blackout - novel by tracy williams - 2008 - chapter 1

Blackout by Tracy Williams

BLACKOUTThe Dark Side of the Valleys

by

Tracy Williams

© Copyright Tracy Williams 2008

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For all the children who never asked to be born.

And to the perpetrators of apathy – oh never mind.

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Chapter 1

yes yes I know it’s two o’clock in the afternoon and no I’m not at work and yes I want a

double vodka and coke now do I look like I’m joking... just push the optic do your fuckin job

john... john the bar... john the angel ... john the puerile pint puller yes john i know i was

paralytic friday and no i haven’t stopped yet but don’t shake your head at me lovely boy with

prices like that you should clap your hands not shake your bloody head when you see me a-

comin’ or act like you give a fuck about my problem... what problem? problem-free that’s me

you’re the one with the problem see look i’m the only paying customer here except for good

old ron in the corner over there and we all know he can ponder a pint for four hours but me

i’m on a mission me a magnificent mission pregnant with redemption oh you wouldn’t

understand john so stop going on and on just gimme my change and go back to the crossword

there’s a good boy now let me arrange my plan.

She, the thinker, did not speak except for, “ta, John, love.”

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Outside was the winter. Another endless, incessantly dull and relentlessly cold

winter. Another day up the Angel. She sat watching it through the window, drinking the

weather away.

The Angel was a pub high up in the forgotten valleys of South Wales, not too far from

the beautiful Brecon Beacons. On this particular Monday afternoon, except for old man Ron

the ex-collier in the corner, its only paying customer was an untamed Welsh valley girl

named Tessa. The Angel had stood there for over a century. Tessa had been sitting there for

only a fraction of that time. She’d been sitting there since the age of fourteen. But there was

no time to consider that today. It didn’t matter. She was only twenty nine.

oh the angel... what a name what a misnomer i mean the angel... the slapper more like

the slut the whore the dog the bike the guarantee-even-you-a-shag any Saturday night...pop

quiz how many slags conceived bastards up the angel toilets then? dunno but it’s a fucking

lot... me probably consanguinity shared most likely with god knows who what she always

used to call me... you little bastard, you bloody bastard bitch... ah the constant cadences of

her dulcet undertones well i’ll show you mother now then let’s get down to my plan.

Vodka melted Tessa’s veins. By the end of that first glass the gloom would begin to

clear so best she drink it down quick even though she had promised herself so solemnly, and

only a few days ago, or was it yesterday that there would be no drinking from Monday, that

from Monday she would be seriously sober so as to execute her plan with proper clarity.

Except that clarity was no sister of sobriety no more. Clarity came only with a few drinks

and so if that was what it took then that was what it must take.

ha the angel what a fucking joke... proletariat public piss pot probably christened by some

prurient pervert back in the day no matter how few teeth you got you’re guaranteed an

orgasm up the angel and why do we say up when we gotta walk down to get to it oh the lewd

symbolism of it all ah well no prole me for much longer once i perfect this plan then... but one

more i think that first one hardly does the trick quick quick now john go on and pour just one

more look at him looking at me like that again right then now then now then.

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“You know what you are John?” Tessa asked the Angel’s landlord.

“What am I Tess’?” he replied, with an apathetic eye.

Tessa looked at him. “Invidious.” She pronounced the word as if it were a new

designer label she was wearing to make him sick with jealousy. She smiled. “You and that

look of yours....invidious.”

John the landlord didn’t even pause. “Been reading the dictionary again, is it Tess’?”

he said and, dropping the change into her open hand, returned to the crossword.

No one ever sat ‘in’ the Angel, no one ever said ‘at’ the Angel, no one ever went ‘to’

the Angel. It was always ‘up the Angel.’ She, the Angel, a public house of mystic

proportions in the valley where Tessa lived, was a sanctuary from the weather, a domain as

warm and comfortable as the womb itself and in order to get to her everyone had to walk

down a hill. It therefore remained a mystery to Tessa why every one always said ‘up.’ If

they were going to her, they were going ‘up the Angel.’ If something happened there, it

happened ‘up the Angel.’ If Tessa could not be found, she was obviously ‘up the Angel.’

Perhaps it was something Freudian, she sometimes thought, something deeply entrenched in

the collective unconscious of her drinkers who had, for over a century, nurtured and passed

on the limitless connotations behind the word ‘up.’ But never mind. There were far more

important things on Tessa’s mind that day. The Plan. Tessa had one ambition left: to

become a manager in the factory where she had been working for the past seven years, and

this was the plan that had prompted her to go up the Angel that afternoon.

Back she went to the empty table. Still, after twenty nine years, the heart kept on

pumping, the lungs kept on inhaling, the limbs kept on moving. Day after endless day she

exhaled over the same scene: Grass, sheep, factory, pub. And every Friday at three, when

the factory closed down for the weekend, Tessa began the two day descent up the Angel

again. Mostly it was a two day descent, but occasionally two days unwittingly became three.

That was why she was still there today. And, of course, there was the plan.

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Tessa made clocks. The factory, to be more precise, made clocks. The workers – the

women – they nicknamed the factory ‘Tick Tock.’ No one could remember its real name. It

had been ‘Tick Tock’ for years. ‘Tick Tock.’ It sounded like some pretty place in an

animated nursery rhyme where everything skipped along in glorious high definition

technicolour and Tessa’s easy-peasy job was to put the second hands on the clock faces. That

was what she was paid to do and that was what she did and that was what she had been doing

for the past seven years. Clock face after clock face came down the line and down the line

and when the face stopped in front of her she put on the second hand and let it go on down

the line. She clocked in at eight, she put clock hands on clock faces and she clocked out at

three. Tessa made clocks tick and tock and for seven years she had managed to do this with

astonishing regularity by relentlessly using cannabis resin.

vodka please aw for fuck’s sake john are you gonna look at me like that every time i

come up here or what d’you say? you’re watchin’ me die? well i’m watchin’ you die too and

i bet it’s a lot more entertainin’ from where you’re standing aw come on john don’t be like

that mun we’re all dying didn’t you know? downward trajectory second law of

thermodynamics and all that unavoidable void stuff so come on fellow mortal just let me get

on with it no not dying you nutter not dying today but forward planning a clever clever way

out oh never mind just let me get on with my plan.

She handed more money to John and he took it silently, only shaking his head.

Occasionally the cannabis supply dried up and then she was forced to go to Tick Tock

unstoned. Those occasional straight days at work would inspire her to whisper to herself,

“I’m basically just making time.” Once, accidentally, she had said this out loud and the girl

next to her had looked up, curled her lip, shook her head and said to Tessa, “innit?”

“Innit.” A wonderful word which holds a world of Welsh wit. Innit: Two syllables,

simple to use, all-encompassing and sufficient to punctuate any of the brutal, inescapable

realities which existed within the factory walls. Innit: the essence of that slow, incessant,

never-ending drip. They speak it slowly, they speak it quickly. They shut down sentences of

the deepest tragedy with it and thus render such tragedy comical. Barely is a sad tale told

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without the addition, from someone, of the word ‘innit.’ No matter how fucked things were,

innit made everyone laugh. It defiantly justified all things Welsh.

The other girls were making time too. But all the other girls had babies now. But the

other girls were women now and their babies were little kids. She had been simply making

her own time, they had been passing it on to others. And while she was silently stoned most

of that time, they were always talking. They had so much to say about these kids they were

making all this time for. Tessa didn’t believe that birth was a miracle – up there it was

usually an accident. She had been on the pill since the age of sixteen and she had never

forgotten to take it. Sometimes the doctor said it was adding to her misery, but she refused to

stop having sex so she refused to stop taking the pill. She didn’t trust any of those fuckers to

know how to use a condom, the statistics had proven her right time and again. She was never

going to end up like her friends, who weren’t really her friends anymore once they had

started multiplying. She watched them with their diamond rings, she listened to them fight

with ‘him’ and sometimes, only sometimes, she wished to go back to school when at least

they had shoplifting in common.

Beneath the hard surface surely there must be something soft? She knew it was there,

she sensed it was there, but she couldn’t ever put her finger on it. All the girls professed to

hate that factory. Yet every one of them went back there day after day and never called – out

loud - for change. They were badly paid, they were over-worked. Health and Safety

conditions: Suspect. Maternity leave: Unacceptable. Holiday pay: Atrocious. Breaks:

Too short. And yet day after day, week after week, month after year Tick Tock kept on

ticking and nothing ever changed. No one resigned, no one made demands, no one called for

a strike. No one lifted a finger in the right direction. All they did was talk between each

other, in hushed vicious tones. Up and down and in and out, all day long, the Welsh tongues

wagged in disgust at the English boss and his handful of workhouse managers who were

utterly to blame for this and that and God knows they’d never get away with it in London.

No one had actually seen the big boss. Was he a myth? His managers insisted he was

real – everything that happened was because of the big boss. One day, Tessa imagined, he

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would surface. One day, she would meet the man to blame for all this misery. One Friday

the managers would stay in Wales and come to the pub with them instead of heading back

over the bridge for the weekend and then she would find out who he was – this mythical

maniac responsible for keeping so many women in chains. It is possible that conditions at the

clock factory were not quite the epitome of Dickensian oppression that those wagging

tongues might have liked everyone to believe. Tessa, however, believed it. She lived it every

day. She listened every second to the slow incessant never ending hum of oppressive

machinery to which they were all chained. It rang in her ears from eight till three each

working day. It had never occurred to her that perhaps they enjoyed being miserable, perhaps

their contentment was derived from unhappiness, perhaps they needed to be imprisoned so

that they had stuff to talk about. And who better to blame than an anonymous English man?

Furthermore, Tessa’s belief was not only based on seven years of her personal work

experience. There was a deeper reason. Tessa had a mother. Tessa’s mother: Bronwen.

What a woman. Helluva girl.

Now Tessa loved Bronwen as only an only bastard child of an unloving mother could.

And where Tessa had been exploited for seven years, Bronwen had been exploited for almost

thirty. Thirty bastard years had Bronwen ticked and tocked. Yes, Bronwen was a relentless

survivor. Her body grew harder, her face grew harder, her shoulders hunched further forward

but come frost come rain through endless winters and wet summers, Bronwen arose morning

after morning to go to Tick Tock. Because come hell or high water Bronwen had to pay the

bills: the TV license, Welsh Water, SWALEC, Neath-Port Talbot Council, British Telecom,

Orange Mobile, Asda Insurance, the this the that the you name it Bronwen had to bloody well

pay it. She had to buy lager and fags and food. And most annoying of all she had to pay the

fucking rent. Rent! On that tiny little hole they had the cheek to call a house! Rabbit hutch,

more like. Bronwen was living in a fucking rabbit hutch on a council estate full of rabbit

hutches in which lived nothing but slags and wankers who did nothing but gossip and call her

names behind her back. And she worked harder than all of them put together. All her life,

since the age of fifteen, Bronwen had worked. She was a single mother, the last of five girls,

the longest lasting survivor in the factory. And what thanks did she ever get? Bronwen;

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Tessa’s Mother. After nearly thirty years of hard labour all she got from them rich English

pigs was one tiny promotion; the condescending title of ‘Supervisor.’ Innit?

But now something had come. Something, finally, just like she always knew it

would, had come. Tessa had waited long and hard for that something. She had prayed and

prayed to an invisible silent God in whom she did not believe to send something. And now.

Now she must make sure she did not fuck it up. The plan must be perfect. And in order to

perfect the plan another drink would be required. She must set herself in motion. One more

hour and they’d all be getting on the bus, chitter chattering over the big news. She had no

time to chatter. Idle chatter produced no change. In one more hour her plan would be ready.

But first she must get some more vodka.

The something which was going to change everything had started, like all news

started, as a whisper at the far end of the first factory line; closest to the management offices.

Doris heard one of the managers say “he’s resigned” and the fact that only one manager –

Rowlands – was absent that day meant it must have been him who had resigned. Rowlands

was the HR manager and this time he had gone back over the bridge for good. He hadn’t

even waited for the end of the week. Miserable bastard left them in the lurch Thursday.

Lucky he’s not in charge of wages. HR means Human Resources, Doris had told Stella, and

then Stella told Dawn and Dawn told Kelly and just as Bronwen was coming up the line

towards Tracey to let her go on first break she heard Kelly telling Tracey that Rowlands had

resigned. Well that would mean they’d be getting a new HR manager, someone good with

people hopefully, someone more human than Rowlands ever was hopefully, and within ten

minutes of Bronwen knowing, every woman in that factory knew that HR meant Human

Resources. Well he didn’t do any bloody work anyway, they said, and knowing the big boss

he probably won’t even bother getting a new one. Save money like, innit?

Bronwen was no more of a gossip than any of the other girls, really. Supervisors

simply had more newspreading power. She had been a supervisor for almost ten years now,

so while most of the girls were strictly clamped to their chairs during clocked-in time,

Bronwen’s job allowed her to walk up and down and in between the lines, checking her

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clipboard, allocating breaks, marking off targets and simultaneously getting and giving all the

gossip. Bronwen got it all. She got who shagged who on the weekend up the Angel, in the

toilets or in the car park, she got who fathered the foetus in so-and-so’s womb, she got who

fancied who and who didn’t fancy who, and she gave it all out to those who didn’t know yet.

A dirty slag could be transformed into an alright part of the gang if Bronwen was in a good

enough mood and opinions changed daily. Bronwen, also, could be a ‘dirty slag’ or a ‘good

laugh’ depending on which line and which mood whichever girl at the head of that line was

in. There was always someone to annihilate and that someone was always, miraculously,

absent. Bronwen had had more cocks than hot dinners and she probably had all the diseases

under the sun, so who she thought she was with that fucking clipboard in her hands was

nobody’s business, but at the end of the day she was alright really and a good laugh after a

couple of drinks. The cold grey factory was a haven of ill-will for fellow womankind. No

one escaped unscathed and any one who reacted, frowned or faltered couldn’t take a fucking

joke.

Rowlands’ was undeniably momentous. The girls were thrilled they had finally

broken him. Throughout Bronwen’s Friday morning rounds all they were talking about was

why the bastard had gone – with his tail between his legs because of this because of that.

Opinions changed from line to line. The factory was alive with conjecture. Rowlands had

been at the factory for twenty odd years, as the Human Resources Manager. Finally, just like

they’d always known he would, he had snapped.

“Hey, you’ll never guess what,” Bronwen said to Tessa, clipboard in hand, her back to the

window of the management office. Tessa’s eyes were red, she was obviously too stoned to

guess anything. Bronwen nudged her. “Rowlands has walked out,” she said. Mother and

daughter clocked each other for less than a second, and Tessa said, “good fucking riddance,

useless bastard.”

Pleased, Bronwen nodded and, having noticed a twitch at the management window, feigned

deep interest in her clipboard for a moment, pretended to check something over Tessa’s

shoulder, ticked off and imaginary box with her pen and moved on down the line.

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Tessa’s listened to the hum of machinery; all the girls were talking – low, muffled

voices went on and on apathetically but beneath the hard working faces they were bubbling

with excitement. The manager’s office blinds were down. In there they were talking too.

Tessa’s heart beat quickened. Her red eyes brightened. She saw herself getting up, leaving

her machine, walking across the floor and entering the office where the English men were

talking and she was there to take over from he who had jumped ship. Appointed as the new

Rowlands, a woman among women, she saw herself re-injecting the ‘human’ into

‘resources.’ She was the new HR manager! She was fighting the big boss for better pay, she

was insisting on improving maternity leave agreements, she was refusing to back down. She

was introducing new pension plans and stricter health and safety regulations. There was no

more turning a blind eye to the risks these girls were taking every day. No more high

expectations for low reward. No more denying, no more hiding and no more – no more!

Exploitation was over. Most of them couldn’t even spell exploitation – but Tessa could and

Tessa would and Tessa had spelled it out. No more Exploitation! The result? Tick Tock

became a hubbub of the happiest, healthiest working women in Wales. Productivity

improved, absence declined. No more annihilating each other, no more backstabbing – the

girls loved each other and the managers loved the girls. The interminable feud between

England and Wales was over! The bells were ringing! Hallelujah. We wish everyone a

merry Christmas and a Happy New Year – even you who cross the bridge come Fridays,

merry Christmas to you too - in fact, let’s pull a cracker together, it doesn’t matter anymore

who gets the hat or the joke. Ding dong verily on high did the bells ring out during the few

minutes of Tessa’s imaginary promotion. All the girls around her were beaming like the sun,

and the sound of the machinery and their voices became one, it sounded sweet, kind, warm

and soft and all the girls were singing beautifully, not defiantly and those bells kept on

ringing until Jackie nudged her saying “for fuck’s sake Tess’ wake up mun, the bell’s gone.”

finally, Morning shift being thus over and, it being a half-day, it was almost time to go to the

pub.

As was usual for a Friday, they got off the bus at the post office and went straight up

the Angel for the usual four o’clock pint. Tessa was acting weird, so Bronwen got in the first

round. Skandal was there, as usual. He clocked the weird look in her eyes as soon as she

walked towards the bar. What was she was on? He wondered. Within an hour she was acting

so weird that Bronwen turned to Skandal and said, “have you given her that bloody cocaine

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stuff again?” He grunted at Bronwen, watching Tessa closely. Whatever she had taken, he

must get his hands on some of it. Why wouldn’t she tell him what it was? Perhaps she’d had

an out-of-body experience. Or perhaps time travel really was possible - were back in the

early nineties? When her eyes had been like that every night of the week.

“Come on Tess’, tell me what you’re on!” Skandal repeated.

“Nothing!”

The afternoon faded into evening and Bronwen, as usual, went home to watch TV. As the

amateur drinkers began to slur, Skandal persevered in his quest to find out what Tessa had

taken and where he might get some for himself.

ah skandal... skandal ... he’s helluva boy skandal i woulda been dead probably been

long dead without Skandal look at him... one of the original terminally unemployed

permanently partially stoned semi-intellectual but tragically uneducated sensitive a-sexual

non-marrying pacifistic funny-as-fuck types you find in any small place i suppose well

skandal’s ours... a diamond in a mine full of coal and a bastard like me ah no

father ...brother sister friend.

Somewhere in the early hours of Saturday morning Tessa told Skandal the secret

reason behind her newfound glow. It was not drugs or an out-of-body experience, nor was

time travel possible, she assured him. It was simply a plan. A magnificent, beneficent plan

with which she intended to manipulate her way into the rooms of the hierarchy and improve

the lives of the girls. She was going to be the new Human Resources Manager at the factory!

She was going to force her way into the office come Monday and she was going to make an

eloquent, articulate speech, citing examples of her seven year commitment and ability to

understand the girls better than any ‘outsider’ ever could. And with this speech (which she

was going to write down and memorize) she would win favour with the General Manager and

get the promotion she needed in order to improve their working lives. Because it wasn’t the

girls she needed to get on her side because the girls, well, they were already on her side and

they all wanted the same things. But if she could get the General Manager on her side then,

well, then...

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The beautiful thing was this: Skandal really listened. Human, he said to Tessa, well

there’s no one more human than you. And as for Resources, you got resources coming out of

your ears, he told her.

“You’ll have them eating out of your hand, Tess’, no doubt about it,” he said rolling another

joint as she beamed like a Sun God. He always called her a Celtic warrior when she was on a

mission. Usually Tessa’s missions involved the seduction of some rugby player she had

spotted in town, planned to lure up to the valleys and corner up the Angel where she would

play, try and defeat him. But this mission was different. This really meant something. They

all wanted the same thing. All she had to do was start the ball...

“So what is it you all want then?” Skandal interrupted. She looked at him, angrily, and

shouted “change!”

Skandal nodded and puffed on the spliff.

“For fuck’s sake, are you listening to me or what? Fucking change!”

Brilliant, it was brilliant, he agreed. And now all she had to do was construct a perfect

speech to get the General Manager eating out of her hand so that he could go to the big boss

up in London and say hey! We don’t need another outsider up here, we got the perfect

candidate right here in the valleys and she can start straight away and she’ll even take less

money than an English man if only we give her the job. There were very few left in the bar

by then, but they had no intention of leaving. Fridays were usually all-nighters, and tonight

they had more than usual to talk about. John had called last orders ages ago, but never mind.

yes he’s listening and he is listening because he’s seen me get so low that i nearly

because what he wants is to see me smile like you used tess to when we were both young

enough to believe that the old men dying over there in the corner were different to us no

skandal we’re not like them you and me we’re gonna be wild like this always and forever

courageous outrageous you and me not for us a life like them dead sad fuckers over there you

and me skandal... we’ll be mad like this forever... ah the falsity of youthful presentiment all

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gone awry now i’m sorry for all the lies how time flies but this plan is gonna make it all

change.

In the tiniest, most fragile part of her voice Skandal sensed a crack in the enthusiasm.

For less than a second he wanted to smash the Angel to pieces for breaking her the way it

would never be able to break him. But almost immediately he then noticed that his pint glass

was empty.

So that was the plan in the early hours of Saturday morning as Tessa sat safely by the

bar, drinking the weather away and talking nineteen to the dozen to a sleepy-eyed Skandal.

All she needed now was some solitary thinking time to write the speech down on paper.

Then she would recite it before the General Manager Monday morning. As Skandal

gradually sunk into one of his sitting-up slumbers, Tessa climbed mountains in her mind,

forming the words that she would eventually put on the page that she would eventually

present in person...

“Mornin’ Mr____________, could I have a word with you please? Oh thank you, you’re

very kind. I hope you don’t think I’m being premature here but as I’m sure you’re aware, all

the girls on the floor are in a flutter over the fact that Mr Rowlands has resigned.”

She paused in thought. His response at this point might vary. If he was unaware that

the girls were aware she resolved to resort to the trusty adage about it being impossible to

keep secrets in the factory. If he demanded to know who had spread the news she resolved to

deny all knowledge of the seed and concentrate on the compulsion she felt to step forward.

And if. And if...

She must have gone home at some point because when she reappeared at the bar John

noticed she looked clean again. So on with the speech she went, drinking and smoking and

talking and drinking. But between somewhere late on Saturday night and probably early on

Sunday time began to lose sense and whether it was still the weekend and there was still time

to speculate or it was actually the end of the weekend and time to write the speech down on

paper became unclear. John never threw his best customers out. He couldn’t afford to, there

were so few of them. When he’d had enough of drinking with them, he turned off the lights

14


in the main bar, removed the cash drawer from the till and headed up stairs to his bed, certain

that those few left behind would still be there when he came down to open up in the morning.

After he’d gone, Tessa served herself and Skandal. They put their money in a jar next to the

empty till and drank steadily into the early hours of another dreary day. Then they snorted

some powder and talked and drank more. When John resurfaced at eleven he remarked that

they both looked dead. Tessa went home because Skandal went home. She went straight to

bed, passed out and didn’t come to for six hours.

She opened her eyes to the harsh reality of a fully blown hangover with the words of her

speech, as yet unwritten, banging about in her head. She crept downstairs to get water,

hoping to avoid Bronwen and was stunned to find the house empty. It wasn’t Sunday at all:

it was Monday afternoon. She’d missed a day. Panic gripped her momentarily and she felt

sick. She had to get well as quickly as possible – no point worrying about losing Monday

now. She must get well and write the speech. Tuesday was as good a day as Monday to go

into the manager’s office. This had happened for a reason: the speech had to be perfect. And

in order to write the speech perfectly she had to feel better. How to feel better? Hair of the

dog, the only way. But there was no fucking vodka in the house. Back up the Angel she

went. And so on with the speech...

“Mr_________. I would like to ask you to consider appointing me as the new Head

of Human Resources.” Then she decided to say “HR’ instead, because it sounded more

professional. “Let me just tell you why I think I am suitable. First of all, every one in this

factory knows me and while you may respond that familiarity breeds contempt I have long

since harboured a belief that actually, familiarity breeds content. I believe that the girls

would respond favourably to a more personal relationship with their HR manager and having

known me for most of their lives, how could they fail to feel comfortable? In addition – or

rather, secondly, and - from a practical point of view, having been employed here for the past

seven years (with an excellent attendance record I might add) I know exactly how this place

runs. I work far more quietly than most of the other girls, as I’m sure you’re aware, and

that’s because I prefer to observe and absorb rather than simply do my job. While watching

and listening I am, in effect, paying attention to the bigger picture; namely, understanding

exactly how this operation works. With minimal training in the more perfunctory

technicalities I believe I could be a fully operational HR manager in less than a fortnight.

15


Finally, academically, I do possess the education (and intellect) which this position requires:

I have five GCSE’s, two ‘A’ levels. I can type, I have excellent communication skills, I am

computer literate and ... I know, I know, Mr ___________, I sometimes ask myself that very

same question – what the fuck am I doing at this factory? Well, Mr__________, without

wishing to sound sentimental or melodramatic I am actually lost without my people. You

know I grew up with most of the girls in this place and my mother has been here for thirty

years. And, in three words – I love them. Plus it’s very difficult when one lives so far away

from any town worth mentioning to find interesting work elsewhere. The factory is the only

option for most of us and I can’t drive – I mean I can drive, but I never passed my... but

obviously if that poses a problem I can easily get my license and besides I can get to work on

the bus, I mean that’s how I’ve travelled here for the past seven years so it should be okay for

the next seven....”

yes yes the stuck up bastard will probably think it aint befitting for a manager to be

sitting aside the scum bus riders well fuck him my mother comes to work on the bus always

has and she’s given her fuckin soul so what’s good for the goose is good for the gander i’ll

tell him fuckin straight there’s nothing wrong with public transport mate and if so-called

executives...executioners more like... used good old buses instead of cruising around in fuckin

massive petrol guzzling monsters like you you fuckin english pig then p’raps this planet

wouldn’t be in such a state so don’t start lookin at me like that oh fuck oh fuck it’s half past

three shit look at the state on me i been here that long already any minute now she’s gonna

walk through that door and i’m gonna get... where you been? where the fuck ‘ave you been?

what d’you think you’re playin’ at?... block it black it out... am i ready? steady? yes yes

tomorrow morning first thing no excuse i’ll just walk in and tonight... inculcation inculcation

inculcate till i know it backwards so right that’s settled then no turning back now and turn

again tessa girl thrice to the bar yes john i do want another drink no i’m not dead yet you

cheeky fucker... just starting to live me john... just starting to live love.

In came Bronwen, hardfaced and glaring, blaring into the room with an invisible

cloud of cold air following her. Today, at half past three, her bad mood was all Tessa’s fault.

Tessa took vodka number five or six back to the table and shivered as she sat down. Bronwen

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dragged a chair, screeching, across the floor to Tessa’s table and plonked herself down. John

looked up from his crossword and smiled.

“Alright Bron, what you havin’?” he asked. Bronwen flatly declined the offer of a drink. She

never drank on work days, as well John knew. She was darkhaired and had darker skin than

her daughter. She always wore too much foundation which made her seem more wrinkled

than she really was. But caked foundation is fashionable in the valleys, all the girls wore it

like that. And she didn’t care about being pretty anyway. She could have been pretty. And

she had been pretty for a short spell. But her mouth was so habitually downturned, as if she

was permanently sucking on a lemon, that any potential beauty was obscured by an endlessly

ugly expression.

“Where the fuck ‘ave you been Tessa?” Bronwen’s accent was deep and dark as the

valley outside.

Tessa dragged on a cigarette and gave no answer.

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

Tessa looked at the woman sitting opposite. She clocked the stomach bulging over

the jeans, the jeans that had been too tight for ten years. The ones she refused to throw out.

In the pit of her stomach a moment of rage murmured, flared up, threatened to rise, was

quickly washed down with a sip of vodka and retreated behind a cloud of smoke.

“D’you wanna drink?” she asked her mother. Bronwen snapped.

“No I don’t want a bloody drink! Fuckin’ ’ell Tessa mun! ”

In the corner, old man Ron coughed into his pint. Bronwen rolled a fag, stuffed it between

her downturned lips and lit up quickly.

“It’s fuckin’ Monday!” she went on, “what d’you think you’re doin’ sittin’ in here

drinkin’ on a Monday? What ‘ave I told you?”

Outside, the weather darkened.

“How d’you think I feel having to lie for my own daughter?” Bronwen puffed and

skulked then impersonated herself telling lies at the factory that morning, “‘Oh no she’s

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awful bard Mr___________, sick all night she was honest to God’ And there’s me thinkin’ if

she fuckin’ turns up now when I’m tellin’ all these lies for her I’ll fuckin’ kill her I will,

honest to god.”

Outside Tessa noticed it was beginning to drizzle.

“Aw for fuck’s sake mother, shut up will you?” she said, then looked away from the window

and, with a beaming smile in her eyes, turned to John and shouted, “I got a good

reason...innit John? Tell her mun John! I been busy all day haven’t I?”

John shrugged his shoulders and feigned deeper interest in the crossword. Bronwen

looked at him and tutted. John never supported Tessa when Bronwen showed up. He had

known Tessa all her life, but he and Bron’ went way back. And no matter how much money

Tessa put in his till, he didn’t want to have to be the one to call the ambulance again.

“You shouldn’t be servin’ her John!” Bronwen caterwauled across the floor.

He shrugged his shoulders and simply said, “innit?”

Tessa told them both to shut up and listen.

“Come on,” Bronwen said, pointing at the vodka, “drink that and let’s go.” She went

to stand up, but Tessa grabbed her mother’s arm and pulled her back into the chair.

“Mam, sit down...I wanna tell you something...”

Finally, Bronwen took a proper glance into Tessa’s eyes.

“Jesus Tessa, you’re fuckin’ steamin’ you are!” she said, enraged now, “four o’ clock

on a fuckin’ Monday and you’re fuckin’ steamin’...I give up with you aye....and I tell you

another thing, you better be in fuckin’ work tomorrow...”

With this, Bronwen went to grab Tessa’s bag, but Tessa snatched it back instantly.

She finished her drink in cold silence as Bronwen waited, smoked and sulked. As the last of

the vodka went down, Tessa surrendered to the realization that the afternoon’s reverie was

drawing to a close. She folded the piece of paper which held the speech with the slow,

slurred and tender precision of a drunk trying to appear undrunk and put it carefully inside

her bag. Bronwen saw the paper.

“What’s that?” she asked impatiently.

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“It’s what I been tryin’ to ....tell you....” Tessa was arising from her chair but she

misjudged her footing and slumped straight back into it. She laughed, but Bronwen was

unamused. She looked at her mother and said, “you know the job?”

“Oh! What job?” asked Bronwen, getting up with hunched shoulders turning towards

the door.

“You know...that job....human resources manager...”

“Aye?”

“Well, mother-dearest, you are lookin’ at the new Human Resources Manager....”

Then Tessa flung her arms open to emphasize the grandeur of her declaration. She looked

like a bird who couldn’t fly.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Bronwen said, wishing she was still small enough

to smack and send to bed.

“I’m gonna be the new HR manager....I been sitting here writin’....you know...a

speech mun, for my application...Mam sit down! Listen! For fuck’s sake!”

But Bronwen was already on her way to the door, shaking her head at John as she

moved. Tessa got up again and didn’t trip. She began to follow Bronwen while shouting,

undeterred triumphancy dancing around the Angel, declaring, “oy! John! Oy Ron! Mam!

Listen to me now.....I am gonna be a manager in the factory! Me! Yes! I’m gonna be a

fuckin’ manager!”

Bronwen looked at John, John looked at Bronwen. Ron coughed and then swallowed

back some phlegm. Suddenly Bronwen began to laugh, at first slowly, then incessantly, then

relentlessly.

“Look at her!” she said, amidst the fit of laughter, “She’s gonna be a fuckin’ manager!

Innit? So long, John, love.”

“Manager!” John repeated, grinning at Bronwen.

The door swung open. Another invisible cloud of cold air circled Bronwen and sent a

shiver down Ron’s hard, curved spine. Tessa padded carefully across the threshold and out

into the elements, her head held high, as she was pushed along from behind by her mother.

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John watched them go. Ron watched them go. Both men shook their heads and laughed. “I

dunno aye...” John said, examining the till. A faint smell of damp air drifted over the bar. It

was raining outside. Raining and cold as usual. They clocked the weather briefly with the

exit of the girls until thankfully the heavy door slammed shut.

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blackout - novel by tracy williams - 2008 - chapter 1

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