251 Menlove Avenue. Celia was sure this was where John lived. Last night had been such a woozy haze after the amount she'd drunk. Celia had left John's in such haste and hadn't really thought she'd need to memorise the house when she cycled away from it.
Mendips. That's what the sign on the gate said. Funny name. She felt a sense of déjà vu as she repeated the name to herself. It must be it then, mustn't it?
Celia came to return the bike. The bike John said he didn't want back. Her mother spotted it leaning against the garage wall where her father had left it, and she'd started to ask all sorts of questions about it. Of course, Celia lied and said Elizabeth leant it to her to get home last night. Her mother obviously hadn't rung up Elizabeth to see if her daughter was telling the truth. God help Celia if she did.
Celia hadn't intended on bringing the bike back but what else was she supposed to do? She couldn't ride back home with it after her mother had asked her to return it, and she couldn't just dump it on the side of some road; it wasn't her place to do that. Anyway, she felt bad enough stealing it from this Michael lad, whoever the hell he is.
Celia biked the long way to Woolton. She'd been here a few times before to go to the picture house down Mason Street, a cute little thing it was. Woolton was a reputable village, very middle class. Menlove Avenue was a large, busy road but very neat and civilised by the looks of it. She wasn't ignorant to the affluence of her own street, what with her father being a businessman, who prided his upmarket property. Mossley Hill was a nice enough area but hectic with it being so close to the high street. Woolton, on the other hand, was the complete opposite; Celia wouldn't mind living here at all.
Usually, Celia would cut straight through Calderstones Park, but this time she'd avoided it altogether deciding to take the route down Brodie Avenue— a long and winding main road, that seemed to go on forever. She hadn't minded, though, that was her intention. Anything to avoid getting home quickly where her mother would be waiting to have one of her concerned talks about Celia's "mutinous" behaviour in school. Mr Taylor had called Nora on the telephone and informed her of Celia's after-school detentions, and she was far from happy about it; the look on her face when Celia got home said it all. Celia planned on delaying her journey back as much as possible; she'd be in trouble either way, so why what would it matter?
Celia surveyed the house in front of her. No one seemed to be home; all the lights were off. That's a good sign, she supposed. It meant she could quickly put the bike by the wall before anyone could catch her doing it. She hesitantly opened the gate and wheeled the bike through, careful not to swivel it on the plants. The front garden was well-kept, even in the winter.
Reaching the side of the house, Celia started to unfasten the big empty basket she had attached to the bike. Freshly baked cakes had been in there not too long ago. You see, for the past four years, Celia's mother had been running her own little one-women cake business in the environment of her own home, alongside being a mother and a housewife. Nora Pooley had turned her life-long hobby into an enjoyable vocation. She was always getting orders and friendly demands for this and that. Great success had come of it. Not that Celia or anyone in the family was surprised; her mother always had an incredible skill for baking and cake decorating.
Delivering a few of mother's cake orders had been Celia's first chore, the chief reason as to why she was out in the first place. All she had left to do now was drop off this damned bike and not bump into John.
Celia gently rested it against the wall making sure to wipe away any sweat marks she'd left on the seat. She'd let John come up with whatever "genius" excuse he had about the bike magically reappearing.
"Can I help you?"
Celia jumped, and the basket fell onto the concrete. She spun around to face the voice.
It was a tall young man wearing a suit, a briefcase in his hand.
Celia hesitated. "Errr...I....hello." She cleared her throat. "I was just erm..."
Stalling her response, she quickly crouched down to retrieve the basket. She gave it a quick swipe, not that it had anything on it, and tucked it under her armpit.
The man stood at a distance, his straight eyebrows now furrowed as he waited for an answer.
"Does John live here?" Celia nervously spurted. "John Lennon?"
"Last time I checked, yes," the stranger answered, his face softening at the mention of John's name.
Thank god—she had the right house
"Is that my...." The man started to walk diagonally towards Celia, noticing the bike that she seemed to be unconsciously shielding from view.
She glanced at the bike behind her, and with a little too much enthusiasm she said, "Oh this!"
He tilted his head to the side, looking at Celia with a curious expression.
"Yes, I-I found it," Celia stuttered. "You must be Michael, then." A nervous chuckle escaped her lips.
"Yes, Michael Fishwick," he replied, still a little wary of the girl in front of him. "I'm a lodger here. Sorry, where exactly did you say you found my bike?"
She didn't. Celia's mouth flapped open and closed like a dying fish.
"Er, it was...it was on the ground."
The man lifted his brow, a hint of bemusement on his face. "On the ground?"
"Yes, the ground of All Hallows Church," Celia continued. "Y'know, down Greenhill road? I sometimes cut through there to get home from school sometimes."
"Right..." The man sounded totally unconvinced. "How'd you know it belonged to this address?"
Because I stole it from this address, she thought to say. Jesus, couldn't he be happy that the bike was home safe and sound and be done with it? He was testing her; she knew it. Celia swallowed before giving her one-word answer.
"John."
"John?"
"Yes," she said with confidence, despite the lie she was about to tell. "He asked around at school if anyone had seen a green Raleigh bike with a brown seat and white wheels. John said it got stolen and to return it to this address if found."
A pretty satisfactory response if she did say so herself.
"Is that so?" His tone implied that he knew Celia's fib was far from the truth. He brought the briefcase to his middle and clutched it with both hands. Celia noticed she was doing the same with her basket.
"Yes, it is," Celia said quickly. "Any-who, I must dash. Nice talking to you; see you, bye!"
Celia shot him a brisk smile and rushed past him, wanting to vacate Mendips as fast as possible.
"Hold on a second." Celia froze at the gate. He walked up to her. "Don't I know you?"
She turned back around slowly. Well, she hadn't expected that question. Celia regarded the man in front of her with the little light she had available. The lamplight behind her was the only source of visibility now that the sun had set. It was only quarter-past five.
The gentleman looked to be in his mid-twenties, neither slim nor large. He was well-put-together, handsome. Clean-shaven, dark hair neatly side-combed. His eyes were kind and wide eyes despite the inquisitiveness behind them, and Celia had no idea who this chap was.
"I don't think so," Celia admitted.
"No, I definitely recognise you; I've seen you somewhere not too long ago." He scanned her again, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "I can't put my finger on it..."
"I'm sorry, I don't quite remember you from anywhere." Celia smiled apologetically, now feeling quite awkward at having him scrutinise her. She reckoned if he had a long, white beard like merlin, he'd probably be stroking it.
"Perhaps you're confusing me with—"
"Prime's!!" He snapped his fingers together and grinned. "That's where I know you from! Yes, you work at P. Prime, don't you? The prestigious shoe shop down Bond Street."
"Oh yes, it's my father's shop," Celia said. "I help out there occasionally when it gets busy."
A lot more often now that she was grounded. Weekends were a thing of the past. God knows what else Nora had in store for Celia now that she had the detentions to add to the list. An increased workload load no doubt. She'd probably be scrubbing floors like Cinderella.
"They're marvellous shoes! Very top quality," Michael said in high regard. "I have them on now, see?"
He lifted his foot, proudly revealing a pair navy patterned brogues under the lamplight. "The leather's very sturdy, not a single scratch." He smiled admirably down at his feet and said, "I'm glad you made me get these over the other pair, I must admit."
Made him? Celia frowned down in concentration as she stared down at the shoes. The pattern around the patent leather was tweed, each line a different shade of blue. She looked back up at Michael, who was still smiling at his brogues. Celia remembered him. She was surprised he recognised her; it had been a good couple weeks since she'd assisted him. At first, he'd turned Celia away when she'd offered her expertise, but forty-five minutes later it had become too painful to watch him stand there with two pairs of shoes in hand, completely useless and indecisive.
"Yes, you were the man who couldn't decide between those navy two-tones and the brown leather ones."
"Yes. I think you told me wearing basic brown brogues wouldn't make me an interesting person."
Celia flinched, slightly embarrassed at her discourtesy towards him. Perhaps he was rude to her, she couldn't recall, though she doubted it, he seemed like a nice enough gentleman. Anyway, if her father knew she'd spoken to a customer like that he would've gone barmy.
Celia apologised, and Michael simply laughed.
"Oh, don't worry, you weren't rude, you were trying to be helpful. When I couldn't decide between the two, you said to me 'A man who walks down the streets of Liverpool in a pair of navy leather-tweed brogues will turn heads and have people questioning in interest, whereas a man in common brown brogues wouldn't.'
"Oh."
Michael chuckled. "That's how I recognise you, y'see. You're a good saleswoman."
"Well I speak the truth," Celia responded, with a shrug and a grin. That in itself was a lie. She'd told him she found his bicycle lying by a church a few minutes ago.
"That you do. I've been getting all sorts of compliments in these," he said. "Even my university lecturer commented on them, and he's barely spoken a bloody word to me in two years! I must've done something right—that was listening to you, of course. The shoes were worth every penny."
Celia blushed a little. No one had openly gushed to her about her great salesmanship before.
"Well, my father will be thrilled to hear that, thank you."
"So are you a friend of John's, then?" Michael asked, nodding towards the house. He raised one brow and said, "girlfriend, perhaps?"
Celia's mouth instantly released a loud, high-pitched "HA!" that startled Michael a little. She started laughing at the absurdity of the question. Quite offensive actually. As if she'd ever be seen fondly clinging onto the arm of John Lennon. She'd like to keep her dignity.
What had she referred him to last night? Ah yes, a bug crushed under her shoe.
"Er, I take that as a no then."
Celia composed herself and nodded.
"We share a few classes at school."
"How unfortunate," Michael joked.
Celia laughed. "I agree. You know, John never mentioned he had a lodger living with him."
"That's because it's none of yer bleedin' business."
Both heads turned around.
John knew it was Celia; he recognised her stupid, plummy voice. He wheeled his bike towards her and Michael, who seemed to be acquainted with each other. John's satchel dangled over one of his handlebars, and he gripped a cigarette stub in-between his teeth.
"Where've you been?" Michael asked with a glance at his watch.
"Pete's," John said quickly and diverted his attention to Celia. He studied her for a second, taking one last drag on his cigarette. Her face was expressionless, giving no hint of the little tete-a-tete before his arrival.
"Picnic time is it?" John said nodding at the big square wicker basket in her hands. "What are you doin' here, Raggedy Ann?" John exhaled the smoke from his cigarette before flicking it into the hedge beside him. "This is private property; I'll have you reported for trespassin'."
"She was just delivering my bike, John."
Michael nodded over his shoulder and only then did John spot the bike leaning against the brick wall.
For Fuck sake. Didn't he specifically tell the girl not to return that effing bike? Anything he tells her to do, she does the opposite: Keep quiet— she creates a bloody earthquake. Don't touch anything— she contaminates everything in his shitting room. Don't return the goddamn bike— she dumps it against the side of his house for all to see. He should've known better. She probably did it to spite him.
And she was looking at John funny. Why is she—glasses. He had his glasses on. John quickly whipped them off and shoved them into his coat pocket.
"Oh so she's the thief, from last night then is she?" John said, hoping she wouldn't say anything about his specs. He looked Celia up and down, one eyebrow cocked. "Fancy that, eh. Well, what shall we do with the culprit, Fishy? Send her to the colonies and have her sentenced to forty-one days hard labour or put 'er in a pillory and lob rotten tomatoes at her face? Or stones depending on what we've got more of. Stones, I reckon."
Celia glared at John and was about to reply to his comment with something equally sarcastic or scornful no doubt, but Michael got in first.
"I thought you said the robber was a lad, John?"
Whoops. Had he? He couldn't remember. He'd managed to make a decent lie from whatever spilt from his mouth at the time. It was pretty impressive that he'd managed to come up with one on the spot seeing as he'd just had his bollocks whacked. And, not to mention the fact that he was more tired than a shit stuck up an arsehole.
"Well, yeh; I assumed so," John answered with his best effort at a nonchalant shrug. "They were wearin' a hood, and it was dark, how was I supposed to know? I don't exactly have night vision." John smiled slightly and said, "Haven't been eatin' enough carrots for that."
"Yes well funny that, John, because apparently, she found the bike abandoned down by All-Hallows Church and brought it to us because you asked around your school if anybody had seen it."
"Did I?"
"Yes," Celia said sharply. "You did." She stared at John, her brown eyes widening as she tried to get him to follow the lie along with her. Seems like she was fending for him. He didn't know why; she wasn't the one in trouble. Nevertheless, it was a decent fib; he may as well go along with it.
"Oh yeh, that's right, I did. Sorry, it's a blur; been a long day 'n all."
Out of nowhere, Michael started to laugh. Celia and John glanced at one another other, baffled.
"Taken one too many happy pills have we, Michael lad?"
Michael's laughter died down, and he shook his head at the two teenagers in front of him. "How stupid do you both think I am?"
"On a scale of one to ten?"
Michael shot John a look.
"Nobody tried to rob us last night. That's the truth. I know you—" Michael turned to Celia. "—The young lady whose name I still don't know, came round last night and made a getaway on my bike after leaving John's room in the early morning."
John glimpsed at Celia opposite him. He was standing close enough to notice that she was gnawing on the inside of her lip. Her head was slightly bowed, eyes cast to the ground. She couldn't have looked more guilty if she tried.
"Christ," John muttered under his breath. "You're not gonna grass to Mimi are you?"
"Not sure yet. Depends."
"On what?" John scoffed. He didn't wait for Michael to answer. "If you tell 'er the truth I'll have to tell 'er about those mags you've been bringin' into the house." John's mouth lifted into a dirty smirk. "Y'know the ones you borrow me from time to time."
Michael glanced at Celia. "John, I hardly think that's appro—"
"Remember that pic of Jane Russell in Parade magazine? Y'know the one where you said you wanted to grab hold of her b—"
"Alright, John!" Michael glimpsed at Celia again, the tips of his ears growing red. The girl was adjusting the straps on her bike basket, pretending to act ignorant to the conversation to save herself and Michael from embarrassment.
Michael wouldn't dare talk about pornography or anything of the sort in front of birds; nothing that'll have them scrunching their faces in disgust—he considered himself far too much of a respectable gent for that. John, of course, couldn't care less about that stuff. He was the very definition of uncouth; he says what he says, does what he does and if anyone didn't like it, they could simply fuck off.
Anyway, behind closed doors, when the two of them were flicking through Michael's impressive stash of magazines, (which were kept hidden from Mimi for obvious reasons), Michael could be just as sordid as John was. In fact, John thought Michael probably wanked more than he did. That's probably why he had so many dirty mags—watching Fishwick trying to pull a girl with an actual beating heart was pitiful.
Michael tugged on the neck of his tie. John noticed he always did that when he found himself in awkward situations. He did it several times during his first dinner at Mendips two years ago. Mimi had asked him so many probing questions the poor sod's tie was practically hanging loose around his neck. John was surprised that by the end of the interrogation, Michael hadn't turned it into a noose.
"That's enough now, John," Michael warned, lowering his voice.
"So you won't tell her, then?"
Michael sighed and muttered to himself. "God, I'm a twenty-five-year-old man getting bloody blackmailed by a sixteen-year-old boy."
"Can't call yerself a man when you have no pubes, fishy."
"You been counting then, John?" Celia quipped.
John repeated what Celia said with his tongue pressed against his cheek, mocking her. He then straightened his face and said, icily, "You still here?"
Michael cleared his throat. "I won't tell Mimi alright, John. I wasn't going to anyway. But honestly, you were both so loud I'm surprised she didn't wake up."
"Oh, sorry about that," John said. "It was that drunken clot." John nodded towards Celia. "Not to mention her bloody snoring; it was so loud I'm surprised they didn't hear it over in Timbuktu."
Celia clutched her hands across her basket and glowered at John. "I do not snore."
"Yeh, you do," John nodded, grinning. "Like a disgruntled pig. You didn't half do me head in. I was tempted to staple your flippin' nostrils together."
Celia's snoring last night reminded John of his late uncle George's snoring. He used to snore so loud that John could hear it through his bedroom wall. It was all gargling and squawking with blood-curdling pauses, the kind of sound the devil might make if he were relishing and strangling on a pound of human flesh. Once as a young boy, the snoring had frustrated John so much, he stormed into his aunt and uncle's bedroom and clamped his little fingers over his uncle's nostrils. When that hadn't done the trick, John thought it a good idea to stick tiny rolled up balls of tissue inside of uncle George's nostrils. The next morning he'd been crying out in pain as Mimi sat pulling the tissue out with her tweezers.
'For crying out loud, George, would you quieten down?' Mimi had chided after prizing out the fifth piece of scrunched up tissue paper from her whining husband's large nostril. She hadn't even started on the other one yet. 'Anymore more yelping from you and I'll lose my hearing!'
'Well yer yankin' out me fuckin' nostril hairs ya blasted woman!'
Seven-year-old John had never heard his uncle swear so much. He threw so many profanities at his wife that day, John could count them on all ten fingers. Mimi would usually scold George for his foul language in front of John, but that morning, his aunt and uncle were oblivious to the little boy standing timidly in the doorway, watching the result of his misdoing. He'd thought himself so smart; a thoughtful gesture had caused his uncle to feel pain, and it made John's eyes water.
Mimi had given John such a hard thwacking on the bum that day. He couldn't sit comfortably for two days without a pain searing through his arse cheeks. Uncle George wasn't mad at him, though. He usually never was. He'd never raised his voice at John, maybe once or twice but a hard stare was all it took for John to shut up and behave. Mimi did all the rebuking, never George.
'Ah, don't worry laddy, I'm alright,' George had said patting the back of the small boy sitting on his knee. The two of them were alone in the kitchen now. Mimi had walked out after calling John a silly little boy. 'I would've probably done the same to me father if he snored like me. Louder than a foghorn I am.' He pretended to snore obnoxiously, but John barely smiled through his frown. He'd noticed a bit of dry blood inside the corner of his uncle's nostril, and it only upset him more.
'I'll tell you what, son;' George went on, 'it would've been genius if it wasn't so stupid.' That did it. George finally managed to make his nephew crack a smile. John couldn't stop his rambunctious giggling, and his uncle laughed along with him as he wiped away the tears on little John's cheeks.
Celia's beastly snoring wasn't her fault, and John knew it was wrong to embarrass her in front of Michael like that, but he couldn't resist the torment.
"Leave her alone, John; she can't help it if she snores."
Despite the darkness, John knew Celia was blushing. Michael's defence would probably make her blush more, no doubt.
"D'you know it affects about thirty million people in the UK alone," Michael informed. "And it's actually caused by the vibration of your uvula and soft palate which relaxes the—"
"Oh bore off, fishy." John shooed Michael away with the back of his hand. "Yer puttin' me on my death bed here."
"I'm just trying to enlighten you, John."
"Yeh well, if I ever require a biology lesson about the anatomy of me mouth, I'll make sure to come to you first, eh?"
"You're a ruddy git you know, Lennon."
John smiled and tugged on the lapels of his coat. "The finest, of the finest git's; 'n don't you forget it."
Michael couldn't help but smile as he shook his head, disapprovingly at John. He turned to Celia and nodded towards his bike.
"What do you suppose I do with that now, then? Do I leave it out here for his aunt to discover or do I stash it in the tool shed?"
"Well, won't she find it either way?" Celia wondered.
"Ha! Mimi in the tool shed? That'll be the day," John muttered.
There's more chance of Mimi reading an erotic novel than stepping foot into that shed.
She'd once caught a family of mice scuttling out of there, and after almost frightening her to death she'd wanted nothing more to do with it. It was a perfect opportunity for Uncle George to turn it into his own little humble abode. Never without a radio transmitter or the daily Echo, he'd take to the shed when Mimi was giving him an earful or if she was in one of her moaning moods; a side both he and John were all too familiar with. It was his uncle's second home, or as he more often called it: a place to escape the wicked witch of the west.'
John remembered the stash of beers his uncle used to keep in there. They were always hidden behind the big watering can incase Mimi did eventually poke her head around one day, which she didn't. John's first sip of beer had been in there, too. He'd hated it. Said he'd never touch the stuff. George just laughed and told John to wait until his balls dropped—it would hit differently then. John had disagreed. Ha, funny how things changed. Until then, Uncle George would fill John's bottle with water and John would pretend to be drunk. He'd enact the fool by pretending to fall off his chair; each time more dramatic than the last, and he'd speak in some backwards lingo that had George wiping away tears from his eyes until both of them would be on the dirty floor clutching their stomach's in a fit of laughter.
Now, two years later, his last bottle of beer still sits behind the watering can. John couldn't bring himself to remove the Liverpool Echo either. The news of nineteen fifty-five lies torn and tattered in the big red wheelbarrow; right where he'd left it. Everything else was just rust.
"Mimi's not fond of the spiders that have homed inside of the shed," Michael said with a slight chuckle.
That and it reminds her too much of uncle George, John sadly thought.
"So, hold on, you knew the whole time John was lying when he told you what happened?"
Celia looked at Michael with amused curiosity, the hint of a smirk on her lips.
Michael grinned. "Yeah, I did."
"You bloody prick, Fishwick."
"Well you tried to have Mimi and I ridiculously fooled, so I thought I'd turn the tables and have you underneath it."
"Well John, looks like your genius plan wasn't so genius after all, was it?" Celia snickered. "Fancy that; you were being played the whole time."
"Got to give it to him though, very worthy of an academy award, don't you think?"
Celia laughed.
"Oh piss off Michael," John spat. The wanker was showing off in front of her; he wasn't usually that forward. "Haven't you got a jellyfish to dissect or somethin'?"
Michael's grin was immediately replaced with a deep frown. He tutted and said, "For the last time, John, that is not what a marine biologist does."
John disregarded the lodger and pushed his bike on the gate. It swung open, and he started wheeling it down the path. Michael followed on behind him.
"I told you it's the study of ocean organisms, their behaviours and interactions with the environment. We don't spend all our time bloody dissecting them like a forensic pathologist."
John turned around to face Michael, who was standing right behind him. He was annoyed, just as John expected him to be. John rested his bike against the porch wall and leaned against the brick, arms folded.
"Oh, yeh?" He licked his lips, knitted his brows together and in an indicative tone he said,
"Then why did I catch ya scalpin' out the anus of an octopus the other day? Enjoying it, you were too."
"What? No, you didn't!" He quickly looked over at Celia to reaffirm himself. "I didn't. Honestly, I didn't."
"Alright, you didn't enjoy it, I believe you, Michael," Celia said, sincerely. She'd welcomed herself into the front garden now. Unlike John, Michael was ignorant of Celia's teasing, and he turned his full attention to her.
"No, no no, there was no octopus," he said earnestly. "Don't listen to John."
"So, who's was it then?" Celia quizzed.
"Who's was what?"
"The anus."
John burst out laughing.
"There was no anus!" Michael declared exasperated.
Celia turned her head to hide her mirth.
"She's pullin' your leg Fishy," John chuckled. "Havin' you on." A good job she did of it too. She'd known the guy for ten minutes, and she'd had him fooled hook, line, and sinker. John was impressed.
Michael sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Hilarious, you two."
Celia apologised, though she was as apologetic as the small hole on the toe of John's shoe.
"What I was trying to say is that I don't have any contact with marine creatures at the moment."
"Why, they ain't giving you their number?" John joked. "Try the phone book."
Celia stifled a giggle. Michael sighed again only this time, it was more emphatic as the two teenagers wore his patience thin.
"I'm training to be a research assistant," Michael continued. "My work's conducted on long-term and fine-scale research on coastal marine ecosystems and most of that entails writing reports, questionnaire and conducting surveys in order to collate the data and—"
"Blah blah blah," John closed his eyes and rested his head against the doorframe. "I can't hear ya over the sound of me dozin' off."
Nice fella Michael was, but awfully dull at times. Mimi somehow found an interest in him; she'd kept him around long enough. He'd started to moan at John, but John wasn't listening. He was knackered, his belly was rumbling, and he was thinking about that drizzle cake from last night. He licked his lips, wishing for the taste of the lemon glaze on his tongue. Deliciously sticky and sweet. He should've saved a slice for his tea rather than guzzle it down in the morning; he hadn't savoured it properly. Mimi would be home soon to cook tea, but John decided he'd be skipping mealtime. Actually, he'd be avoiding Mimi altogether. John intended to make himself scarce the whole evening. He knew full well he was in for an earful because of those detentions, and she'd end up confiscating something of his as punishment, just as she always did. Well, John wasn't gonna let her, not this time. He may not have a lock on his door (thanks to her. Seemingly, privacy was an undiscovered luxury at Mendips) but pushing his shelf in front of the door would do the job nicely. She could stand outside and shout and nag all she wanted, but he wouldn't hear it; not with his record player on to drone her out. He had it all sorted.
John was now standing inside the porch, keys in his hand. Funny, he had no conscious knowledge of opening it or even lifting his feet from outside to in. Michael stood in front of John, centred in the door frame. He was talking to Celia now standing outside the gate. John sighed. Hadn't she left already?
"You sure you don't wanna come in for a quick cuppa then, Celia?" Michael said.
Wait, What?
"No, she doesn't," John answered, abruptly, the words flying from his mouth. "Why you inviting 'er round for?" He regraded Celia standing by the gate. "Christ, she's been here long enough, don't ya think?"
John told himself he'd rather chew off his toenail and swallow it than have her inside again. What was Michael doing inviting her in for a tea? You invite your pals around for a tea, a chance to bond and have a good ol' chit chat. She wasn't a pal, nor did he fancy a chit-chat with her. God knows she outstayed her welcome last night. In actuality, she'd probably spent longer at John's house than she had at her own in the last twenty-four hours.
The lamplight was behind Celia now, and John could just about see her scowling at him with those crappy eyes of his. For a terrible moment, John thought she'd say yes just to spite him, but she didn't.
"That's very kind of you, Michael, really it is." Celia's voice went all soft and sweet. Sickly sweet. So sickly sweet that John's lips twisted in distaste. Sweet didn't suit her. She wasn't sweet. She was an onion disguised as a toffee apple.
"I should really be getting back home now, though." She glanced at her watch. "I've already been out longer than I should've."
"Well ta-ra then, yeh?" John said, budging past Michael as he reached to grab the porch door handle. He swung the door towards him, but Michael pushed it back open, his hand against the glass pane.
"Well, how will you get home?" Michael asked, ignoring the displeased look John gave him. He's like a nosy bloody parent this one, John thought to himself. He always concerned himself with other people's problems.
"Does it matter?" John mumbled. Michael tutted and pushed John further inside the porch, and John slapped his hand away. He stayed where he was.
"It's alright; I'm catching the bus. I only live in Mossley Hill, not too far from here."
"Alright, we'll get home safe," Michael said with a quick nod of his head. "No doubt I'll be back in the shop for another pair of shoes, and you can give me more of your candid but terrific advice."
Celia giggled. John rolled his eyes and quietly imitated her girlish tittering.
"Tryin' to flirt with the young ones now, eh fishy lad?"
Michael disregarded him and yawned, waving goodbye to Celia.
"Ah look, see you're yawning now," John said, drily. "That's her fault that is." He raised his voice so Celia could hear. "Her obnoxious snoring's made you sleep-deprived."
"Give it a rest John," Michael said, stepping past him. He opened the front door and disappeared into the house.
Celia was still standing outside the gate, drumming her fingers on her basket as she glared at John. John smirked.
"You know I may snore John, but as Michael informed us that's perfectly natural for adults. You dribble in your sleep, which may I add is perfectly natural for babies."
"Wha's that?" John said, leaning over the porch step with his hand cupped behind his ear. "Can't hear you from over here."
"I said—"
"Still can't hear you." John grinned, half of his body now hiding behind the door.
Celia growled and dumped her basket on the wall. She wasn't giving up the easily. The gate flew open, and Celia strode up to John in a fit of fury.
John peeked his head around the porch door, his grin broadened, waiting for the moment she came close.
"I said you dribble like a baby," she shouted, a mere few feet away from the door. "There, did you hear that?" She was standing at the step of the porch now. "I'm surprised you don't wear a bib so it can catch all of your sali—"
John slammed the door in Celia's face.
****
John stood at the top of the staircase. His grip on the bannister was so tight, the veins in his hands looked as if they were going to tear through his skin at any minute.
"WHERE THE HELL IS IT?" John shouted.
He waited for a reply. Nothing but silence. Again. This was the third time he'd called out to Mimi. She was ignoring him on purpose; John knew that because the front room door was wide open.
Fuck it; he'd had enough. He proceeded to stomp down the stairs, dust from under the staircase descending into the cupboard below.
John stormed into the front room, face carved with anger. Mimi was sitting in her armchair by the window, a cigarette poised between her fingers, lips painted red. She disregarded John's presence. Instead, she licked the tip of her finger and gracefully turned the page of her book.
"Stop ignoring me, Mimi," John said slowly, his hands fisted by his side.
Below the mantelpiece, a low fire crackled to take the slight chill out of the large sitting room.
"Are you done barricading yourself in your bedroom?" she asked calmly, not lifting her eyes away from the book in her hand.
"No," John stropped, like a child refusing to eat his greens. He'd been cooped away in his room for the past two hours. John was half-starved with a black hole for a stomach. He could still smell the onions and herbs coating whatever Mimi had cooked, and his mouth started to water again.
John hadn't noticed until now that she'd already taken away some of his stuff. She'd pulled off the radio speaker, and his new Elvis LP was missing; so was a couple of his Buddy Holly 45's that his mum had treated him to.
Mimi sighed. "Very well, then." She lifted her head to take a drag of her cigarette. Mimi knew how much John hated being ignored, which is exactly why she still hadn't bothered to acknowledge him. "Back up, you go if that's how you feel to behave."
"What the fuck have you done with my records?"
Mimi gasped and shot up from her chair. Only now did she look at him; her brown eyes wide as she stared at her nephew in disbelief.
"DON'T YOU DARE USE THAT LANGUAGE WITH ME," she shouted, slamming her book on the arm of the chair. John stared back at her, his teeth clenched behind the tight purse of his lips.
Mimi pointed her cigarette at John, eyes fierce as she stared at him through her reading glasses. "You dare speak to me like that again, John Winston Lennon, and you'll get more than a few records taken away from you."
"But it's not fair!" John growled. "You can't just go into me room and take my stuff."
She must've done it while John was still at school. Why hadn't he thought of that? He was a pissing idiot.
"Oh, but it's alright if I go into your room and take your dirty laundry, or make your bed? Yes, that's all very well, isn't it, John? I don't see you thundering down the stairs to grouse about that, now do I?" John rolled his eyes and looked away from her.
"Yes, that's what I thought," she said, sitting back down in her chair.
John sighed. "Just tell me what you've done with them, would you?"
Mimi lifted her brows and picked up her book. She'd lost her page, so she started to flick through the book with speed.
"Mimi?.... For God's sake Mimi, answer me! I swear to god if you've sold them I'll—"
Mimi ripped the cigarette from her mouth. "You'll what, Hmm? Throw me out of my own house? Or will you run to that mother of yours like you always threaten to do."
"I will you know," John said, with intense conviction. I'll do it."
"Oh, you've said that so many times, John, I should have it engraved on a plaque and displayed above the fireplace."
"Yeah, well, don't be surprised when I'm not here anymore," John grumbled. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "Perhaps you can rent me room to another twenty-something-year-old lad, eh Mimi? You seem to like those."
Her face darkened so; briefly, John wondered if he imagined it. Her expression seemed to be one of disappointment, and she shook her head slightly and placed her book in her lap, along with her spectacles.
"I take in lodgers so I can continue to support you." She rested her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table down beside her. "What I do, I do for you." She kicked off her slippers and leaned back in her chair. "But by all means, if you want to go to Julia then—," Mimi motioned towards the door with the flick of her wrist. "You'll be the surprised one, John when your mother sends you back here. It wouldn't be the first time she'd done that, would it?"
She wasn't being spiteful; she'd said it with regret. 'What a crying shame,' John thought she must be thinking. 'To have my sister cast aside the poor son who prizes her.' John despised pity, especially that relating to his mother or anything to do with his upbringing. The pitiful regard in his aunt's eyes said it all, and just then, he hated her for it.
"Now leave me alone to finish my book, please."
"I will if you let me have the extension speaker back."
"No."
John looked at the clock. "But the Goon show is on! I'm missing it. Ah, c'mon Mimi I'm bored out me mind up there!"
"Then do your homework."
"Done it," he lied.
Mimi gave him a look that said she didn't believe a word of it. "Go and read a book, John. You have plenty of them."
"I don't want to read a bleedin' book! I wanna listen to MY records and listen to my radio show, for fuc—," he stopped himself from cursing and growled in annoyance, thumping the wall instead.
"Tough, John! Stop acting like a spoilt child; act your age."
"But you're not even listening to the wireless!" John flew his arm out towards the radio by the telly, which was off too.
"That doesn't matter," Mimi calmly replied, eyes back to her book.
"Why doesn't it?!"
"BECAUSE IT'S A LESSON!" She slammed her palm on the armchair. "Behave like a clown, and you'll face the consequences. You need to grow up and snap out of this foolish mindset set. For goodness sake, John, you're not even a full month into the new term, and you're already being thrown into detention!"
"You should be used to it by now," John muttered, eyes cast to the carpet. One of the cats had made itself comfortable on-top of John's feet, and it brushed its tail against his legs.
"Yes and that's the problem," his aunt replied sternly. "It's disgraceful John, absolutely disgraceful I don't know what to do with you."
"Well, you could start by giving me stuff back."
Mimi fixed John one of her hard, sharp stares. "You ask me that again, and you won't be getting any of it back at all, do you hear?"
John heaved a sigh and cursed under his breath.
"And the wireless is not yours."
"The speaker is, though, Uncle George—"
"Yes Uncle George set it up in your room, that still does not make it yours, John Winston."
John cringed. He hated being called that.
"Mimi," he whined. "Don't call me that."
"Well that's your name, isn't it?"
"When can I have my stuff back?" John said through gritted teeth. "And the radio."
"When I'm good and ready to give them back. In other words, when you behave, because honestly, John, you'll be on the route to nowhere if you're not careful."
John gave a humourless grunt. "Sounds like a wonderful place; where is it?"
The cat had tired of John's lack of attention to it and had slinked its way over to Mimi, instead. The grey feline looked up at her and let out a cute little meow before rubbing his face against Mimi's ankle.
"Nowhere doesn't exist John, it is nothing; that is my point," Mimi said, stroking the soft spot behind the cat's little triangle ears. She smiled down at him as he purred; his little round face pressed against her hand. Cats were that woman's weakness, and she didn't have many of those. Giving into John certainly wasn't one of them. John swore she loved those bleedin' cats more than she did him, sometimes. She'd probably be happier living solely in their company; John would be the first one booted out the door if she had to choose between him and the needy pusses.
"I can't be on the route to nowhere, then if it doesn't exist, can I?" John sneered, folding his arms across his chest in a vainglorious manner. "You just contradicted yerself there, Mimi."
She stilled and glanced up at John from over the top of her specs. "Don't be a smart-arse John, it's not amusing in the slightest, and don't smirk at me either, I'm not happy with you."
John shrugged. The cat meowed, and Mimi picked it up and placed him gently on her lap, continuing to stroke it.
"Now leave me in peace or fetch a book and come back in here and join me, the choice is yours."
They used to do that; sit and read books together. For a few months after Uncle George had passed away, there'd been an overwhelming presence of emptiness; the house felt desolate and cold; lifeless even, like a part of it had died with him. Though, night after night, both of them would find themselves in the front room, quiet but together, nose in a book, both unaware of the occasional glances they'd give each other to make sure the other was alright. Though of course, the sorrow and pain were inevitable of losing someone so constant and well-loved, but spending time in each other's company was like a ray of light that seemed to melt away the emptiness they'd felt within. Each brought a warming comfort like hot soup or a soft bed. No consolatory words were shared nor needed because their presence alone had been enough to rekindle that homeliness.
"Or perhaps we can listen to a little Tchaikovsky while we read," Mimi added. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
"No," John sulked. "I don't want to join you and TchaiSHITsky. I'd rather get a respiratory lesson from Fishwick."
Mimi looked confused. "What?"
"Nothin'," John quickly muttered, turning to leave. "Oh 'n yer not funny by the way—replacing me records with your poxy classical, rubbish."
Her mouth twitched, and John was pretty sure she was fighting a smile.
"I think you should listen to them," she advised. "Beethoven is far more stimulating than that hound dog, hip-thrusting grease-bucket of a man."
John snorted. "I'd love to thrust Beethoven in a grease bucket, that's for sure."
Mimi tutted and shooed John out the room.
John followed his nose and moped his way towards the kitchen, wishing nowhere land were really a place he could transport himself to. He couldn't help but wonder: if Nowhere was a real place, would it be full of geniuses like himself? And if the answer to that was yes, then he best get packing.