Gloria’s about to lock up for lunch. She places Mrs Hickingbottom’s Sirdar order on the counter, ready for her to pick up, darts to the back of the shop to set the burglar alarm and then she’s out the door, flipping the ‘closed’ sign as she goes. She peers through the glass, checking the shop she’s managed part-time for years. She turns the key, locking inside happy memories. It was the first job she’d had since having little Jamie and sometimes, during holidays, he used to sit with her on the bottom of a stepladder—a knitting mascot for the old ladies. The lights are off. The soft, comforting balls of wool sit in rows of many colours inside wooden pigeonholes.
She makes a move into cheerful sunlight—across town, through the cemetery where they would all sit—Gloria, Jamie, Nan and Grandad—on the perimeter wall, eating potato fritters in batter, followed by a jam doughnut. She has to walk all the way home in these damned heels—bloody idiot, should have worn flats. There are the dogs to walk, the meat to take out of the freezer for Roy’s tea and her lunch to eat. She’s cutting it fine if she’s to make it back early enough for the afternoon rush. It’s always busy when the shelf-stackers from Kwik Save clock off after lunch and rush in to get their needles, patterns, yarn, or just stand gas-bagging. And today she’s on her own. Margaret’s under the doctor—peptic ulcer or some such trouble.
At home, she wolfs down her sandwich—cheese and Branston—adds Jamie’s school uniform to a pile of freshly ironed laundry and carries it up to his bedroom.
On the threshold she stands, scanning the room—bloody untidy bugger. ‘Lord only knows what he gets up to in here,’ she voices to the empty room. His desk is cluttered with paints and brushes. There’s a wooden box with seashells glued to it and inside it’s stuffed with letters and photographs. Next to the desk, an easel carries a piece of board he’s painted a picture on—a spaceship flying across the cosmos. This is what he’s into—science fiction and imagination. The walls are covered with pictures of now less-colourful pop stars—Boy George, washed-out, sadly lost in drugs, Holly Johnson lost behind the censors, and Freddie Mercury reportedly diagnosed with HIV, God love him. And there’s Jamie’s scrapbook—never grown out of it—big and red and bulging with cuttings.
She drops the basket of fresh washing on the floor, tidies the bed and arranges his teddy bears on the pillows. Then she hangs his clean laundry in the wardrobe, sniffing a school shirt—fragranced with fabric conditioner—and smiling inwardly. Fourteen and he’s still her little boy.
The phone rings in the adjacent bedroom. ‘Who’s that now?’ She dashes onto the landing, tripping over Roy’s slippers, and into her own bedroom where she grabs the receiver. ‘Hello?’ From where she’s standing, next to the window, she can see Mrs Tonks, waving up at her from the street, walking that daft miniature poodle—same route she does every day, wearing the same maroon cloche bucket hat.
‘Oh, hello there. Is that Mrs Johnson?’ comes a voice.
‘Speaking.’ If she’s told Mrs Tonks once not to let that mutt urinate on the front lawn, she’s told her umpteen times—piss burns ruin the grass.
‘It’s Annie—from the library.’
‘Oh dear God,’ Gloria says. ‘Have we got overdue books? I thought I’d returned them?’
‘No, no. It’s nothing like that,’ Annie says. ‘It’s about some books that Jamie’s ordered through the inter-library loan service.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’ve four books here. Art books. Paintings and such. They’re ready for him to collect. Only I thought you’d better see them first.’
‘Oh?’ Gloria, turns away from the window now, one hand fiddling with her gold hooped earrings.
‘Well, if it were my son, I wouldn’t have a—I mean, it’s not like he’s—’
‘Annie, what’s our Jamie gone and done now?’
‘I don’t know how to put this. It’s just that they’re a bit, well, you know—erotic.’
Gloria pauses for a moment, absorbing what Annie’s just said. ‘Bloody Nora! You mean he’s been ordering pornography?’
‘It’s nothing like that. I promise you.’
Gloria feels herself blushing. ‘Dear God. What time are you open till?’
‘Eight o’clock on a Thursday. It’s my late night.’
‘Right. I’ll be in after work to vet them.’
‘Alright Mrs Johnson.’
‘Call me Gloria. Mrs Johnson makes me sound like an old woman.’
§
At the library Annie spreads the books out on the counter in front of Gloria. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
Gloria flicks through the glossy pages of illustrations. Fantasy art they call it—Amazonian women wearing very little, voluptuous bodies, muscle-bound barbarians slaying dragons and sexy sorceresses riding winged beasts. She tries to keep her voice low. ‘Some of this is quite tasteful, actually.’
Annie laughs. ‘Mind you, you wouldn’t want it on your bedroom wall, would you?’
Both women titter, which draws a loud ‘Shush’, from behind one of the bookcases.
Gloria pulls a face and presses her lips together. ‘I expect he’s researching something. Our Jamie writes stories. Won a competition only last month. And he does a lot of drawing. Art’s his favourite subject at school. Maybe he wants to copy some of these mythical creatures.’ She exchanges a look with the librarian. There’s an image of a muscular man seemingly being anally penetrated by a tree in the shape of a man, very artfully done, but —
Gloria bites her lip. She closes the book and looks at Annie. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t take them to school.’
‘I just wanted to be sure, Mrs… sorry… Gloria. Better safe than sorry,’ Annie says. ‘I’ll just check these out to Jamie’s account and you can take them with you, okay?’
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