Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1999

		ABI BOWN I’m a Scouser, recently relocated in Newham. In my workaday life I create visual scenarios from timber, paint and other materials, for Theatre. In my spare time I like to play with words. I enjoy the sense of order and the satisfaction gained from watching my printer push out crisp, white, oblong sheets covered in rows of neat, black marks. Once gathered together, these sheets need an airing and NWW is a great sounding board for my writing. The Workshop has encouraged me to find my voice, first nurtured in Top Infants when my stories were written up in ‘neat’ and pinned to the notice board for all to read. I am currently working on a novel for young adults - a challenging audience to write for. The piece included in this anthology is a short story. HEY THERE BOY WITH THE BE BOP GLASSES AND THE BLUE SUEDE SHOES, COME ON! WE CALLED HIM Mad Elvis, the boy at the window with the quiff and soulful eyes. I could see his house from our backyard. It had green wooden shutters. Showy, my mum said because they were stuck to the wall and couldn’t be shut over anything. If you ran a stick down them they made a great rat-a-tat noise. So we did. You had to, if you wanted to be in our gang. His mum would come to the door and stand there, looking harassed, with her arms folded across her chest. She’d never shout or bawl us out though; it was like she was too polite. Some days I’d walk past Mad Elvis’s house alone, on the way to the shops for my mum or back up the hill after visiting Trixie. Then I’d walk slowly, make like I was looking at my watch or deciding which way to go. Under his bedroom window I could hear music, rock ‘n’ roll and a bit scratchy, like it was being played on a turntable not a CD. "What do you want then?" That was the day I stopped too long. He was at the window looking down at me. A curtain of glossy black hair hung before his eyes. "Nuthin," I said. "Goin’ the shop are you?" "Might be." "Hang on." He disappeared from the window frame into the gloom behind him and returned seconds later pushing his hair out of his face. "Catch - get us a packet of Rolos, no two, and a packet of smoky bacon flavour crisps." He chucked a couple of coins at me, I caught the first and scrabbled around for the second. "Can’t you go yourself?" I asked. "Impossible," the boy replied. "Gis a knock on your way back then." And he was gone. I looked up and down the street; nobody had seen me take money from Mad Elvis. His doorbell wasn’t the bing-bong type like ours; it farted. I could see a shape moving down the hall through the wibbly wobbly glass-panel, his mum pulled the door open then took a step back. I glanced behind me; still the street was empty. "Ere are." I offered the booty with one hand, his change with the other. "For Whatsisname, upstairs." Mad Elvis’s mum called up to the landing, "Leo, did you get this lass to run an errand?" "I’m coming." Mad Elvis made his way slowly down the stairs. He seemed to take for ever. Leo’s mum gave me a smile and swayed back down the hall as he reached the bottom stair, some music was still bumping from his room; it had infected the house. "Thanks babe." "My name’s Chantaye!" I snapped. "See you then," I added crossly. Leo had sat down with some difficulty; he gestured to the doorstep then handed me a packet of Rolos. "Go on. Share my chocolate with me." He talked funny. I began to pick at the foil and paper. I decided he was Scottish. I leant against the door jamb, chewing. "Fanksh," I said through toffee. Trixie was gob-smacked. "What! he came to the door? Didn’t you just die?!" "Not really," I replied, remembering the smudge of melted chocolate on my fingers and my fillings zinging. "He was OK. Scottish." "He’s a jock?" asked Gary, jumping from the low wall. "Och aye - Jock Elvis the noo!" he said, sort of thrusting his groin at me and wobbling his leg. "Why isn’t he at school then, if he’s got legs?" Trixie had reckoned Leo didn’t have legs; we’d only ever seen the top half of him, a shadowy figure twitching his curtains as we laughed beneath his window most afternoons after school. "Dunno. Maybe his mum teaches him at home." "You gonna shag him then?" Gary asked, "Is he your boyfriend now?" he persisted. "Gary, opening your door to someone does not constitute Carnal Knowledge. Now sod off." Trixie pulled me away, before I could punch him, linking her arm in mine. "So tell me," she asked, "What colour shoes did he have on?". We’d kind of grown out of annoying the neighbours that summer, Trixie, Gary and me. It seemed so! juvenile. We found a phone box at the end of Percy Street and squashed into that most evenings if it rained or, if it was fine, we simply hung about by the low wall. Like some creeping vegetation that can’t be cut back, our names appeared, in biro, Tipp-Ex, felt pen, chalk, lipstick, you name it. Spreading over the Perspex panels, lumpy on the brick, etched with house keys: CHANTAYE TODAY AND 4 EVER 4 YEARS 2 COME TRIXIE DOIN’ IT FINE IN 99 GARY WOS ’ERE Then: CHANTAYE SHAGS MAD ELVIS THE JOCK appeared along the low wall in green spray-paint. Letters a foot high, squiggles and arrows to boot. "I’ll kill him!" I hissed at Trixie. I was standing at the sweet shop on the opposite side of the road, drenched in shame. "Yeah, that’s a bit out of order," Trixie agreed. "Gary can be such a tit." I walked back home listening to the clinking of my jacket zip and wishing Gary a thousand painful miseries. "May your balls wither and die, may your nose be forever turned inside out, may your eyes be stuck with drawing pins!" "Hiya!" I came to a halt and looked around. Green shutters, I looked up; Elvis was looking down. "Where’ve you bin babe? Not seen you in a while." "You want more sweets?" I ventured. I was going to add ‘well get them yourself.’ but the front door opened and Leo’s mum stepped out. "Oh, hello pet. I’ll leave the door ajar shall I?" She looked up at Leo, "Shan’t be long, love." She waved and stepped into a car that was parked outside their house. "Go on in if you like," she said before pulling away from the kerb. I shuffled about uncomfortably on the pavement, then saw Leo had made it to the foot of the stairs. I did a radar sweep of the street. "Lost something?" he asked. "Er, no." "Coming in then? Have a Coke." I stepped onto their rectangle of Astroturf; Leo had turned round and was slowly walking the length of the hall propelling himself along with gentle pushes from the painted walls, each foot placed with precision and care. I held my breath as Leo negotiated the couch in the living room and arrived safely in the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge door and took out two cans, then he turned. I couldn’t bear to watch him attempt the return journey, so I moved into the sitting room and sat at the table there. Leo held a can of Coke out to me with one hand; it rasped and fizzed open. "Neat trick," I commented. He opened the second the same way and sucked off some of the froth. I’d left the front door open; most people do in our street, especially if the sun is breaking through. Then they seem to move the inside outside, stacking chairs and little tables, radios and kids bikes onto their patch of pavement. The air becomes heavy with the scent of sun-tan lotion and anyone wearing yellow gets covered in black fly. I’d not seen Leo out on the streets, not ever. Not at the corner shop, the bus stop even. "Can’t you walk properly then?" I asked "We all walk like this," he replied. "We? Who?" I was curious, "Us, from planet Zog." "Oh." A tide of cherry red reached my ears. Leo’s eyes were sparkling over the rim of his can; a line of bubbles burst on his top lip. His lips were like an exaggerated letter "M", wet and pouting. "Where’s your Dad?" I asked, hoping to change the subject. "We rent this place on our own, me and my mum. She’ll be back soon, she’s only gone to get my script," I gave him a blank look, "Prescription. Pills." he explained. "Oh, I see, you’re not well then?" Leo laughed. "Sick as dog! I’m only here for the Pioneering Treatment." I hadn’t a clue what he was on about but I wasn’t going to ask. He leaned back in his chair spreading his arms wide. "Sick as a dawg," he repeated. "You know you look like Elvis Presley," I commented. "And you look like Minnie Mouse," Leo replied. I put my hand up to touch my hair, two fuzzy pom-poms; he had a point. We studied each other across the table seriously, then we giggled. "You should smile more often, Narky; it makes angels dance about your ears." "That’s a weird thing to say," I cocked a half smile, twizzling my hair round my finger. "Weird eh?" Leo tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. "Like the taste of a song or the sound of a colour?" He was taking the piss again. "What colour is Monday?" he asked. "I dunno what you’re on about. Blue?" "Is it? Or is that just word association?" "I don’t know. Why?" "Monday is Brown. It’s always Brown. Tuesday?" I squished a dent into my Coke can as I thought, "Orange?" "Is it? When you think Tuesday do you see Orange?" I closed my eyes. "No, I don’t see anything as it happens." "Brown, Green, Yellow, Purple, Red, White, Blue - there’s a week for you!" said Leo triumphantly. "Brilliant, so you colour code the days of the week. What’s the point in that?" Leo was shaking his head, "No it’s just the way they are. I can’t explain really, it’s a syndrome of sensory-limbic hyper connection." "It’s a what?" "You’d have to ask my consultant. Look, it doesn’t really matter, just take a walk down the street, any street and you’ll see trees, houses, cars and things - well they’re all singing out to you. An aura, a life-force, a wavelength. You hear colours; you smell them." "You can smell colours?" "Grey smells sort of brave, green smells happy," "Hang On." I held up my hand to stop him. "I’m completely lost, I mean an orange smells like an orange, a strawberry smells sweet! how can a cucumber smell happy?" "Well I guess most cucumbers don’t." I looked him up and down, he was dead serious. "D’you know the kids on this estate think you’re weird." "Are they right?" he asked. "Dunno" "Can you dance?" "What?" "Move through the air to music," "I know what dance is." He pulled a black vinyl box toward him from the bookshelf to his left and selected a cassette. "Fancy cutting a rug with me?" I looked at the carpet; there was a rug by the gas fire. Leo sensed my unease. "Do you know what a treble clef is?" "Look, what is this? 20 Questions? I’m getting off if you keep asking me funny questions and chucking big words about all the time. "Yeah. Sorry," Leo apologised and lowered his eyes. "Go if you want, you must want to get back to your mates." I looked round the room; it was bare, quite stylish really, like one of those decorating programmes on the telly. Not like our poky little terrace where every surface, nook and cranny has something wedged into it - school photo, pot full of broken biros and bits of watches, little china dogs and cats - you name it. "You’ve not been here long have you?" I asked, there wasn’t even a newspaper or comic lying around. "Six or seven months" "Can’t you come out?" "To play?" Leo flashed a smile at me. That wasn’t what I’d meant at all, we weren’t five years old, the idea seemed ludicrous. He pressed his hands on the table making his knuckles go white and levered himself free of his chair. "Where are you going?" I asked anxiously. I was worried that he may fall over or something and, without his mum here, how would I get him up again? "Outside. Our back yard. Push the front door to and bring the beat box out the back with you," Leo instructed. He loaded a cassette into the tape deck and handed it to me. I followed him to the back door. It took some time but I don’t think walking actually hurt him. "Is it your legs then?" I asked once we’d broken through to fresh air and sunshine in the small backyard. "My legs are great, don’t you think?" he replied. They were skinny. He managed to sit on a couple of breeze blocks stacked next to the wall and stretched out his denim thighs, crossing his ankles in a pool of sunlight. Nice shoes, blue, white socks too. If you could pump him up a little, he’d look really cool. "Where d’you want this?" The cassette deck dangled from my hands in front of me. "Stick it on the upturned flower pots there." I did as I was told. "Hey! you can see my bedroom from here!" I called, peering over his backyard gate. "Oh, so that house is yours?" he shook his head and tutted. "Meaning?" "It’s a sad house," he said, pulling his mouth down into a frown. "Don’t tell me, the bricks smell miserable and there are no angels dancing round the chimney pots?" "Now you get the idea," "You’ve got a nerve!" I pressed "play" and leant against the wooden gate. It wasn’t Elvis Presley that burst from the speakers but crisp trumpety sounds, and a double bass that throbbed at the bridge of my nose. Choruses of close harmonies belted out stories of Whistle-Stop Towns, Dungaree Dolls, Mama Guitars and Boy Flattops. I felt butterflies stir in my tummy. After a couple of tracks I’d finished my Coke. I watched Leo. The music seemed to flatten him against the yard wall; his face was pink and damp in the sunshine, his mouth, half open, formed the odd phrase, then relaxed. His eyes were unfocused but glittering as if registering visions unshackled from the music. I wondered then, what did Rock ‘n’ Roll smell like? Leo broke from his reverie and put out his right hand to me. "Dance?" he asked. I felt stupid. The lad could hardly walk, how did he expect me to dance with him? "I can’t do that Rock ‘n’ Roll stuff." I said. "Just hold my hand then." I walked slowly towards his outstretched arm. I still felt stupid but the music nudged me along. Our fingertips touched and he pulled me into him with a little tug. "Feel the beat," he whispered. Then just as quick his hand propelled me away and I was forced to take two steps back. "Again," he instructed, tapping his foot. So I stepped forward and his hand grasped mine again. It was like being on elastic, Leo’s soft, warm fingers pulling me in. "Spin!" he motioned with his other arm as the tension in our dancing hands was released and I moved away. I used the momentum to spin me round and Leo caught my hand as I reached 360°. "Great!" he shouted. "Again!" So once more, back and forth, in time to the music, our hands in a momentary clinch, his grip indicating lightning quick if I should spin or release. Over and over I couldn’t believe it. In Mad Elvis’s back yard! I was jiving! "I can do it!" I cried. "Don’t think!" Leo called back, "you’ll lose it! You’re great!" he added. I sashayed backwards and forwards, stepping the beat down into the concrete. We danced for ages, until I got a stitch and had to rest. I was hot and thirsty; Leo told me to fetch some more Cokes. As we drank and baked in the sun Leo confided that his consultant wasn’t treating his legs, but his head, his Encalaphic Carcinoma, whatever that was. Whatever it was, it had stopped him dancing but that was a small price to pay he said, for his new way of seeing. I heard the front door bang shut and, a few seconds later, Leo’s mum popped into the yard. "Everything OK?" she asked. Leo nodded. "We’ve been tripping the light fantastic," he said. I blushed. Back in the kitchen, Leo’s mum started to unpack his prescription. She took boxes and boxes from a plastic carrier bag, they all had the chemist’s sticky label on, and stacked them neatly into a cupboard. Well that must surely do the trick, I thought - there’s enough there to sink a ship. After a while I thanked Leo for the Coke and said I ought to be going. "Will you stop by again sometime?" he asked as we moved down the hall. I thought of Trixie and Gary and groaned inwardly, after all, this was the sort of thing my Aunt Patience did, volunteer work with the sick, playing dominoes in cabbagy smelling community centres. "I understand," said Leo. I stopped at the door and turned on him slowly. "Your angels have vanished," he said by way of explanation. "Sod off know-all. I didn’t say I wasn’t coming back now did I?" "OK Narky, see you Wednesday." Back on the street I tried to re-kindle my fury at Gary, but it had fizzled out. Leo had taken its place; he filled my mind like pressing Play Doh onto a plastic mould. I liked him. I tried that out on the way home. "I like him, I like Leo, Leo I like you." He was interesting and I felt happy. "He’s interesting," I told my mum that evening. "And I like him," I ventured. "Jesus girl, don’t tell the world - I’d never live it down, anyway what’s he got? And how do you know it isn’t contagious?" "His mum wouldn’t have let me in would she? If he had a lurgy I could catch!" "Don’t go back-chatting me girl, just keep your nose out of other people’s business - and don’t be sharing no food nor drink with him neither!" Mum shouted. I slammed the back door closed before she could, but she slammed the living-room door harder. Toby began to wail. I climbed onto the bin and bumped my heels off the warm plastic. I could see the green shutters at the back of Leo’s house. They were faded and peeling. I wanted to tell mum I could jive and that Leo could see angels, could smell colours and taste music, to have her laugh and say "Go on!" But she wouldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t. I sensed a muffled bing-bong from inside the house. "Chantaye! it’s Trixie!" she called. I mooched back into the sitting room. My baby brother Toby was rolling across the floor, chuckling with delight, as Trixie pretended to pour tea into a plastic cup. He handed her a potty with a plastic sausage in it then ran round in circles squealing. "Trixie you’re a natural," my mum was swaying with contentment. Trixie brought harmony to our house by playing with Toby. Mum was always too busy, to me he was a snotty article that wrecked my things and ate my lipsticks. He launched himself at Trixie, rubbing his dirty face into her shoulder. There he remained, quiet, like a limpet, sucking his thumb. He cried like a maniac when mum peeled him off so that we could go out. She probably longed for Trixie as a daughter instead of me. "Ip dip do, cat’s got the flu, dog’s got the measles and out goes you," Trixie’s hand rested on her own arm at the end of the dip. "That’s not fair!" I protested. "Start again with me this time!" "No way, I’m out fair and square, you get to do it!" "Best of three?" "Nope." "Bloody Hell, alright, come on then." We strolled across the garage forecourt to the shop. I was going to re-claim the low wall that Gary had tagged earlier that day, but I needed paint. There were two people waiting to pay for petrol inside. Trixie strolled over to the wall of sweets uhming and ahing, whilst I found the chamois, car accessories and such like. Their selection of spray-paints was minimal, covered in a layer of dust next to the drinks fridge. I nodded over to Trixie; she began to move to the heavy glass door, to hold it open and hasten our escape. The man at the till was serving his last petrol buyer who, luckily, had a sudden sugar craving and picked a handful of chocolate bars. I reached out to the stumpy cans of paint and ran my fingers over the film of dust. I was in a quandary; what colour to choose? This was madness. I went for the first can, 1109S Silver, no, that wasn’t right. I could feel Trixie twitching behind me. 5701B Black, that wouldn’t do either. Just what colour was vengeance? Leo would know. Red? Or was that just word association? I closed my eyes. "Come on!" hissed Trixie from the door. Yellow. It was yellow, like Wednesdays. I snapped my eyes open and found 1107S Sunshine Yellow. I walked briskly to the door with the can in my bag, collected Trixie and we legged it to the nearest alley. "You stupid cow," she said, bent over and panting with the effort of running. "Take the first one and leg it, you’re not bloody Picasso sizing up a masterpiece!" "Fine. You do it next time," I replied, shaking the can vigorously. I left a yellow splodge on the alley bricks, once I’d broken two nails and wrecked a biro trying to get the lid off. Funny thing was, when we got to our phone box and the wall next to it, I didn’t feel like spraying over Gary’s scrawl. I moved along the pavement eyeing up the bricks, shaking the can and thinking hard. I left my name, CHANTAYE and sprayed over SHAGS and MAD. I left the L from ELVIS, and blasted some more letters away in a haze of yellow until I was left only with the E from THE and the O from JOCK. Trixie had been leaning against the call box watching me. "Is that it?" She placed her hands on her hips and stared at the wall. I smelled the paint on my fingers, the speckled yellow up my arm. "I mean it’s not exactly "Gary Smith’s a wanker" or "Eat shit Gary Smith" is it?" My handiwork had left me with two names: CHANTAYE L E O I stepped forward and added: JIVIN’ FINE IN ’99 "Shit girl, you’ve lost it," Trixie sucked air noisily through her teeth. "No-one’s going to want to know you, digging Mad Elvis." I knocked round for Leo Wednesday as promised, armed with a bag of Malteasers, but his mum opened the door looking skinny and washed out. She handed me a note wrapped round a tape cassette and said that Leo was a little poorly that day; she was sorry, would I like to come in anyway and have a cup of tea with her? "No thanks. Could you give him these?" I handed over the Malteasers. Stupid really. I could have kept them. Eaten them all myself; he’d never have known. I pocketed the cassette, it was the one we’d played in the yard last week. The note simply said, "Practice".