the card

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the card

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The only thing I ever got off my oldman was a birthday card when I wasten. He'd gone off when I was threeand left me and mam and my sister tofend for ourselves. Mam never talksabout him but my sister remembershim.

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‘What was dad like?' I ask.She looks at me through dark, sleepyeyes, pushes her hair back from hereyes. Her arms are scabbed like she'sbeen shinning up a rusty drainpipe andaccidentally slid back down andscraped herself. ‘Whu?'‘I said, what was dad like?'She smiles at me, and I suss that she'sstill trippin' and I should ask her laterwhen she's straight.

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Anyhow, the only thing I ever got fromhim was a birthday card when I wasten. It said Happy Birthday Mickey! Andthen there was a verse inside the cardthat went:Now you're ten, and how you'vegrownIt really won't be long‘Til you're a man, and fully grownWith arms both big and strong.And on the front of the card was apicture, a cartoon, of a little boywearing a hardhat and driving atractor. But I mean, how would heknow I'd grown? To be honest, I wassurprised he knew where I was, wemoved so often.

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But the killer was, at the bottom of thecard, below the rhyme, he'd added:Remember, no one's got your backXX. Dad.I'd studied this card on more than oneoccasion, trying to work out somedepth to what he was telling me. ‘Laura,what was dad like?'Three hours later and she's washingup. The dutiful daughter. She looked upa little, thought about my question for asecond or two. Then she said, ‘I lovehim. Still.'

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‘Well I hate him. What was he like,though?'And she said, ‘Stern.'‘Stern, huh?'‘I don't mean strict; more like serious.Like you, a bit, but smarter, taller andbetter looking.' Then she laughed andslapped me across the arm, ‘Dry thedishes,' she said.It's funny, I learn a lot from my sister,mainly don't do drugs, which I shouldhave written in capital letters instead ofitalics, but never mind, the thing is,when she's not high or shaking ‘cosshe needs some stuff, she's really smartand, truth be told, she's the core of ourfamily, the strength, believe it or not.Honest, she keeps us together.

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Honest, she keeps us together. There'sme, fifteen, bright, got a future, they tellme, though I haven't and I'll tell youabout that later, and then there's mymam, as honest as, and working, andsensible (though not in her choice ofboyfriends or anything) and all thatstuff. And then there's Laura. Nineteen,and a junkie, but she holds the familytogether. Cos mam's a flake anduseless, and I, basically, am at a looseend; financially, educationally, socially,morally… I won't go on.

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Cos mam's a flake anduseless, and I, basically, am at a looseend; financially, educationally, socially,morally… I won't go on.Laura has one thing going for her; she'shonest. And because she is honest shesees more than most, so she knowsmore than most, and she holds me andmam together.Mam.

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Mam.Hold on, I was told by my Englishteacher, Miss Wright, that I shouldshow, not tell; ‘too much exposition,'she'll say to me (look it up). So maybe Ishould stop describing my life, startshowing what happens instead, but I'llget to that bit in a bit, so to speak.Ok, so mam. My mother. She is thirtyseven years old and she is a flake. Atotal dribble. Weak as. They should do areality TV show on my mam – "How NotTo …""How Not To bring up your children."

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"How Not To save for the future.""How Not To get a good job.""How Not To attract a nice boyfriend."She did once. Attract a nice boyfriend,that is. And I've read all the women'smagazines she buys and I knew fromthe off it wasn't going to last. From themoment she said to me, ‘He's kind,thoughtful, good looking. He's got agood job, Pete, and a lovely car' (abloody good car, since you ask. Youdidn't? But you would have.

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AKompressor. Which meansSupercharger. Which also meansmoney. Cool. German. Cool. And muchmore). But anyway, as she's telling meall this I'm thinking, Yeah, but mam,you're going to fall for a skinheadednightclub doorman or a carpetsalesman called Wayne and you'regoing to jack Pete in and tell me ‘therewas no spark' which translates as, youthink that love equals pain, andaffection means distress and you thinkthat being nice is the equivalent ofbeing invisible. Which it kind of is.

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Sojust be honest. Please. So, as predicted,Pete went the journey. Kompressor andall. And in moved Marc. Fifteen yearsyounger than mam. What a tosspot.What a racket.It was embarrassing. It was the crimethat no parent should inflict upon theirchildren! Making those noises. I wastwelve, which made Laura sixteen;she'd just failed her exams and wasworking in Safeway. Very content.

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And the last thingthat Laura wanted was mam and Marcdoing that upstairs halfway through aSunday afternoon. Go on mam; be amam, not a flake. Don't be desperate,please. But no. And when Marc made aplay for Laura one afternoon, just asuggestion you understand, shescreamed the place down and mamcame dashing downstairs half-dressedand slapped Laura to shut her up andthen slapped her again when sheheard what she was accusing Marc ofdoing.

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I'm not tough, really, I'm not. And I'mnot pretending to be not tough soyou'll think that really I secretly amtough either. I'm just not. So when mamtook his side against Laura I couldn'tdrop Marc with a right hook to the jawor a knee in the family jewels, though Ireally, really wanted to, so I just wentand sat on the front step and listened tothem row.

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It was one of those afternoons withdark and light grey clouds flying acrossthe sky on the wind (scudding, as theysay in really old novels). I sat on thestep of our front door watching theseagulls wheel and fly and sail on thewind. I wished I could do that.I have this theory that, to us the worldis a flat thing we stand on, but to birds itis a cliff they cling to, a huge ball andthey cling to the side and then fall offand fly and glide. I'm digressing here,but I can't remember what elsehappened, except I know how itended. The next morning I waited untilMarc went out and then I used mam'sphone to call the police and grass Marcfor the twenty grams of cocaine he hadstashed in a haversack under the stairs.

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Bingo.Job done.Like I say, I'm not tough. But I don'tneed to be when there's five polis and aGerman Shepherd dog breaking downthe door and dragging Marc screamingdown the path and into a van.Anyhow, this card I got from my dad. Itsaid, remember, no one's got yourback, like this was some piece ofinformation I'd known but hadforgotten, or like I already had askedsomeone to get my back and thendiscovered they hadn't got it, orsomething. I mean, come on dad, Idon't know who you are, or where youare or what you do or anything, butcome on, be a dad for a minute. For aslong as it takes not to write thatsentence.

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I was ten years old for Chrissake.Write I miss you or We'll meet up whenyou're older or Stick in at school. In fact,here's an idea. Don't send me a card.Go on.

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Unsend it.But the funny thing is, daft, one-off cardwith a stupid picture and a derangedverse it might have been.But he was right.No one's got your back.