That night in your local,
I was there with the old gang,
Who’ve vanished now,
Into lives where I’m not welcome,
But who I called my friends back then.
They were drunk
And dancing on the tables.
And I was the quiet one.
You bought me a drink,
And we talked.
I think you made me laugh.
Later,
You told me
You liked my eyes,
That you liked the way I cared
About everyone,
Even you,
Who no one had ever really loved before.
And I fell for you,
Because you were strong
And you made me feel
Chosen.
Your arms have always held me
When all the world is cruel.
You watch me from the door.
“It’s three a.m, Bernie,” you say,
“What the hell?”
The blue light from the fridge
Illuminates us.
Joe takes the plate out of my hands,
And empties it into the bin.
Inside I scream.
STILL FRIENDS
sometimes mollie acts like we’re still friends
and i don’t know how to tell her that we’re not.
it’s easy to see how i fit in –
stacey away on a trip,
sasha off sick,
or maybe they’ve fallen out
and
pushed mollie to the side.
then that’s when
she comes to me –
but only if no one else can see.
i don’t listen as she talks.
my thoughts are full of twilight darkness
the damp fresh air and leaves and rot
all the shadows of the world out there,
the lean-to with its hanging bomb.
“what’s up?” she says,
“you’re quiet – you’re not still
going on about that thing with stacey?
can’t you just get over it, i mean
yeah she can be a cow,
but seriously, lil,
grow up.”
i open my text book, pretend to read
and curl my hands into aching fists.
NO EXCUSES
if someone sees me.
first the jogging, up and down the street,
slug slow
round and round the estate in the dark.
then,
every night, after dad gets home from work.
he buys a skipping rope and i laugh,
remember being small and rushing
out to play, getting in line to
jump and turn the rope, sing the rhymes.
it had taken me ages to get the hang of it,
but mum had stood outside with me
through those sunny hours,
turning the handle,
aunty clare
on the other end,
as i stumbled and tripped
until suddenly, i flew.
“too slow,” dad says,
“you need to get your feet
moving, girl. give it here.”
he demonstrates.
the rope tangles in his ankles.
“just like that,”
he says, looking up, giving me a wink.
but i know what he means. it’s all about
speed.
moving so it almost doesn’t look
like moving at all.
like dreaming of dancing and
spinning swift
as if you are truly free
(not here and heavy
weighted to the floor
with iron chains that bind you to someone else’s truth
of what you are allowed to be).
if i can do that, and do it well, that would be something.
my cousin mikey has come to watch.
“go on,” mikey says.
want a go? i ask.
he takes the rope, looks at it, tries.
you have to jump, i laugh. come on.
i’ll show you.
and i start and i don’t stop,
even though everything is
wobbling
jiggling,
moving,
my t-shirt riding up,
in a way i’d hate someone to see.
but today, who cares?
i manage twenty, then muck up.
“you’re really good,” mikey says,
i hand him the rope, and dad nods.
“it takes practice. but our lil’s great, isn’t she?
just you wait, she’ll be a star. go on try, mike.
now, lily.” he turns to me,
“press-ups, right?”
a training plan is nailed to the wall.
i nearly say
No.
there are things i don’t want to do.
“it’s for your own good.”
those words
make me want to scream –
can’t he see that i’m trying?
the best time is hitting the bag.
not the squats or the kicks, or the lunges or the jogging,
out of breath, beetroot faced,
messy, jelly-legged –
but the confrontation
in that
imagined fight –
when i’m winning,
me against
the world.
“keep your focus,” dad says,
“you’ll be all right
toughen up, girl.
don’t make excuses.”
and i know there’s no quitting.
EVERYBODY CAN CHANGE
dad used to bring home
bags of chips
and takeaway pizza
bars of chocolate
sweets,
our favourites, he said.
we’d sit
he’d drink his beer
and mum and i would eat our treats.
now, when he gets back
from all those miles
he’s driven, all those dreams of home,
he holds out DVDs
Rocky, I, II, III, IV
Raging Bull, Million Dollar Baby.
and i sit through hours
with him
cheering on
heroes
who can rise
above the odds.
we punch at shadows together
and i start to imagine
those heroes could be me.
JAWS
mum sends me to the shops
for bits i forgot to buy last time.
i walk with mikey to the Spar,
pockets rattling, heavy with coppers and change.
we wander, wonder
what’s to rush home for?
although out here,
in the evening gloom,
i’m not so sure
we’re safe.
stick to the main road, mum said,
and i take my cousin’s hand.
we talk nonsense,
laugh
at jokes he’s heard,
and then
mikey says,
“do you think you’ll be a star?
uncle joe says there’s girls,
girls like you
who win big prizes,
you could get a medal,” he says,
looking up at me as if i’m already gold.
“i’ll come and cheer!” he jumps and laughs,
wafer thin, like aunty clare, a leaf blown on the wind.
not fair.
thanks mike, i say, although i cannot smile –
that wouldn’t happen,
not to me.
“but you can try, at least, can’t you?”
i s’pose, i say, it’s worth a go.
(relax your hands, soft hands,
strong w
rists – get the right technique,
keep moving, lil –
alone that night, later on
i’ll hit the bag, one two, one two.
my arms like sponge, my head in bits.)
at school today
no one talked to me again.
and then,
at lunch, someone
caught me –
i felt the flash –
looked up,
into the camera’s eye,
aidan and his mates nearby
and stacey with her girls.
i pushed my plate away,
too late –
the damage done.
so now there i am
all over their screens,
mouth open
fork raised.
minger,
fat cow.
pig,
whale,
so frigging gross –
why don’t you just kill yourself?
“lily,” says my cousin
as we approach the shops,
“who’s that boy? over there?”
i don’t need to look
to know.
gripping mikey’s hand tighter,
i pull him with me.
he’s no one,
come on
hurry up –
but i never have been fast enough.
aidan’s coming over the road,
dodging cars
side-stepping through traffic,
upon us
smiling,
shark.
shit, i think,
and then,
hespits –
bullseye.
the traffic drowns what he says next
and i rake my sleeve over my face,
try to wipe him
off my skin,
but it’s sinking in,
and his mouth
is open wide
ready to swallow me
whole
as it curves around
all the things he’s going to do
as soon as he
gets me
alone.
in here, i say
pulling mike inside a shop,
wishing i could call for help,
but dad’s away,
aunty clare’s at work
and mum’s no use.
we hide amongst the bottles,
amber, red and gold,
the guy behind the till
stares our way,
he won’t want to get involved.
aidan is hanging at the door.
biding his time –
no hurry –
“what’s happening? lily, let’s go home,” mikey whines,
shhh, i say,
just let me think.
there’s only uncle ray.
AIDAN
both our dads went to Iraq.
aidan’s dad never came back.
RESCUE
i call mum,
tell her to call ray
and ask him to come pick us up.
“what?”
and i have to make her understand
get uncle ray. i’m scared.
we wait.
i pretend to shop,
look for something to buy.
a can of coke is over a quid –
too much.
i close the chiller
and look again,
feign nonchalance
while sweat runs down my neck and spine
and my heart pants in wheezing time.
aidan’s spit
is in my hair,
it’s in my pores
and under my skin.
the bell on the shop door chimes,
aidan’s inside,
walking up to the counter,
buying cigarettes.
he watches me,
lights up,
and blows cancer in our direction,
his fist curls around the smoke,
his knuckles glitter
brassy
with rings
and he
ignores the voice telling him to
get out
no smoking.
he’s a lout.
(“move. footwork,” dad says,
“you can’t stand still.
lily, come on, keep moving all the time.
if you keep moving, then it’s harder to
hit you.
you need to move it, girl.”)
aidan swears,
his mouth full of hate –
“you,” he says, “dog,”
and our eyes lock,
“outside, come on,”
he cocks his head at the door,
“what are you waiting for?
let’s go for a walk.”
what would happen
out there?
the night is crawling
across the sky,
and in that monstrous dark
where people disappear
i’m sweating fear,
and aidan is destroying me.
mikey starts to cry
and there is no way
to get away.
the door pings again.
ray.
all shoulders and swagger,
in his uniform,
“everything all right,
lil, what’s the problem, eh?
what’s going on,
what you done?”
aidan backs down, slopes off,
trailing smoke behind him,
shoots me one last look
that says,
this will keep.
FEET UNDER THE TABLE
i have to be grateful now.
“show your uncle ray
what you’ve been up to, love,”
says mum, who
is serving beer and stuff she keeps
for dad, his favourite snacks,
and ray is filling his face.
now it’s up to me to show how thankful i am, too.
mum looks as if she might disintegrate
crumble like pastry
if i can’t be strong right now
and take him away.
he grins at the punchbag,
grabs it, holds it fast.
“show us what you’ve got then, lil.”
he watches, with folded arms
as i pull on the gloves
demonstrate my
weakness,
swiping
at my enemies
arms melting
legs shaking
belly a puddle of curdled milk.
ray laughs and
pulls on dad’s gloves.
“you’re going to have to do better
than that.
come on, hit me, make it hard.”
he dances in front of me –
ducking
weaving
mocking,
beckoning me on,
and i try to catch him –
but i’m just so tired
of trying,
and even though i hate him
it’s not enough.
“come on, fatty
come on, loser
come on, big girl,
catch me if you can.”
ray’s a big man.
and when he belts me
on the side of my head
i’m down
and i don’t get up.
BERNADETTE (8)
The bastard.
Get out, I tell him
And I mean it.
He laughs in my face.
“Come on, Bern,
It was just a tap.
The girl’s got to learn.”
No, she doesn’t,
I say.
And I tell my brother
To stay away.
SECRETS
“don’t tell your dad, love,”
&nbs
p; is what mum said,
“it was an accident, wasn’t it?
he’s never known his strength.”
and my black eye is just
another bruise.
dad doesn’t look convinced,
he’s no fool.
“was it someone at school?”
i shake my head and follow him outside
to work my way out of this.
but i’m still no good.
not a natural,
no born fighter.
i hear the desperation in his voice,
see the tiredness in his eyes
and know i’m not living up
to what he thought he could make of me.
i pause, drop my arms.
i need a break.
“five minutes,” he says,
cautious,
warning.
i step away, take off the gloves,
hand them back.
no, i’m done. i’ve got work to do. exams. no lie.
“all right. tomorrow, then,”
he pauses, frowns –
“unless you’re backing out?”
i shrug.
am i?
maybe.
what is the point,
in trying to be something
you are not?
DINNER
my mother doesn’t eat with us.
so much normal
so much strange.
but she cooks for us,
out of the freezer stuff.
or beans,
pasta,
whatever’s in the cupboard
nothing special –
what we can afford.
but now it’s protein, veggies,
recipes she’s looked up online,
healthy eating
because, she says, i’m working hard, and
need my strength.
“you’re an athlete now,”
she says, serving me
as if i don’t have legs of my own.
i have to smile back at her.
i chew on the word.
athlete.
it doesn’t fit.
er, not really, mum, i tell her
and push the meat around my plate
leaking blood making me sick.
mum shakes her head,
piles my plate higher.
“you will be –
your dad says you have good aim.”
she mimes a punch.
dad laughs.
“she’ll do well. i have a feeling,