Relief wafts into my nerves. I’ve been kind of dreading seeing my sisters and hearing about their dramatically changed lives, but these messages already confirm they haven’t changed too much. Lisa’s always the practical one, straight to the point and never afraid to offend so long as the job gets done, and she gets her way. Emma never stops talking.
How was Mum yesterday? In good spirits? I don’t want us all to overwhelm her in the hospital, she hates fuss. Do you think Lisa and Paul should go first and then I take the kids in with Jack this afternoon? Lisa thinks we should all go right now. What time are you getting there? Or are you there now? Love ya loads. Em x
I hand change to the person waiting in the car below. The messages stop and I take a moment to glance away from my screen and engage in being friendly. The fella in the driving seat looks ever so bloody pleased with himself. And with good reason, too. He’s driving a clean, white BMW M3. I can’t exactly mistake it. Its whole shape will be imprinted in my mind forever. The fella’s eyes meet with mine through his smart specs. Pity oozes from them.
Pity for me. Fucking hell.
By the way, Mum mentioned to Lisa on the phone that you’ve met somebody. What’s her name? How did you meet her? How long have you known her? Sorry about the fifty zillion questions but I’m hoping you’re easier to get hold of when I’m actually in the same country as you. It drives me nuts how impossible you are to get hold of (GET A FACEBOOK ACCOUNT FOR GAWD’S SAKE!) and your Skype connection sucks. Ok, lecture over little bro. Who’s the girl? Love ya loads. Em x
The BMW M3 speeds off, the noise of its engine ringing in my ears like Fleetwood Mac playing live. Christ, this high-vis jacket is taking the piss. My neck’ll be raw red by the end of my shift.
They’ve only been back in Liverpool five minutes and already they’re bickering with my ma. I can hear them from the corridor.
‘I’m not having it!’ my ma’s protesting.
‘You bloody well are, Mum,’ Lisa dictates.
‘I said NO.’
‘And I am saying YES.’
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’
Emma’s intervening with ‘Stop it’ and ‘Listen’ and ‘Can I get a word in?’ and ‘Nobody ever listens to me’, getting trampled over with words like football studs on a freshly mown pitch.
Griffo, who’s kindly given me yet another lift, stops in his tracks in the corridor. He wanted to say hiya to my sisters, especially Lisa, his first crush; his mouth would drop into a giant O, iced with a bit of dribble, whenever she used to barge into the room. But he hands me a selection of magazines for my ma that he picked up on the way.
‘I’ll leave youse to it,’ he says, pressing his lips into a thin smile and narrowing his eyes.
‘Mate, ta for the lift. Again.’
He punches my upper arm. His hair’s combed over with gel and his whole appearance is flabby around the edges. Middle age has hit him earlier than most would welcome it. Griffo doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, though; if anything, he embraces it. He’s even started drinking bitter.
‘I’ll be an independent human again soon,’ I wince. ‘Promise.’
‘Pacific Arms tonight? After visiting hours?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Pints are on me. I know this is the last thing you wanna hear right now, mate, but a new contact of mine just paid me three grand cash for … well, something.’ Griffo laughs, just like a stupid kid who’s let off a stink bomb, which looks creepy coming from his puffed-up, grown-up face. No wonder Griffo never got himself a proper job. His dad’s keeping him close to protect his blabber mouth. Maybe not close enough, though.
‘Surely you’ve just given me too much info there, lad?’
He mouths a silent oops. ‘Pints on me. See you in the Pacific later.’
‘You’re impossible,’ Lisa squeals at my ma from around the corner, the staff on reception glancing away from their screens in disgust. I close my eyes and frown, anticipating the response.
‘Well, well, well,’ my ma says, her voice sounding much stronger at least. ‘Living in the land of the bloody free hasn’t changed you one bit. Still a bossy madam if ever there was one.’
Griffo backs away, reiterating ‘pints’ and ‘Pacific’, then does one.