Gravediggin' Under the Mancy Way: here's the second chapter for y'all

Two

Burnt Dumplin

   Tania’s back. I know she’s back because the only person who ever comes here is Tania and I can hear the cellar window banging shut. At least I think I know it’s Tania. I’ve been lucky so far. No unwelcome visitors, not even local kids coming for a mess about. I don’t want people coming and going. Spid knows where I live but I go to his. It’s better like that. I scored a nice fat bag earlier like I planned and I’m as happy as Larry, whoever the fuck Larry is. I often wonder who the fuck these characters from Turnofphraseland are. Well I’m happy as I can be and I ain’t about to give even a pinch of this to Tanya, never mind who paid for it, eh? I do the hard work so you don’t have to. Just call me Mr Muscle, ready for action. I piss myself laughing at that as I pour out the neon-green water from a can of processed peas into a dirty pan. Dead matches float to the top and charcoal dust spreads out in a film over the surface of the liquid. I wipe a spoon on my Le Petit Punk T-shirt , remove the loose lid and eat.

   It’s a miserable fire I’ve got going but it’s doing the job of de-numbing me. Got some wood from the waste ground behind those student places off Wilmslow Road. Funny, people are. The whole time I was busy ripping wood off this rust-sprung bed carcass, there was this old woman with an Aldi bag, just standing there, staring at me. Staring. She didn’t smile or frown. Just looked. She had a familiar face, long-nosed, deep-set, dark eyes; skin like soft, old leather, the colour of well-seasoned laurel-wood. She wore one of those turban-style hats, old and grey as her coat and cardigan. Grey skirt, grey tights; shoes from another era. They made them to last back then. When I’d piled all my wood up and grabbed it, started to make a move towards home, I passed her, gave her a smile. She just stood there, barely moving, on the periphery of this scrubby, broken place: lilacs, ragwort and buddleia breaking through cracked concrete, cans and papers and carrier bags blowing around, and she didn’t smile back. Watery, her eyes: bulging un-shed droplets of salt water just sitting in the loose lower lids of those sad, sad eyes. It made me wonder what those eyes had seen and I wanted to take her hand and just take her home with me. Just to talk.

   But I didn’t.

   -Take care love, I’d said. Take care, love. What the fuck? Then I remembered. It wasn’t ‘til I got back here until I remembered who she reminded me of. My Grandmother.

   Made me sad, that. I loved my Grandmother. Bubbe Ilyana. Ilyana Yablonsky. She was the snuggliest, cuddliest, sweetest lady in the world. I remember, being small, hiding under the table, Bubbe feeding me secret sweet things, giving me secret kind words and kissing my forehead when I was in trouble with my parents, who were always in trouble with each other. Bubbe was my refuge. Never angry, never shouting: not with me. She would defend me even when I knew I’d done wrong. I miss her. Aye, no time to dwell on it, times change. Feel sad though…if she saw me like this…

   So back to the real world. I shove the empty pea can into an empty carrier bag I’ve hung under the stove as Tania’s footsteps increase in volume. Up she comes. Three knocks on the door and she’s calling my name.

   -You on your own Tan?

   -Course, hurry up, my fingers are falling off.

In she comes, swinging a huge collection of high street bags: Kookai, Next, Miss Selfridge, Morgan, Oasis. Her lips brush my cheek and this time she smells sweeter than before, all perfumed up. Can’t say the same for myself.

   And then, something clicks: the shoes. Bubbe Ilyana’s shoes. They were the same. Silver leather with narrow, narrow, pointed toes and soft, purple suede just covering the toes like hearts. Heels like they don’t make any more, silver heels with nails in the bottom that went click-clack, click-clack and I remember her talking about those shoes, how they’d crossed the sea with her on the Kindertransport: her mother’s shoes.

She never saw her mother again.

   Then the lady in the wasteland becomes Bubbe Ilyana and I’m wondering why she was crying. And where she got the shoes. Strange thoughts. I begin to question if she was even there at all. 

   -Look, Lee’s still not answering his phone. You can’t sort us out, can you?

I’m not really listening, not wanting to communicate with this situation.

   -Gary, are you okay?

   -Huh?

   -I said Le-

   -Lee’s not answering his phone, yeah I know. Sorry, Tan, I was somewhere else for a minute. Been shopping, I see.

   -New Visa card. What do you think?

She pulls out this transparent top, MORGAN and a red PVC heart plastered across the chest, holds it up against her, grinning.

   -What’s that say? Moron?

   -Don’t be cheeky, I paid sixty five quid for that.

   -Fuck me, so you are a moron.

   -I would fuck you if you ever had a bath, and anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted.

I can’t be arsed with this. I’m not in the mood. See what I mean when I say she’s lucky she met me first? Credit card scams click through my mind, but I’ll take it slow with Tania. I don’t want to lose her trust. But if she thinks I’m insulting her and not the other way round, I guess it’s just another case of another fuckin planet. Let’s see how long she can keep her head in the clouds. I’ve seen stronger women than Tania dead in bus station toilets with their fancy-clothed arses soaking up their own piss.

   -Fuck off then, Tania. If you wanna spend sixty-five quid on a bit of fabric, that’s up to you. My Nan came to this country with nothing but a pair of shoes and the clothes on her back, but she could take sixty five yards of fabric and feed her entire family for a month and pay the rent off the clothes she made, and trust me, she would never have put her name on a piece of crap like that: look, the stitches are already coming unpicked…

She’s got this crazy look in her eyes now. Maybe she’s going to cry, but then she smiles instead. That pitying look that I shouldn’t like, but do.

   -I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.

Feelings? Hell, I don’t have feelings. Not that I want you to see, anyway. Do I?

   -Ah, forget it. I like you, you know. And I’m not going to fuck you either, okay? No offence meant, none taken, right? And look, if you wanna score, you better get yourself down Cockney Stan’s. He’ll sort you out if you tell him I sent you.

The look of disappointment ain’t exactly breaking my heart; not even a look of desperation would have broken my heart, but she wasn’t desperate then.

   -I don’t even know him. Oh Gareeee- can’t I just get a bag off you? Just a bit?

Frowning now, she is, throwing herself onto my bed and knocking over a Kookai bag, clothes spilling out onto the floor.

   -Watch out, you might not be able to get a refund. Look. I’ve told you. I’ve got fuck all. Last bag I had was shit, didn’t feel nothing off it. I had to scrape it out with the wet filter and do that after, just to take the edge off. Tan, I’ve got a proper bad habit, gotta spend the rest of the day grafting before I can score again and I’m not being funny, but I got shit to sort out now. I’d ask you to help us out but…look, I ain’t no dealer. I don’t need the hassle. Stan’s got one of them new flats down Chichester Road. First flat on the corner when you get to Asda- third floor, with a balcony, right?

   It’s not lying: it’s like that most days, more often it’s worse. I’m telling the truth about yesterday. More or less. Just talking as if we’re still on Thursday. Come on, who doesn’t improvise the lyrics a bit when they’re singing sad songs?

   -Stan, right?

   -That’s him. Just say you know Gary and he’ll sort you out. Look, I’ve gotta get on with some stuff. If you go down to Stan’s…

   -Yeah, I get the message. You going to Dred-Rock tonight?

   -Might do.

I start picking her new clothes off the floor for her, put them in the bag for her and put it in her lap. She puts her hands around it and cuddles it forlornly, like she regrets having bought it.

   -Might see you there then.

   -Yeah, might do.

My mind’s working overtime as I see her out. I laugh, thinking about Lee. Cunt ain’t never gonna answer his phone cos that number’s always gonna be switched off, laying as it is at the bottom of the Manchester shit canal.

   When she’s gone, I take out the bag and do some up just cos I’m feeling the stress. Maybe it’s Tania and her credit card, maybe I’m mourning a wasted credit card opportunity. Maybe it’s just life in general.  Don’t know why I bothered after I do it, cos there’s no rush or nothing. I stash my used filter with the others in my little baggie, counting them, yellowish brownish, some lighter than others, some I swear I’ve boiled half to death in desperate times and been loath to throw them away, Just in case, eh?

   Yeah, I’m on a weird one today. Those eyes stay in my mind. And those silver leather shoes. Bubbe Ilyana’s shoes. Fuck, I miss her.

*   *   *

   Tania gets off the bus at Bonsall Street and walks past the flats, condemned for demolition. Just Malarky remains open, a wholefood co-op; the chemist and bookie’s boarded up now. An old man with a carrier bag dangling from the handle of his walking stick shuffles along a walkway and down the stairs on the end of the block. Huge graffiti designs in multicoloured letters and faces cover entire walls in 3D block script; Tania can’t make out what most of them say. Above, way up high, white letters drip, misspelled against the black painted concrete:

SAY GOODYE TO THE PLAYGROUND IN THE SKY

And underneath:

NEVER QUIT!

HULME FOR HULME PEOPLE.

OTTERBURN CREW.

   This isn’t a place for Tania, but she’s drawn in as though watching a film. She doesn’t feel real here. Rows of Travellers’ trucks, caravans and buses crowd the concrete courtyard alongside cars and caravans. Litter blows in the wind with music, techno beats bounce off walls which soon will become empty space. She sees a sofa outside a front door, a woman in a flowery hippy skirt sitting, smoking, her hair a mix of braids, dreads and silk-wraps. These are people, like me, they are people, but not like me. Not like me, she thinks and wonders what she’d say to them. Wondering what she’s doing here, wondering why she stopped that night in Rusholme and put a pound in a beggar’s hat. It’s all unfolding in a seemingly uncontrolled way.

   A clapped out fiat slinks past, slow reggae bass shaking the bodywork. The driver’s a Rasta in a red, gold and green tam and he beeps the horn and slows down. Panic rises in her: why’s he beeping at her? She speeds up walking, then feels a fool as he shouts a greeting to the chef behind the counter of a small catering van which advertises in bold Caribbean colours: akee&saltfish, curry goat, rice’n’peas, goatfish, snapper fish, dumplin and other stuff she’s never heard of, let alone tasted.

   -Y’irie, Star?

The shaven headed bloke waves back, shouting

   -Irie, man, I-rey!

Tania crosses the road in front of the car, parked now, the driver chatting with the bloke in the van. Tania’s wondering what goatfish  is…goat and fish, a fish like a goat? Why would anyone want to eat goat anyway? Yuck. And the worst of all: fried plantain. Fried plantain? And sorrel? Why would anyone want to fry and eat garden weeds? And ackee sounds yucky. There are purple cans of grape soda and a jug of caramel-coloured liquid she can’t identify. But the food smells good and she’s wondering if she’d ever be curious enough to try some.

   Past the Nia Centre and up to the corner opposite Asda. Here we are, Chichester Road. She hangs around on the corner for a minute, looking up at the flats. Counts one, two, three floors. Approaches the door, slowly, nervously. Three buzzers: inside the light-up boxes are names: the bottom reads CRAIG in neat, black fineliner; the middle one’s empty. The button for flat three has STEVE TANNER biroed in inside the light-up box, badly handwritten in blue. Hesitating, she feels inside her pocket: forty quid. She looks back up the street in the direction from which she’s come. Ackee&saltfish, rice’n’peas…the smell still drifts in the slight wind. OK, here goes. She doesn’t want to do it: she’s right out of her comfort zone. Rusholme’s okay; seedy, but feels safer. When she looked up this place in her A-Z, the words MOSS SIDE flew off the page at her, totally freaked her out: I mean, everyone know’s it’s the gangland capital of England, she’d thought. But this is Hulme, right, not Moss Side. Her father would have a frickin heart attack if he could see her now. One…two…three…four…five, silently counting to ten before she raises her hand, extends her index finger and presses the buzzer. It makes a farty, electrical sound. Soon after, a crackle is emitted from the silver-grey slotted speaker.

   -Yeah?

Even in the yeah, she can hear a rough, Mancunian accent.

   -Is Stan in?

   -Who are you?

   -I’m a mate of Gary’s. Tania. He said you’d sort us out.

   -Yeah? Gary who? Could be Gary fockin Lineker.

She can feel her face glowing. Glad she plastered on the foundation.

   -Gary with the mohican.

   -Uh, hang on, I’m coming down.

Coming down off what? She breathes in and leans against the wall next to the buzzers. Deep breaths. The intercom goes dead and she waits, nervous: nervous enough to light another cigarette as she sees dirty once-white Reebok classics, Adidas pants with poppers down the sides, then the rest of the stocky bloke, who jumps down the last flight of stairs. On top he wears a navy Nike sweatshirt and his hair’s shaved so close his head’s shining. He opens the door just a crack and speaks, his voice croaky like he smokes too many cigarettes.

   -How do I know you’re not five O?

Tania’s never heard of five o before, but she supposes he must mean police.

   -I’m just a mate of Gary’s. He said…

   -Show us yer browns.

   -What?

   -I said show us yer fockin browns, din’ I?

   -Uh…

Tania hasn’t a clue what the man’s talking about, and he’s got these crazy eyes she’s trying to avoid looking at, but he’s staring straight into hers. His face is pitted, skin shrunk tight over sharp bones and his skin’s dry as paper. The myriad lines he has are set in a frown.

   -Don’t fock me about, right. Show us yer fockin arms then.

   -I don’t inject. Gary sai-

   -How the fock do I know yer not five O?

   -Look, I’m not a pig. Ga-

The word escapes her mouth unexpectedly.

   -Any twat can say that, though, can’t they? En’t what you say, it’s who you are.

   -Please, let me finish my sentence. Gary said to come and see you. He couldn’t sort me out and said you would. I’m alright, yeah? Look, I want four bags. I’ve got forty quid, right.

The bloke pauses, looking her up and down for a minute. After what feels to Tania like ten minutes, he seems satisfied.

   -Alright. I can do you five bags for forty. But I’m gonna have to go and pick some up. Be about half hour, right?

   -Cheers. Look, I really appreciate this, Stan.

She smiles, relieved how well this is working out.

   -No problem. Give us the forty and I’ll see you outside the dole in half an hour.

Stan opens the door a bit wider and Tania feeds the money through to him.

   -Just gonna get me coat. Don’t hang around here. Go, shift, for fock sake. Go to Asda do a bitta shoppin or somefink.

   She gave him the money. Forty quid. Forty pounds sterling. Four tenners. A bargain, really: could’ve been five. Simon Tanner; Stan; Cockney Stan. Hold on a minute: Cockney? Cockney Stan, Stan the man. Stan, Stan the heroin man…was he? She gave him the money and he took it.

   Tania’s got money. People say that money doesn’t grow on trees, but it does for Tania. Money is made from paper and paper’s made from wood and Tania’s money comes from Daddy. Reams of paper, scattered with figures: calculations; profit, loss. Daddy’s BIG IN FINANCE and Daddy’s rich. Would she have handed Stan the money had it been her own? A Post Office giro? Signing on, forty quid’s more than a week’s payment, but Tania’s never been on the dole. Would she have handed it over if it had been part of a measly student grant that didn’t even cover the rent? But Tania doesn’t get a grant: she’s not eligible. Her parents earn too much. Instead, she gets an allowance from Daddy. Dearest Daddy, Daddy dear. O Mio babbino Caro, just like in the operas she’d seen on countless family outings. A cheque in the bank every month. And Tania spends money like cows eat grass.

   Tania’s always shopped at Sainsbury’s. Sometimes Tesco, but never Asda. She turns the corner and crosses towards the large supermarket, crossing the huge car park into the shop. The baskets have green handles and she heads straight for the booze aisle. Lingering before rows of wine, categorised into countries of origin: Argentina, Australia, Chile, Colombia…white to the left and red to the right. No, not wine today. She doesn’t want to carry the box. Boxes are divine; a box of red Stowells and she’s got a near-perfect night. But Southern Comfort’s what she’s decided on. The next isle is spirits. She chooses a bottle of Southern Comfort. Reads the labels on a few rums. Cockspur; Asda’s own brand; Bacardi; Appleton; She likes the label, but Wray and Nephew Overproof White Rum sounds more interesting. Adding it to her basket, she’s checking her watch and she’s got twenty minutes to go.

   Okay, clothes? Does Asda even sell clothes? Definitely worth avoiding.  Videos? Music…

   A young mother pushes a toddler in the trolley seat. He has blonde dreadlocks and big blue-green eyes. Totally cute, Tania’s thinking to herself and wondering if she’ll ever have children of her own. Wondering if she’ll ever meet a man she’d want to have children with. She’s smiling at him now, giving him little waves, as he waves his arms wildly at the bright jelly packets, beginning to whine as his mother pushes the trolley on, looking from the jelly to his mother emphatically, reaching and grabbing air as he breaks into a howl

   -I wan yeleeee!

   -Baby, next time we’ll get jelly, okay?

   -BurrIwanyelleeee!

   -Hey, sugar, mummy’s gonna get you jelly next time…I can’t afford it today.

The boy’s wails fill the shop as Tania joins a long queue, the same woman joining the queue behind her. Rows of sweets and chocolates light up his eyes again as he leans and reaches for Skittles and Smarties, nearly precipitating himself from the seat.

   -We’ll get some when I get paid, little man, eh-ey, don’t cry now momma’s likkle man.

Tania watches the woman cuddle her boy back into the seat, rubbing her nose with his, kissing the tears from his wet cheeks and wiping his nose with a tissue. In her near-empty trolley are baked beans, onions, spaghetti hoops, tinned tomatoes and spaghetti, all in the white cheapest range packaging. All the while the boy continues to cry and cry.

   She feels in her pocket for change, offers the woman a pound.

   -For the baby? Is that okay?

The woman smiles, her hazel eyes lighting up and creasing into a smile.

   -Ah, thanks darling, hey, Josh-Josh, this lady’s just given you some pocket money; say thank you to the nice lady.

   The toddler hides his face in his mother’s coat amongst, old, dried tears and snot from earlier episodes.

   -It’s okay, don’t worry, he’s shy, huh?

The woman nods and chooses a packet of Skittles, handing it to her boy.

   -Hey little man, you want these? Say thank you, Josh, like a good boy.

   Adrenaline rushes to Tania’s stomach as she checks her watch. The woman at the checkout bleeps her shopping over the scanner and swipes Tania’s card through the till.

   -Do you want any cashback?

   -Yeah, can I have fifty pounds please?

At the tobacco counter she buys forty Marlboro Lights and leaves through the automatic doors .

   It’s quarter to four when she gets to the dole office on the corner of Moss Lane East and Chichester Road. She can’t see Stan, so she pushes at the door.

   -Sorry, we’re closed. A man wearing a blue and yellow Employment Service tie speaks through the glass.

   Tania lights a cigarette and leans against the wall. Reggae is pumping out of the Little Alex across the road; a greying Rastaman, dreadlocks hanging almost to his knees, is talking into a mobile phone in the doorway. She watches as buses drive up and down Alexandra Road, dropping off and picking up passengers. The smell of hops drifts in the air from the nearby brewery. The Rasta from the Little Alex slopes off up Alexandra Road towards the park as first spots of rain begin to fall. Taking another cigarette from her near-empty packet, Tania lights it from the one she’s just finished. It’s half four and there’s still no sign of Stan. Perhaps he’s had to go home first or something, she thinks, as she turns and walks down Chichester Road towards Stan’s flat.

   There’s no reply when she rings the buzzer. She presses the light-up button again, which is starting to glow yellow in the fading daylight. It’s raining heavily now and the wind’s picked up, blowing the branches of an ancient, lone tree which stands in a random patch of rubbly grass. A car seat leans against its trunk as though the tree’s just waiting for its driver to appear to speed it out of the inner city and away from impending chainsaws and bulldozers. A battered Asda trolley lies beside it, surrounded by empty cans, bottles. Some lay misshapen and melted on a circular patch of black and grey where a fire has scorched the earth. Tania doesn’t know it, but this is the Birley Tree, which once stood at the gates of Birley High School. Its branches curled into the shape of a hand sticking two fingers up to the world, one hundred and ten years it has stood, this black poplar, Queen of the trees of Hulme.

   Tania steps backwards into the dusk street and looks up at Stan’s flat. The windows are dark. After pressing the buzzer again, she walks back towards the dole, rain soaking through her jacket and trousers. It’s just coming up to half past five as she reaches the corner of Moss Lane East, cold rain dripping from her hair and down her back.

Stan is nowhere to be seen.

When Tania looks back at this day, this is what she will always remember: the smell of hops and the scorched earth beneath the Birley Tree.

© Vee 1993-2012