The spiritual righter of all wrongs. Leave it to karma. Wasn’t that what people said when you were bent on revenge for something someone had done to you? And her mam. Almost on her death bed. So young. So ridiculously young. Hadn’t she banged on about karma then too?
A patient bastard, that’s what she’d called it. Biding its time before coming to claim her. With cancer. To pay her back for being a shit mum, a loser, a waste of space of a person. And Christine had tried so hard to soothe and reassure her. ‘It’s just life, being life, Mam.’ She’d repeated that so often. Doling out death whenever it felt like it. No concern for any notions about the unfairness of things. And Christine believed it, too, because the good died young all the time, didn’t they?
Mally, for instance. The man – the man-child – she had killed. Not wittingly – God, never – but time hadn’t helped her learn to live with it. Hadn’t lessened her guilt, and would never absolve her, because she’d still done it – her hand, hers alone, had been the one on the knife. One life gone, by her hand, and another one ruined. She could try to atone all she liked, but she knew it would never be enough; the one thing she could never give her brother were the years of his life back. Years that she’d had. With Joey. Yes, it might have been Nicky’s choice – as he’d pointed out, endlessly – but time hadn’t buffered her guilt about that either. It was done, and it could never be undone.
So perhaps her mam had been right. Karma was indeed a patient bastard. Lying in wait till she’d finally found happiness before pouncing, its claws ripping at her conscience, piercing her heart, stealing her soul.
Which she knew she had long since sold to the devil.
Joey’s window-cleaning cart had been a labour of love. And proof positive that, though seemingly pointless at the time (who really needed a spinning MDF spice dispenser anyway?), his years toiling at GCSE woodwork had not, in the end, been in vain.
It had also been forged in friendship, him and his best mate, Dicky Turner, having built it between them, with a bit of help from his dad and a lot of scavenging round Canterbury Estate. The wheels, in their past life, had graced an abandoned (no doubt stolen) racing bike, and the base was a reclaimed front door.
Trundling it along Dawnay Road, shirtless, because of the warm summer sunshine, Joey felt a sudden pang of guilt. He often felt bad when he thought about his dad these days, particularly when he was out doing his round. It was while working at the job his dad had virtually handed on a plate to him that he felt the distance that was opening up between them most keenly.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy doing his window-cleaning round, because he was. On days like these, as jobs went, it was pretty hard to beat. He was answerable to no one – and how many lads of his age could say that? He worked in the fresh air, out of doors, too, doing hours to suit himself. Wasn’t a slave to a time-clock, cooped up in some factory, clocking in and out, like his mam and dad did. It was also sociable – a little too sociable sometimes, admittedly – and, best of all, he had only himself to fall back on. The harder he worked, the more he could earn. And he’d never been afraid of hard work.
But it wasn’t everything. He knew he should be grateful, and he was, but it wasn’t all he wanted. And, just lately, that truth – never out-and-out spoken – seemed to be driving a wedge between him and his dad. Like, despite his grafting, he was becoming a source of unease.
He lowered the cart handles gently, so as not to slop the bucket of warm suds. How many times, in the last couple of weeks alone, had he heard the same thing? You’re a lucky lad. You’ve got it made. Good solid prospects. Set for life, son. And how many times, just like always, had he agreed that he was? And he was – that was the worst of it – if that was all he wanted. But it wasn’t all he wanted. Why couldn’t his dad see that?
Which wasn’t to diss him. God, that was the last thing he’d do. His mum and dad had done everything for him and he’d never forget that. But there were only so many times he could nod – like a bloody puppet – when inside all he wanted was for his dad to acknowledge that he understood that Joey wanted more. To contemplate the possibility that he might even get it – that he was good at what he did. That – for something other than the bloody window round – didn’t mean the instant end of the world.
And now his mum seemed to be at it, too, which troubled Joey greatly. It was almost like she wasn’t happy that he’d got the job with the band. His mum! Who’d always encouraged him and supported him with his music – it was like, now he’d actually got a place in a proper band, she’d been infected by the same virus. The ‘don’t get ideas above your station, son’ virus, that he’d heard over and over again, both at home and at school, if he ever so much as hinted that he might like to do music for a career.
The ‘nice, steady job’ disease – that’s how Dicky had once put it. That constant ‘knuckle down, have some security, shape up’ line of nagging. It was one of the main reasons Dicky no longer lived with his mam. No, Dicky wasn’t exactly working his socks off at anything – he’d been a labourer since leaving school, here and there, on and off, getting work as and when it came around. And maybe he wouldn’t ever be anything else either. He cut his cloth to suit his choices, and he had rent to pay. But Joey sometimes envied his friend his complete independence to do – and be – whatever he liked, without being constantly held to account.
He bent to unhook his ladder, conscious of a noise coming from behind. He turned around, squinting against the sunlight, to see the silhouetted form of a trio of girls, teetering their way towards him on the far side of the road.
Then a wolf whistle. ‘You can give me a wash down any time you like,’ one of them called out suggestively, causing the others to throw their heads back and roar with laughter.
Normally he’d have blushed, but today he puffed his chest out. ‘Sorry, girls,’ he said, hefting the ladder up as they passed him. ‘I’m already spoken for, otherwise I might have just helped you out.’
The girls duly giggled, and he basked in their approval for a moment. But that was another thing, wasn’t it? What was going on with Paula? No sooner had he asked her out than his mam and dad were all anxious about it. His mum and dad, who (he’d been at great pains to remind them of this only yesterday) had been the ones to say what a lovely couple they would make. Yet now they were an item (well, sort of – they’d only been out the three times so far) there was this weird kind of tension in the air. Which made no sense – yes, she was older than him, but not that much older. And her mam and Paula’s mam had once been really good friends. Till they’d drifted apart, when Paula’s mam and dad had moved to a different part of Bradford, they’d apparently been best friends for, like, years. Since before he’d been born, in fact. God, he and Paula had even played together when they were little. He was still trying to get his head around that. That the girl he’d seen – and couldn’t drag his eyes away from – belting out Blondie in her band was the same girl who’d once played with him in their back garden. If he’d been the sentimental type, he’d have thought it was destiny. But he wasn’t. It was just bloody amazing.
Perhaps that was it, though. That they both saw what he did. That Paula got him. That, unlike them, she really understood his ambitions. Of course she did, because she shared them. And though she didn’t know it – and there was no way he’d be admitting it any time soon – she made him even more ambitious to be more than he currently was. He knew his mum and dad worried that it was an uncertain business (they’d told him that a lot too), and perhaps him being in the band now, however much they liked Paula, made them anxious that he’d throw the whole window round in. As if he was really that naïve – that fucking stupid.
‘Penny for them.’ A chuckle. ‘Well, if they’re decent, that is.’
He turned towards the house. Mrs Hanley was standing on her path, holding out a mug of steaming tea. She nodded to where his admirers had just disappeared