All You Need is Love Read online

  ‘I don’t think I ever did have the chance, Mam.’

  ‘You were such a lovely couple.’

  ‘I thought so too. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out as you want it to.’ Wasn’t that the story of his life?

  ‘It wasn’t because of me, was it?’ Mary wanted to know. ‘It wasn’t because I’m a burden to you? You’ve said nothing about why you split up. Not many women would want to take on an invalid mother.’ She hit at her leg with her walking stick.

  ‘Don’t do that, Mam,’ he chided. But it was true, his mam was like a walking medical encyclopaedia.

  Mary Jones had every ‘itis’ known to man. Arthritis, phlebitis, diverticulitis, gastritis, fibrositis and a few other ones he couldn’t remember the name of. She’d suffered ill-health for as long as he could recall. At Charlie’s age, he’d been doing the ironing for the whole family because his mam couldn’t stand for long enough to manage it.

  He looked round the dingy, damp room. Perhaps it had been living here that had made things worse for her. All winter, condensation ran down the inside of the walls and the windows. His mam coughed non-stop from October through to April, phlegmy, wracking hacks that shook right through her body and set the teeth of the casual observer on edge. Worryingly, even the brilliant summer this year hadn’t seemed to have offered her much respite. She was still comparatively young, especially in these days when sixty was the new forty – but you wouldn’t think it, to look at Mary Jones. Instead of spending her twilight years on cruises or skateboarding or whatever it was that pensioners did today with their leisure time, Mary was confined to her armchair. Her daily intake of tablets were lined up on its worn arms. She was a one-woman drain on the NHS and Mary Jones could never say that she hadn’t had her fair share of free medicine in her lifetime.

  Her hair was thin due to the drugs; her skin grey through lack of sunshine. And it broke Johnny’s heart to see her like this. His mother had been a looker in her day, with bright, clear eyes and high cheekbones; now she was plump, soft with the folds of inactivity. A couple of years ago, when it became too hard for her to climb up to her bedroom every night, Johnny bought a single divan out of the local paper and they’d set it up in what used to be the dining room. They’d also got a grant from the Council to convert the understairs cupboard into a loo with a tiny washbasin. Now his mam’s entire world was confined to the ground floor of her house, with only occasional trips to the doctor or the hospital to liven up the monotony. Could he really blame Sally for wanting to get away from this? Perhaps she looked at his mam and could see herself in years to come. Who in their right mind would want that?

  ‘They’d have put me down years ago if I was a dog,’ Mary said, sadly. ‘Isn’t that right, Ringo?’ At the mere mention of his name, Johnny’s scruffy Jack Russell, who was lying at Mary’s feet, wagged his tail enthusiastically. ‘I feel so useless.’

  Johnny went and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Don’t think like that, Mam. You’re not a burden, and you never will be. You’re my mam and I love you to bits. It’s nothing to do with you. It was all my fault.’ There was a truth in that, which was still painful to accept. ‘Sally loves you.’

  ‘I never see her now.’

  ‘She’s busy. She’s started a new computer course. I’ll make sure she comes to see you when she’s got a minute.’

  ‘Computers?’ His mother shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What would our Sally want with computers?’

  She wants to break free, Mam. Fly away from here – from me, from you, from everyone. She wants to take Charlie away. ‘I don’t know, Mam,’ he said instead.

  In an attempt to divert the conversation, he then asked, ‘What do you want for your tea?’

  ‘The Meals on Wheels was nice today,’ she said. ‘Cottage pie. And it was hot. Makes a change. Just do me a little sandwich, Son. I think the bread’s fresh enough.’

  ‘What about a nice bit of corned beef?’

  She rubbed her hands together. ‘Sounds lovely, Johnny. I’ll have a drop of piccalilli on it too, there’s a good lad.’

  Johnny went into the poky kitchen as Noel Edmonds’s voice filled the lounge once more. His interrogation was over for now. Gripping the chipped work surface, he closed his eyes tightly. Only the doubts in his own mind remained.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Hiya, Johnny.’ Charlie sauntered out of the playground and over to the wall where Johnny was sitting waiting.

  ‘All right, lad?’

  The boy nodded as he knelt down and ruffled the fur on Ringo’s neck.‘ Good doggy. Good doggy.’ The doggy – not usually that good – went into seventh heaven.

  ‘Thought you might like to take Ringo for a walk. He’s been stuck in the house for the best part of the day and he’s going mad.’

  ‘Sound.’ Charlie took Ringo’s lead.

  Johnny’s dad might have stopped short of naming him for all four of the Beatles, but there’d been nothing to stop Johnny giving every one of his subsequent dogs the moniker. This feisty little Jack Russell was the third incarnation of Ringo. The previous Ringo had been a Staffordshire Bull Terrier; the one prior to that, a chocolate Labrador with a dicky heart. ‘Thought Mum might have sent you to get me because of the bullies.’

  ‘Nah,’ Johnny said, indulging in a white lie. ‘How’s it been today?’

  Charlie shrugged and studied the ground.‘ Not so bad.’ Which meant it was shite, but it would be worse if he told. They’d be breaking up from school for the summer holidays soon, and at least he’d have some respite from it for a while.

  Johnny threw his arm round the boy’s slender shoulders. The child had only been five years old when he’d first started going out with Sally. In the intervening years he’d spent many days collecting Charlie from school and walking him home. It was something he enjoyed and it gave them time to talk – if not man-to-man, then man-to-boy. Next year Charlie would be going up to the big school – more than likely the sprawling comprehensive, a bus ride away. That would be the end of their walks, maybe their chats too. With him and Sally no longer together, it was getting harder to keep in touch with Charlie. They texted each other regularly – a couple of times a day – and he tried to see him a few evenings in the week, but he didn’t like to make a nuisance of himself. Sally had her own life to live now. He couldn’t help but feel that the boy was slipping away from him though. Much like his mother had.

  Up to a few months ago, he’d be over at Sally’s place nearly every night. You could count on one hand the number of nights he’d actually spent at his own place. They only held onto it because Sally would get her benefits cut if she was found to be co-habiting with someone. And he managed to sub-let a room on the quiet to a lorry driver called Jeff for three nights a week, which helped with his running costs. Good job he had kept on his own flat, as it turned out. The lorry driver, a guy in his fifties from Glasgow, had turned out to be decent enough company when he was around too. Johnny’s place was actually in a slightly nicer location than Sal’s, on the other side of the estate, near to some scrappy fields that had somehow escaped the relentless march of development. His place was a maisonette, just two floors, and more modern. Those stairs at Shankly House would be the death of him yet. The maisonette wasn’t very homely, though – a typical male crash pad, he supposed – but they could have fixed it up nicely together, if Sally had wanted to.

  Now, he ought to give up his place and move in with his mam full-time. It was getting to the point where she needed more care and, in truth, he really didn’t like the thought of her sleeping alone every night. He’d taken to staying over at his mam’s place a couple of nights a week, anyway. Maybe it was time to make it a more permanent arrangement. He knew that his mam would like that, even though she’d never admit it.

  Every night he’d been at Sally’s he had taken to reading Charlie his bedtime story or just talking to him, soothing him for the night ahead. Every morning he’d been there to get him his breakfast, find his rucksack, remind h
im if it was the day for PE, so he wouldn’t forget his good trainers. Now there was nothing but a big hollow where all that used to be. Charlie wasn’t his own boy, not by blood, but that didn’t matter to Johnny. Emotionally, it certainly felt like he was his son. You can’t spend so long with a kid, watching them grow, wiping their nose and then just turn it off because things don’t work out with their mam.

  The two of them walked across the scrubby park, taking the long way home. Charlie let Ringo off his lead and the dog bounded away, barking madly at the clouds, glad of some freedom. Did everyone round here – even the flipping dog – feel like that? Was it something they were putting in the water? Maybe he should go all poncey and start buying that bottled stuff, so that he didn’t start feeling the same way too.

  He turned his attention back to Charlie. ‘So, what did you learn in school today?’

  ‘Nuffin’.’ His young companion scuffed his feet along the ground. It drove Sally mad when Charlie did that, what with the price of shoes nowadays. ‘Everyone messes about so much, we don’t learn nothing.’

  ‘Anything,’ Johnny corrected. ‘You don’t learn anything.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Johnny decided to let it go.

  Now it was Charlie’s turn for a question. ‘Did you do any painting today?’

  ‘Nah,’ Johnny replied. ‘Too busy.’

  ‘Doin’ what?’

  ‘This and that,’ Johnny said.

  ‘Doesn’t sound as if you were busy,’ Charlie observed succinctly. ‘You said you were going to go for it. When we last talked about it, that’s what you said.’

  ‘So I did.’ Johnny was always full of good intentions when it came to his painting, but it was always the thing that seemed to get the leftovers of his time. ‘Not sure you saw the one I started last week.’

  ‘Can we go and have a look at your garage then – before we go home?’

  ‘I’m staying for my tea tonight,’ Johnny told him. ‘At your place.’

  The boy grinned at him. ‘Gear.’

  ‘Better not be late or your mum will skin us both.’

  ‘She’s completely hyper when she gets home from that computer course.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Johnny agreed. ‘I’ve noticed that too. As long as we’re back by half five, we can get the tea on for her.’

  ‘It’s nice having you around again, Johnny,’ Charlie said and, because no one else was around to see, the boy slipped his small hand into his.

  Chapter Six

  Johnny opened the garage door, which creaked in protest. He must get round to oiling those hinges. The dog whined at the noise. ‘Shut up, Ringo.’

  This was his secret place, his retreat. Charlie was the only other living soul who’d been here – apart from Ringo. Sally, unfortunately, had never had any interest in his paintings. Which was a shame. This was the only thing he’d ever been any good at, and it was probably the only thing he was ashamed of too. Say that you were an artist round here and someone would likely want to take a swing at you for no more reason than that.

  Charlie flicked on the switch.‘ Wow!’ he cried as the fluorescent tube flooded the place with a harsh glare. Thankfully, Sally’s son was a much more appreciative audience. ‘Did you do this?’

  Johnny wondered who else Charlie thought would be painting in his lock-up, but decided not to push his small friend’s reasoning skills. ‘Like I said,’ he reminded him. ‘I started it last week.’

  ‘Wow,’ the boy breathed again as he stood in front of it. Ringo sat down next to him and stared up at the canvas too, stumpy tail thumping against the paint-stained concrete floor. ‘That’s what you call a top painting, bro’.’

  Johnny smiled. ‘Thanks.’ The canvas hung from the rafters of the garage. It was ten feet square. An angry-looking Superhero was beginning to punch his way out of the middle of the canvas, Superman-style. It was his own face, grimly determined, that looked out from the canvas. He wondered what the subject-matter said about his current state of mind. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t just Sally who wanted to break out, after all.

  ‘I’d like that in my bedroom.’ It was probably bigger than Charlie’s bedroom. The boy mimicked the pose, making Johnny smile.

  ‘I’ll do you a smaller version, if you want. If your mum will let you have it.’

  ‘Aw! Thanks, Johnny.’ Charlie ran his finger over the canvas. ‘Is it dry?’

  ‘No!’ Too late. Charlie held up a finger smeared with bright red paint. ‘Not yet, lad.’

  The boy flushed. ‘Sorry, Johnny.’

  ‘No worries. I needed to touch that bit up again, anyway.’ He didn’t want to tell Charlie off for something so trivial; Sally was hard enough on him already. Johnny knew that she only did it because she wanted Charlie to stay on the straight and narrow, but sometimes she came down on her son like a ton of bricks for nothing.

  ‘You could sell these,’ Charlie said, looking around at the other canvases that were starting to stack up against the walls.

  ‘Well . . .’ Now it was Johnny’s turn to scuff the floor with his foot. He followed the boy’s gaze. This place was okay for the summer, but it was going to be hard to keep the finished paintings from warping, as it was likely to be damp in here. You could poke a finger through the door it was so flimsy. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been robbed. Mind you, who would want to nick this lot? Didn’t stop people from trying, nevertheless. His only heating was a poxy three-bar electric fire and he’d needed that when he’d done a couple of late-night sessions already. Not exactly cosy. In the winter, he could see himself having to paint in gloves. But artists were supposed to struggle, weren’t they? Maybe he should take some of the smaller pictures to a car boot sale or get a stall at either Kirberly or Great Homer Street market, see if anyone was interested.

  ‘If I was rich, I’d buy one,’ his young friend piped up, still admiring the painting.

  Johnny had started to rent the garage a few months ago, just after he and Sally had split. It helped to take his mind off things. It was a bit of a stretch affording the paint and the canvas, but what else did he have to spend his cash on? He’d never been one to pour it down his neck like his mates did. Drink wasn’t his vice; the odd tipple was enough for him. Sally would never take any money from him – said it compromised her independence, whatever the hell that meant. He couldn’t really paint at home as it made too much mess. Nice as the guy was, the lorry driver would probably complain or leave, and then Johnny wouldn’t be able to afford the paint anyway. Another one of life’s little quandaries.

  ‘You should bring Mum down here,’ Charlie said. ‘I bet she’d like them.’

  Johnny shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ Sally thought he was a waster, that he didn’t have any dreams. But this was his dream. He wanted to be a painter. A good one. But Sally didn’t see being a painter as a real job. Given the fact that he was never likely to earn any money at it, she probably had a point. She’d rather he went out and got a proper nine-to-five job with a regular salary – in a factory or down on the docks or as a nightclub bouncer. Anything. But how could he do that when he had his mam to look after? Life was all about compromise, but Sally wasn’t prepared to do that. She knew what she wanted and that was all that mattered to her.

  Johnny looked again at the painting, trying to see it with impartial eyes. He had no idea if he was good or not. These could be nothing more than amateurish daubs. So, Charlie liked them, but being appreciated by a ten-year-old self-styled art critic wasn’t going to make him his fortune.

  Johnny surveyed the canvas. He’d been trying out different paints, different styles, attempting to find his groove. He shrugged at the painting. Maybe one day. ‘Come on,’ he said to Charlie. ‘Let’s get you back and get that tea on.’

  Chapter Seven

  When I get home from the computer course, the kitchen windows are steamed up and there’s a great pan of pasta bubbling on the stove. Minced beef sizzles in the frying pan, filling the r
oom with the appetising scents of home cooking.

  Instead of being pleased, somehow it’s irritating me that Johnny’s here – even though I’ve invited him. That’s women’s logic for you. It’s just that he looks so comfortable here in my flat. Even his flipping dog is at home here too, sprawled out on my clean kitchen floor. Johnny’s alternately stirring the pot of pasta and the mince. Charlie, next to him, is wearing my pinny and is chopping onions. An everyday scene of domestic bliss. Except that it isn’t.

  ‘Be careful with that knife,’ is the first thing I say, then instantly regret snapping.

  My son turns his red-rimmed, teary eyes to me.

  ‘You shouldn’t cut through the root,’ I say more softly. ‘That’s what makes you cry.’ I go over, turn the onion around and show him the correct way to do it.

  Charlie wipes his sleeve across his eyes and says, ‘I like doing the garlic cloves in the thingy.’ My son points at the garlic press. ‘It’s like squashing eyeballs.’

  I stifle a sigh and turn to Johnny. ‘You needn’t have done this.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he says chirpily. ‘Got to look after the worker.’

  I throw my bag down. ‘Hardly that.’

  Johnny pauses in his stirring to add Charlie’s chopped onions and tears to the mince. ‘Did you enjoy your course today?’

  I can feel myself flush. After Spencer Knight asked me to have dinner with him – me, plain boring Sally Freeman – I didn’t remember anything else he said the entire afternoon. At this rate I’m never destined to be a top computer operative. Bill Gates can rest safe in his bed. ‘It’s good,’ I say and then, stretching the truth, I add, ‘I’m learning a lot.’

  ‘Great,’ Johnny says. ‘Really great.’ But he doesn’t sound as if he thinks it’s too great. ‘Make your mam a cup of tea, Charlie.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say, and pick up the kettle. They’re making me feel redundant in my own kitchen. ‘You can lay the table, Son.’