CHAPTER 9
Rosie went home with her parents after the funeral, which was not a good day. More than Sam’s life seemed to have been sucked out of the world, so four of us clung to each other as things were said and hymns sung, as Linden had insisted on a Christian service for her child. I went in a dress and tights I had bought for the occasion, far from my normal style, and afterwards hung the stuff in the depths of my wardrobe with a little prayer that it would be as long a time as possible before I would need them again. I had had far more than enough of death.

Things did perk up a little just a month later, as I waited outside Cardiff Central for a particular train. I spotted Graham first, and noted with some unease the clear distance he was keeping from Malcolm. I remembered evenings near Druridge Bay, the two of them slumped comfortably, comfortingly, against each other, and then remembered Marlene’s warnings when I had told her the ‘boys’ would be down for the weekend. She had echoed Harry’s advice.

“Good mates, darling. No hand-holding outside, coming or going. Not unless they like getting a kicking. Safe place here, but there’s loads of sharks circling outside”

“Any of them try and come in?”

“Oh yes, and I leave it to the diesels to show them the way out. They’re far scarier than the boys!”

“Don’t they just wait outside afterwards? For someone to have a go at?”

“Marlene is far from being a stupid queen, Debbie. I have some cameras set up, with video recording. And one, repeat one, copper who I let in. Sort of open filth; they don’t like shit in the city, so he tries to keep us sweet, and if we have a real problem, a persistent one, we talk to him. Tiger Bay boy, he is, over there at the end of the bar in the main room talking to Carly”

I had stepped back far enough to look through the archway, and he was there, in plain clothes but still so obviously a copper. He had looked Indian, with a badly broken nose. Easy to remember, easy to avoid.

So once I had dropped off the suitcases, taking a taxi from the station, and let them settle their things into the bedroom I had assumed they would want to share, Malcolm putting a large package into my fridge, I took them up the road to the Olive.

“Hiya Ruth! These are the old mates I told you about. Graham; Malcolm. Boys, Ruth here does the best breakfasts for miles around, but no stotty, no pernackity”

Her brow furrowed, so I did exactly as I had intended, and settled back to allow Graham to explain what the two things were. That led onto a more extended discussion on cookery, followed by a dissection of Ruth’s menu before we tucked into some of her wonderful lamb stew, with her own version of colcannon, which included leeks as well as cabbage. Replete, a bus took us back into the City and the bustle of the Smugglers. I was watching the boys’ backs as we went along the street, my arm linked with Graham’s to make things look a little more heterosexual, but their smiles on entry were my excuse to disengage. The main bar held several groups of young men, all as skinny as feral cats, several wearing white vests that looked four sizes too big. In another corner was a group of women with crewcuts that I assumed were Marlene’s ‘diesels’, and through a doorway to the right as we entered, I could see disco lights to go with the crap disco music that a crowd of people were dancing to, in pairings that were as far from heterosexual as it was possible to get.

That was what brought the smiles from my friends, the sense of safety, of normality. I towed them to the bar. Marlene folding her arms under her ‘bosom’ as I approached.

“Fucking hell, what HAVE you dragged in, love? Got a fucking interpreter for these two poofs?”

Malcolm’s jaw just dropped, but Graham started laughing happily.

“Bugger a hell, pet, do they have a school for you lot? Classic!”

Marlene grinned, and came round the end of the bar to hug all three of us.

“Got a little table reserved for you three, just over here. It’s a disco tonight, nothing special, and the music will most definitely NOT be to the taste of this biker bitch, but feel free to go and shake whichever bits you want to. Drinkies?”

We sat, we laughed, we drank more than a little bit, and Malcolm and Graham relaxed enough to leave their jackets with me while they went to do their bits-shaking. It was the look on Malcolm’s face I was enjoying, as the atmosphere was so far from what would be available in rural Northumberland. As I waited, I got asked to dance by several girls, including one of the diesels, but I declined all the invitations on the very good basis that I was straight, and for the indisputable reason that the music being played was absolute and unmitigated shit.

It was a wonderful night, Marlene sorting us out a taxi home for safety, and the weekend continued to be superb. We had to rely on the bus system, but I showed them as much as I could of the city I was starting to love, including the birdwatching spot I visited so often now, where the Taff met the bay, on the Saturday morning, after a Ruth breakfast. Malcolm surprised me that day, and I realised that if we hadn’t gone there, he would have found some excuse, because the sneaky man had somehow obtained three tickets to a home match by Cardiff Rugby Club.

I am not greatly into the game, but both of the boys were, and I could put my own interests on hold for a couple of hours, as the team in the blue shirts lost to a team wearing red. I spent most of the game watching my friends, and realising why they had insisted I sit between them. The Arms Park wasn’t exactly a place for expressions of manly affection, and I was amused once we were home, and caught Malcolm looking at the clock on my mantelpiece.

“You pining, Mal?”

He shrugged, mouth twisting.

“It was last night, pet. I mean, there’s places in the Toon for us, but Newcastle’s so far it’s almost an expedition for a night out. Last night, well, it’s almost next door, in a way, so…”

“You were hoping for another night at Marlene’s?”

“If you don’t mind, Debbie. I mean, we’ve got Sunday to settle our hangovers, and we really want to see some of the coastline here, not just those muddy bits. It’s simply that last night we were able to relax properly, and that’s a rare thing for us”

So it was that Saturday evening saw us back in the Smugglers, where there was a drag act on, compered by Marlene him/herself, and while once again the music was not to my taste, I was impressed by her (I eventually settled on that pronoun) skill and smooth delivery of everything from dreadful jokes to remarkably vicious put-downs on audience members. I noticed each one of those she verbally slapped looking almost pleased at finding themself the target, and understood how big a part it was of the whole night’s entertainment.

Another taxi home, breakfast from my own kitchen the next morning, then buses to Penarth, which was disappointing (Graham: “Call that a beach?”), and it was starting to rain again, so we rode back into the City and had a wander around the outside of the castle. It was a slow day, one of contented relaxation after a couple of busy nights, and of course the package in the fridge turned out to be a beef joint that came from the next farm up from Graham’s. As Malcolm started peeling vegetables I hadn’t known I had, Graham popped out the front door.

We were four for our roast that evening, as my friend had simply walked into Ruth’s place, asked her when she closed that evening, and invited her for dinner.

That weekend set a pattern that we followed for years, with a visit from the boys every three or four months, some serious debauchery courtesy of Marlene, a meal shared with Ruth, either in my home or her flat above the café, and the steadiness of the work routine I was now wrapping around me like a comfort blanket. I made time to head up to the North, every so often, coordinating with Pat, who showed me puffins and peregrines, pipits and warblers, and as she pushed my hillwalking, I found my head for heights improving to the point where we were able to tackle the Horseshoe properly.

I won’t say ‘comfortably’, but I got around it with my eyes open and my bowels closed.

It was also a time when I saw Rosie recovering, and with the help of her and Oily, I passed my motorcycle test and moved on to a slightly bigger bike, another Honda single of 250cc.

It could have, should have been a lonely life, but the weekends were filled with so many things I had no time for brooding. If I wasn’t working, I would have a couple of guests, or be up in the Ogwen Valley, or at a rally dancing myself into exhaustion. In reality, it was a good life.

Five years went by like that, and then I had a phone call from Rosie, this time one in which I could hear her smile.

“Carl’s out today, Deb! Party at the clubhouse!”