Who the Hell is Ricky Bell?





To be honest, when I first saw him there was something that turned me off, but I have to admit that there was something that turned me very much on. Mmm… Because he was new I suppose, he was the centre of attraction; a gang of kids trailed around after him at break and lunchtime, asking questions, telling him stuff, trying to find out whether he could become a good mate or not. No, was the answer. Ricky didn’t seem to like any fuss, preferring to keep himself to himself, minding his own business and going his own way, scowling at the world. Soon, everyone got fed up and drifted away, leaving him to mooch around like a lost dog.



Ricky Bell. Every time we bumped into each other he would tell me to push off or worse. But in a strange way he was kind of cute. I’m sure if he swept that long hair out of his eyes and allowed himself to smile occasionally, people would warm to him. I decided that I didn’t care about the rumours that surrounded him like flies around shit, rumours that wouldn’t be shooed away: assault? Court appearances? Expulsion? These were the words that whispered in the wind wherever he went. So what? All I knew was that if he allowed those deep brown eyes to meet mine and let his mouth broaden into just the hint of a smile, I was going to ask him out.





Cassie Jackson's Land of Dreams



I love him to bits. Of course I do. He’s absolutely gorgeous. Sometimes when he’s asleep I look at those lovely long eyelashes curling up and I watch his gentle breathing, the soft rise and fall of his chest, and my heart could burst with love.

But don’t get me wrong, I love him and when he wakes I hold him; we talk and we look out of the window down on to the tiny ants scurrying below, the little old ladies leaning into the wind clutching their shopping bags and the traffic bustling along the main road. I’ll point out all of the kids as they leave school and anything else of excitement we can see: stray dogs sniffing the playground swings, birds being hurled across the sky or any break in the unrelenting grey. Best of all, even though he’ll never see us from down there, we look to see daddy coming home for his tea and we’ll wave and point. Both of us: me and Will. Of course I love him, but I also know he drains all the life out of me, he sucks me dry of energy.
I decided to call him Will. There are no Wills, Williams or Bills in our family, or at least I don’t think there are, I called him Will after a lad I used to know; a nice lad who was ever so polite and he always tried to do the right thing. You can’t knock anyone for that, can you? No, I used to like Will even though he’d annoy the hell out of me sometimes. I haven’t seen him for ages and the truth be told, I don’t want to see him again either. All of that was a long time ago, and it’s not a place I really want to revisit.
No, Will and I are fine. Will and me. Me and Will. Me and Will and his daddy, Simon of course. We’re all fine and I’d much rather look to the future than the past, that’s for sure. There’s a lot of nasty stuff in the past and I’m better off trying to forget about it all.
It’s easier said than done, of course. How did I ever get into this position: sitting looking down on the world from my sixth floor flat like a Queen surveying her lands, or Rapunzel waiting for her saviour prince? Cassandra Jackson, Cassie, one-time daydreamer and mother of the adorable Will. Okay, he’s adorable, but don’t let’s pretend that he doesn’t make an ear-piercing racket sometimes. He’s adorable when he’s asleep, but when he’s awake he’s a source of constant demands: feed me, change me and entertain me. And I do all of those things because I love him, I do all of those things and it leaves me shattered.
Sometimes I count the minutes until Simon comes home. I check the clock and then later I’ll check it again and I could swear it hasn’t moved. I feel like shaking it really hard to see if it is still working. I’d throw it across the room if I thought that would help. And when Simon does come home, does he want to hear all about my day of feeding, changing and playing with the baby? Well what do you think?
I do my best. I always try to make the flat look reasonably ship-shape. I give my hair a brush and I have the tea pot full and ready to give him a nice welcome home because this is Simon’s home now. I couldn’t bear to have him think any other way. He’s earning and he’s done well. He’ll be taken on permanently by his firm soon and that’ll mean an increase in money. I know lots of lads Simon’s age would prefer to spend their money with their mates, having a beer and a laugh, chasing other girls perhaps, and there’s plenty who would have him, where do you think Will gets his looks from? But no, Simon comes home here, to Will and to me, the mother of his child.
We do okay. We don’t get out much unless you count the weekends when we load up the buggy and, if the lifts aren’t working, we negotiate the endless flights of cold, concrete stairs and we set out to walk through the park, go and see the ducks perhaps. Weather permitting, we’ll stop on a bench and we’ll get a cup of tea each, sometimes, if a devil-may-care mood takes us, we’ll also have a biscuit or a piece of cake.
We used to go by the football pitches but not anymore. We caught the end of a match once as the Pink Ladies F.C., the team I used to play for, came trooping off the pitch with mud on their knees and victory in their smiles. The girls flocked around and they had Will out of his buggy in no time fussing over him and making baby noises, “Googoo googoo goo. You’re lovely you are!” and saying how lucky I was. But I saw the looks on their faces, they could go and get showered and plan a boisterous night of booze and boys. They didn’t ask if I wanted to come along or if I was going to start playing again, they didn’t need to.  Simon and I headed back to the six flights of stairs and our tiny flat. No, as I say, we don’t go round that way now.
So how do we manage? Not too badly actually. Simon earns a bit and most months we usually make ends meet. Luckily, Dad often pushes some money our way. He says he’s doing well. He always did like to talk up his dreams and achievements and he hasn’t changed at all. So he gives us money for his first grandchild, and I take it because it might just ease his conscience as well.
Mum’s great. It was a bit strained at first as I thought we could all move in with her: me, Simon and the baby. After all, there was plenty of room, but she more or less threw me out. She knew what she was doing when she said it was no place to start off together. Now she’ll often pop round when her shift allows and she loves to sit on the rug with Will but she’ll also roll up her sleeves and get cracking with the hoover or a duster. “You know me and dusty houses,” she says.
She and Simon get on well together too, which is just as well as Simon’s lot don’t really bother with us. We did try for a while, taking Will round in the buggy; you’d have thought they were pleased to see us, or at least pleased to see Simon and Will, maybe not me: the evil witch Cassandra who had cast her spell. No, the atmosphere was vile. The clink of a spoon on a saucer could reverberate for hours and there was nothing else to crack the ice of silence. Simon’s dad, I always had a soft spot for him, he said once as he saw us out of the front garden gate, “Don’t worry. Give it time and people will come round.” Okay, so now we are giving it time.
Did I mention Alison, Simon’s sister? Ali and I are best mates. Or at least we used to be but not anymore. What the hell happened? I try to piece it all together sometimes, how we used to work together at school; she was brilliant, we played football, messed about in each other’s bedroom and talked about all kinds of things. But there was also jealousy, mine I suppose, and that business about me changing schools. There’s the other stuff too: my stupid daydreams, my drifting around the past and the present. It got to the stage where I didn’t know where the hell I was, so how could anyone else keep track of me? Plus she’ll never forgive me for ruining Simon’s life.
All I know is that I used to be a good girl once. Here’s a word for you: schizophrenia, go and look that up. I did, it means a mental illness, gradually losing your mind or your personality to enter into another reality. Doesn’t sound good does it? Is that me? A schizophrenic? I don’t think so; I just think I allowed imagination to overact, looking for a better world than reality. It was hardly a better world though, it was awful. It was like a giant trapdoor which I’ve slammed shut and I daren’t let it open again. I know it’s still there though, I’ve just got to guard against letting it creak open just the slightest.
So how do I make sense of it all now? How do I piece this jigsaw together? It’s a mess, a complete mess, but like every jigsaw you should start with the corners. So that would be friendship in one corner, rivalry, competition and jealousy in another and then daydreams could definitely go in a third. So that leaves the fourth corner for the biggest, ugliest piece of the jigsaw, the bit which casts a dark shadow over the rest refusing to fit in easily anywhere. It’s the bit of the jigsaw where even just thinking about it now makes me want to throw up.