Abide with Me Page 2

  I start turnin round to give Wilkins another mouthful, when Miss Felton spots us. Asks if we're all right. I tell her Wilkins has forgot his pencil.

  'Thank you, John,' she says, and tells Wilkins to go and get a pencil off her.

  'Yes, Miss,' he says.

  Wilkins pushes Kenny in the head when he goes past him and whispers something in his ear. Kenny goes all red, and Wilkins goes up to get his pencil. Horrible fucker, Wilkins.

  'Now, children. I'd like you to open your desks and take out your maths books, please. We'll begin the year with a little test.'

  Groans. Desk lids creak up and down. Pencils clatter on the floor. Someone farts. That'll be Lenny Thompson – Thommo. My best mate. Filthy fucker, he is. Everyone laughs, the boys anyway. Not the girls. A fuckin maths test is serious shit to them, and they give us some right old looks. I look across at Kenny. He's sittin up straight, pencil in his hand, tongue out the side of his mouth like before, ready to start.

  'That'll do, children. Lenny, do have some manners, please.'

  'Yes, Miss.'

  'Now, complete this test in silence, as best you can everyone. Thank you. Okay. Number one. Eighteen plus fifty-seven.'

  Pencils scratch. Thommo lets one off again. Sniggers all round. Miss Felton can't be bothered with him no more, and carries on with the test.

  'Number two. Ninety-six minus twenty-five.'

  I get four out of twenty. Not bad, for me. Kenny gets two. Bottom of the class. And he gets this big smile on his face when Miss Felton tells him, like he don't even know how fuckin stupid he is. All dressed up in his la-de-da and he's thicker than the fuckin lot of us. And as she's talkin to him, Miss Felton, he's got his head down already, writin tomorrow's date on the next page. No doubt in my mind there's something wrong with the geezer. No fuckin doubt at all. Knows his days, though, I give him that.

  But he stood out the day he walked in, Kenny did. There's the rest of us, shirts hangin out, trainers, hair not washed for days, and there's him with his white shirts and shiny shoes, and this flowery fuckin tie round his neck. Ain't like he's even gotta wear it. Not part of the school uniform or nothing. Gets peanutted more times than I can count, he does, but he never takes the fuckin thing off. Poor bastard gets his fair share of kick-ins an all. I do me best lookin out for him, you know, best I can, but it's like he's fuckin askin for it what with dressin like that and bein so fuckin dopey. I mean, for fuck's sake.

  ***

  It's me birthday come end of October. I'm about the oldest in our year, other than Lindsey Rogers, of course. She always brings a load of sweets in when it's her birthday. That's why I remember that. I have all me birthdays over The Barmy, loads of mates, kickin a ball about. And this one ain't no different.

  But on this birthday, for some reason I ain't got no fuckin clue about, Mum makes me invite Kenny. She says it's only right, seein as he lives across the street an that, and I sit next to him in class. Kenny don't seem too keen on the idea when I tell him, to be fair. But he turns up anyway, in his bloody shirt and shoes and tie get-up, mind. Fuckin idiot.

  ***

  Park's empty. Fuckin brilliant. No one wants Kenny on their team, but Dad puts him on ours anyway. We stick him in goal, get him out the way, you know.

  Robbie Jenkins won't take his coat off for a post, not even when I ask him nice and tell him it's me birthday. He says he don't care. Reckons his mum'll kill him if he gets his coat dirty, so we gotta move the pitch up the slope and use this big fuck off tree for one of the posts. Seems a good idea at the time, till Robbie slides his leg right across the side of it tryin to clear one off the line. Cuts his knee right open. Has to go back to my house with his jumper wrapped round his leg to stop the blood pissin out. Serves him fuckin right, I reckon.

  We're a man short, cos of Robbie, but none of us care. We play on for hours, till it gets dark and none of us can see fuck all. Dad's ref. I score loads and Kenny's shit. Got no fuckin idea. He won't dive or nothing. Kitted out like a fuckin waiter I don't suppose he was ever gonna anyway. He can't even catch a ball. Only time he kicks it, the silly bastard falls flat on his arse. Even Dad laughs at that one. A couple of times, Kenny gets the ball right in the face. And he never even fuckin flinched.

  Back home, Mum tells us all to go up and wash our hands. There's about ten of us, so it's a bit of a stampede. Kenny's standin in the hall waitin for the rest of us so he can go up.

  When we go in the front room, Dad's set up the wallpaper table and Mum's chucked a tablecloth on it and filled her best Tupperware with jam sandwiches, chocolate fingers, crisps – mostly twisters, cos I love them – plastic beakers full of Cherryade, and a plate of marshmallow teacakes. They're Becky's favourites. After we've stuffed all that, Mum dishes up the jelly and ice-cream. After that, she brings out this big fuck-off trifle with loads of hundreds and thousands on it. Knows how to do a party, my mum. Kenny gets a bit of stick when the trifle comes out, but Mum says anyone who carries on can go home. That stops it. We ain't a bad lot, you know, just kids, that’s all.

  ***

  Was a couple months later, headin for Christmas, when Mum tells me I'm goin round Kenny's for tea. Says she bumped into his mum in Sainsbury’s and his mum tells her what a great time Kenny had at me party and that she'd love to have me round, or some such bollocks. That day at school, Kenny never says nothing. Not one fuckin word. Then, when the bell goes at the end of the last lesson, he says to me about it. Don't look too fuckin chuffed neither. Sort of embarrassed, like. Can't say I'm over the fuckin moon meself, lookin at the state of his face every fuckin day.

  We walk out the gates together, and he goes left instead of right. I ask him where he's goin. He tells me he's goin the long way round.

  When we get to his house I see the nets in the front room move. Kenny's mum opens the door before we get to the house and comes scurryin out. Holds him right tight to her. Kenny, he's stiff as a board. When she lets him go he legs it in the house and I can hear him peltin straight up the stairs. His mum looks over at me.

  'Hello, you must be John,' she says.

  Posh bird. Can't be from round here. Loads of make-up an all, looks like one of them fuckin mannykin things in the shops. And she's got this hurry-up look on her like she don't wanna be leavin Kenny too long in the house on his own.

  'I've heard so much about you,' she says, and hurries me inside.

  I wonder if the old man's about. By the look on the old girl's face, and how Kenny's shot up them stairs, I reckon he probably is.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kenny's mum says for me to come through. First thing I notice, there ain't no doors. Where the front room is, the back room, the kitchen – all through the passage, it's just empty doorways. She shows me in the front room, tells me Kenny won't be long. Carpet's this horrible sort of brown and orange colour. Mind you, it's like the whole fuckin world's brown and orange these days; our curtains – all of em, Nan's carpet, Auntie Ivy's shoes, Auntie Ivy herself, when she's had a day at Southend. Bloody everything. It's tidier than our gaff round here, but sort of empty. No photos on the wall like what we got over our place, no pictures, no papers, no comics all everywhere, no shit all over the floor like Becky's toys. I can't even see no telly. There's just a couple of armchairs, a wooden seat by where the door should be, and a three-bar electric fire. And that's off. Fuckin freezin in here, it is.

  And there he is. Kenny's old man. Asleep in this tatty armchair in the corner, snorin like a fuckin warthog.

  Kenny's mum says she'll get me a drink and some biscuits, sort of whisperin, lookin over her shoulder at the old man all the time, like she don't wanna wake him up for the fuckin world.

  The old man's a weedy lookin fucker. String vest, army trousers. All of it filthy. And he's got these tattoos all up his arms and over his knuckles. Stinks of booze. Fuckin reeks of it.

  I sit down on the wooden seat by the door.

  Kenny's mum goes, backin out the door, not takin her eyes off him the whole fuckin time. C
omes back a minute later with a beaker of juice and a couple of Custard Creams, by which time I've nearly gone and fuckin shit meself, I'm so scared.

  She's nice, Kenny's mum. But the old man, it's like sittin in a cage with a sleepin fuckin lion. She asks me if I'm in Kenny's class at school, even though she knows I am.

  I nod me head, mouth full of biscuits.

  Fuck. The old man's wakin up. He's snufflin and yawnin and he's got his eyes half open and he's lookin straight at me.

  'Who the fuck are you?' he says, right fuckin angry.

  Eyes like piss-holes in the snow, he's got. He's scarin the shit right out of me, I can fuckin tell you.

  Kenny's mum, she tells him, all shaky, I'm a friend of Kenny's, come round for tea. Hearin her say Kenny's name, his eyes go all black. Tells her he wants to know where Kenny is. Calls him a fat bastard. Never takes his eyes off me, though, he don't, long as he's talkin. Not for one fuckin second. Kenny's mum don't like him callin Kenny a fat bastard, and she tells him, but she's twice as fuckin scared as me.

  'I said,' he says, his voice getting louder and harder, 'where is that fat fuckin bastard?'

  Tears come in her eyes, and she gets up and goes. She fuckin goes. Fuck. I wet meself a bit and hope it don't show, and I drink me juice, just to have something to hide behind. I drink it down in one hit, and when I look up, the old man's gone asleep again. I take me chances, and sneak out in the hall quiet as I can.

  Like I says, there ain't no doors down here, so I see right through to the kitchen. Kenny's mum's wipin her eyes and butterin some bread. I've half a mind to leg it out the front door right there and fuckin then, but she clocks me and gives me this sort of 'please fuckin stay' smile. I smile back, sort of simple, like, and look at the floor. I've really gotta have a piss proper, so I start up the stairs, hopin to fuck they don't creak.

  ***

  It's dark up the stairs. No lights. I reckon the toilet’s the room on the right at the top, cos it's got a door, and it's where ours is at home. I do me business and come out, rememberin to wash me hands like Mum always says. The room next to the toilet's got no door, like downstairs, and it's all dark. I take a peek. Double bed, all nicely made up. There's a light comin under the door the other side of the landin. Only other door in the house, lookin at it, other than the shit-house. Gotta be Kenny's gaff. I make me way over. The stairs was all right, but the landin, the landin creaks like fuck. I know Kenny's heard me cos I can hear him movin about inside and there's a shadow movin across the bottom of the door and back again.

  Kenny's mum shouts up tea's ready. Well, she don't shout, exactly, more sort of like whispers really loud, like Mum does when she's tellin me off somewhere quiet like the library or the Doctor’s or something. That sort of whisper everyone can hear, you know.

  I'm waitin for Kenny. But he ain't comin out. I look over the bannisters, and his mum's waitin for us. I knock on Kenny's door, tell him tea's ready. The bed squeaks where he gets off, and he opens the door a crack. Room smells of piss and the floorboards ain't got nothing on em. Poor bastard.

  I tell him again, tea's ready, but he don't say nothing, just comes out. He don't even look at me. We go downstairs and follow his mum into the back room where she's got tea on the table.

  She says for me to sit down, pointin at the chair opposite where Kenny's gone and sat, and tells me to help meself to whatever I want.

  There's jam sarnies, crisps – plain, not Twisters or Wotsits or nothing fancy like that – a plate of Custard Creams and chocolate Bourbons all mixed together, and a jug of lemonade. Kenny's mum pours some of the lemonade out for us. Kenny's already pilin up his plate.

  I'm in the middle of leanin over for a Bourbon when Kenny's old man weasels in. Everything stops. He sits down next to me, opposite Kenny's mum. She asks him if he wants a drink and holds up the bottle of lemonade. I'm shittin meself all over.

  He picks up the plate of jam sarnies and looks at her like she's gone off her nut.

  'What the fuck are these?' he says, holdin the plate under her nose. 'Jam sandwiches? Jam fuckin sandwiches?' He don't stop. 'You call this fuckin tea?' he says. Then he Frisbees the whole thing against the wall. Jam sarnies and bits of plate all over the gaff.

  Then he turns on Kenny. Leans over the table. Right in close. Tells Kenny to clear it up.

  Kenny just sits there, head down, lookin at his plate. Come on Kenny, I'm thinkin. Come on. Just do what the fucker says. But he don't. Just carries on sittin there. The old man, he ain't havin none of that. He leans right over this time, grabs the back of Kenny's hair and pulls his head right back till Kenny's lookin at the ceiling.

  'I said, pick em up, you fat, lazy, fuckin cunt,' he says.

  Then he gobs in Kenny's face and pushes his head back so hard he comes off the chair. Next thing, Kenny's on the floor pickin up jam sarnies and bits of plate. But he ain't doin it quick. He's doin it like he's got all the time in the fuckin world.

  It's all gone up a level now. The old man's really fuckin losin it.

  'That's it, little porky, on your fat fuckin belly,' he says. 'You fat fuckin piece of shit.'

  There's tears comin down Kenny's mum's face now. But she's just sittin there an all. Like Kenny did. I think about helpin Kenny out, but I'm shittin meself, and I can't take me eyes off the old man cos I dunno where he's goin next. Then Kenny's mum says something. Big fuckin mistake, that is. Tells the old man to pack it in. Hardly more than a whisper, like it's all she's got left.

  'You what?' he says. 'You say something? You fuckin say something?'

  Then he bangs her right in the face. Proper punch an all, like he's hittin a geezer. And I piss meself proper this time. Kenny's old girl falls back against the wall, holdin her face, blood pissin through her fingers. Then the old man plonks himself down in his seat, puts his head in his hands, and starts sobbin like a fuckin baby. Kenny's still crawlin round the floor pickin up jam sarnies and bits of plate, and me, I can't move cos I been froze to me seat the whole fuckin time.

  ***

  And that was tea at Kenny's. I didn't tell Mum nothing. Said I pissed meself on the way home from school. She says not to worry, and gives me a kiss on the head. That's when I started bawlin me eyes out.

  Come night-time, I'm lyin in me bed. Can't sleep. Been tryin to close me eyes for ages, but soon as I do, I see Kenny's old man cryin his heart out and Kenny shufflin about the floor pickin up jam sarnies, and all over there's the sound of his old girl screamin.

  ***

  Mum and Dad's downstairs. Mum's laughin. Probably something on the telly or Dad's told her one of his stupid jokes, something he'd picked up in the factory or out the boozer. Becky's movin about in her cot like she can't sleep neither. She's breathin heavy, sort of two at a time, like she's cryin. But she's not. It's just how she gets sometimes.

  Can't get Kenny out me head still, thinkin about him across the road, tryin to get to sleep. And I'm thinkin what I'd do if I was him. I know I wouldn't fuckin be puttin up with it, that's for fuckin starters. I'd be workin out how to have it away on me toes first thing, like that Dick Whittinton geezer. I'd do the old man in before I went, an all. Get a gun or something. Blow the bastard's head off.

  The stairs start creakin. Door opens. Mum comes in to check on Becky, and I squeeze me eyes tight shut. I can hear Mum whisperin to Becky and singin soft, probably strokin her hair and her cheek, an that. She's right gentle, Mum. Then I can hear her footsteps comin over to me. I close me eyes even tighter. Don't wanna talk about what's in me head, you know, doin away with Kenny's old man. Mum feels me forehead, and gives me a kiss there. Then she gets a tissue and she's wipin me eyes and she's wipin the tears off me face. She cups her hand round me cheek, and I know she's lookin right into me. Gives me another kiss on the forehead and I know I'm cryin now cos I can hear it in me throat. But I won't open me eyes, not even for Mum. I'm willin for her to go. And when she does, when the bedroom door shuts tight and the lights go out, I want her back all over again, just so she
can stop the screamin in me head.

  ***

  As for Kenny, next day at school, all week, I got an empty fuckin chair sittin next to me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The week Kenny's off, Miss Felton starts sortin out the Christmas play. She does her best, bless her, but it was always gonna be a fuckin disaster.

  Like I says, Miss Felton, she's lovely and all that, but she ain't got no fuckin idea. Not really. Like havin Steve Luxford talkin out front last year. Thought it'd give him confidence, she did. Steve fuckin Luxford. Poor fucker had a stutter on him like someone's jumpin on his throat. Tore him to bits, talkin out front. Poor bastard ain't never been the same since. So when it's just who plays Joseph left, and there's only Kenny's left over, it weren't like I fuckin fell off me chair or nothing.

  Rachel Johnson – she's Mary – she's in bits, Wilkins is pissin himself, and half the class is in fuckin uproar. Me, I'm just thinkin of Kenny. Poor fuck.

  ***

  When I get home, I tell Mum I need a tea-towel.

  'What for, love?'

  I tell her it's cos I'm gonna be a shepherd in the play, and she goes off rummagin in the kitchen drawers. Turns the kitchen half upside down, she does. I tell her I gotta have one. It's what they wore in them days. In the end, she finds one down the side of the cooker with tractors and shit on it, something Auntie Ivy bought back from Suffolk a couple years back.

  'I'll give it a wash, love,' she says, 'get the beans out. It'll come up good as new.'

  I don't give a fuck about the beans. Long as I got a tea-towel.

  Then Mum makes me up one of them dress things what the geezers wore in the Bible out of an old sheet, and gets one of Nan's old walkin sticks and tapes up a load of toilet rolls on the bottom to make it longer. I paint it brown with some paint out the shed, and Bob's your fuckin Uncle. I'm all sorted.