GLOVES OFF
www.guppybooks.co.uk
Also by Louisa Reid:
BLACK HEART BLUE
LIES LIKE LOVE
www.louisareid.com
LOUISA REID
GLOVES OFF
GLOVES OFF
is a GUPPY BOOK
First published in the UK in 2019 by
Guppy Publishing Ltd,
Bracken Hill,
Cotswold Road,
Oxford OX2 9JG
Text © Louisa Reid, 2019
978 1 913101 20 6
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
The right of Louisa Reid to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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“Going in one more round
when you don’t think you can.
That’s what makes all the
difference in your life.”
– Rocky Balboa
ROADKILL
i taste the street –
it’s filthy,
gritty and hard,
and it has
knocked
all the
breath
out of my body.
slammed low,
i grope for my bag,
stinging shame in my palms,
on my knees,
and my chin.
i don’t get up.
i stare at the ground,
something in my eye.
RESCUE
waiting for the thunder of feet to fade,
for the taunts to be swallowed
by the blare and shout of traffic –
who finds me?
who scrapes me off the street
and helps me home?
(oh, god,
how long did i
lie
there?)
i don’t like to be
SEEN.
and – like that –
SPOTTED
at my worst.
i like to pretend
that no one knows
who i am,
that i’m hiding well,
hiding here,
in front of you –
invisible,
nevertheless.
but when you’re
down and out,
knocked
on the ground,
crumpled –
it’s clear that someone put you there,
and that you didn’t fight back.
too weak.
too wet.
even so,
i remember to say thank you
to the woman who drives me home.
manners cost nothing.
FOR SHE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW
i turn my key in the door,
and hear mikey’s voice –
“she’s home, she’s home! lily! lil!”
he runs towards me,
grabs my hand,
before i can escape upstairs,
and drags me into the sitting room
where mum and aunty clare are waiting
with balloons,
and a fountain of silly string explodes.
“happy birthday to you!”
they chorus
in voices so loud
the whole street will hear,
even the baby is bouncing
and cooing in time.
i crush the rest of the day inside my fist,
and smile.
SWEET SIXTEEN
there’s birthday kisses and cake.
a tower of pink candles
flickers and flares,
mikey claps his hands,
jumps up and down –
our sofa his trampoline,
as i blow out my age – all sixteen at once –
and screw my eyes tight,
and make my wish.
“look what i got you!” mikey cries,
shoving a parcel into my hands,
and i peel back the tape,
peep inside,
“oh wow,” i say, “oh, thanks, mikey, aunty clare, that’s
great.”
make-up,
– a palette of war paint.
“you can get married now,” says aunty clare,
giving me a wink,
no ta
“or just play the lottery,” she hands me a ticket,
for tomorrow night’s draw,
and i smile at the thought.
mum’s made me a scarf,
crocheted perfection, matching hat and gloves,
in rainbow hues,
“do you like it, lil?”
she asks, watching me,
so anxiously,
“it’s getting colder now,
they’ll keep you warm.”
i wrap myself in her love,
they’re perfect, mum, so beautiful.
but i know i can never wear this stuff
anywhere near school.
DANCING QUEENS
mum cranks up Abba,
and mikey insists
that we play some games –
musical statues, he decides,
so we all join in,
and let him win.
“didn’t you do a pass the parcel, aunty bern?”
mikey wonders,
and we laugh, tease mum,
then i grab my cousin and swing him
round
and round
until we fall on the sofa,
dizzy and daft,
and i tickle him until all I hear is his laugh.
BERNADETTE (1)
When you were born you were perfect.
And now,
Standing here,
Looking at you –
Sixteen! –
I watch you and wonder,
At the shape of your face,
The arch of your brow,
The bow of your lips,
The length of your neck,
The strength of your back,
The curve of your cheeks,
The joy of your laugh,
Your heart, so sweet.
Oh Lily,
You are my masterpiece.
WE ALL FALL DOWN
my dad thinks i’m clumsy.
i don’t let him see
all the bruises –
sometimes, though, he’ll look at me twice
and ask questions that make me
wince and hide.
“happy birthday, lil,” he shouts down the phone,
the roar of a motorway
growling hello.
he’s not home tonight.
he works long hours
far away
for not much pay,
which is why I need
to do well at school,
to find a way to rise above,
they say.
but what if you can’t concentrate?
what if there’s always too much noise?
sixteen –
should know what’s what,
how to deal
with what i’m not.
i lie awake,
as sirens s
trafe the early hours –
someone else’s problem,
but,
still,
close enough to remind us
no one’s safe
round here.
3 A.M.
and the front door opens, shuts.
i can hear mum in the hallway,
murmuring, the sound of
lights being turned on,
and the kettle humming,
fridge sucking open, shut.
i wonder
if it’s dad.
standing at the top of the stairs,
i listen in.
uncle ray.
oh, god.
go away.
“MORNING,”
he says, sitting there,
feet under the table,
cooked breakfast round his mouth,
mopping up yolk
with a piece of fried bread.
“all right? get the girl some grub, bern. lazy cow,”
he laughs,
eyeing me,
no card or present, that’s no surprise.
mum steps to the cupboard,
her face grey and pouchy,
yawning behind her hand.
they’ve talked all night,
his voice echoed
up the stairs,
into my room,
vibrating, deep and low.
he likes the sound of it,
when he can.
and now this morning
ray is brazen,
has shaved his face
with one of dad’s razors.
“she never did pull her weight, eh, lil?”
he laughs at his joke, gestures at my mum,
but i don’t smile
or sit down.
“come on then,”
he says to mum,
“get into gear.
get that arse moving, eh?”
ray comes over
when dad’s away
and mum
lets him in.
if dad were here,
he’d tell ray to sling his hook.
once i saw mum open her purse
and hand over all she had.
i know his knock:
a hammer.
if no one answers
he calls through the letter box,
then comes round the back,
“i know you’re in there,”
he shouts.
i’m a coward. i make her face him alone.
see you later, mum,
i kiss her goodbye
and slam the door behind me.
uncle ray is
in the police,
you’d think
that you could trust him.
BERNADETTE (2)
The past
Follows me,
A stalker
Who knows everything I’ve ever regretted,
Every shameful moment I can’t forget.
My brother, Ray, grins.
His face is over the breakfast table
And
His fist is in my belly
In the alley
Near school
Twenty years ago,
Taking my bus money,
Pulling my hair,
Telling his friends they can have a ride.
And I’m still a kid
Who can’t tell him where to go.
Every day
I watch my daughter leave,
See her walk away,
Close the door,
Everything on her shoulders.
And I try not to cry at the strength that somehow
she has learned.
What now for me?
I sit in her room and stare at the pictures on her
walls.
She’d hate to know I was here
Touching her things,
Trying to worm my way inside her thoughts.
I talk to Lil of how she’ll leave all this
Behind,
And that thought is the saddest one of all.
SCREW SCHOOL (1)
it’s all
that i can do to find my way to school,
my feet doing
everything i’d rather they didn’t –
as if the compass points only one way.
avoiding the noise and bother of the bus,
the shoving and pushing and not enough room
knowing that i will sit alone,
i take the long route.
no one is waiting this morning.
i spend the day dodging
faces,
jeers.
later, homewards,
i walk again
down the
autumn strewn streets,
kicking leaves and litter,
fighting fumes,
looking over my shoulder,
pretending that i’m not so slow.
(if someone tries to get me
i’ll freeze,
grabbed and caught,
my scream is already ready,
vice tight, a band across my chest
and i will hate that i can’t run.)
there are peeping shadows everywhere.
i tell myself i see things that
are not there.
BERNADETTE (3)
Watching the clock.
Where are you?
When you were small
You were my tiny shadow
It was almost as if we breathed as one.
I knew what made you happy,
What made you sad.
When you were growing up
I’d tell your dad we’d had a lovely day
And it was true,
I suppose.
You never seemed to mind
Staying at home and playing in the yard.
We made mud pies in summer,
Splashed in the paddling pool,
Grew strawberries in pots
Avoiding facing faces.
You and your dad brought home
Tadpoles from the park.
We made a makeshift pond and watched them grow,
You laughed as they
Changed,
Tried to catch
The baby frogs
When they jumped.
When you started school
I didn’t show you how to make friends
And keep them,
To make connections
Or make your mark.
I didn’t show you how to walk in steps as bold
And bright as your smile,
Or that your heart could burn
With all the dreams it dared.
ANOTHER DAY DONE
i wander home,
and follow the road as
far as it will go.
i watch the sky
and think that if i could only run
i might catch the disappearing sun,
snatch the
light,
hitch a ride
out of here, to the other place,
another world where i am
someone
new.
i tried it once,
chasing fast as i could go,
panting
stumbling,
tripping over uneven stones,
down the lane, towards the
wasteland,
metal scarred,
that runs behind the houses to
a place that isn’t a place any more.
surely there, i’d find it –
a pool of gold.
but the sun
outran me.
it was dark before
i’d even half begun.
back home safe,
i stare through the kitchen window.
there’s mum,
at the table
on her own.
how easy to sneak up and frighten her –
to bang on the window,
and make her jump.
she sips tea,
dunks a biscuit,
checks her watch,
rubs her head and yawns
and then stares at nothing for a while.
why don’t we go out together any more?
my mother does not leave the house at all.
she taught me all about her shame
and left me alone with mine.
her face lights up like Christmas
when i walk through the door.
i sit with mum.
we listen to the rain, and talk about
how today’s not the day to be outside.
we watch TV.
she measures, pins, stitches, sews,
creates beauty for those
who already know how lovely they are.
talented,
my mother is.
she blushes if you say so.
she works with
silk and lace, velvet, net –
mysteries of grace
that drape the room
in dreamy folds.
she stitches
tight skirts
fitted to the skin.
things that i could never wear.
(would never wear
how they’d STARE.)
“let me make you something pretty.”
mum pats my hand, holds out
a pattern.
i shake my head.
“so everything’s all right, then?”
she asks,
biting off a thread.
i nod.
i try to tell her how
happy i am at school.
but the friends who every day
pretend to smile and
then
look away,
say that they will sit with you at lunch,
then
disappear,
pretend that their birthday didn’t happen,
not that you weren’t invited,
are lurking somewhere here,
present
in the calls that never come.
in the messages i don’t receive.
i take a picture of my face and
wonder
is it good enough to share?
i know i take up too much room.