“No, and I’ve actually got to review her, so I’m going to pay attention, if you don’t mind,” I said, not wanting to be rude but mainly not wanting to talk to anyone but Kyazike, who was still not back from the toilet.
“It’s just the opening act, you’ve got time until she comes on,” he mansplained. “Can I get you a drink? Yours looks like it’s almost done.”
“No thanks, I’m not drinking,” I said, stern. “This is my friend’s.”
“I usually drum for her.” The man leaned against the bar, pleased with himself.
“That’s nice,” I said, my eyes still on the stage.
“Can I get you a soft drink, at least?” he asked as I looked around for Kyazike again.
“There you are! The toilets are full of druggies, fam, I watched about ten pairs of girls go into the cubicles giggling and come out sniffing when I was standing there needing a piss.” Kyazike looked at the man. “Who’s your friend, Queenie?”
“Sid,” he said. “I was just asking your friend here if she wanted a drink, but she seems to be too into this guy.” He gestured to the stage.
“Fam, let him get you a drink, he’s buff,” Kyazike said into my ear. “Bit older too. Nice.”
“You have him, then,” I said, handing her drink back.
“If I liked white guys, I’d be all over him,” she said, winking at him. He smiled back fearfully.
“We should get closer to the stage, come on. Nice to meet you!” I pulled Kyazike by the arm. “You shouldn’t encourage me, you know I’m trying to be better at this stuff, Kyazike,” I said when we found somewhere to stand that allowed me to see the stage.
“I wasn’t telling you to sleep with the guy, Queenie,” Kyazike shouted behind me. “Nothing wrong with a little flirt. Besides, no wedding ring.”
“Too soon,” I said. “Besides, rings can always be taken off. . . . Look, she’s coming on!”
* * *
“It was so good, Darcy, she was amazing!” I chattered excitedly. “She had this transfixing neon light show in the middle of the stage that pulsed with the bass, and the band was amazing, and the songs—”
“So you had fun, then? That’s good!” Darcy said encouragingly.
“Yes. I did. For the first time in a million years. And no men, if you can believe it. In fact, you’ll be so proud of me. This guy, this drummer—and drummers are obviously the best band members. You know. Because of the arms . . . and the rhythm—well, he asked to buy me a drink, but I very firmly said no.”
“Oh, well done.”
“Thanks. He was one of those mainstream millennials, which wasn’t so appealing, but I wouldn’t have let him buy me a drink even if he wasn’t. He didn’t try to bang me on sight, though, so that’s something, I guess.”
“What’s a mainstream millennial?” Darcy asked.
“Have I made this term up?” I questioned myself. “I’m sure I’ve seen it on the Internet. You know, those men: bike riding, knitted sweater? Pretends Facebook isn’t important to him, but it really is?” I was met with a blank stare, so carried on. “Craft beer, start-ups, sense of entitlement? Reads books by Alain de Botton, needs a girlfriend who doesn’t threaten his mediocrity?”
“Oh, right,” Darcy said, not as mediocre-man-hating as me. “Anyway, well done, you! One of these days we’ll have a whole week of conversation where we can pass the Bechdel test!”
“Wouldn’t go that far. Right, as much as I love tea and talking, I need to go and write this gig up for Gina.”
* * *
Four weeks, three thousand fucking pounds to useless estate agents, and one phone call to Eardley later, I was packing to move into a very, very tiny studio flat that I would have trouble swinging a kitten in, if I were so inclined. My grandparents had sat me down to talk about how renting was for fools and that I should use the money from my mum as a deposit for a house, but they were forced to open their eyes to the fact that times had very much changed when I went on Rightmove and showed them what a deposit of ten times that couldn’t even get me. I had to sit with the “in our day you could buy a house in Brixton for three pounds” thing for the next hour, but at least I’d won the first round.
Despite his bad hips, my granddad was practically jumping for joy at the prospect of having all of my grandmother’s attention back, while she was pretending to be totally unbothered by my leaving.
The doorbell rang, and I heard Diana’s voice fill the house. “This is going to be long, I swear,” Diana said loudly enough for me to hear.
“Diana. Come on, your cousin needs help,” was Maggie’s equally loud pantomime-like response. “My back is too bad to do much, though, so I’ll just be sat here.”
I walked into the kitchen to get another box. “Hello, both.” I smiled.
“Today’s the big day!” Maggie beamed. “We’re very proud of you, you know. You’ve come a long way. Aren’t we proud, Diana?”
“Yeah,” Diana said, opening the fridge.
“I don’t think she’s ready to live alone,” my grandmother said, moving Diana out of the way and taking a raw chicken out of the fridge.
“Mum, she’s not moving far away,” Maggie defended me. “But who knows what could happen? She might have one of her attacks, and fall and hit her head,” she added, changing her tune.
“Everybaddy always so cautious.” My granddad shuffled into the kitchen. “You can’t see how sturdy Queenie is?” He grabbed my shoulders and shook me to make his point. “She’ll be fine. And even if she’s not, she’s not coming back here.”
“You too dyam wicked,” my grandmother shouted at him.
“Me jus ah joke!” My granddad laughed loudly. “Queenie, start by getting the stuff out of my shed,” he said, and stopped laughing instantly.
My grandmother removed the chicken from its plastic packaging and threw it into the sink. She turned the tap on as Diana watched, horrified. “Grandma, they’re saying on the news that you shouldn’t wash chicken before you cook it! Bacteria can splash around the sink,” she squealed.
“Has my food or my food preparation killed you before now?” My grandmother kissed her teeth. “No. Go and find suttin’ to do.” She put on a pair of rubber gloves, tackling the chicken and listing to Maggie further reasons why living alone was going to kill me. I left the kitchen when Maggie offered to come round and bless my new flat with holy water.
I walked through the garden to the shed and stepped in, bending my head to avoid collecting all of the cobwebs from the ceiling with my hair. I was stacking boxes by the rickety wooden door when I heard my granddad coming up the path. “That cane is a dead giveaway, you can’t sneak up on anyone,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Come to make sure I get everything out?”
“I know we never really talk,” my granddad said quietly, leaning against the shed stairwell.
“I don’t take it personally, you don’t talk to anyone,” I cut in.
“Queenie, just listen, nuh?” my granddad said, knocking his cane on the floor.
“Sorry, Gandalf.”
“Who?”
“Nobody,” I said.
“As I was saying,” my granddad began, “I know we never really talk. But, as you say, that’s just my way.” He paused to readjust his position on the door, wincing. “But because I don’t talk nah mean I don’t feel. When you came to stay those months ago, I felt bad.” He sighed. “I felt so bad that you were going to end up like your mother. I could see it in you, in your eyes.” He stopped. “I could see the fear, and the resignation. I thought you’d given up. And I felt like I did, in my chest, when she turned up here after Roy hit her so hard she almost didn’t get up.” He paused again. “But you didn’t let it take you.” He paused and lifted his glasses to wipe his wet eyes. “You’re full of fight, Queenie. Full of fight.” He turned away and ambled back down the garden path, leaving me standing there unable to process anything he’d said.
Diana bounded up past him to join me. She watched me blow the light layer of dust off boxes of belongings that hadn’t seen the light of day for months.
“We are proud of you, you know,” Diana said awkwardly. “My mum wasn’t just saying that.”