Song Rec: London Calling by The Clash
Chapter One
London Calling
•••
.
.
AS THE CAB approached the Free Derry corner, rolling past the political murals that decorated gable walls, James Maguire lifted his weary head from the window, feeling the veil of depression begin to lift away. It was funny how the tables had turned—when he'd first arrived in this troubled little corner of the world and clapped eyes on the soldiers standing on street corners with their enormous rifles, James had felt like getting out of the cab and legging it back to the airport.
Fast-forward to the present, and he couldn't get back to Northern Ireland fast enough. How ironic it was to feel more accepted in Derry—a city with a reputation for being unaccepting, than he ever felt back in London.
He'd been naive to think that spending the last few weeks of the summer holidays in England was a good idea, but his guilt for not visiting his mum sooner had grown too strong to ignore. They'd spoken on the phone a few times this year, though James had been the dialler in each instance. And on the occasions she bothered to answer, she would harp on about her own life, never allowing him to get a word in edgeways. And he would just sit there staring at the wall, letting her ramblings go in one ear and out the other until his aunt snatched the phone away and snapped at her for wasting her money.
Recently, however, the missed phone calls had been adding up, and James had grown concerned. Deidre shrugged it off of course. After all, Cathy had been giving her the cold shoulder for years and had already demonstrated her capability to do the same to her own son.
But it hadn't sat right with James, which was how he came to spend most of the summer holidays elbow deep in chip grease so he could earn his fare for a trip back to Blighty.
Finnoula's was the only place that would take him on. Every other business heard one word of his English accent and immediately showed him the door; and that was putting it lightly. He'd worked himself into misery in that place, and the stench of vinegar and cooking oil still lingered in his nostrils.
Later he would discover that it'd all been for nothing; just as Michelle predicted when she and the girls came in to get their fish and chips one Friday night.
"If you're gonnae have a summer job, at least spend your wages on something useful. It's pure painful watching you slave away like this for that selfish cow." She'd told him, leaning both elbows against the counter.
"Michelle, don't," Erin had whispered sharply.
"Why? It's the truth, " Michelle's head snapped to Erin, then back to James. "The fact that you're the one makin' all the effort speaks volumes. She should be haulin' her arse back here, not the other way round!"
"She hasn't been answering the phone, Michelle. I'm worried about her," he'd told her, plainly.
"Aye, and what does that tell ye?"
James' face was as sour as the vinegar he was shaking on Orla's chips. He wasn't sure if she was ever going to tell him when to stop.
His relationship with his mum was complicated to say the least, but there was no question that she cared about him. Michelle didn't have a clue what she was talking about, as per usual. She didn't know Kathy like James did.
She didn't know that Kathy wasn't all black-and-white like she was often made out be. Growing up, James had seen many different sides to his mum.
There was thoughtful Kathy who would take him out for ice-cream and read him bedtime stories. This was a side to his mum that he held close to his heart, and, unbeknownst to James, he would magnify those moments in his head, as lovely and rare as shooting stars.
But however much he tried to ignore it, they didn't change the fact that Kathy was a narcissist—often known for giving the date of his birthday "a wee nudge" just to suit her, and refusing to pay for school trips under the pretence of being 'strapped for cash' all while admiring the eighty-quid cut-and-colour she'd just had done in the mirror.
During his very first trip abroad, which had been sunny Benidorm, Kathy had been so busy flirting with the lifeguard that James had almost drowned in the background. He probably would have done if it hadn't been for Paul's swift action.
But despite all that, Kathy was still his mother. She had raised him (though Paul and the Hewitt family from next door had also played a large role) she had put clothes on his back and a roof over his head. And James didn't feel comfortable going about his day to day life knowing that she had not answered six of his attempted calls.
"Christ, I knew you were dense, but I honestly had a smidge of hope for you."
"When!" Orla finally exclaimed, and James put the vinegar bottle down. He wondered how the girl didn't get horrendous heartburn with the junk she shoved down her neck on a daily basis.
He finished bagging up their orders then dumped it on the counter-top. "That's twenty-five pounds altogether, please."
"I want an Irn Bru as well, " added Michelle.
James rolled his eyes, plucked a can of Irn Bru from the fridge and slammed it down next to the bag. "Twenty-five pound fifty."
Michelle paid him with a mocking smile. "You look a right spanner in that hair-net by the way," she jibed. "Shift yourselves, girls. We're gonnae miss Top of the Pops.
As they filed out of the chippy, Clare glanced back at James with an apologetic smile. Erin hung back and waited for them to leave before she regarded him gently. "She doesn't mean to be a bitch, you know."
"Michelle always means to be a bitch."
"Abrasiveness is in her nature, as you well know. But if you look past that, you'll see that she's just lookin' out for you...in a Michelle sorta way, " Erin tried to assure him.
"Well, I don't need her to," he sighed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to close up."
Erin nodded. "You'll come round later if you're not too knackered, aye? I know you don't like chippy grub, but I think there's some of Mammy's lasagna left over. It'll cheer you up."
James tried to maintain his sulk, but he couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his lips. He lifted his gaze in defeat, his eyes shining. It was the first time he'd cracked a smile that week.
"That's borderline entrapment, Erin Quinn. You know I can't turn down your mum's cooking."
She smirked triumphantly as she inched away from the counter. "Nobody can."
.
.
The following Friday, James had woken up at half six in the morning to catch the bus to Belfast. He spent the duration of the ferry trip basking in the sun on the deck-lounge and playing pool with a group of holidaying pensioners.
The train journey from Birkenhead started off quite decently until a smelly, fat man pressed him against the window for two hours, and ate sloppily from a tub containing what looked and smelled like rancid cat food. On a jam-packed train in the middle of July with no air-conditioning or openable windows, what James initially observed as a 'not too bad' trip quickly turned into what he'd envisioned hell to be like.
Needless to say that by the time he reached London at half seven in the evening, he was tired, aching, and desperate for a wee. But he still put on his jolliest smile and self-consciously adjusted his denim jacket before he knocked on the door of his old house, a big bouquet of pink carnations–which he'd bought for half price at Tesco, clutched in his hand.
It took four more attempts before the door was finally yanked open, and James' smile snapped off, as he came face-to-face with a scowling, bald-headed man wearing nothing but a pair of union-jack printed boxers.
He'd stared at James expectantly, a cigarette smouldering between his lips–and when James remained dumbfounded he pulled the cig away, sizing him up. "Oo the fuck are you?"
"Uh, I'm Kathy's son James. I used to live here," he'd answered flatly, making a strong effort not to choke on the smoke.
"Right, and I'm supposed to give a monkey's, am I?" Replied the man in a jarring cockney accent. He went to shut the door.
"Hang on!" James protested, his panic rising. "I want to talk to Kathy! I came a long way, and—"
"There ain't no one called Kathy 'ere. Now piss off, you curly-'eaded twat."
When the door slammed, his heart slammed with it. He stood there for quite a while, his eyes burning with tears he refused to shed.
The realisation hit him like a bullet train.
She'd sold the house.
She had actually sold the house, and without bothering to let him know where he could find her.
She'd abandoned him again.
James dumped the flowers in a nearby wheelie bin and turned away, feeling numb. While his mind reeled, his feet must have made the decision for him, because soon he found himself at the front door of his step-dad's house—well, technically he wasn't his step-dad anymore.
He rang the doorbell, and Scrappy, Paul's ancient cloudy-eyed dog began yapping. James could see the giddy Yorkshire terrier jumping up and down through the frosted glass. Then a bigger silhouette appeared and Paul opened the door, looking much the same as the last time he saw him, salt-and-pepper coloured hair, and rectangular glasses sitting on a pale face–which was now pink with sunburn.
"James," he said, with a blink, and the dog darted under his legs to greet James, quite boisterously in spite of her old age. He reached down, glad to feel at least a modicum of happiness as he scratched the little dog behind her ears.
"Hi, Paul," he greeted, half-heartedly. "I hope I'm not bothering you—"
"Bollocks! It's great to see you, lad! Come inside for a cuppa," Paul insisted, his eyes shining. He whistled at the dog. "Scrappy, you old fart, get inside."
James thanked him and stepped timidly over the threshold. The last time he'd been in Paul's new house was just before he'd left for Derry, only then it was bare and filled with cardboard-boxes. It looked a lot homelier now, with carpet lining the stairs and hallway and various framed photographs arranged on an oak sideboard. One of which, made a solemn smile tug at his lips; it was of himself when he was little, wrapped up snugly in a matching tardis scarf and hat. Paul was with him, and they were holding up fizzing sparklers.
Nostalgia hit him square in the chest.
They would go every year to the New Year's Eve firework display in Westminster, they'd made it their own little tradition. Kathy never wanted to go along with them. She always spent New Year's at her mates' houses. Sometimes even Christmases.
"How many sugars do you take, mate?" Paul's voice echoed from the adjacent kitchen, followed by the clatter of a spoon.
"Oh," said James, snapping out of his reminiscing. "Two will do, please."
Paul placed their tea on a little end-table in the living room, along with a plate of biscuits. "Help yourself to a custard cream and dunk responsibly."
Scrappy ambled over, eyeing up the biscuits with a lick of her lips.
Paul rolled his eyes. "She might be deaf as a post and blind as a bat, but there's nothing wrong with her nose. Lie down, Scrap."
Scrappy looked over at Paul and immediately obeyed, stretching out on the rug. Though, she didn't tear her intent gaze away from the biscuits. James smiled warmly at his old friend.
Paul sat back against the cushions and relished in his first sip of tea. "You arrived just in the nick of time. I've not long come in from work. What brings you here then, ay? Fallen out with your mum, have you?"
"You could say that, yeah," he replied.
Paul frowned, his sprightly demeanour dampening as he picked up on James' dismay. "Christ, what has she done this time?"
"She left me in Derry, " said James, matter-of-factly. He brought his mug to his lips.
"What?"
"She's been back in London a year and a bit now," he explained. "But I stayed in Derry. She did come back for me eventually, but then I realized that it was only because she needed another pair of hands to help run her label business. So I chose to remain with my aunt in Northern Ireland."
Outrage ignited in Paul's eyes. "James, if I'd known she'd pull something like that I would have come to pick you up. You came all this way on your own then I take it?"
James nodded. "To visit mum. Her birthday is coming up but she hasn't been answering the phone. I got a summer job in a chippy so I could get on a ferry and check everything was okay. Anyway, I soon found out the reason. She's only gone and sold the house."
Paul's eyes widened and he choked on his tea. "This just keeps getting worse, " he gaped. "She sold the house? Without telling you where she was going?"
"Seems so," replied James, numbly.
"Jesus wept," Paul murmured. "I thought there was a limit to how low Kathy could stoop but this," he shook his head. "This takes the biscuit."
"At least I know she's okay. But if she'd just rang to let me know, I wouldn't have spent half the holidays reeking of sweat and chip fat. I even went through the trouble of buying her some stupid flowers."
"Listen to me, Jamie," Paul began, earnestly. And James' heart soared at the reappearance of that old nickname. "I know I shouldn't speak ill of your mother, or the woman I once loved for that matter. But in this instance, I think it's justified. She has no empathy, no regard for anyone else's feelings but her own. As we've both come to learn. But I'll always be here for you if you need me, that won't ever change. You'll always be my step-son in my eyes."
Paul's smile was heartfelt, and suddenly, James didn't feel so unwanted anymore. His eyes prickled and he tried to fight his tears. However, this on top of the recent emotional trauma was the straw that broke the camel's back.
"Sorry, " James apologized, half-sniffing and half-laughing.
Paul shook his head and presented him with a box of tissues. "Don't apologize, you silly sod. You've just had a rug ripped from under your feet."
James wiped his tears and took a moment to compose himself. Scrappy seemed to sense his distress as she rolled to her feet and plonked herself on his lap. James chuckled and stroked her scraggly head.
"Bet you're chuffed to be back, ay?" Paul asked after a while. "I can't imagine having to live in a place like Londonderry. From what I've seen on the news, I reckon I'd be frightened to walk out the door every morning. And don't think I expect you to go back, you're welcome to stay here and live with me."
James shook his head. "I appreciate that, Paul. But I'm on a return trip."
He lowered his mug, his expression full of confusion, as if the very idea was ludicrous. "Nobody's threatened you have they, James?"
"No."
Paul's eyes shifted and he lowered his voice as if there were cameras in every corner of the room. "You're not being used as one of those sleeper agents, are you? Are they making you plant bombs for them?"
James laughed. "No, nothing like that."
"Then why on earth would you want to go back?"
He smiled, his mind generating an endless list of reasons.
He thought of Orla, and the barmy things she came out with. Michelle's cutting banter and shameless vulgarity. And Clare, the binding glue of their circle. The girls teased her and called her a craic-killer but in truth, she kept them all grounded—and in Michelle's case, out of handcuffs. Then there was Erin, who took herself way too seriously. Mrs Quinn once called her so dramatic that she'd find a way to drown in an inch of water. James had made the mistake of laughing at that quip and Erin had blanked him for the rest of the day in a silent (and very dramatic) rage.
He thought of his aunt Deidre who held as much indifference toward him as Michelle, but still gave him gifts for Christmas and birthdays. Showing her affection—if one could call it that—by pulling him into headlocks and scouring her sharp knuckles against his head.
He pictured the Quinn/McCool's kitschy home, his favourite place to be. Overflowing with warmth and familial chaos.
Derry was in the midst of sectarian conflict, it was printed in the papers and broadcasted on the news channels often enough. But there was more to the city than just conflict. For all the angry people who started riots and burned effigies, there were also kind people kicking about, people who wished him a good morning. People who struck up friendly small talk at the bus stop; a far cry from the miserable atmosphere in London where nobody had time for anyone.
Derry, a city that'd earned every right to gloom and doom, was the opposite, James had come to realize. But unlike Erin, James was not a wordsmith so he simply shrugged his shoulders, a sentimental smile playing on his lips.
"There's no place I'd rather be."
.
.
James spent the week he'd planned to spend with his mum, catching up with his step-dad instead. He was sad to hear that Paul's mum had recently passed away. He'd always been quite fond of Gladys. She gave him humbugs and taught him how to knit.
James told Paul about the grades he'd achieved on his GCSEs—three Bs and two As, and also about the recent AS-level exams, the results of which he was pretty anxious about receiving, a lot more anxious than he'd felt over the GCSEs. He didn't fancy having to do a third year at sixth form while the girls all went off to Uni.
"I'm sure you'll have done brilliantly, lad," Paul had assured him.
On the last night of James' stay, he'd offered to pay for their final feast at Wagamamas. Paul had outright refused, but James insisted and took out his wallet in protest, placing the notes on the little dish. Paul shook his head in disapproval and reached over the table, plucking the wallet out of his hand and proceeding to stuff the money back inside.
"Oi!" James exclaimed, trying to grab it back. But it was too late. Paul stopped short, tilting his head with intrigue at the little Polaroid photograph tucked into the clear compartment. It was of himself and the girls chilling out on the stairs to the science labs.
"I didn't realise you were so popular with the ladies," Paul smirked, his eyes aglitter with pride. "Which one is your girlfriend?"
"They're just mates."
James was about to explain that he attended an all-girls school so it wasn't technically an accomplishment, but he was quite enjoying Paul's admiration, so he left that part out.
"Really? I find that difficult to believe." There was a short silence and Paul narrowed his eyes. "Are you gay, James? Because I have nothing against it, you know."
James groaned. "What is it about me that makes everyone think I'm gay?"
"Well, I always had my suspicions. What with your fixation to barbie dolls and Disney princesses."
"They weren't barbie dolls, they were action men, " said James, defensively. "And secondly, I liked Disney princesses because some of them were quite fit, actually."
Paul nodded, but the suspicion in his expression remained. "Whatever you say, mate."
"I'm not gay!"
Paul glanced back at the photo. "Are the girls gay then?"
"No," he replied. "Well...one is, but that's not the point."
"I just can't understand how you can be surrounded by all these pretty girls, and not fancy even one of them."
James' eyes shifted and Paul didn't miss a beat.
"You do fancy one," Paul teased, with a shit-eating grin. "Which one is it then? The one with the earrings, or is she the one—"
"God, no. That's my cousin!" James reached over and snatched his wallet back. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Even if I did have feelings for a girl—and I don't—It's not like we could ever be a couple."
"Why's that?"
James shrugged, distracting himself from the uncomfortable question by stirring the ice in his glass with his straw. "Because Derry girls don't get with English lads."
Paul opened his mouth to question him again but promptly decided to let it go when he glimpsed something like sadness drift across his face. Instead, Paul simply said. "Well, it's their loss."
James sipped up the remainder of his drink, eager to change the subject. "So, are you going to let me pay or not?"
"Or not," said Paul, getting up to pay.
The following morning he had seen James off at the train station, but not before scribbling down his phone number and repeatedly reminding him that he could change his mind about staying in Derry any time he liked, all he had to do was pick up the phone.
But once he stepped out of that cab, and the girls came bounding out the front door of his aunt's house, crashing into him like a pack of excited puppies, he knew that not even the Queen and all her guardsmen could drag him back to England.
.
.
Please leave a review and let me know your thoughts :)
-jerinsjackets
