M Word Read online

  She turns to come back inside the kitchen.

  ‘Maggie, Jesus, you gave me a fright,’ she goes.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘That.’ She nods to the hob.

  ‘Boiled pasta?’ I go. ‘Magic!’

  ‘Don’t start, Maggie. I’m in no humour for you today.’

  ‘Eh?’ I go, cos this is what Mum does at times; she says something that riles me and when I’m riled we battle and suddenly I’m to blame. Mean, I could go off on one about munching fag-infused spaghetti or the state of her misery chops, but I don’t.

  ‘What’re you on about?’ I go. ‘This was your idea, to celebrate …’

  ‘Just sit down and wait for your food.’

  ‘Sake.’

  I tut. I sit.

  ‘I don’t have the energy for this tonight, Maggie.’

  ‘Energy for what?’

  ‘Just –’ she opens her palms as if submitting – ‘let’s eat in peace.’

  I pick up my fork, think about ramming it straight into her eye. When she’s not looking, I jab the four prongs into my palm. Sore. But, honestly, not sore enough.

  Mum sits across from me, rests her head on the tips of her fingers. The sound of boiling pasta doesn’t muffle the huffing coming out of her mouth though. I watch it boil. Why is she such a total whinge bag?

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The pot.’

  She dives up. Turns off the hob. Screams the word ‘fuck’ really loud, then fires the whole lot into the sink. Kitchen’s full of steam, rising from the sink. Wish a genie would appear.

  ‘You mental?’ I go. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘I forgot to put a sauce on. It’s ruined.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s a big day for me, in case you forgot.’

  ‘Oh, please shut up for once, Maggie. Not everything’s about your needs.’

  ‘All right, chill. Sake.’

  ‘And please do not tell me to chill. If I want to be unchilled, I’ll bloody be unchilled, OK?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I’m not joking, the desire to pick up a chair is strong. I stand up like I’m about to thrust this fork up her nose. I hurl it into the steam, watch it flip around. Makes that noise. Soundtrack of my youth.

  I glare at Mum.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ I belt at her.

  ‘See what’s in there,’ she goes, pointing to the fridge. Her voice calmer. Good job.

  Just as I expected, piss all in there to get excited about. Feel like scooping out some of her Philadelphia (Lidl brand) with my finger and shovelling it into my gob; see how she likes that. Actually, feel like salvaging the spaghetti from the sink. I smash the fridge closed.

  ‘God, what’s the matter with you tonight?’ I go.

  I can tell she’s at a stage of loopy far beyond her usual level. She sits, does this massive sigh. Cups her mouth. And mouth-cupping isn’t good, is it? I know that. She might even be shaking.

  I sit again.

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong?’

  Her hand shifts from mouth to eyes; she kind of pinches them.

  ‘What happened?’

  She looks at me. No tears. That’s something at least. More sighing.

  ‘That’s me done, Maggie,’ she goes.

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘With work.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I knew it was coming. I knew. We all knew it was coming. Cowards. They could’ve at least told us at the end of last year, given us time to find something else.’

  ‘Mum, seriously, what happened?’

  She throws her head back.

  ‘I got paid off today.’

  ‘At the school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean, “paid off”?’

  ‘There’s no more work for me, Maggie. They don’t need me.’

  ‘How’s there no work for you? You’re a dinner lady, not a coalminer. Schools always need dinners.’

  ‘Council. They’ve cut back on everything. If it’s not cost-effective it’s cut. And I’m one of the cut ones.’

  ‘So, what does that mean now?’ I feel like a complete moron for asking.

  ‘Means I’ve no job is what it means.’

  ‘Just get another.’

  She sniggers, pulls a fag out of the pack and heads for the door again.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just get another job, Maggie. I’ll nip out tomorrow and get one, that’s what I’ll do.’

  Sarky cow!

  I hear it in my head. I hear it: What about me? What about art school? Who’ll buy me new clothes and supplies? What about me, Mum? Obviously I don’t say that; I’m not a complete selfish psycho. Can’t ruin her big spotlight moment, can I?

  I go to the sink, fish out the slithers of spaghetti. Lob in salt and pepper, a grating of cheese and it can’t taste that bad, can it?

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mum goes.

  ‘I’m starving,’ I go.

  ‘You can’t eat that, Maggie.’

  ‘There’s nothing else.’

  ‘I think there’s some soup up there.’ She nods to the cupboard above my head.

  ‘This is fine.’

  Her eyes surrender; she looks sad and broken. Nothing a cigarette won’t fix.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she goes, blowing some of her fag smoke into the kitchen. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  Yeah, well, you did. So, too late. But I’ll give you a pass for tonight.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I go.

  But it’s not OK, is it? I thought we’d be laughing and chatting about how buzzed I am; I secretly hoped that she’d have bought me a little gift: new jeans or a pair of trainers. Mean, a job’s a job – you just get another – but you’ll never be able to recreate this moment. Totally tarnished.

  It’s minging, like spaghetti seasoned with dust. After two sucks I bin it.

  ‘I’m going to my room,’ I go.

  ‘Fine.’

  On the way out I dip into the fridge and take the whole tub of Lidl-brand Philadelphia. Low fat, so I don’t feel too bad.

  Cutbacks?

  Fucking council.

  Just when I thought things were looking up, Mum plunges us deeper into poverty. It’s not her fault, but still. Looks like I’ll be wearing the same tattered gear all year then. I’ll have to stay away from bars, unable to get a round in. I can deal with people thinking I’m a bit poor (not really), but I can’t have them thinking I’m tighter than a flawed facelift.

  Plumes of smoke waft up past my room window. She must be pure chain-smoking her lungs black. God, imagine snogging that. I don’t put any tunes on cos I need to hear every sound. I know she’s too upset to come to me, probably wants to avoid a ding-dong anyway. No, she’ll stay puffing the night away, slugging wine and watching dross TV. She’ll do her thing; I’ll do mine.

  Why does life have to be so hostile all the time?

  When you snap a Bic, you’re basically creating a shard of glass: razor sharp and durable. I’ve a choice of colours; pluck for the red one. I crack that plastic in two and press hard on my arm until a tiny trickle of blood worms out.

  Here’s me thinking that it’s only rich chicks, the lonely and depressed models who do crap like this.

  I’m scarily close to doing a proper five- to ten-centimetre slice. It’s unreal trying not to, but I just about manage it.

  Rough time.

  It isn’t sore; weird, cos my pain threshold is a level below pussy drawers. Weirder still: I quite like it.

  In blood I finger-write MOYA on my forearm. Rub her out. Draw M ♥ M. Erase. Christ on a bike, Maggie, people at art school will flip their shit if they ever get wind of this. Who wants to be associated with a whack head?

  I imagine that Mum isn’t wrapped up in her own melodrama for two minutes, and we’re having a confab about it:

  ‘It’s nothing, just a tiny cut,’ I’d go.

  ‘It’s more than a tiny cut. Looks deep. What happened?’ she’d go.


  ‘Caught it on a rusty nail.’

  ‘What’s going through your mind?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me? Talk to me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You being truthful?’

  ‘With?’

  ‘The nail thing?’

  ‘It’s the God’s honest.’

  ‘You know, you’re doing really well, Maggie,’ she’d go. ‘Really well.’

  ‘It was an accident. The pissing nail was sticking out of the gate frame, snared my arm. Next thing I know, blood everywhere. Nightmare,’ I’d go.

  She’d give me the I-don’t-believe-you eyes.

  BIG, MINGING ELEPHANT-IN-THE-ROOM ALERT!

  OK, here it is:

  Hello, my name’s Maggie, and I dabble in the dark art of harming oneself.

  There.

  Said it.

  Whisper it.

  Conceal it.

  Hide it.

  But, please, never mention it.

  Especially not to her …

  Moya

  Try giving Moya shit and you’d have known all about it. No joke, pure trigger-tongue that one. Like my protective big sister, even though I’m two months older and could probably beat her in a scrap. Our school had resources for students like us: anger-management sessions, padded cells, water fountains, breathing apparatus. We made teachers struggle.

  We sort of became pals on the first day of big school. Girl was a mad riot from the moment we met.

  When: School, day one.

  What: Science class.

  Where: Up the back.

  ‘That’s my seat.’ Moya stormed right up to me, bold as brass.

  ‘No it’s not,’ I went.

  ‘Pure is.’

  ‘Pure isn’t.’

  ‘Off or else,’ Moya went, doing this mental hard-nut stance, hand on hip.

  I did my own nutter pose. The state of us standing there trying to make the other think we’re psycho. Hilarious when I think back.

  ‘Else what?’ I went.

  ‘Else you’re getting it.’

  ‘Get me it.’ I stepped forward, hoisted up my chest.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Do it then.’

  Fist clenched, heart bouncing; this cheeky little slaphead was about to know all about it.

  ‘Cow,’ she chucked at me.

  ‘Bitch,’ I chucked back.

  ‘Slut.’

  ‘Whore.’

  ‘F …’

  ‘YOU THERE.’ Shout from the teacher.

  Moya turned.

  ‘Me, sir?’ she went, as if butter wouldn’t have melted in her arse.

  ‘Yes, you. What’s your name, young lady?’

  ‘Moya.’

  ‘Moya what?’

  ‘Burns.’

  ‘Well, Moya Burns, I suggest you find yourself another seat.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No buts, Miss Burns. There, now!’ The teacher flashed a finger towards the seat directly in front of mine. Moya plonked herself down. Face like a road accident. Pure raging. I was like, YES, one–nil Maggie Yates.

  Then, tidying up at the end, I’m minding my biz, thinking how boring science is, shoving things into my bag, when she aims her daggers at me.

  ‘Want a picture?’ she went.

  ‘You want a picture?’ I went. ‘What you looking at?’

  ‘You, why?’

  ‘Well, don’t.’

  ‘Or what?’ she went, puffing out her bee-sting chest.

  I was thinking, What’s this fruit’s issue? Is she like proper mental or something?

  I tried to stand tall again.

  ‘Else I’ll …’

  ‘Do what?’

  Everyone’s staring at this stage; boys majorly salivating that two girls might have a ding-dong, knickers flashing everywhere.

  And that was it.

  I’d had enough.

  Couldn’t be arsed with all that ‘or what’ and ‘want a picture’ crap so I smashed my bag on the floor and threw this mad eppie rant about how I was going to stamp all over her head and send her to A & E. Moya shat a brick. Me too. My insides clattering like a knackered washing machine. I’d never dream of stamping on anyone’s head so I was totally relieved when she backed down. See, thing about me is that I’m all bullshit and bluster. Mum’s said many times that I’m a mouth-first-think-later girl.

  After we retreated, everything went majorly bonkers; in our next class we were dumped beside each other. Brilliant. Teacher was this man giant in Geox shoes; looked like life loathed him.

  ‘Pens out!’ he bawled.

  Moya put two pens on the desk. Probably nicked from the bookies. I couldn’t find mine. I rummaged around in my bag, face deep in its mouth. Panicked. Must’ve fallen out when I slammed my bag on the floor.

  ‘IN SILENCE,’ Mr Geox shoes blasted.

  I wanted to stick my schoolbag over my head and disappear into the darkness. I could tell that the little head-wrecker beside me was dying to piss herself laughing. I pinged her my glance, ready to sever her smile with my tongue, but Moya wasn’t sniggering, she was pointing one of the pens towards me. An ink gun.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’ll kill you if you don’t have one.’

  I took the pen from her hand. ‘Ta!’

  From that day, that class, we became inseparable gal pals. Crazy to think how some friendships can be created through war, isn’t it? Take note, Middle East!

  Moya wouldn’t let anyone act superior around us. Girl knew the score; our situations mirrored each other’s. In shops she’d go ape if she caught the workers following us, thinking we were about to fire a bomber jacket or pair of liquid leggings into our schoolbags. We tortured ourselves with stuff we couldn’t afford. I might be many things, but shoplifter I’m not. Still, we screamed penniless so eyes were constantly on us. I’d hide into myself, concentrate on the fashion, shift suspicion away from me, but the bold Moya challenged everything head on; ambushed them with a rant about their clothes, hair, make-up or anything she could find to hack them down with, pouncing on any defect.

  ‘You gawking at?’ she went.

  ‘Erm … nothing … I wasn’t gawking.’

  ‘Think we’re not good enough for your shop?’

  ‘Can I …?’

  ‘Think we’re here to blag stuff, is that it?’

  ‘Can I help you with something?’

  ‘Yeah, you can keep your eyes and tiny tits pointed in that direction, OK?’

  They usually did. Didn’t matter if it was teenagers or people Mum’s age, everyone got tongue-swiped by her. Except hot guys.

  Moya made me feel secure and worthy.

  I sort of needed her, especially at that excuse of a school. Place was full of immature wind-up merchants; where cruelty came on tap.

  Insults were lobbed at us all the time; harmless ones like ‘tinker trainers’ and ‘Poundland girls’ to more aggressive ones like ‘scabby welfare-spongers’ and ‘smelly rug-munchers’. I stuck a finger in front of their faces; she always voiced up:

  ‘Know something?’ she went.

  ‘What?’ some prick went.

  ‘I’m sure we saw your mum on a porn site the other night.’

  ‘What’re you on about?’

  ‘What was it called again, Mags?’ Moya was the only one who got away with calling me Mags. I shrugged. Did loads of shrugging at Moya’s improv.

  ‘That’s it,’ she went, ‘Glasgow MILFs. Your old dear’s got some major talent going on. Anyway, can’t stand around chatting all day.’

  Always drew laughter.

  She (we) always won.

  As we grew into our teenage selves, she loved spilling the goss about her experiences with guys. I was murder in that department, totally clueless. I wouldn’t have known anything if it wasn’t for her. Still don’t by the way.

  One time she took my favourite cuddly toy, little
Larry the lamb, and splayed him in a crucifix position on my bed.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I went.

  ‘It’s time we had the birds and bees chat,’ she went.

  ‘With a cuddly toy?’

  We looked down at poor Larry.

  ‘Right, Mags, point to where a guy has touched you.’

  Nearly died we howled so much.

  It was important she gave any guy I fancied the thumbs up. Her opinion mattered. Told her I thought Matt Lenton from our French class was kind of interesting.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a pure ride,’ she went.

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘Totally gash-foam material. If he chatted me up in a dark corner I’d definitely let him finger me.’

  ‘Sake, Moya!’

  This was her pal compliment; that’s the way I took it.

  Lenton turned out to be a dick, like the rest.

  God, I miss the howling we did.

  Coping

  I clench my jumper cuffs tight against the palms of my hands, feeling dead young compared to everyone else. Smaller, paler, weedier. Bet I look ill to them. Well, I am part of the chips-and-diluted-juice class, ain’t I? Sorry if I wasn’t brought up on avocados and olives.

  In the matriculation queue I try not to catch anyone’s eye; the other students are clearly much cooler, with their shabby-chic clothes and intimidating confidence. My jeans hang loose and my jacket pure drowns me. And don’t talk to me about my tatty trainers. At least I don’t have a giant arse, small mercies. As I shuffle along, awaiting my student card and schedule, I keep saying the name Alexander Lee McQueen over and over in my head.

  Alexander Lee McQueen.

  Alexander Lee McQueen.

  Alexander Lee McQueen.

  He diluted his juice and wore cheap gear too, yet reached the top. Wasn’t his mum on the dole as well? He was a beast, an inspiration. Hard work and talent is what you need, Maggie. Alexander Lee McQueen is my new muse. I need to channel his energy. Nutcase switched out his own lights too; doesn’t blemish his brilliance though.

  My student ID pic fills me with pride; I can’t stop staring at myself, even though I look like a drugs mule. This pic lets me know that I’ve waded through the shit swamp and come out relatively clean. Basically, screams achievement.