But in general. I want the whole world to think it. I want it to be my truth. I want to be genuinely only annoyed that my car’s had a bash up and it’s going to be a pain in the arse to get it sorted, but life goes on. It’ll get sorted. Worse things happen at sea and so on.
But. FUCK.
This isn’t my truth, is it?
For me, this is a shipwreck. I’m a grown man with a lost chance, not a boy with a toy. Not that it’s easier being the latter. Not in my experience, anyway.
My sisters are both older, Lisa by seven years and Emma by five.
Growing up was like watching a telly show where they starred as a double act, me always on the other side of the glass, admiring, listening. Whatever I suggested – playing MouseTrap, watching Fraggle Rock – it got dismissed with a big ruffle of my hair and an ‘Ah, he’s so cute,’ sometimes from Lisa, mostly from Emma. They were a force. And I was blown away by them.
My ma took on three cleaning jobs to pay for their tap and ballet lessons. I was dragged along, but not to dance. I was too young to be left home alone. I had to sit and wait amongst the other mothers and bored siblings, in the cloakroom of the church hall, the tinkle of an out-of-tune piano seeping through the wall. The newsagents across the road became my saviour.
It was there I found a hobby.
I’d seen an advert on the telly for a magazine about maps of the world. Each week, the edition came attached with a little clear bag of plastic pieces and stickers, all part of building your own globe. Collecting all twelve editions meant completing the globe, the final piece allowing it to spin on its axis. My pocket money had gone up from one to two pounds since Emma and Lisa began dancing, my dad sneaking the extra quid my way with a wink and a shush behind my ma’s back. And the magazine cost just that: two pounds a week.
So I began collecting.
Every Tuesday, as Emma and Lisa fought their way to be first into the church hall, I’d stop, look, listen and think, cross the road and buy my magazine. Then, curled up beside the metal radiator, its paint chipped and peeling onto the cold, tiled floor of the cloakroom, I’d read it from cover to cover, completing the wordsearch, the spot the difference, the weekly quiz; one time on rivers, another on mountains. Keeping the little clear bag safe in my coat pocket, I waited until I got home to build my globe, slotting the new piece into place.
During week seven of the collection, I went to Snowy’s after school for tea. Snowy was allowed out on his bike before mealtimes and gave me a ‘seater’ as we rode through the estate. Snowy pulled up outside the off-licence. We both went inside, Snowy scratching his skinny ribs and complaining about being ravenous.
‘But your ma’s got the tea on,’ I said.
‘Me ma’s stingy with the potatoes,’ Snowy said. And he bought a Toffee Crisp and two cans of 7Up. ‘You should get some fodder, mate, or you’ll be starving.’
I had my two quid, all ready to buy my magazine the following day. A packet of crisps wasn’t going to break the bank. I could ask my dad for it when he got home. So, I chose some beef Space Raiders.
‘10p, love,’ the girl on the till said.
I handed over a quid, got ninety pence change.
That night, after Snowy’s ma dropped me off, I found my ma and my dad in the kitchen arguing. My dad told me to go up to my room. I took the glass from my sock drawer, and turning it upside down on the carpet, ear to the glass, I listened through the floorboards. They weren’t arguing. They were talking about Maggie bloody Thatcher. My dad had lost his job, again.
The extra 10p was never asked for.
At the newsagents, I picked up the seventh edition of the magazine, took it to the counter. Keeping my fingers crossed behind my back, I handed over my money. I believed that a stroke of luck, or kindness, might just be on my side.
‘You’re 10p short,’ the lady said.
‘I haven’t got it.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I bought some Space Raiders. Yesterday.’
‘Well, you’d better choose something else,’ she said. ‘Something you can afford.’