side. His co-operation has taken the wind out of my sails, and I realise that I’m more angry with myself than him. It’s not his job to keep Martha safe – it’s mine. And I’m not doing it very well.

I walk in, and despite its many revamps, it still somehow smells and feels the same. I know where Martha will be – the freak show dancefloor. The place for the indie crowd, the rock crowd, the retro crowd.

I clomp down the narrow stairs, passing clubbers wearing Vans and DMs rather than Crocs, all of them sporting very fine eyeliner, even the boys. There’s a lot of black, and facial furniture that makes Martha’s few piercings look tame. They stare at me with a mix of confusion and hostility, and I realise that I must look insane: my age marks me out as someone’s mum, but my random clothes and crazy lady hair mark me out as someone who needs a crisis intervention team. I smile and wave just to scare them more. Young people, eh? They always think they invented weird.

As I descend, I hear the music change from the thumping rhythms of hip-hop to the thrumming guitars of a Muse track. I recognise it immediately: Uprising. An absolute killer of a song, all that clapping and beeping and ‘screw you world’ chorus-ing.

The room is dark, and only half full. It’s a Wednesday night, after all. Most Goths and emo kids are safely tucked up in bed. The ones that are there, though, are going wild – the dancefloor is throbbing with shuffling bodies, dark hair being swirled around, arms waving in the air, a steady stomp of feet on wood beating in time with the song. A strobe light plays over them, picking the dancers out in individual flashes: a pair of excited eyes beneath black eyebrows; a grinning face singing along; a dark fringe swinging from side to side; fists pumping the air in communal rebellion as the chorus grinds on: we will be victorious…

I have a moment of pure excitement: some kind of emotional muscle memory, or maybe a flashback to simpler times. Times when this was my tribe, too – when I would be out there stomping and swirling and bursting with the thrill of it all. With the music and the dancing and the sheer amazing possibility of what the night might hold. Of knowing that no matter how bad it all was in the outside world, here, with my people and my songs, it could still all be okay. Better than okay. It could be amazing.

The song draws to a triumphant close, and I scan the crowd as it does that weird between-tracks pause, where everyone waits for a second to see what the next choice is going to be, and whether they want to dance to it or not.

I spot her, standing in a small circle of shadows, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. The strobe passes, and for a split second it focuses on Martha’s face: glistening with sweat, grinning, eyes ecstatic. 16 years old, and drunk. High on life, and God knows what else. 16 years old, dyed hair, piercings, surrounded by older kids who are more extreme versions of her. 16 years old, but to me, forever a little girl.

I want to rush over, and wrap my arms around her, and sing the Postman Pat theme tune with gusto. I want to take her home and feed her fish finger sandwiches, and let her sleep in her Stephanie wig and her Shaun the Sheep pyjamas. I want to tell her I love her, that I will always love her, that she is my whole world. That I would die for her. That I would do anything to protect her and keep her safe.

As I stare at her across the room, I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. Here, in this place, where Kate and I used to dance and sing and laugh and drink, always believing that we were somehow immortal, it feels okay to cry. It feels right and proper, like some kind of tribute to be paid to the memory of my dead best friend, and everything we meant to each other.

Kate is gone. I am alone. And Martha needs me.

All of this happens in a split second, the tears and the sadness, so sudden I almost fall to the ground. But I can’t do that. I need to get my girl, and get us both home.

A Foo Fighters song has come on, and the crowd is dancing again. I walk across the dancefloor, beer-sodden toes slipping around in my plastic shoes, shouldering people out of the way, weaving through the gyrating bodies. I walk towards her, and her friends, and they all turn to look at me.

Martha’s face falls into a place somewhere between anger and embarrassment, and the tribe tries to close in around her. I’m guessing they know who I am. I’m sure she’s told them stories about her control-freak fake-mother, and I’m sure they’re sympathetic. Somewhere, somehow, I’ve become The Man – how ironic.

One of them, a tall, skinny guy with a spider web tattooed around his neck, stands between us. He probably thinks he’s cool. He probably thinks he’s tough. He probably thinks I’m scared of him.

He’s probably wrong.

I gesture for him to come closer, so I can make myself heard over the sound of Dave Grohl, and whisper into his ear: “I need to talk to Martha. So back off, don’t try and stop me, and I won’t pull that nose ring right out of your nostrils, okay?”

He rears up, trying to look unimpressed but not entirely pulling it off. I meet his eyes, and he seems to realise that I’m being serious. He doesn’t back off – that would be too big a bravado fail – but he doesn’t resist when I slide past him, either.

For a moment, I feel bad – he can’t be more than 19 himself. Still a kid, despite the tats and the attitude. What right do I have to judge him, or threaten him? None at all – apart from the right that being Martha’s fake-mother gives me. Still, I glance over my shoulder at him, and mouth the words: ‘Thank you.’ He frowns – for some reason that seems to scare him even more.

Martha stands frozen, completely still, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes don’t look quite right – they’re trying to focus on me, but keep sliding around. She’s clearly drunk, at the very least. I meet her gaze, and the world fades around us. I try to ignore the music and her friends and the strobe light and the jostling of young bodies dancing away their anger.

I close the gap between us, and lean close so she can hear me.

“Martha, it’s time to come home,” I say, simply.

“Why?” she replies, her expression torn between a sneer and sadness. “It doesn’t even feel like home any more. She’s not there. You hate me. Even that crappy bloody college doesn’t want me. There’s just … no point.”

Part of me – a part I bury very quickly – actually agrees with her. It does all feel pointless. Like an endless battle, a constant round of pain and recovery and more pain. And the house – that lovely little house in a nice part of Bristol – doesn’t feel like home any more. It feels like a prison, for both of us, with Kate’s ghost wandering the halls and whispering into our ears at lights out. I want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep, for the next two decades at least. But I can’t. Because of her. Because of Kate. Because they both need me to be the best person I can be.

“I don’t hate you,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I love you. And I know these are your friends, and that you think they’re looking after you, but it’s time to come home.”

“They are looking after me! More than anyone else does!” she shrieks, stamping her foot onto the dancefloor. I cast a quick glance at the friends in question, and understand the power that they hold over her. Despite their challenging appearance, I’m sure they’re not bad people. I’m sure they are, in their own way, looking after her. And I completely understand the lure of that – of rebellion, of escape, of finding a crowd of like-minded rejects to make you feel less rejected yourself.

But I also understand how dangerous it could be for her. She’s new to this battlefield, and she doesn’t have the armour she needs yet. She doesn’t have the shell I had by her age, layered on over years of instability and neglect.

“I know you think that. And we can talk about it all later. But now, I need you to come home. Please.”

I’m amazed at how calm I’m sounding, when inside I just want to yell and scream and possibly pull her out of that place by her hair if I need to. Maybe this is one of the secrets of parenthood: resisting those urges, and walking the better path.

“Look,” I continue, watching as she chews on her lip, tearing the flesh away with her teeth, “I get it, all right? It feels like the whole world’s got it in for you. You’ve lost the best mum in the world, and now everything’s gone to shit. It doesn’t feel fair, or right, or like the pain will ever end. And losing yourself in moments like these is the only way you manage to stay sane. I get it. I understand. I don’t have any answers, Martha – but I do know I want you to come home with me. I love you, and I want to help you.”

I can see tears shining in her eyes, and a debate raging across her face. There’s a battle going on inside her: the tough Martha who wants to tell me to eff off and run away to live in a squat, and the good Martha – the one who knows, deep down, that what I’m saying is right. I stay silent, and let her think it through, spending several surreal moments surrounded by dancing kids and feeling the strobe light flash over my disastrous hair.

Eventually, after more chewing, and the angry swiping away of those annoying tears, she says: “Can I finish my drink first?”

I am instantly submerged with relief. The good Martha has won out – and letting her finish her drink seems like a small price to pay for what feels like a huge victory. In fact, I feel like a drink myself.

She wanders off to the side of the dancefloor, where empty glasses and beer bottles are lying on a shelf. She picks up a green bottle, and swigs from it. Her protector from earlier – Spider Man – hovers behind us, and I wonder momentarily if he’s going to cause trouble. If he’s going to try and persuade her to stay.

Instead, he gives me half a smile, and offers me a bottle too. Peroni, which is classier than I expected. I nod gratefully, and take the drink from him. I kind of want to hug him for that small gesture, but think it might terrify him. I take a gulp, and realise that I’ve been running on adrenaline for a while now. Knowing that Martha is safe, here with me, and not locked up in a cellar with a creepy old dude, releases some of it. Enough for me to actually enjoy a quick drink of lager, and enough for me to respond when the first notes of the next song kick in.

It’s instantly recognisable, and impossible to mistake for anything else. The strutting guitar riffs of David Bowie’s Rebel Rebel blast out into the room, and a collective whoop of joy goes up from the crowd. I look at them flocking to dance, David still issuing the rallying cry of freaks the world over. I feel the beat, deep in my soul, and my toes start to tap. This was one of our songs – mine and Kate’s. We danced to it at home, in her garage, and here. On this very dancefloor, so many times – pouting and prancing and spinning and doing silly actions, feeling the music and the lyrics lift us higher than any drug ever could.

I take a long, deep chug on the beer, and place it down on the shelf. I look at Martha, and raise one eyebrow. She used to dance to it with us as well – bopping around the living room in her pink ballet tutu when she was four; jumping off the sofa to it and into our arms. When she was older, we’d go giddy with it, all pretending to sing into hairbrushes or wine bottles, sticking our chests out and mincing all over the room.

She gives me half a smile, showing me that she remembers – and then we’re off. Both of us, winding our way into the crush of bodies, the black-clad teens and the tattooed wonders and the pierced babies of the world. We are in the very middle of the dance floor, where the action is – and we go for it.

We strut and we jump and we wave our arms and we spin each other round and we laugh and we pull faces. We pose and we pause and we leap – we shine in the strobe lights, hair cascading around our sweating faces. We jig and we stretch and we point at each other as we sing that magical, wonderful line – hot tramp, I love you so. We are brilliant. We are awesome. We are the bloody Diamond Dogs, and we are howling at the moon.

When the song fades to its close, we wrap our arms around each other, and we weep. We weep for Kate. For poor David Bowie. For ourselves. We weep for all we have lost, for all that we had, for all that we will never have again.