Page 4 of Oz
I look slowly up at Shaun who grins with happiness. “See? It’s perfect.”
“What about this job says a perfect fit for me?” I say slowly. “This is obviously some sort of country house full of history and very rich, upper-class people. How is an Irish boy from a tower block in Tottenham going to help? They’ll have heritage going back hundreds of years. I can only name my mum and auntie because my dad didn’t exactly stick around long enough to give my mum his pedigree.”
He shakes his head stubbornly. “You’re bossy enough that you can tell people that it’s good management skills. You have a degree in Fine Art and History of Art.”
“Which has qualified me for nothing,” I argue.
He lets it go, but when I stand up to leave he tucks the magazine under my arm. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “It’s perfect. It’s a six-month contract so you won’t be there long. It’s away from London and all the old, well-worn paths. Maybe this is what you need.” I look up at him and he smiles. “An adventure, Oz. You need that because you’re bored enough to make stupid decisions at the moment.”
An hour later I look at the lift in the block of flats I grew up in and sigh. A big sign saying ‘Out of Order’ sways gently in the breeze from the door. “Fucking lifts.”
A chuckle sounds behind me and I turn to see my mum’s friend, Mr Pearson, behind me, his arms full of carrier bags. “Took the words out of my mouth, Oz. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say glumly. “I think at this point I’d be lightheaded if they put up a sign saying the lifts actually worked.”
He laughs and moves towards the stairs. I shake my head and jump after him. “You’re not carrying those,” I say firmly. “Hand them over.”
“You’re a good boy,” he says affectionately. “I said to your mum the other day what a wonderful son she’d raised.”
“You’re a bit biased,” I say softly, taking the bags laden with groceries from him. “You’ve known me since I was twelve.”
“Your mother showed me your childhood photos the other day. An uglier baby I’ve never seen,” he says solemnly.
I burst into laughter. “Thank you. Don’t be giving me a big head.”
He laughs but then by common accord we both shut up and stick to inhaling through our noses shallowly, so the smell of urine doesn’t go too deep.
By the time I’ve dropped him off at his door and made my way to my mum’s flat, I’m panting like I’ve run the London Marathon and my legs don’t feel like they work properly. I ring the bell and breathe deeply in an attempt not to throw up.
Quick footsteps sound and I smile as my mum flings the door open. She’s tiny, but her Irish heritage shows in her hair, which is still black, and her bright blue eyes.
She looks me up and down. “You okay?” she asks immediately.
“Bloody stairs,” I gasp.
She huffs. “I know. I’ve been up and down them three times today already. Bloody council.”
“Three times. Why aren’t you dead?” I gasp and she smacks my arm.
“Because I’m fit, Oz, unlike you who does nothing apart from wait for fat to find you.”
“I exercise,” I say indignantly but she shakes her head.
“Your jaw, mostly.”
I pause. “Okay, that’s probably true.”
“Come in.” She smiles and drags me in. She’s freakishly strong for someone who is five foot four and eight stone. I smile affectionately at her as she pushes me down the hall chattering happily. I love her so much. She and I have always been everything to each other. My dad, who was a foreign student, cleared off pretty quickly once he’d managed the arduous task of impregnating her. Her parents were staunch Catholics so they quickly threw her out. Alone, she could have caved, but instead she stood as strong as an oak tree and promptly moved in with her sister and brother-in-law while she qualified as a nurse. When they came to London, she got on a ferry and followed them. We’d lived with them for another year until she got this flat which has been her home ever since.
We’ve always been a team of two and she’s stuck up for me through everything. The word blindly loyal could have been coined for my mother because I was a right little shit growing up. It’s only her and Shaun who kept me on a straightish path, a fact not lost on my mum who adores Shaun and won’t hear a word said against him.
Even when I told her I was gay she never flinched. Instead she grabbed me by my face, kissed me and thanked me for telling her. She stared into my eyes and told me that she’d had the luxury of choosing an idiot for her partner and so why shouldn’t I?
When the priest at her church gave a sermon about the horror of being gay she had stood up in the middle of it and called him a bloody old windbag. She’d then searched for a church where the priest would fall in line with her. She’d found one, and according to my auntie she now practically runs it.
I follow her into the small kitchen with its jaw-dropping view of the London skyline. People would pay a fortune for this view. I smirk. But only if they’re prepared for the fact that they’d probably have a heart attack getting up here, not to mention thefact that one of her neighbours grows pot and the other has a fondness for loud rows and even louder make-up sex.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, the Irish brogue heavy in her voice.
