Welcome to the Real World (6 page)

I
have a big, fat hour all to myself to fritter away before starting my shift at the pub and, therefore, have a choice between visiting my brother and my sweetie-pie nephew, Nathan, or my mum on the way. I'm still feeling absolutely wrung out after listening to the Sitzprobe rehearsal today. Even when they were going over and over the songs during the afternoon, I was close to tears each time. Inside I'm trembling as if I'm coming down with flu, and this has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I can still feel the strength in Evan's arms as he held me, or that if I close my eyes, I can still capture the scent of his skin. Pulling my coat around me, I have a pleasant little shiver to myself.

I wonder what it feels like to perform at that level. Does it shake you to the core as it has shaken me? I have to say that I've never been moved to the depths of this emotion when bashing out a few tunes on stage at the King's Head, and it makes me realise that there's a world of difference between what I'm trying to do and what Evan David has achieved.

As I rattle along on the Tube, I come to my decision. I'm not sure that I can face the next instalment of my parents' marital shenanigans, so opt to see my brother and Nathan instead. Normally, I see them every day, and they must be wondering what has happened to me. I can grab a quick cup of tea with Joe and have a freshen-up before my shift. Jumping off the Central Line at Lancaster Gate, I enjoy the cold evening air as I walk up Westbourne Terrace.

Joe lives in a flat just along here. It's quite a salubrious area, near Bayswater, but the endless, meandering road has an eclectic mix of high-end places, squats and properties that definitely should be condemned. My brother's flat seems quite nice inside, if you don't inspect it too closely. Joe keeps it clean and tidyhe has to because of Nathan's condition. But the building is crumbling, the management company don't care and there's way too much damp for someone with a severe medical condition to be living there. The rent that Joe pays is horrendousalthough it's covered by housing benefit at the momentand my dearest wish is that one day I will earn enough to be able to get them both out of there. The smart terraced house in Cricklewood that was previously his marital home had to be sold to pay off his dearly beloved ex-wife and her not inconsiderable debts.

Joe will be delighted to hear that I've got another jobparticularly as the job, at the moment, doesn't seem to involve anything other than eating a nice breakfast and listening to music all day. I think Evan David was still miffed that I left after the rehearsals this afternoon, especially as I turned down a lift in his limo, but he didn't mention dinner again. I'm going to have to get an advance on my wages from Ken the Landlord as I'm currently spending all my income on Tube fares.

The front door of Joe's building is broken, so I push inside and, as the lift is in a similar state of disrepair, climb the stairs. Some of the doors have black rubbish bags outside and there's a general air of neglect. Had my parents dreamed of my brother and I going to university and getting great jobs and living in four-bedroom detached houses in suburbia, then they must be sorely disappointed. My clutch of middle-range GCSEs proved to be three quarters of useless when it came to getting a good job, but my two-year foundation course in Fashion and Textiles means that I do very tidy hems on curtains when required. And, as I've already explained, my poor brother's steady job in the bank went out of the window when he was forced to become a full-time caregiver.

I know that Mum worries that both of her children are living in homes that are one step up from slums, but house prices in London are so expensive that I'd have to move miles away from my family to ever have any hope of buying a place of my own and I couldn't bear that. I want to be where I've grown up, with all my friends and loved ones around me. That's surely more important than having your own pile of bricks and mortar. I wouldn't want to be in, say, Northampton or Norfolk or Nottingham, when everyone else was here. Besides, I'm not sure that Joe and Nathan could manage without me. Wherever I went, I'd have to take them, too.

I knock on the door of their flat and, moments later, Joe lets me in. 'Hi, sis.' He pulls me to him in a nonchalant hug. 'Haven't seen you for days. Thought you'd run off with a rich Arab sheik.'

'I did consider it,' I say, 'but they couldn't cope without me at the King's. Betty's on holiday and we're short-staffed.'

'Ah. Same old story,' my brother commiserates.

Nathan is sitting upright on the sofa, breathing rhythmically through his asthma inhaler. The big clear plastic globe that he uses as a spacer for the drugs nearly obscures his tiny face. I go over and subject him to a kiss, which he tolerates graciously as it's only on his forehead. 'How's my favourite nephew?'

He pulls his inhaler out. The tube has a smiley clown's face on it. 'I'm your
only
nephew.'

His voice is always slightly husky due to his medication and is punctuated by a breathless wheeze.

I hug him to me. 'That's why you're my favourite.'

Nathan giggles and, abandoning his inhaler, flops back onto a cushion. My nephew is possibly the nicest-natured child in the world. He has a mop of blond hair, blue eyes. Nathan looks and behaves like an angel. Despite the difficulties his illness brings, he's never been one of these tantrum-y children that you see being dragged through supermarkets screamingprobably because he's been aware from a very young age that any overexertion brings on an asthma attack. He's borne all his troubles with stoicism beyond his tender years and my heart breaks for him. When all his friends are running round like things possessed, Nathan sits quietly on the sidelines waiting until they remember to come back to him.

I ruffle his hair. 'I love you.'

'Yuck,' Nathan says.

'Finish your medicine.' Obediently, he takes up his puffer again.

Following Joe back into the kitchen, I jerk my head back towards Nath. 'How is he?'

'Good,' Joe tells me brightly. 'Not bad.' Some of the light goes out. He shrugs with a certain hopelessness and says dully, 'You know how it is.'

Only too well. Next to Joe on the work surface is the sizeable stash of drugs that follow him and my nephew wherever they go.

'Has he been to school today?'

'No.' My brother shakes his head. 'Not today.'

My nephew misses a lot of school. Not through any fault of his own. The overstretched teachers at the school he attends have too much to do to keep their eyes permanently trained on him and his care is sometimes erratic. When he's bad, Joe has no choice but to keep him at home. I wonder whether the hospital will ever be able to get his condition under control and whether he'll be able to enjoy normal schooling one day. I do worry so much for what his future holds. I'm hanging on to the hope that he might suddenly and miraculously grow out of it.

Nathan has been asthmatic since he was a baby. The so-called Wheezing Baby Syndrome he developed while still in his pram was rapidly diagnosed as something more serious. For a time it was thought he might have cystic fibrosis, and the stress of having a sick baby and spending too much of their time on hospital wards took its toll on my brother's marriage. There was more than one argument about the fact that Carolyn had smoked twenty cigarettes a day throughout her pregnancy and continued to do so even when their child sounded like he was coughing his little life away. Joe might not feel the same but, personally, I was delighted when the selfish cow cleared off. I never knew what my brother saw in hershe might have had model girl looks but she was a right royal pain in the arse from day one. Mother material she was not. Confirmed by the fact that she has had no contact whatsoever with Nathan since she left, not even a birthday or Christmas card. How could anyone be so callous? Still, her loss is our gain.

The only downside is that not having a permanent partner makes life so hard for them both and they really don't deserve it. I've offered a million times for Joe and me to throw in our lot together, pool our meagre resources and for me to move in with them. But Joe is under the illusion that one or both of us will, at some point, find suitable partners and that we should keep our options open. I like his optimism and I never say anything to bring him downbelieve me, he has enough on his platebut my options closed down years ago.

'Do you want to join us for beans on toast?' Joe asks, reaching for a pan.

'You're a lifesaver.' I sit down at the small table. These are organic, sugar-free, additive-free beans, as Nathan is allergic to practically every convenience food known to man. Anything from cleaning products to strong scents to peanuts can cause him to go into dreadful and sudden bronchial spasm. He has regular, long courses of steroids and he doesn't sleep or eat wellall of which have combined to make him small for his age. He has 'vulnerable' written all over himthough not in felt pen, to which he's also allergic.

I wonder whether if we moved out of London and went to live, say, in the Caribbean, life would be easier for him.

'So,' my brother says. 'What have you been up to, sis?'

'I got a new job yesterday. That's why I couldn't come round.'

'Cool.'

My heart not only breaks for Nathan, but it tears into shreds for Joe, too. Caring for a sick child 24/7 is no fun. I'm sure that Joe would love to go out to workeven part-time would help him to get a breakbut such is our benefits system that he'd be so much worse off if he even earned a few quid legitimately.

Very rarely, Joe might do a cash job for a friend which helps him outbut most of the time he's barely above the breadline. How wonderful it must be, not to have to continually worry about money and to be able to rent huge penthouse apartments at the drop of a hat, and have chefs to rustle up whatever your heart or your stomach desires, and to be chauffeured around in limos wherever you go.

'What are you doing?'

'Working for an opera singer.'

'What, like Pavarotti?'

'He's even bigger than Pavarotti.'

'No one's bigger than Pavarotti.'

Joe has a point, even though Evan is as far removed from the stereotypical image of a portly opera singer than it is possible to be. 'It's Evan David.'

My brother looks at me blankly. He doesn't get out much. Particularly not to the opera.

'He's quite famous,' I say lamely.

'Fantastic. And what do you do?'

'Not much yet,' I admit, 'but it's a full-time jobfor the next few weeks, at least. I haven't been paid yet, but it means that I can help you out a bit. Maybe I could pay for you both to go away for a week.'

'You do enough for us, sis.'

When I see them both here in this dump, I don't feel that I do anywhere near enough. 'You could get a cheap week in Spain, maybe. Some sun would do you both good.'

My brother slides his arm round me and says, 'For once, I'd like you to think about what would do
you
good, Fern.'

C
arl is all ready and waiting on his bar stool by the time I get to the King's Head.

'Peace,' he says when I arrive and puts two fingers upin the nice way.

'Whatever,' I reply as I strip off my coat and throw my bag down with a sigh.

'How did the job go today?'

'Fab,' I say. But for some reason I don't want to share my experience with Carl. I want to keep it private. And, besides, it would worry Carl. He'd think that I'd want to go off and become an opera singer. Or at the very least, slip
'Nessun Dorma'
or something into our set at the pub. 'Tell your sister thanks from me. I owe her one.'

'And you owe
me
one,' Carl points out.

'Yeah,' I say, taking up my place behind the bar. 'Send me your bill.'

Carl looks shifty.

'What?'

'There is something you could do for me.'

'Does it involve strange sexual practices?'

My friend looks offended. 'No.'

'Shoot then.'

'Don't dismiss this out of hand,' he says. Then he takes a deep breath. 'The
Fame Game
are holding auditions this weekend at Shepherd's Bush Empire. I think we should go along.'

I laugh out loud. 'No way! That's for fresh-faced, hopeful kids, not jaded cynics like you and me. They didn't have anyone over the age of twenty in the last series.'

'They're extending it,' he assures me. 'The upper age limit is thirty-five.'

'Wonderful. So we just about squeeze in.'

'It would be good for us.'

'How do you work that out?'

'It will stretch us as artists, and you never know...'

'I do know.'

'Someone's got to win,' Carl insists. 'It might as well be us.'

'No. No way.'

My friend frowns. 'You said you'd consider it.'

I stare at the ceiling for a moment. 'I have. And the answer's no. No way.'

'Fern,' Carl says. 'I ask you to do very little for me.'

This makes me feel ashamed. Carl is my prop, my life, my one true friend. And it's true, he asks for nothing in return. Well, that's not strictly accurate. He frequently asks for sympathy shags, but never gets them.

'Please do this for me.' He gives me his little-lost-boy look.

'I'll probably be working.'

'Can't you ask Pavarotti for the time off?'

'It's my first week,' I say. 'I don't want to piss him off.' And what I don't voice is that I'm reluctant to admit to Evan David that I have aspirations to become a singer. My attempts seem so feeble compared to his and, don't ask me why, but I wouldn't want him to laugh at me. And, believe me, I'm used to people scoffing at my ambitions.

'This could be our last big chance,' Carl says seriously. 'Do you really want to spend the rest of your life behind the bar in here?'

We take in the all-encompassing dreariness of our surroundings, the billowing smoke, the tar-coloured curtains and the sticky 1960s orange-and-brown carpet.

'No.' I indulge in a pout. 'But the
Fame Game...
' I rearrange my features into a suitably disdainful expression.

'If you won't do it,' he says, 'it'll have to be the strange sexual practices.'

'I'll do it.'

Carl reaches across the bar and squeezes my hand. 'Thank you.'

'I'll do it if I can get the time off,' I qualify.

'That's good enough for me,' Carl says. 'We could win this.' His eyes are bright with excitement. 'We could really win this.'

And then my dad comes in and I lose the will to humour Carl. Instead, my heart sinks. What is it about this man that makes me want to grab him warmly by the neck and shake him? 'Did you go and see Mum today?'

'Hello, darlin',' my dad says, pulling up a stool. 'I'm fine, thank you. How are you today?'

I ignore his jibe. 'Well, did you?'

'Yes.' He sighs.

Pouring a pint of beer, I put it down in front of him, noticing that he offers me no money in return. I also notice that this isn't his first drink of the evening.

'Hi, Mr Kendal,' Carl says. 'Derek.'

I don't like to tell Carl that my dad is only 'Derek' to him when he's being bought double whiskies.

'Hello, lad,' Dad returns in a slightly slurred voice, looking relieved to see at least one friendly face. My guess is that he's been in some other hostelry since lunchtime. So much for him changing his ways.

I'll not be swayed from my interrogation. 'And?'

He hangs his head. 'I'll be making use of your couch again tonight.'

I tut at him. 'You are hopeless.'

'Love, I tried my best. She's not a well woman,' he says after he's drained half of his drink. 'I can't understand what's wrong with her.'

I polish some glasses with a certain amount of venom. If only it was as easy to rub some sense into my most annoying parent. 'She's had enough of you, that's what's wrong.'

He tips the rest of his beer down his throat in two gulps and then slams his glass down onto the bar.

'Fuck,' my dad says suddenly and rather loudly. 'Fuck it all.' Both Carl and I jump. My father might be a lot of things, but he's not normally a potty mouth. We both look at him in astonishment.

'Dad.'

'I'm fucking sick of it,' he continues in the same vein. He's now starting to wave his arms in an aggressive manner. Ken the Landlord straightens up and pays attention. I give him the eye to say that everything will be okaywhich I'm sincerely hoping it will be. He's used to closing-time fights in the King's Head, but it doesn't mean to say that he likes them any better. 'I've tried my naffing bloody best all my life and what for?'

I decide not to point out that Dad's best isn't really anything to shout about.

'Well, fuck her.' Dad is in full flow. 'Fucking, fuck her.'

His voice is rising with every 'fuck'. People are starting to look. Even people who normally make no distinction between this pub and the building site.

'I don't know what to do. So she can fuck off. She can fuck off and make her own life. Without me.'

'Dad,' I grumble. 'Lower your voice. And stop swearing. You sound like you've got Tourette's syndrome.'

'Tourette's?' Dad brightens. I can almost see the light-bulb ping on above his head. 'I wonder if she'd take me back if I was ill?'