183 Times a Year (9 page)

Chapter 7

DIVIDED BY A COMMON LANGUAGE

LIZZIE

My back hurts. This job is far more physical than most realise but really, I should be able to manage a bit of stock rotation. I load my trolley with yet more books but stop for a moment to straighten up and massage my lower aching lumbar region. My thoughts turn to Mum, tough as old boots, and brave. Clearly I'm not cut from the same cloth. Mum has cancer, I have backache.

Man up you wus!

I look across at my colleague Joan and am mildly amused as a customer attempts to converse with her.

‘Excuse me lady, I need card please.'

‘Certainly sir, you will need two forms of ID to join.' The customer continues to smile but just waits quietly. Eventually he speaks again.

‘So, you give me card please?'

‘As I've said sir, you need two forms of ID.' A puzzled look replaces the customer's smile.

‘What you mean?' he says.

‘I mean sir we need to see some ID, something with your name and address on, like a passport and a utility bill or a driving license?' The penny has dropped. Or has it?

‘Ahhhhh yes, yes, yes, my name is Bolek Adamski and my
address
is 71 Gilamorey Street.'

‘No sir, you cannot tell me your details, we must see some ID.'

‘Eh?'

Joan sighs heavily and taps her head with her fingers, slight exasperation evident in her weary voice. ‘Some ID. We need to see some I – Deeeeee,' she repeats.

The customer sounds irritated. ‘Yes, yes, yes,' he replies. ‘My name is Bolek…' and round and round they go.

‘City of the bloody poles innit?' Raj, one of my other work colleagues whispers in my ear.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Immigrants innit. Eastern Europeans. This city is flooded with em. Thanks to all this open border ideology shit.'

‘Isn't there room enough for all of us?'

‘Nah man, there aint. There aint enough jobs for us Brits – never mind that lot as well. And you know what really pisses me off? They don't speak a bloody word of English and they don't even try.'

Raj is a young, enthusiastic third generation Indian. He's a natural comedian, but, thanks in part to his age, can sometimes be both passionate and fixed in his views.

‘Raj, your grandparents were immigrants,' I remind him. ‘People probably said the same about them too when they first came to this country.'

‘Yeah, I know, I know,' he replies. ‘It was like well hard for them. People called them Paki bastards and all that, which was like well out of order man. Indian people are nothing like those lazy Pakis.' I purse my lips and frown at Raj. ‘But you know what the difference is between my grandparents and these bloody eastern Europeans?' he continues.

‘No, but I'm sure you're going to enlighten me Raj?'

‘They learned to speak the lingo and they integrated. This lot
seem
to think they can get by on “I want card please” or “I want money please” or “I want toilet please”. Then spend the rest of the time keeping themselves to themselves and talking about us in their own bloody language.'

I'm annoyed and slightly disappointed with Raj.

‘I think you're generalising there a bit.'

I'm about to remind him of the library's policy towards equal opportunity and discrimination – of any nature – but before I can he's left my side and is volunteering to help a struggling elderly customer. I listen to their conversation and smile. The customer has a Polish accent and Raj, as always, is going out of his way to help her.

Immigration has always been a bit of a hot political potato, especially in this city but Raj's comments make me think. It wasn't so long ago when immigration and race were inextricably linked but the recent arrival of many white, Christian, Europeans has completely changed all that.

I look back across at Joan. After a small amount of patience and some very basic sign language, an understanding is finally reached: despite the long and winding queue that has now formed behind this particular customer. The self-issue machine has stopped working –
again –
and the rather cross-faced waiting customers are, shall we say, a little less understanding.

With such a diverse, multi-cultural society, barriers will always need to be broken but even two people speaking the same language will sometimes struggle, especially when it transpires across one or two generations. God knows I struggle to understand the girls some days. When they talk to each other I'm lost.

Divided by a common language, Mum always says and this was never more evident than when I overheard Dad and Cassie talking the other day about music.

Dad, not knowing the title and performer of a particular
song
he'd heard, was trying in his usual brusque manner to hum the tune to Cassie. Her confusion at the slightly offensive whining of my aging father manifested itself as a number of distorted faces worthy of winning a Gurning competition at National level.

Eventually Cassie seemed to grasp some semblance of a song amongst the noise that gradually became so offensive to the ear even Freddy the dog had to leave the room.

‘Ohhhhh,' Cassie suddenly replied, ‘it's Otto Knows.'

‘Who knows?'

‘Otto Knows.'

‘Otto? Otto? Who's bleedin Otto?'

Cassie rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. ‘No Grandad, I
mean
its Otto Knows.' ‘So you keep telling me but I don't bleedin care what bleedin Otto knows, I'm asking you what the bleedin song is.'

‘Arrggghh Grandad, that's what I'm trying to tell you! It's called A Million Voices.'

‘What?' Dad responded slightly agitated. ‘What do you mean a million voices? I'm asking you about one bleedin voice and one bleedin song.'

I watched, amused and slightly dizzy at the ability of two different generations to confuse one language. This verbal tennis match continued for several minutes before grandfather and granddaughter finally understood one another. I laugh out loud at the memory, the song now firmly imprinted in my own mind,
A Million Voices
by Otto Knows.

My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion over by the Science Fiction and Fantasy section. I recognise the shrill, angry shouting. Amber is clearly having a bad day. I excuse myself from the patron I'm serving and head with some urgency towards the disturbance. Bill and Dave from Building Security race ahead of me.

Amber
seems to be involved in some form of tug of war with one of our more bedraggled visitors. The item in question appears to be a bottle. When I reach the scene I am relieved to see the Buildings Officers have separated the duelling pair but expletives are being spat fiercely at one another. Both customers are dragged towards the main entrance.

Mr Gray smells, if it's at all possible, more pungent than ever; a putrid mix of sweet, rotting fruit, stale urine and strong tobacco oozes from his every pore. Priding myself on enduring some of the more unpleasant smells that sometimes waft among the shelves of the public library (even during the hottest of days of summer) I'm unable to prevent the heaving sensation in my abdomen as the stench of Mr Gray hits my quivering nostrils.

I gather myself together and turn my attention to Amber. She is a year older than Cassie, the same age as Maisy, but has had to grow up so much quicker. Her face is flushed with fury and wet from tears. Her anger reminds me of Cassie but it's tenfold and actually makes Cassie appear quite tame in comparison. I attempt to talk to her but I can see my words are useless today. Her glazed eyes suggest a riotous rage and ferocious fear bubbling inside. Her prose is jumbled as she screams something about the crazy bastard stealing her vodka and something about “being in for it now, the last of his giro until the end of the week”. She looks at me, eyes wide and wild.

‘Can't you see?' she shrieks. ‘He'll make me pay and I can't stand it anymore. It hurts, it fucking hurts.'

Amber has gone. The commotion in the library is over, but it's not over in my head. My mind races as I imagine all kinds of scenarios to befit her last haunting comment. Her words stay with me, dragging me down. I think of Cassie and Maisy with their grumpy, surly faces and for once it brings a smile to mine. I don't know if they are, or ever will be, but I'm grateful they have Simon and me, grateful they have us.

Chapter 8

GOURMANDISE

LIZZIE

It's not enough that my nosy neighbour tells me Cassie is smoking, now the school has too, phoning me to say she was caught smoking inside the school gates before her exam. It's been a long day at work and Amber's words are still disturbing my thoughts. Do I tackle this smoking thing tonight or pick another day to be the bad mother again?

I pull up to the drive. Despite having seen better days I still love my little, old yellow Beetle. The same one I've been driving for the last 10 years and very unlike the new BMW Scott drives despite, apparently, not having any money.

Bastard.

I switch off the radio and sit, in complete silence for a moment. The calm before the storm?

I eventually get out of my yellow cocoon and head for the front door. I shiver, despite it being a warm evening, and look round. My senses feel heightened and the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. I expect to see someone watching me but other than Joyce, opposite, pruning her roses and Dan next door cleaning his car, the street is relatively empty and quiet. I shrug it off and throw a courteous nod at both my neighbours.

I open the front door. It looks tatty with its peeling paint; we really should replace it. Perhaps I can slip in unnoticed and disappear upstairs until tomorrow morning.

‘Mum, is that you?' Cassie demands. ‘Mu-m,' she shouts
again.

Fat chance of disappearing anywhere
.

‘Yes it's me,' I reply in a borrowed, much chirpier voice than my internal one. ‘How was your exam?'

‘Good, good, it was all good. Another one bites the crust eh?' she says, flustered and almost colliding with me in the hallway.

‘Right take your coat off and come into the kitchen,' she orders.

I'm suddenly aware of a strange combination of smells wafting from the kitchen; there's a definite burning smell but also seared or roasted meat and something sweet, possibly apple? The table is set, there are candles burning and Connor is standing wide-eyed with a tea towel over his arm.

‘Hi Mum,' he says, ‘me and Cassie have made dinner for you.'

‘No, I
made
dinner,' Cassie snaps, ‘Connor just helped – a bit.'

‘But, but…' Connor stutters but Cassie abruptly pushes him out of the way.

‘Get out of the way you idiot. Let Mum sit down.'

‘Okay Cassie,' Connor replies.

Cassie has cooked for me. Why?

‘Well, well, well' I say, ‘what have I done to deserve this?'

‘It's just to say thanks for being such a great Mum,' says Cassie.

I raise my eyes. Suspiciously.

Oh my god it's a trap, get out immediately, you are in serious mortal danger. Just pick up your coat, nice and slow, make some excuse to go to the front door, then …R U N . . . !!!!!!!!!

I pull out the chair Cassie insists I sit on.

You're in for it now, you should have got out while you had the chance.

‘Me and Connor, or should I say Connor and I,' Cassie
continues,
attempting to add some plum to her accent, ‘are going to wait on you tonight. We'll be the butlers and you can be the Lady, like in Down Town Abbey.' I smile.

‘Where's Maisy tonight?' I ask as plates, pots and pans seem to crash continually behind my back in the kitchen.

‘Didn't she tell you?' Cassie says as she continues to busy herself whilst barking orders at poor old Connor.

‘Tell me what?'

‘She got a job at that shop that she's been dying to work in, you know the one?

Goth Shock I think it's called.'

‘Oh,' I reply, disappointed to be excluded from such good news.

‘Ta Da!' Cassie shouts as she bangs a plate of something that resembles food in front of me.

That looks interesting
,
smells like garlic.
‘More like arsenic,' I say out loud. ‘What?' Cassie replies.

‘Garlic,' I say. ‘Yum yum, smells like garlic.'

Connor pulls out a chair next to me, Cassie sits opposite. I'm very aware that I seem to be the only one with food in front of me.

‘Aren't you two eating?' Cassie and Connor look shiftily at one another.

‘We ate when we were cooking,' Cassie replies.

I cut into and chew on a piece of chicken breast (at least I think that's what it is?), which is about as easy and tasty as chewing on a piece of old leather. The aesthetically pleasing carrots are hard as bullets but the peas are quite good. However, not even soft candlelight can disguise the burned new potatoes.