Drama

Megan

Present day, South Yorkshire. A young girl’s bedroom of clutter, dog eared posters of pop stars, Sheffield Wednesday and family photos. Floor is strewn with clothes and general debris. Megan sits up in bed playing a computer game.  The bed linen and pillows are pink as is what can be seen of the wallpaper. The remains of a chicken and chips take out linger at the bottom of the bed. ‘I bet you look good on the dance floor ’ plays to fade. She looks up.

MEGAN        Wouldn’t think me favourite colour were pink would yer? Dad ‘ll be calling us soon “Megan, Megan, you up yet, you’d be late fer yer own funeral, you”. Dad always says that. Been playing Harry Potter game, read all books, gripping that’s what they are. But as for games, well, to be perfectly fair, I’m utter crap. I’m a right spacka when it comes t’ owt technological. ‘Onest truth, that. I like books wi’ words, loads on ‘em, cos they take yer into other worlds, worlds that you’re never likely to see, ever. Like planets, stars, trips t’ centre of universe, crawling round earth’s cavernous core. It’s like escapism, int it? Running away from reality knowing some day you’ll ‘ave to get back, only not just yet.

I ran off me, twice, down garden cross fields, meant no ‘arm , just did, t’ five bar gate, watching trains and waving. Wont like going t’ Neptune or owt, but the sun shone and I felt fit and ’appy. I mean we all need to smile, take deep breaths, eat great big chunks, not necessarily from edges neither. Starting from middle sometimes is better. I do that wi’ bread, wholemeal, mostly. Bend it in centre - like Brunty does wi’ ’is free kicks round box - so it’s like ‘alf way through a book, take a bite, open it back, and you got hole, dead centre . Once I’ve done that I spread butter on, Lurpak, and then marmalade, not too sure on make o’ that, but marmalade, came from Portugal originally.

Apparently, one of our Kings - the one who came after one who ‘ad ‘is ‘ead bashed off - fell right madly for this ‘ere Portuguese Lady. So any roads, funny thing were, she had this right mad craving for marmalade, though it probably weren’t called it then, 100’s of years since . So mustard hot keen were this ‘ere Queen that she ‘ad it shipped over in one of them huge galleons, the ones wi’ massive flourishing sails that transported all that gold and perfumes and silks and colourful carpets from Persia and pirates wi’ out  legs, wi’ beautiful headscarves and parrots, stunning and squawking, making their homes on Pirates’ shoulders who didn’t seem to mind a bit

And they’d drink rum, Pirates, that is, not parrots, in taverns in Ports and marry exotic ladies from the East Indies who’d flash their eyes in a manner that all men find irresistible. I’ve seen our Mum do it to our Dad, so I know what goes off. Dad’s never been a Pirate, nor as Mum ever been t’ East Indies, come to think on it. I don’t even know where East Indies is, and I’m meant to be bright one o’ family.

 Anyroads she ‘ad all jars of stuff shipped over to Albion, that’s what they called us them days, Albion. Perfidious Albion the French would have us called but not the Portuguese ‘cos they’re us longest standing ally - that’s like a mate. 1386 it were when someone’s great, great, Granddaughter - an English one - wed this Portuguese bloke. Bin best pals ever since. Not once we ever had a spat. Amazing now you think on it. I mean us English ‘ave always been scrapping. Wi’ our sens, like in Civil War; wi’ Spanish, like wi’ Armada, Walter Raleigh playing bowls an that; wi’ French - obviously - like Trafalgar, Waterloo, and wi’ two fingers.

 Megan raises two fingers.

 I know it’s rude but it’s a fact that‘s historical. All our bowmen - some they reckon practised on Wicker, right in heart of Sheffield - see, were right good wi’ bow and arrows, so once they got caught by Frenchies, they’d ‘ave their fingers whipped off. Sows two fingers, when you think on it, is really like saying ‘Sod you, yer Muppet’. Well, yer French Muppet to be more precise. And wi’ further fought agen Germans, Americans and even Denmark.

Them Danes are rare pleasant, ‘ad one stay, you knows, one o’ them Foreign exchanges, like. This one were called Anders. Told lots o’ ‘em are called that. Dad’s been  to capital, Copenhagen, went there a few times, before he got wed like to us Mum. I got picture of mermaid on me wall, look, next to one o’ Peter Andre.

Megan gestures to the picture on the wall of the little mermaid.

 Mermaids aren’t real, they’re mythological. Bet you’re wondering ‘ow I know all this stuff, on history an that? Well, it’s because I’m sat ‘ere most of time, on me tod, in me bed, being proper poorly sick. So’s not like I’m precocious or owt, just got loads o time, sat alone, time t’ think ‘n’ read ‘n’ that. Then there’s all documentaries on Sky, us Mum and Dad got full package, all educational, like History Channel. How else would you expect a ten year old to know owt about Treaty of Windsor? That’s the thing that ‘appened in 1386 by the way. I’m a right bibliophile too, me, see, teld yer I read too much.

 I weren’t born wi’ asthma , that’s me illness, an’ eczema ’n all, it kind o’ came up on me, unexpected like, tapped me on me little shoulder when I were 6 month odd and took up residence ever since, wi’ out even asking. Never signed a lease or went t’ Estate Agents, or looked at property guide. Nowt. Pretty bad mannered I‘d say, reckon eviction’s long overdue, but them lawyer persons can take forever. So when I came out o’ Mum having spent gestating an’ splashing about in all that there amniotic fluid, I were rare fit, all eight and a half pounds of bouncing baby, all screeching an’ bawling like there were no  tomorrow. Found out though that there’s plenty o’ them, lost count already ‘ow many ‘ave gone, and how many will come I couldn’t count, but it’ll be more than a few . Not same for our Luke, sadly, for ‘im it were more of a limited offer, never to be repeated as they may say on shop fronts, that have no intention of ever reopening.

He were Mum’s first, by way, Luke, not that I met him, mind, ‘cos he were dead not long after being born, died from leukaemia roughly three years of age. Leukaemia is a disease of the blood, normally they can cure it, but not in the case of our Luke. I looked it up in dictionary, it says it’s an ‘acute or chronic disease characterised by gross proliferation of leucocytes, which crowd into bone marrow, spleen, nymph nodes, and suppress the blood forming apparatus’. We visit ‘is grave, it’s at our Saint Matthew, not a ten minute walk from where we live. The grave is so bright white, like vanilla ice cream but wi’ out the pleasure and small too. Every once in a while we go, like on his birthday, say, which is the fourteenth of September. I pick flowers, freshly cut, lilies most often from bottom of hill at Bloomin’ Loverly.

They’re mum’s favourite, lilies, she rates gerberas ‘n all. I got ’er, fer ’er last birthday this beautiful bouquet wi’ Serena gerberas, stargazer lilies wi’  pittosporum and caterpillar grass. She then cries. When she does Dad gives her great big bear hug in an awkward Dad like way. It’s same when I’m badly, Dad and us brother, Josh, will  sit on edge of bed discussing whether Sheffield Wednesday, that’s us family team, though Josh tends t’ mountain bike of a Saturday nowadays, ought to resort to a flat back four, and ere’s poor bugger me, wi’ a major internal organ on verge of total collapse.

Chuffin’ ’ell I’m gasping me last gasp and they’re banging on abaht flaming Christmas tree formation, I’ll be lucky t’ see next Christmas tree. Utterly crap blokes are sometimes. Probably summuts t’ do wi’ ‘em not being girls. I mean, sluice gates open over owt wi’ me an’ me mates.

 Megan points to the wall

 That’s them there. It were one weekend out caravanning in Cleethorpes. Emma, that’s ’er wi’ brace ‘ad just ‘ooked a bright battered plastic duck and won a panda that came all way from Czech Republic and they‘ve only just joined the European Union. We then went back on Waltzers and it started to rain. So sometimes we’d fall out summut rotten, then, next day, on way t’ school, say, wiping away us tears we’d promise never t’ row ever, ever, ever agen.

Obviously, we do like, but normally, by lunch, we’re at Chubbies, on Goose Lane, sharing us chips. We  go t’ Meadow’all ‘n’ all, it’s right fun, and drink ‘ot chocolate at Starbucks and eat chocolate muffins and snigger ‘n’ giggle, ‘cos that’s what girls do, even older ones. You should ‘ear our Mum wi’ ‘er pals, Julie, Jo and Liz, they’re exact same, only their giggles are a little deeper and a lot more knowing. That’s what becomes of being a woman Mum says.

I’m not a woman yet but I intend to be. She’s out wi’ ‘em today, Mum, got off early wi’ Aunties Julie - that’s me Mum’s name ‘n’ all - Jo and Liz. They’re not me real blood Aunties obviously, just Mum’s mates from way back, from when she were at school. Imagine me Mum at school, that’s right ancient. Been blood thick ever since, each other’s weddings everything, maybe divorces too, ’cos that’s the nature of modern living. Can’t think of us Mum an’ Dad separating. Too much in love, even now, even after me, ‘n’ all me wheezing ‘n’ Luke‘s dying. Caught ‘em snogging only last Sunday. Disgusting that’s what that is. Mum’s 39 if she’s a day. Still, love ‘em more than a whole house made o’ fudge cake wi’ hundreds and thousands as tiles. That’d be an house ‘n’ an ‘alf.

 So Mum’s out, off wi’ her mates to Manchester, shopping. Now, how proper girly is that? And me? Well, as I’ve ’ad week wi’ out wheezes, I’m being tret, off t’ match. 

Megan gets out of bed and prepares for the match. Putting on a scarf and replica top, she sits at the end of the bed. 

Come on Wednesday! 

 Megan starts to sing.

 “Hark now hear the Wednesday sing United ran away, and we will fight forever more because of Boxing Day”. “Dad, can I ‘ave some chips?” I then say. Dad replies “Chuffin ‘ell linesman, you’re a disgrace”.   When Dad’s got footy ‘ed on, ‘e’s like man possessed. Jeckel ‘n’ ‘yde, light blue and white touch paper an’ retire t’ safe distance, like a neighbouring town, provided it ain’t Leeds, mind, ‘cos they’re spawn o’ devil.

There were this time, right, when we ‘ad an Italian called Paulo Di Canio, ‘e were born in Rome, anyway ‘e got sent off agen Arsenal, quite famously as it ‘appens, an’ Dad, well, ‘e ‘ad to be ‘eld down by stewards. ‘E were threatened wi’ lifetime ban from ‘illsbborough, which, wi’ benefit o’ ‘indsight, may o’ been no bad thing. Di Canio went on t’ play fer West ‘am United and Dad just kept on spitting feathers, which ‘e’s done pretty much t‘ present day.

‘E’s got scars too, right cross left shin, from when, in 98 World Cup, Sol Campbell ‘eaded one in agen Argentina, only fer it to be disallowed, no one ‘ad decency to tell us Dad, mind, and ‘e were up like springtime. Knocked o’er entire table, brimming wi’ beers, one o’ ‘em wrought iron ones at that, ‘ad t’ ‘ave three stitches, stayed till end still. Mum says Dad’s very passionate, she say it wi’ gleam that could outshine lighthouses, so it’s probably nowt t’ do wi’ football.

 Dad telt me all words t’ Nessun Dorma! That’s by Puccini ,’e were an Italian ‘n‘ all, and about the 1990’s World Cup where a chap called Gazza proper cried, like all water in River Don, and Chrissie Waddle - one o’ Dad’s heroes, what wi’ ‘im being a Wednesdayite - missed a penalty in right spectacular fashion.

‘E were playing it other night, full volume, made Bedlam racket, enough to wake Roly the ‘amster who’s been in garden deed three year. ’Amster were named after Roland Neilson, a Swedish mister who used t’ play full back. Any roads Dad were like this Cats’ chorus on brick outhouse. Mum weren’t too ‘appy, weren’t noise, not really, just Dad’s voice, well, it’s not best at best. Unlike Mr Pavarotti’s. Now there’s a bloke what can hold a note, even though he ate all the pies, Italian ones, wi’ all that fancy pastry. I know a song abaht that too. 

  Megan sings. 

“Who ate all the pies, who ate all the pies, you fat summuts, you fat summuts, who ate all the pies?” That’s what we sing on Kop when moment’s right, then laff as if there were a sell by date on humour. Don’t swear, see, what wi’ me being too young to eff and blind, but I know the ‘summuts’ to mean illegitimate. I’m not one o’ ‘em, cos us Mum and Dad were well wed for I came along.

That’s how they met, Mum and Dad, Italy 1990. No, not actually in Italy, but wi’ football World Cup in Nursery Tavern, Eccy Road, Sheffield. Rare romantic, it looked like it were going to penalties, last seconds of extra time agen Belgium, when this lad callin imsen David Platt scored a stunning volley, and it were stunning too, I’ve seen it on video, left keeper wi’ no chance. So this Mr Platt scores and everyone in pub goes crazy, like drunk monkeys at circus, all hugging, shouting, cheering, bright red  faces like furnaces, well, only turns out, don’t it, that two o’ ‘em doing all on this touching, feely, clasping, clinging were only us future Mum and Dad. Imagine that? Never met before. Funny, int it, ‘ad it not been for David Platt I’d not be here now and there’s a thought. Or, if I were here, I’d ’ave a different Mum and Dad. 

 That’s the beauty of football Dad reckons, bringing folk  together. Then they started dating. First kiss, Mum said, were when Gary Lineker scored ‘is first agen Cameroon, wi’ only some eight minutes to go, not sure when they first ‘ad sex, Mum asn’t telt me that yet, but it must ‘ave ‘appened at some point, I mean I‘m ‘ere aren’t I? And there’s our Josh and then Luke who passed away. I ask Dad agen ‘Dad can I ave some chips now?’ He says ‘Referee, you blind or what? Can’t you wait till ‘alf time?’ ‘But Dad‘, I plead, pathetic like, ‘you would if you loved me’ . Dad ‘Go on then, but don’t tell yer Mother’. Sometimes it’s great ‘aving a seriously debilitating illness, get away wi’ murder good an’ proper. I don’t put it on really, really I don’t, cos it’s pretty crap not being able to breathe.

It were January ‘95 when I arrived, Mum were all stretched out, legs splayed like giraffe drinking, sweating cobs. And as fer Dad? Well, ‘e were probably down ale ‘ouse, wetting baby t‘ bees ‘ead. Mum said weather were grey to miserable, pouring out , showing sign o’ sleet, as it ‘ad been fer days. I arrived and chink o’ light could be seen through curtains. But Mum’s are bound to say such aren’t they? It’ll be their nature. Like fathers having poke yer eye out cigars and whisky chasers. Our Josh arrived year Owls got to both cup finals,

Mum managed first un, an’ first FA un which wi’ drew 1-1 wi’ Hirsty scoring, but  second un, replay, back at Wembley, midweek, well, Josh were  just abaht t’ place ‘is ugly mug in world and Dad couldn’t exactly go down to London wi’ us Mum in such an about to be situation. So Dad stayed in Sheffield, in pub, yer understand, not maternity, cos match were on TV, but ‘e phoned from bar and Mum screamed as if four horsemen were unleashed on world. Famine, Pestilence, Plague an’ that, only it were worse, much worse, cos Wednesday keeper, Chris Woods, ‘ad cocked up in last minute, an’ by time they were giving out losers medals Josh ‘ad arrived, Dad were crying in his beer and Mum, well, she were just plain crying.

 Dad weren’t born long when England won World Cup in ‘66. Seen it several times, could name entire team most likely. There’s this chap wi’ dodgy teeth doing this jig like jog; a ginner wi’ squeaky lass voice who were youngun; two brothers, Bobby an’ Jack, one were drainpipe long an’ other ‘ad minging hairdo but could score from 25 yard; then there were keeper, Gordon Banks, whose nephew me Dad knows ’cos they sometimes go supping; and Geoff Hurst who scored a hat trick. It were in days before they had metatarsals. 

So I’m standing at kiosk wi’ money Dad’s gi’en me and woman wi’ cheery, welcoming face booms “What can I do yer for,  love? ” She’s roundabaht 56 an a bit I reckon, though I don’t ask ‘cos I know it’s rude wi’ bells on and adults can display consternation on being questioned thus. So I shows me manners an’ order “Chips, please wi’ cheese, loads o’ grated cheese”. “Owt else?” 56 ‘n’ a bit lady cheerily replies. “Gravy, tomato ketchup, oh aye, and ‘ave yer got any fried onions?” “You sure love?” 56 ‘n’ a bit lady queries, a little bit put out by this tiny scrag end o’ life wi’ such an appetite ‘n’ odd taste wi‘ nowt but bone t‘ show fer it. “Don’t worry” I says, “I gets it off me Mum”. Apparently, when I were incubating, Mum loved nowt better than trifle wi’ boiled potatoes, mashed mars bars an custard . “That’ll be £2.50, love” says 56 ‘n’ a bit lady.

 Dad says he loves me like nowt else, well, apart from Mum, obviously, Josh and Sheffield Wednesday . You’re either one or other in this city, an Owl or a Blade. Dad says who wants to be a pig? Not me, then we snort like some porky pig cartoon character. I eat after match ‘n’ all, one o’ them huge ‘otdogs from outside park weighed down wi’ more fried onions and soaked in Henderson’s Relish. Went t’ Cardiff when Owls won in play off final, Dad cried, in fact, I’d never seen so many grown up blokes rawing and kissing one another. It were a bit off putting I’d say. I asked Dad why he rawed, he said it were because he were so ‘appy. When I’m ‘appy I eat chocolate,  giggle an wear me right bright pink top wi’ spangly bits. 

Megan points 

See, it’s that ‘un ‘ung up o’er there. Dad said should we ever win Cup or owt he’d cry agen. I said I’d eat chocolate, giggle an’ wear me right bright pink top wi’ spangly bits. Dad laffed, ‘e ‘as a right big laff, does our Dad. You could put him on shipping lanes, tickle ‘im, ‘n,’ ‘is laff would keep all boats, ferries an’ tankers from ever hitting rocks that’d be a right invention.

When we scored fourth, at Cardiff that is, in Play off Final, I looked round, no sign o’ Dad, mind. Managed, like he were wonder high jumper gold medallist t’ leap three rows backwards, ended up being mobbed by beefy, beer bellied lads from Killamarsh. They were all rawing ‘n’ all and they ‘ad tattoos. Mum though o’ ‘aving a tatt done once , but reckoned on it being sad. That women over 35 wi’ tatt, take on a proper slapper look, wi’ slag lines ‘n’ whole lot. There’s this woman on street, baht Mum’s age, wi’ loads on em, looks like right prozzie her, dog ugly ‘n’ all. Don’t wont to be bitchy or owt but bet she don’t get owt, you know, in way of business, like.  It were Drew Talbot that scored fourth - been crocked since. Can’t imagine what they get up to in training.

Listen t’ this, other day right, our best player, well, one who’s less a numpty nut than rest, only managed to stub big toe as ‘e were chucking chicken wings on barbeque, turns out he’ll be in physio’s room, like a fish on a slab, for next three month or more. Cruciate ligament or summuts. Teach ’im t go t’ Kentucky Fried next time. Then our midfielder picks up dog in garden, a Yorkie, and puts back out. Another fish on slab. It’s not easy being a Wednesdayite, I’m telling yer. Then I got me asthma an’ eczema t’ contend wi’.

Off to see specialist, consultant person tomorrow. Go every six month to see ‘ow it’s going. She does all these tests on skin, blood, lungs, lot - to see if body isn’t as conked as Wednesday. Checks for allergies too. Think I’m allergic t’ world, yet sturdy wi’ it. Gran says I’m like creosote, made to withstand all weathers. I’m her little can o’ creosote, Gran reckons. So I’m in consultation room wi’ us Mum and consultant, Shamash Lefkimmi, who’s regular pretty, like woman yer might see on yer jollies, or Pirates of Caribbean, wi’ hair so black you’d need torch t’ find way through, and skin like milk chocolate only wi’ a bit more milk added, and eyes like chunks o’ coal yet delicate and carved, and eyebrows where all knowledge of world is  stored for safe keeping . Mum says our Dad would right go for her, so that’s why he’s not allowed t’ come. Can’t see it though, she’s far too beautiful for our Dad, besides he’s married - to me Mum - so it wouldn’t be right somehow.

Doctor Lefkimmi int from England, that’s why she’s exotic. She takes me ferhead and says in a voice so soft you could sleep on it “There my sweet precious pomegranate”. She then starts putting load o’ pins in me arms, all wi’ different coatings, in order to check, yer see, me allergies, then arm blows up massive, like a birthday balloon. Doctor Lefkimmi looks to us Mum and sighs “Your little pomegranate has many allergic reactions, the poor poppet”. Which I ‘ave. Dust mites, bugs, pineapple even. That’s one pizza topping I can’t ave. An’ bacon an all, well the crap sort that is, bacon wi’ all e numbers and colourings ‘n’ that, cos it makes me want to get nails out and strip skin, so there’s no skin no more and no scratching, but it don’t work that way, an’ I scratch some more.

 Doctor then smiles like she’s been to diamond dentist, holds me swelt up arm and asks me not t’ worry, cos we’ll ‘ave yer better in no time. But I been ill since as long as I can remember, sows I’m not too sure, but if Doctor Lefkimmi can’t cure me, then who can? She smiles some more an’ me heart gets all glowing, knowing I’m cared for rotten. I then to blow into this  whistle Kazoo type whatsit, which is a bit like inhalers, one blue, one brown, that I take, or don’t , 3,4, maybe more times daily. Recent, at school, like, they were nicked, caused right commotion. Head only called emergency Assembly, putting best grave face on ’e could muster. Me, I were mortified. I hoped, God‘s ‘onest , of getting massive ‘asthma ’ad an away day wi’ lungs moment’ , calculating that sudden death would ’ave t’ be sight better than 800 kids taking piss out o’ me, which they did, obviously. Seemed like whole school ’all were doing this ’ere ginormous impression o’ NASA wind tunnel. Special ambulance, Holby City siren effects kindly provided by Y11 lads at back.

Anyway, this Kazoo type whatsit is not a whistle kazoo at all, can’t play tune or stop game or owt, no, it’s one o’  ‘em ometers that measures whether you got any breath. Like at fairground, maybe, where yer ‘it bright button wi’ huge ’ammer so that bell will ring at top. My bell at top never seems t’ ring no matter ‘ow ‘ard I welly it.. Sows I blows like early Autumn, as if life depended on it . No bells or whistles, nowt. Not much of a fairground attraction neither.

Doctor Lefkimmi asks me to inhale as deep as possible, seemed like I’d tried to inhale entire room, stethoscopes, scales, syringes, public information posters on wall, lot. Reckoned I saw table move too, Doctor Lefkimmi’s grand, large wooden one, wi’ all it’s fancy brass handles, an’ drawers as deep as history, all professional and imposing like. Naturally it didn’t, just my imagination doing helter skelter. Not even a flicker. Gauge ‘eld, Gibraltar firm. Airways blocked like kitchen sink of a Christmas Day afternoon.

Mum cuddled us an’ Doctor Lefkimmi placed ‘er arm round me shoulder. She’s got lovely nails, manicured, not false, nor too long neither, wouldn’t be decent, a person of Doctor Lefkimmi’s standing ‘aving nails such that are only seen on ‘airdressers or end o‘ lap dancers. My nails fell out one summer . ‘Ad bandages fer best part o’ three month. Couldn’t feed me sen proper or owt. Were in a right tangle I’m telling yer. ‘Ad t’ ‘ave us Mum cut up us food, spoon feeding as if I were baby, but I weren’t, I were seven.

So Doctor Lefkimmi whispers “Still haven’t got much wind in your sails have we precious?”. An I ant. “What you need is the benign touch of Aeolus” she says. Who’s this Aeolus? I’m thinking. Sows I look it up, this Aeolus. Turns out e’s Greek, from mythology, not only were ’e King of Aeolians in Thessaly, but ‘e were god o’ winds. Some say he carried big bag under ’is arm all full o’ wind an’ that . I tell me Dad this story, an’ Dad replies, “Must o’ got it in sales”. Sometimes me Dad can be right funny, only sometimes, mind.

 I try two more times, filling us lungs till bursting, then blowing. Doctor Lefkimmi and us Mum, they give me right support, like  Kop when team’s kicking t’ward us, or we’ve just hit post, shouting support that’ll summon up dead an’ that. Totally unconditional. Sadly though, like wi’ Kop no good comes on it. And I sit there gasping, all raspberry ‘n’ beetroot, as Doctor Lefkimmi makes notes. “Our Meg’ll never play trumpet” Mum says, hugging out what little breath I got left. Doctor Lefkimmi disagrees, politely, as is ‘er nature, suggesting a trumpet or a clarinet might be the sort of exercise I need. So I said if I learnt clarinet I could join Artic Monkeys and maybe I should write t’ ‘em an’ ask. Doctor Lefkimmi said possibly not. I ask why. She said cos the Artic Monkeys were ‘primarily a string based ensemble’. That’s what she said, no lie, ‘primarily a string based ensemble’. I were gob smacked, well an’ true.

Now, I know she’s one o’ best people in whole Universe an that, up there wi us Mum and Dad, our Em  and Sheffield Wednesday, but didn’t in me wildest think on ‘er being inta music, well, not modern stuff anyroads. Maybe classical, wi’ violins, violas, large gentlemen dressed as if t’ go t’ Baronet’s Ball, all tenors an’ tubas, an’ ladies wi’ frills and frocks t’ floor, ’air pinned back perfect, singing songs so gorgeous as should be framed an’ ’ooked on wall. Well, yer wouldn’t, would yer? What wi’ ‘er being a Doctor who left eleven a while since. No, it’s not that I’m being disrespectful or owt, it’s just consultant types ‘ave to be a certain age don’t they? So as they can collect all that knowledge an’ experience so as t’ consult proper an’ save likes o’ me from dying.

I know - seen photos in reception - that’s she’d been abroad, not on her jollies like me on beach wi’ lotions and pedaloes , but work, saving lives of poorly kids just like me only worse. Kids wi’ no food, no water, no Mums nor Dads neither, living in a tent or under metal as wrinkly as a crisp packet, cos soldiers ‘ave come an killed everyone, an knocked down all houses wi’ tanks, missiles, an bulldozers. An they come back, these soldiers, just in case they’d miss summuts and if it moves they shoot them too. Sometimes it’s really hot, hotter than oven when roast‘s in, or cold, at night, like top floor o’ fridge, an’ they all got nowt. So Doctor Lefkimmi and people like her, some are just kind and helpful and carry things abaht - they’re called volunteers - go t’ places like on photos in reception. Lebanon’s one, seen flag, like flags see, got big book fer birthday all on flags. Theirs, Lebanon’s, is striped wi’ big cedar tree in middle. Doctor Lefkimmi said there’s not an elastoplast big enough to heal all scars in world. If that’s case then maybe someone should see abaht making one.

 When Wednesday score, which int as of often as I’d like, an’ rare enough fer me not t’ recognise it, I’m always getting chips in from 56 an’ a bit lady. She says “That’ll be Wednesday scoring”. Dad says I should stay back o’ stand ordering chips all through match. We’d win league year in an year out and I’d probably be 100 stone an’ ‘ave to be lowered in ground on one o’ ‘em there massive yellow cranes, but it’d be worth it. I’ve reservations me sen, and I got blue and white running in me veins. That’s hereditary for you.

We’re third from bottom at moment. Not for the first time in my short life as a Wednesdayite we face relegation. Dad says makes life more interesting, better than mid table mediocrity. I say what’s wrong wi’ few wins now an’ occasion. He says best keep eating them chips then. Shouldn’t really be eating chips. No, it’s nowt to do wi’ me waistline, don’t reckon 11 year olds ought to be too bothered wi’ vanity. Mum laughs when she ‘ears such. I reckon to ‘ave me hair colour change at least twice weekly.

Proper little dye factory our bathroom. Vegetable dye that is, ’cos got t’ watch chemicals. Thing is wi’ chips yer feel obliged t’ put salt on ’em, as yer Father, an’ ’is Father befer ’im an’ so on . Salt though is red rag t’ me eczema bull. Want t’ see skin sometimes, cracked like soil under sun. Sows cracked as can’t move joints on fingers. Starts bleeding, otherwise. See, all dry red, yellow, crusty, gunky, skin sore and eyesore.  

 Remember, two year back I think it were, when we did some dancing - for end of term or summuts - well, no one, ‘cept our Emma, wanted to ‘old me ‘ands, so minging they were. Emma’s me best mate, by the way, mates don’t care abaht scabs ‘cos they’re yer mates. It could ‘ave ‘ad a deep psychological effect on me that, I may ’ave even ended up in mad person’s place wi’ strait jacket, dribbling down me front, ’aving all manner o’ mannerisms, or, worse still being a Blade, it didn’t mind, I just took top off Betnovate, smeared some more, and put the ready salted back in Mum’s cupboard.

One summer, not one wi’ no nails, but another, ‘ad to wear gloves , entire length of jollies, abroad ‘n’ all. Went to Fuertoventura. So on beach, ‘cept in pool, ‘ad to put gloves on, white cotton ones, took a dozen. ‘Ands were a right riot of puss and goo. Seeped through gloves no end, leaving traces like Turin shroud, but I guess ‘is condition were a bit more terminal . Waiters took pity on me. “The poor bambino, poor, poor, poco, bambino” they’d utter. Got loads of ice cream out on it though. Antarctic were my desserts, strawberry and banana flavours wi’ sparklers and flags, Spanish, Greek and English, Union one, not St George one wi’ just cross. ‘Ad three flakes an’ all, not like one on menu, but three. I’m telling yer I were spoilt proper. Us girls like us ice cream and chocolate, makes us ‘appy, see, even  if we’re sad wi’ cherry coloured ‘ands. Every night Mum would wash gloves in sink, in Apartment, then dip me ‘ands in pots o’ gunge. ‘Ands still weren’t up t’ much but least they felt as if they belonged to me wrists. Teld Doctor that creams ‘n’ ointments were nowt short o‘ useless, he agreed, which were good of ‘im, kind of, only didn’t do much for me or me ‘ands.

Dad said I ‘ad ‘ands like dry sick on street. I said they’re more like those South American iguanas, all knobbly an’ scaly only, thankfully, less green. So Summer fell into September and I started new term, in new school wi’ clean white cotton gloves, non school issue, caused a rare stir I can tell yer, opening day an’ all that.

Starting new school year wi’ inappropriate attire was starting new school on wrong foot, big style. Still, least they were OK, me feet and me shoes, completely school regulation appropriate black leather - polished that morning - wi’ laces. Em were wi’ us, first day, so weren’t all bad. There she were, all eleven year old, only went up t’ Head’s Office, didn’t she, and knocks on door. “Excuse me” she said - ‘cos she’s got manners o’ Queen - “I cannot accept the attitude of your school towards my good friend and peer Megan Aldridge of 7AW, it smacks”… oh, what were it now, right, that’s it, “it smacks of unforgivable prejudice and insensitivity of the most abhorrent kind”. ‘Insensitivity of the  most abhorrent kind’ now, that ‘ad me scrambling fer dictionary and I’m one who once read Mill on the Floss when I were proper, weren‘t no better either after, neither. But there’s well read and our Em. So within first two hours of new school I’d got detention for inappropriate dress and Em for attitude. Funny, thing Em’s parents were right proud, Guardian readers them, so that probably explains why. Dad says they’re communists an’ want only to recycle world.

Comes a time when world might require a bit of recycling. As fer us Mum and Dad they went up wall. They demanded a meeting wi’ Head. Which they got like. I can now wear me little white cotton gloves whenever I like, I guess that goes for bandages too should me nails fall out agen. Come October and me ‘ands were like that of Andie Macdowell or Jenifer Aniston, even, or one o them other pretty ladies wi’  their ever so posh manicured nails and skin you could play billiards on. Mum chucked cotton gloves, all 12 pair. I smiled a smile so wide you could fall in, even me chapped lips ‘ad disappeared, so I grinned some more, showing all me teeth, shining like pebbles on the shore all in a row, all straight wi out a brace in sight. Gran says when I smile it’s like all clouds are scared, the greyer ones especially, the sun then appears, and the flowers look up, all content.

On this day , in October, Mum tret me like Big Brother winner or Royal Family or summut, cos I’m  worth it she’d say, so she took me and our Em to latest Harry Potter, then got a poster of me favourite band, Artic Monkeys. 

Points to the wall. 

That’s them there. They’re from Sheffield too, like me, and used to play at Grapes, that’s a pub, Dad went there when he were younger. Then Mum took us to Wacky Warehouse, it’s a place that don’t mind kids, in fact, it right encourages ‘em. You can be stupid there, slip on slides and stuff, climb ladders then throw yer sen off wi owt breaking nowt. Then we’d eat pizza wi’ as many toppings as it could bare, not pineapple, mind, ‘cos of allergic reaction, scoffing our sens till crisps and ice cream came. Then we’d all go ‘ome as ‘appy as dog wi’ two tails. 

 As soon as we get ‘ome though, I’d ‘ave another of me attacks. For no reason. Out o’ blue. Just ‘appened. Can’t fathom why. I mean ‘ad a right brill day an’ that, wi’ Mum and us best mate, ‘appy, laffing and chuckling we were. What ‘appens though? Up pops someone and decides to take me lungs away for a day or longer, depending on their fancy. As attacks go it weren’t so bad, in scheme o’ things that is. I mean Priest weren’t summoned and no one came to measure me up ’imsen, wi’ ’im being an undertaker like. No, he’d been proper poorly ill, not sure wi’ what precisely, but summuts, it were way since. Anyway, ‘ad what he’d ‘ad for years, been kept alive, on all accounts by ‘is lass, us Great Grandmother, there she is on wall.

Megan points to small faded black and white picture of a couple on their wedding day

Got a lot o’ pictures on wall ant I ? Lucy her name were. Well, she cared and loved and cared some more, keeping ‘im in world, so when Priest come to do last rights bit - ‘e were on deathbed, see - me Great Granddad who’d been church goer all ‘is life - proper season ticket holder like. Sunday mornings, evening prayers, Easter, Ascension, Harvest Festivals, you know, full deal, job lot, all wine and wafers - well, ‘e turned on this ‘ere Priest wi’ all this “If it weren’t fer God that, an’ if it weren’t fer God this” an’ said God “ad nowt to do wi’ it”. Said it were “is lass that’s kept ‘im alive an’ not baby bloody Jesus”.

’E lived another 20 year, priest ‘ad been well feasted on by both worms and maggots before Great Granddad took his departure. And as fer season ticket I were telling you abaht? He were never t’ step under a belfry agen. Any wine ‘e were t’ sup thereafter werefrom Asdas not the Altar. Even when ‘e died, Great Granddad insisted, put it in will, that he wanted one o’ ‘em ‘umanist thingy send offs, wi’ non o’ that Abide wi’ Me Bible crap. Don‘t know abaht Great Granddad but Mum says they’re not like us, men like, when they get ill or owt, cos when Dad catches cold, right, ‘e goes right pathetic, straight up. Mum says it’s Man Flu, ‘cos whatever a woman gets, bloke’s symptoms are ten times worse.

 I’m heaving chest so as world can ‘ear, Mum appears, opens all windows wide, breeze from across valley howls through, but it’s what I need, breeze, big bellows blowing up me lungs, inflating like balloons, almost ‘till bursting, wi’ all stitching ripped. She then calls Doctor, not consultant, specialist Miss Lefkimmi, but other, GP, the General Practitioner, who is Mr M S Smedley, that’s on plaque outside Hadfield Medical Centre. ‘E’s right pleasant, proper like. Not sure what the M or S stand fer, could be Michelangelo Shakespeare, which would be so amazing, but I suspect somehow it int. Probably Michael John, secure solid names which proper Doctors ought t’ ave. And ‘e is a proper Doctor cos he keeps me alive, well and kicking so that makes ‘im good and makes me much better. 

He comes at 4 or 5 in the morning, anytime now I think on it. It‘s mostly dead o’ night, I don’t intend it that way, it just kinda ‘appens. Mum says I do it fer maximum effect, ‘cos I’m a bit of drama Queen. She don’t mean it in a nasty way or owt, only loving, as she is, wi’ loving tongue firmly in loving cheek. T’ be fair I don’t mind too much being called a drama Queen, ‘cos drama, along wi’ English, is me favourite subject at school, when I’m there that is, and even when I’m not it is. Miss Webster, that’s us Drama teacher, she’s lovely, only she’s not married a bit. She’s right tall, like one o’ ‘em Amazons from book I read from public library, but, like mermaids an’ fella wi’ wind it’ll be that they’re mythological too. And she’s blonde, not like a tart but natural wi’ matching collar and cuffs I suspect. An’ a complexion as pale and delicate as tops o’ pastries from Willoughby’s on Brook Street. Her first name’s Anastasia which is a right name.

Wi’ ‘er being all dramatical ’n’ that she don’t dress normal as them in science ‘n’ maths in all their charcoals, greys, ties, pleats and perfect creases. She’s colourful, bright, like garden in August. I imagine bees ‘n’ butterflies buzzing ‘n’ fluttering, thinking she were a bloom o’ sunflowers on full beam, proud an’ magnificent, casting long swan neck shadows that you’d trip o’er grazing yer knees but it not ‘urting. 

As I’ve said, wi’ illness, I’m not at school as often as I’d ought, but when I’m in Drama it’s rare good, pretending t’ be folk we’re not. Not as I mind being who I am , only wi’ lungs like leather that’s spent year in shower and skin like sack from shed, I think thoughts o’ being better. Gran, from Dad’s side, ‘cos other un’s deed from a stroke, right premature, says I’m blessed in other ways, in order, Gran says, to compensate for life’s little discrepancies. Like a pair o’ weighing scales we use in school for cooking, periods four and five, Thursdays. A balance, wi’ brass weights one side and butter, sugar, flour, sometimes self raising on t’ other. A gram o’ this, two teaspoons o’ that, and an occasional pinch o’ salt. Proper ingredients wi’ proper measures. I didn’t come from no cook book though, or no right measures. No Delia Smith nor Jamie Oliver saw to my recipe neither. And as for Gas Mark, must ’ave jammed.

 Now, as I can’t run. Well, not much as I’d wish, as fast as kids on ten past three bell, spring heeled, sprinting, I were given, to compensate, a spectacular thirst fer knowledge. Sows I can tell yer all abaht Senlac ‘ill , that’s where Battle o’ ‘Astings took place, an’ ‘ow King ‘Arold lost t’ William the Conqueror of Burgundy, who were from across Channel, an’ ‘ow ‘Arold never actually got an arrow in eye, it were just put there by writer t’ make a good story, like. 

 I wrote this story, me, fer English. We ‘ad t’ make up our own fairy tale, fer modern times, sows the hero becomes a heroine, say, an’ lass in giant truffle tower int a lass at all but a lad who’s got long hair made o’ pure gold braid. And it’s kind o’ braid that can only be spun by special silk worms who only inhabit towers made o’ truffles wi’ princes in, cos silk worms in fairy tales can do such things. Then she comes, Princess, the heroine, to save day, sweeping golden haired Prince off on her beautiful steed, which isn’t a steed at all, but a ‘arley Davidson, glittering gold in all dazzling sun. It’s contemporary, see.

 They still fall in love, summuts rotten, cos I’m one fer ‘appy endings, like films, Romcoms they’re called. I sit wi’ Mum - Dad’s normally down pub, which don’t make ‘im a bad Dad, just that’s where he is - and our Luke is upstairs on X Box cos he hasn’t got a girlfriend. Us Mum an’ me get tissues out, Kleenex, and blubber like whale fat. Then Mum ‘as a glass o’ wine and starts playing Barry White songs, the sort you’d only hear at weddings once cake’s cut an’ adults are ‘alf cut. Can be rare embarrassing, adults at family functions. All trying t’ dance sexy wi’ folk they shouldn’t. Funny enough, folk they shouldn’t seem to quite like it.

Sows Princess, Princess Repunella- that’s cross between Cinderella and Repunzel -whisks away Prince Charge - he’ll be cross between Prince Charming and lad who  slayed fiery green dragon - to set up their own Independent Software Company. . They get married too, no hint o‘ cohabitation, but only after floating business on Stock Exchange. I mean, yer can hardly get wed wi’ out the wherewithal can yer? Then they live ‘appily ever after wi’ Princess Repunella working freelance in a consultation like capacity while Prince Charge stays at ‘ome as ‘ouse ‘usband looking after little uns, o’ which they are five plus two puppies, a goldfish and a rabbit called Wednesday. That story makes me right soft inside, like a chuddy pudding in a moat o’ meringue.

 You know when world’s got face on wi’ yer, it’s not permanent like, only your turn, an’ it might be that your turn may take longer than most, sows yer put up wi’ it as best yer can, wi’ as little rawing as is reasonable in circumstance an’ trying not t’ get too mardy wi’ folks. Doctor Lefkimmi says me asthma an’ eczema will go away, that’ll I’ll grow out on it, though not just yet. Maybe I’d of left school by then, gone t’ college or got me first right proper grown up job. Wheezing, scratching, respirator plugged t’ wall, late night careering - all bandaged up - t’ A an’ E a thing o’ past. Until then I’ll just get on wi’ it best I can, turning up volume and jumping in puddles in me emphatic pink wellies.

 ‘I bet you look good on the dance floor ’ plays to fade.

Pete Goodland