Hiding in Cheesy’s Bedroom

((c) Anna Davis, 2000. First published in Big Issue Wales)

‘What are you doing?’ He’s looking at me all funny. Like he thinks I’m up to something. He’s propped up on his elbow in the futon bed. His hair is sticking up in tufts. Now it’s daylight I can get a proper look at his chest — it’s one of those smooth plastic ones, like an action man — not a single hair on it.

‘I’m looking for a tissue.’

‘What for?’

I hate him staring at me like this. I’m bending over, searching through the pockets of my leather jacket, and my T-shirt’s riding up at the back, showing my knickers. I drop the jacket and give the T-shirt a tug, trying to cover myself. If I could pull it all the way down over my knees like you do with your jumpers when you’re a kid, I would. But it barely even stretches to cover the tops of my thighs.

‘There’s no bog roll in your loo,’ I tell him. There’s also no light bulb, no lock on the door, no seat on the toilet, but I don’t bother to tell him all that.

He’s finally stopped looking at me. He’s stretching across for a cigarette. Lighting one up. I hate the way he holds it. All delicate like a girl.

‘Smoking in bed’s dangerous,’ I say to him. I’m searching for my jeans now. His floor is covered in strewn clothes, full ashtrays and CDs, and my jeans are caught up in the middle of it all somewhere.

‘Aren’t you late for school?’ He’s smiling in a sarcastic sort of way; determined to make me feel even smaller than I do already.

‘It’s half-term.’

‘Oh.’

The mid-morning sun is strong through the skylight in the sloping ceiling, warming the back of my neck as I scrabble about among the debris. I should be at home, doing my GCSE revision. I cannot even begin to imagine how much Mum is going to freak. It will be in the very highest echelons of freakdom, that’s for sure. My only hope is that she left for work this morning without realising that I didn’t get back last night, thinking I was still in bed asleep. Well — I was, really. Just not in my bed. I’m all gloomy and regretful inside. Don’t know which is pressing harder — my heavy bladder or my heavy conscience. Pendulous — that’s a good word, isn’t it. That’s how I’m feeling. Pendulous. Ah — here’s the jeans, and, yes — there’s a tissue in the pocket.

‘Your legs are like a couple of milk bottles.’

‘Thanks.’ Git.

‘They are. They’re just like a couple of milk bottles.’

I’m struggling to get the jeans on. Really dying for that pee now.

‘Never seen such white legs.’

‘I can’t help being pale. It’s the way I was born. A bit like you being born without a brain.’

There’s the distant thud of a door and sounds of shoes on lino somewhere way down at the bottom of the house. Big feet going clop clop. Little feet patter-pattering. The squeaky voice of a small excited child shouting, ‘Daddy, Daddy!’

‘You home, Cheesy? Still in bed?’ The child’s mother. A nice voice. Deep and low.

‘Shit — Bethan!’ He’s stubbing out his fag and vaulting out of bed with a flash of boxers, grabbing a pair of trackie bottoms.

‘Cheesy?’ I screw up my face in disgust.

‘She’s gonna fucking kill me!’ His face is the picture of panic. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be capable of such terror after all the spliffs he got through last night.

‘Who is she?’

‘Jane, you’ve got to wait here, yeah? She’s mental, all right? She’s violent! Don’t fucking move!’

‘But I need a pee.’

‘Don’t move, Jane!’

And before I can say anything else he’s through the door and running down the stairs, tripping and bumping his way to the bottom.

Alone in his horrible attic bedroom, I sit down on the edge of the futon and make myself very small and still. I can hear him talking to the woman, Bethan. She’s laughing. She has a rich, musical laugh. It’s not the laugh of someone who’s mental and violent, but then some people just flip, don’t they. One minute they’re totally fine and normal, then the next minute — flip, someone’s thrown a switch — and they’re coming at you with a carving knife.

The clock by his bed says it’s quarter to eleven. Quarter to eleven! I should be at home sitting at my desk, memorising the definitions of photosynthesis, diffusion and osmosis. I should have been sneaking back into the house six hours ago, instead of which I was fast asleep under someone else’s duvet in Coldstream Terrace ...

Mum often lets me go out in the evenings these days as long as I’m back by midnight, though she’s always moaning about it and saying that things would be different if Dad was still here. Fortunately, she’s so tired and overworked that she’s incapable of waiting up for me. As long as I’m back in my bed before the milkman comes humming and clinking up Teilo Street and wakes her up, she remains blissfully ignorant.

There’s a routine I have to follow. As I get through the front door I hold the little tinkling bell that hangs inside to stop it from doing its tinkly thing. Then I close the door carefully so it doesn’t rattle or bang, and pause to take my shoes off. I creep through the hallway, and ⎯ grasping the newel post to support myself, I swing my leg up onto the fourth stair because the bottom three creak really loudly. The rest of the stairs are OK, but up on the landing I zig-zag back and forth to avoid landmine-floorboards and get to my bedroom door, which I can only half open because it has a serious groaning problem. I don’t go to the bathroom till I’ve changed into my pyjamas. That way, if Mum wakes up and comes to check on me as I’m wandering in or out of the bathroom, I look entirely innocent, like I’ve just got out of bed. Up till now I’ve always got away with it. I am Skill.

Downstairs the kid is squawking, ‘Daddy, Daddy, look at this. You’re not listening to me, Daddy ...’

I had no idea he had a child. Is Bethan his ex-girlfriend or is she actually more current than that? Are they in fact married?

This urgent need to wee is a cruel punishment. I’m not sure whether it would be better to keep still or move about. As an experiment I get up and waddle across the room, holding myself straight at first, then bending and stooping as the ceiling slopes steeply down. Moving turns out to be a bad idea for my bladder so I stop when I get to the lowest most cramped-up end of the room, and sit, cross-legged, in front of the tiny window that connects floor to ceiling.

This room stinks of spliff and sweat and dust. I try to open the window, but it’s sealed shut. I put my palms against the glass and then press my nose up to it. Outside, the sky is a brilliant blue, even when viewed through this dirty pane. The Millennium Stadium looks well cool. The River Taff is all glittery. If I crane my neck to peer as far to the left as possible, I can make out the shapes of traffic and people crossing Cardiff Bridge. Everyone’s on the move except me. Stuck up here. I’ve never seen Coldstream Terrace look so pretty. I’ve always thought of it as being really seedy around here. All those stories about murders and muggings and prostitutes ... I don’t know how many of them are true but I can remember the news report on HTV Wales when I was little about the girl whose body was found here, rolled up in a carpet. I’d forgotten the story but last night ‘Cheesy’ kindly refreshed my memory as we staggered down the dark street through the rain and the gloom. He even pointed out which house it was. Last night the river was wild and dark.

How long am I going to have to stay in here? I can’t hold my wee much longer.

And what is Louise going to say when I tell her what I’ve done ...

Louise is my best mate. We have the best time when we go out together to Citizen Duane gigs. The girls in school think we’re weird because we keep ourselves to ourselves and are not interested in going out with scrawny boys with sticking-out Adam’s apples and too much Insignia (that ‘one all-over smell’). We like to hang out with men, not boys. Proper men in their twenties. Not immature teenagers. Is that so weird?

Not that we don’t get a lot of unwanted attention when we’re at Citizen Duane gigs. Creepy guys come sidling up when we’re trying to dance, asking to buy us drinks. Lately we’ve taken to winding them up; spinning a line, scrounging a couple of pints and then ditching them.

The upset happened six weeks ago. Louise and I were at a Citizen Duane gig at the Clwb Ifor Bach, and we were winding up these guys just like we always do. Mine was a quantity surveyor and he was boring as fuck. Hers reckoned he was a drummer. He had his sticks in a plastic bag and he kept drumming on the table with them, doing little rolls to show off. Right couple of twats, they were, and I was doing one of our usual spiels — telling him we were air hostesses, giving it all the yakky yakky. But when I turned to give Louise that ‘let’s get rid’ look, the drummer’s mouth was locked onto hers and he had his hand on her tit. I couldn’t believe it. What did she want to go snogging this loser for?

And Jesus, what a snog. The rest of that evening I was stuck there with Mr Boring Quantity Surveyor while they writhed and squirmed and ate each other’s faces. When it was finally over and we were on our way home, she had a neck covered in love bites and a smug look on her face. They started dating, she and Tommy the drummer. They had sex.

Louise was a nightmare about the sex. She developed her smug look into a whole new knowing persona. She insisted on giving me intricately detailed accounts of what she and Tommy got up to together. And there’d always be some infuriating little throw-away comment like, ‘You’ll understand about this one day ...’ I hated her for what she knew.

Last night was my chance to catch up. There’s this bloke who works in the Conway pub, and he’s been flirting with me for a while. I go in the Conway sometimes with Sarah, one of my other friends who lives nearer me than Louise does. I liked the way the barman looks — sort of wiry and dark and big-eyed. Funny nose that goes a bit sideways, but you can’t have everything. His name is Richie. He’d give me all the chat; let me have the odd free drink. To be honest I probably wouldn’t have given him a second thought if it wasn’t for Louise and Tommy the drummer. As it was I took control of the situation on Wednesday and asked him out for a drink in Chapter.

I didn’t want Richie to think I’d made too much of an effort, so I wore my jeans — the ones that fit snug around the bum. I got to Chapter bang on time. Richie hadn’t arrived yet, so I bought myself a drink and sat down at a corner table, not wanting to draw too much attention to myself. Twenty minutes later Richie still hadn’t arrived. I’d almost finished my lager, and then — Oh God — who should walk into the bar but Tommy the drummer with one of his loser friends. I turned my back to the room and tried to hide but it was too late — he’d seen me.

‘Hey, Janey, you waiting for someone?’ he called. I hate people who call me Janey.

‘Yep. I’ve got a date so if you don’t mind ...’

‘Oh, right.’ He gave me this horrible leery little wink and they sat down at the table next to mine.

After another twenty minutes of waiting while Tommy drummed away on his table, I could feel the tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. Tommy leaned over and said,

‘You look like you need a bit of cheering up. I’d better buy you a drink ...’

I’ve been hiding in here for ages now. I hope to God that Mum has gone off to work without knowing I’m still out. Otherwise she’s going to go absolutely ballistic. And If I’m stuck in here much longer I’m going to wee myself. I wonder if I could get across to the toilet without anyone hearing me ...

‘Well, we’d better be off,’ comes Bethan’s voice. ‘I’ve got to take Dewi to the dentist.’

Suddenly there’s a pitter-patter of feet on the stairs. Little feet. Coming this way. There’s no cupboard to slip into or bed to crawl under in this shithole of a bedroom. I barely even have time to think, let alone to get up off the floor and find a place to hide before the door handle is moving, the door is being opened ...

He can’t be more than about three years old. He’s all blond curls and grazed knees. His face is big and open and vulnerable. He is looking right at me, into my eyes. His eyes are big and grey like his Dad’s. He doesn’t seem scared. Rather, he is mesmerised.

Slowly, while keeping his gaze, I raise a shaking finger to my lips. Hold it there.

Downstairs they’re still talking away.

‘Cheesy, this kitchen’s a health hazard. If you want to have Dewi staying over you’ve got to clean up your act. Where’s he got to, anyway?’

‘Gimme a break, Bethan. It’s not all my mess. There’s other people sharing this place too.’

Then she says, ‘Shit, he must’ve gone up the bloody stairs.’

Adult feet are clomping up the staircase. The kid is finally distracted. I’d love to make a run for it, but where can I go ...

Tommy appears in the doorway. Thank fuck! He’s scooping his little boy up in his arms, holding him close. The kid whispers in his father’s ear, ‘Daddy, there’s a lady in your bedroom again. I think she’s hiding,’ and he buries his face in Tommy’s chest.

‘That’s right, Dewi,’ Tommy whispers back. ‘She likes hiding. We’re going to pretend she’s not here. It’s a secret, OK?’ He’s looking at me over Dewi’s shoulder. His face is sad. Softer and more serious than I’ve seen it before. He gives me a sort of nod and then he turns and walks out of the door and down the stairs, carrying his son.

Listening to Bethan and Dewi saying goodbye, hearing the front door opened, the sound of a push chair being set down on the pavement outside, I feel ashamed. Once I was under that duvet, giggling and batting him off and saying ‘no’, I told myself I was doing it for Louise — getting revenge on Tommy for being so treacherous as to try to sleep with his girlfriend’s best mate. I imagined myself telling her all about it, watching her rage building, comforting her when she started to cry.

Now I realise it was Louise who was the target of my revenge. She might have shagged Tommy, but I’d gone one better — I’d wound him up and turned him down.

But when he came up to the room just now and gave me that nod, he was saying something to me without words. He was saying, ‘We have secrets, you and me.’

I’ve never kept anything secret from Louise.

The front door slams downstairs. I hear Tommy’s voice:

‘It’s all right, Janey, you can come out now.’

...........................................

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