is dark, and smells of tabs.
Her fingers are stained,
her teeth are brown, her mouth
turns down, like she disapproves
of everything.
Everyone’s careful what they say,
she takes offence dead easy,
her tongue will cut you like a knife,
her eyes miss nothing.
Frankie’s never heard her praise anyone
in his life – except the Queen
and maybe Margaret Thatcher.
And of course, The Pope
who’s more God
than God, in her opinion.
When he calls round she grunts
What you bin up to now?
Hiya Nan – he gives her a kiss
that she expects, but looks away
and doesn’t return.
I spose yer want a cup of tea?
Shall I make it?
Na! Keep yer messy fingers out me kitchen.
Yer lookin peaky, mind. Yer not
gettin that annyreksya are ye?
Yer Dad says yer foolin round wi drink.
She shrugs, On your head be it.
I’ve nee time fer wasters –
have a singin hinny.
She shoves a plate into his hands
with a flat cake on it,
How d’yer like yer tea?
Three sugars, thanks Nan.
Three? That’s too many,
what, d’yer think I’m made of sugar?
I’ll gi yer one ana half. Why
did yer run away?’
He wasn’t expecting that
he gulps and stares, no-one’s
asked him straight out before.
Why, eh? Nearly drove
yer Ma and Da mad.
No Nan. Dad doesn’t give a shit.
She swipes him with the back of her hand.
Language, boy. That’s not true.
You don’t know the half of it.
He backs away, but says again
He doesn’t care about me at all.
Yer need ter talk ter someone –
Father Michael is a good man.
He’ll set yer right.
Frankie clears his throat and wonders what to say.
Running away doesn’t make troubles disappear.
Only when yer turn and face them. God’ll help,
my faith kept me on the right track
when I had troubles.
What troubles, Nan?
There are footsteps in the hall, a voice
calls: I’ve got yer shopping!
It’s Aunty Dolly, Corinne’s mam
Hiya Frankie, she beams, Any tea in the pot?
That’s right, take a poor pensioners provisions.
Aunty Dolly rolls her eyes at him,
How yer doin? she smiles.
He’s lookin peaky, drinkin,
running wild. He’ll drive his family
into an early grave. Nan crosses herself,
Typical teenager then, says Dolly
and winks at him. Here Frankie, pet
would you put this stuff away?
Have ye got a tab, Mam?
He hears Nan grumble as he goes down the hall
to the kitchen.
He’s putting tins in the cupboard
thinking he can get off home
now that Dolly’s here. He doesn’t
want Nan asking more questions;
outside the sitting room door
he hears his name, he stops and listens:
..they should be more strict.
He needs help Mam, he’s a troubled lad.
All the more reason. Turning out like
you know who, may he burn in hell.
The world’s changed since Grandad’s day –
Nan raises her voice: Not for me it hasn’t!
and what sort of husband did ye have? Never there.
My husband’s dead, Mam.
Aye, exactly. On the rigs, divorced, then dead.
I did no better than you, then!
he hears Aunty Dolly reply
and icy solid silence fills the room.
Frankie coughs and shouts I’m off. Tarra.
He’s out the door before they can say any more.