Asking a Shadow to Dance by Joâo Owain Morais

When Jordan got home, he didn't know whether to slam the door quick and run up the stairs or to sneak round the back so his mother didn't see him. There was a light in the hallway from either the lounge or the kitchen, so she couldn't have gone round Aunty Joyce's to get ready for the Bingo yet, which is what she normally did at that time on a Tuesday. And with the state he was in, the last person he wanted to deal with was his mother. He might have been two full thumbs taller than her but he still couldn't handle the mood swings she'd been having since last summer. He'd rather go down the Leather Bottle and start on one of the Cullens.

But there was no time to think. The sun was already down, which left his skin exposed and licked of heat even with his polo shirt buttons done up to the top. He walked back down the street, counting the houses on the way. Down the alley at the back he found the door to his own garden, dark as the rest under the orange cordial of the Tremorfa sky. Maybe she would leave through the front door at the same time and then he wouldn't have to deal with her until the morning.

But as soon as he climbed over the back wall he knew that it was hopeless. The door to the kitchen was open. All he could see was his mother giving him seagulls from across the garden. She had one eye on him, and one on the rolling boil of her spud-pan.

There was no point hanging around. He was feeling pretty hungry anyhow, as he'd just been chilling behind the Top Shops with some of the boys from the Tremorfire Crew. And smoking a five-fag half-ounce mix didn't half give you the munchies. He walked down the path, ducking under the white flags of his bedding on the line. The kitchen was full of steam, but he couldn't work out if it came from the stove or the top of his mother's head.

His cheeks started to flush from the hot wet room and his mother's cold stare. The only sound in the kitchen came from the four wet rashers at the back of the stove, frying with a lisp.

– YOU, she said, and she pointed her wooden spoon three inches away from his nose. – Doan think you're havin dinner with us tonight. You were meant to be back hours ago to look after your brother. And I missed the Bingo so your Aunty Joyce will be tampin with you and all.

He checked his mobile for the time and out of habit he almost checked to see if anyone had updated their status, but then he caught his mother stirring the pan into a whirlpool out of the corner of his eye.

– Oh come on, he said, palms turned up. – It's gettin light in the nights now and I didn't have no signal.

He crossed his arms and leant his hip on the kitchen counter, so she knew that she wasn’t going to win. Although his mother's brow eased out of its downward point, her eyes were still slitted like paper cuts.

– And you stinks of smoke again, she says, throwing too much salt in the pan, and a handful over her left shoulder. – If your dad was here then he wouldn't have taken this shit from you. So I shouldn't have to either.

– Well he ain't around, Jordan said, – So you can't be pulling that one on me no more.

And that was all that mattered. There wasn't much else that had mattered recently, ever since one of the younger Cullen kids had run up to him in the street last July in front of everyone and told him the bad news from the hospital.

She snapped the wooden spoon down and spread her fingers over the counter as the spud-pan spat on the stove.

– You best watch your chops, she said, putting the wooden spoon between them. – And doan you EVER think you can talk to me like that. And I'll say it again. You're lucky that your father ain’t here.

– I couldn’t care less, he said. I’m off to my room. And I ain't hungry anyhow
.

His mother chucked the wooden spoon in the sink and marched into the lounge. When she came out she had Tyrone by the wrist and was leading him out through the front door. He knew where she would be going. If his brother was with her then she'd be off to see Aunty Joyce up the road. So he turned the stove off to wait for her as he ate the rashers out of the pan.

He thought about what she would say. They called her Juicy Joyce up the Leather Bottle because everyone wanted a squeeze. But all the old boys who gave her the eye didn't know what Jordan knew, being family and all that. If you squeezed her the wrong way she'd be far more sour and acidic than even the sharpest lemon. It was probably why the only man who could ever handle her was Big Steve Cullen, as no-one wanted to mess with him, not even her.

But on seeing his aunty slam the front door a few minutes later with the look in her eyes like she wanted to chew his face, all Jordan could think of was how he should have taken Matthew Reagan up on his offer when he nicked his brother's knuckle dusters and wanted to swap them for a teenth of sticky black.

Every time Joyce took a step nearer he could see the white skin in the folds of her arms and neck where the sunbeds couldn't reach. There was no cheeky smile and no asking after Stacey when she got close. Instead she got right in his face so he could smell the peroxide in her hair and count her overlapping, twisted teeth. She told him how he's an arsehole and he's let his mother down and if he's not careful he'll end up just like his father and look where that got him, bent round the steering wheel of some random car that wasn't even his after he got blue-lighted.

Jordan let her scream, because it didn't matter what she said. Joyce wasn't his mother's blood so it was nothing to do with her. They were only related through his father and he wasn't around any more anyway. And as she was with a Cullen now she had taken sides even before the accident.

Jordan folded his arms and looked at her down the straight edge of his nose. He knew exactly the right words to use in his own house because he'd heard his father say the same thing. – Don't treat me like I’m some kind of a cunt, he said.

At first, Joyce didn't know what to do. As she looked back at him, Jordan noticed that she had shrunk, almost as if she was being crushed inwards.

–I’ll pretend I didn't hear that, she said, almost in a whisper.

– I said, Aunty Joyce, don't treat me like I’m some kind of a cunt.

Her mouth was slightly open and she might have been shaking her head, or it might have been her whole body.

– That's it, she said. – If you won't listen to me and you won't listen to your mother, we'll just have to see if you will listen to Big Steve.

As Joyce walked back down the hall and let herself out, it felt like someone had slam-dunked a syringe full of adrenalin down his throat. One of the reasons you knew Big Steve Cullen meant business was because his nose wasn't like an overripe, squashed banana. It's not the ones who look like they've had a few hidings you should be worried about. And he was one of those guys that everyone had to listen to. Once, he made the whole street give blood when the van was outside Tyrone's Primary just by going round every house and having a quiet word. All because one of the old boys he knew from down the Canton Stand on a Saturday afternoon had told him about his daughter in the hospice. No-one messed with Big Steve.

There was only one thing to do. He had to talk with his mother before Big Steve got to her first. He'd already seen some of the older boys like Joey Postgate get a slap just for giving chops while Big Steve had a smoke outside the Leather Bottle. And it was skittles night on a Tuesday so he wouldn't be in anyway. So Jordan left his house and walked down the yellow, white and pinks of the terrace. They glowed under the lampshade clouds above and it felt like they were all watching him. He opened the door to Aunty Joyce’s house, no point knocking, and walked straight down the hall, past the stairs, and into the kitchen. But there was no one there. Then he checked the lounge, and the news was on but nobody was watching it. So he went back in the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait for someone to show up, hoping it wouldn't be Big Steve, while he leaned back in his chair and tried to slow his breathing.

But then the front door clicked. Jordan looked up and caught Big Steve Cullen's eyes looking back at him from under his neanderbrow. He was carrying a blue plastic bag in his left hand and a smoke in the other. Their eyes stayed locked until Big Steve was sat down at the table; Jordan being unable to break the gaze and Big Steve being unwilling.

From the bag, Big Steve pulled out a can of beer and opened it. They watched the can. Ten seconds went past. – It's best to pour your beer, Big Steve said, – After its stopped all the spittin. That way, it ain't gonna froth up the glass and spill all over your hand.

They listened to the pickled muttering from the can die down before anything else was said. When Big Steve got two glasses out of the cupboard, Jordan caught his eyes again, olive as his skin, but he didn't say anything.

– You best fill up your glass quick, Big Steve said.

Jordan didn’t move at first, caught out between the stern look on Big Steve's face and his gesturing hand, big as a tugboat’s rudder. Then Big Steve slid the can over, and Jordan poured the beer in one long pull. After nearly choking on his first sip, he decided that if you added a splash of red diesel then Big Steve could probably run his van off the stuff. The sip felt like his first and last.

Big Steve leant forward on the table. His forearm looked as thick as Jordan’s calf, with twice the tan at that. – It ain't right to give your mother chops, he said.

It wasn't quite a threat but it was still enough to make Jordan go cold. But he'd seen enough in the way of handbags to know what to do. Someone was always on the doorstep saying something like that to his father. And Big Steve had no right to lecture him anyway. He hadn't even been in the family long enough to be called Uncle Steve. As far as Jordan was concerned, he was still a Cullen.

He put both his hands on the table, palms turned down, and straightened his back. – You best stay out of my family's fucking business, he shouted. – All you fucking Cullens are the fucking same, that's what my dad told me. Just cos you can fuck everyone up you thinks everyone has to do what you says. Well I doesn't have to do any fucking thing you tells me.

But Big Steve just took another can out of the bag and cracked it open. Jordan knew then that he'd sounded like the Da Silva's Jack Russell from across the road. He had never felt so small. And next to Big Steve, with his chin that you could crack nuts on, it felt even worse.

– You about finished? Big Steve said. – You got all those horrible words out your system? Good. Cos now you can talk like a man.

Jordan took his hands off the table and put them under his knees, so Big Steve couldn’t see them tremble.

Big Steve tried again. – Now if you thinks I’m gonna listen to a scrote like you call me every name under the sun in my own yard then you best get your swede checked, he said. – Cos not only have you upset your mother and my Mrs but now you upset me and all. And now you'll be lucky to leave this house the same scrote as what you were when you came in.

But before he had the chance to think, Big Steve grabbed Jordan by the crown with one hand and made him stand up. He lead him out the room and down the hall. Jordan could tell that Big Steve could tighten his grip like a vice if he wanted and leave him with a skull looking like he was pulled out with forceps at birth, but instead it felt like Big Steve was handling him as a Staffie bitch would when carrying its pup by the scruff.

At the foot of the stairs, Big Steve let go. He put a finger to his lips, and urged Jordan up with his paddle of a hand. On the landing they stopped outside the first bedroom. There was just about enough space. The door was closed but not in its catch, but they didn't go in. Big Steve opened the door just enough to let the light through the crack. He grabbed Jordan by the top of his skull again. He placed his head at the join, just below the second hinge, so he could see right into the room.

It took a second to take everything in. His mother sat on the bed to the left of Aunty Joyce, and she was staring at the rug over the floorboards. She was holding a tissue as she looked down with eyes of gentle wax, collecting a soft pool of salted paraffin in her dress, but the flame in her eyes had gone out. And as she dabbed at the leakage, Jordan realised he had never seen his mother that way before. For the first time, he wasn't seeing her as the cow who came out into the street to call him in for dinner or as the sad act who got dressed up for the Bingo every Tuesday. Because for the first time in his life, Jordan had seen the same person that everybody else saw. And he knew for once that it was him who was making her look like this.

He watched them for half a minute, and then Big Steve grabbed a curl of his hair and pulled him away from the door. They snuck back into the kitchen.

– Tell me what you saw, Big Steve said.

Jordan looked at his glass on the table. – I never seen my mother cry before, he said. – Not even at the funeral.

Big Steve stretched back, puffed out his diaphragm, and exhaled. – That's because she was staying strong for you and Tyrone, he said. – But every week since last summer your Mother Sal comes here and has a chat with your Aunty Joyce before the Bingo. And all she ever does is ask where did she go wrong.

Big Steve undid the buckle on his belt, slid it from its loops with one hand, and placed it on the table.

– I never meant to make her feel like that, Jordan said, and he wiped his nose and blinked.

Big Steve stood up again. – Let me tell you what I knows about life, he said, tauting his belt at arm’s length. – There comes a time when you're given a choice. Sooner or later you has to become the person you're gonna be for the rest of the time you got left. But sometimes it takes a bit of nudgin to get there.

Jordan got up. – Please don't hurt me, he said, with his hands out in front. – I knows people who knows people.

– You stupid scrote, behave yourself. I’m gonna do somethin much worse than smash you. Now finish your beer so you can go say sorry to your mother.

Big Steve flexed the belt once more, and between sips of beer he snapped the leather on the table. The house trembled like the midnight train was going past and Jordan's ears stung, but all he could think was how drinking a strong beer wasn't much of a punishment.

After a dozen or so smacks of the table Big Steve stopped and gestured for Jordan to follow him. They went up the stairs and Big Steve let Jordan go into the room first. His mother stood up and before he'd even said anything he had added fifteen years to her face.

– Oh my boy, my beautiful, beautiful boy, she said. – I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean for him to hurt you.

Her forehead, full of stretch and shine, started to wrinkle upwards as she looked into his eyes for forgiveness. She even managed a small smile. And it was at that moment he knew what Big Steve had done, as he finally understood what it was to make his mother cry. Because behind her weak smile was everything he had never understood before.

Testimonials referring to the book:
Cheval – The Terry Hetherington Award Anthology 2012

Quotes from the NWR review by Kat Dawes:

‘One of the stories that resonated most with me was Joâo Morais’s  ‘The Tea Party’…Dialect writing is done well here, as are the gradual revelation of character and the moving description of a common life experience’

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