Turning Up The Sun
 
 
My gran's decided to become a born again Christian. She says she felt the Hand Of The Lord while she was standing on a chair in the dining room, dusting off her plate collection: 76 of the tackiest things you've ever seen, I swear. She's a big fan of the Royal Family, so they're mostly pictures of Charles and Diana, or the Jubilee, or some birth or other. There's a great one of the Queen Mother looking like a cross between Ozzy Osbourne and Clarence, the cross-eyed lion. She dusts the plates religiously every Tuesday morning, and takes them down for a 'proper clean' once a month.
 
Anyway, on the day in question she was about halfway 'round, just reached Prince William's birthday (I forgot to mention; they're in chronological order), when it happened. My grandad was at the allotment, so it can't have been anything to do with him, and since she stopped eating cucumber sandwiches her heartburn has all but vanished, so ifs unlikely to have been that. "It was as real as I'm standing in front of you Elsie" she said to my mam, which doesn't exactly fill you with confidence, considering her hair's blue and she wears enough make-up to keep Avon afloat for the next twenty-odd years. My grandad claims he hasn't seen her face since she was nineteen, and that was just because her sister, Edith, was cruel enough to tell him to go up to her room when she was still getting ready to go out. He thinks she might have had her eyelids tattooed, so that her face is constantly haunted by the ghost of Dusty Springfield.
 
Of course, it could be a huge coincidence, but this conversion of my gran's seems to have occurred less than a week after we first saw a sign in the Post Office window : FREE TEA, COFFEE AND FANCIES FOR OAPs - EVERY WEDNESDAY AT BETHANY HOUSE. In smaller letters, and this is what will have swung it, knowing my gran : FREE BUTTER AT FIRST MEETING, OCTOBER 3rd, 1 O'CLOCK. Free butter! That's like offering the dog a bowl of Pedigree Chum, when all his life he's endured the foul stench of tripe twice a day. If I told you my gran still uses peuro milk, it should come as no surprise to learn that she also trowels extra-thick layers of Stork SB all over her sandwiches. Free butter...
 
Mind you, she kept it to herself if she was planning such a devious scheme. Because she thinks I don't understand her, she always talks to her friends (Rose and Jean) as though I'm not there, but she never once let it slip that she was considering selling her soul for half a pound of butter. Maybe she doesn't want either of them going with her, in case they run out of it before it's her turn?
 
Whatever the reason, the end result is that she's going next Wednesday, and she's taking me with her, "In case they do healing - you never know!" My dad's not too happy about her dragging me along to be gawped at by a bunch of Happy Clappers, but there's not a lot he can do, really, considering my gran has me every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. One of the worst aspects of this is that my gran is a great lover of music, which isn't such a bad thing, in itself; before this happened I was a huge music fan. I had literally hundreds of records and cds; all sorts of stuff. The problem with my gran is that she's into the likes of Bill Tarmey and Jane McDonald; really bad versions of dead corny songs. She got one of those multi-disc cd players for Christmas, so she just loads it up and sets it away on repeat. "I bet the bairn loves this stuff, you know. He was always into his music". (The Bairn is me, by the way).
 
My mam and dad are just as bad. It's Barbra Streisand and Neil Sedaka with them two. When we were young, my brother, David, used to like The Specials and The Sex Pistols, but something happened; it's all Mike and the Mechanics, and Level 42, now. Did none of them ever used to take notice of what I played? It was certainly loud enough; they can hardly have ignored it.
 
I think they gave all my records and things to charity shops when they realised I wasn't going to get 'better'. All those picture discs and imports; promos and press packs. I must have spent a fortune at record fairs and little vinyl-junkie shops. The last few things I got really excited about were Bob Dylan, The Velvet Underground, and Big Star. My mam kept my guitar, cos she knew how into it I was, but I'm sure the rest of it's gone. Not that it matters now, like. I would kill to hear September Gurls again, though.
 
If I'm not parked in between the telly and the dog's basket, my gran usually leaves me in the back yard, depending on what the weather's doing. I quite enjoy this, most of the time. I can see the tops of the houses, and sometimes Mrs Jackson's breasts, when she's getting ready for work. She's a nurse, and whenever she's on night shift, and I'm in the yard, I can see her walking naked from the bathroom to her bedroom. I'm sure she knows I'm there, but, like everyone else, she assumes I don't know what's happening. I seem to get an erection about fifty times a day, for no apparent reason, but I promise you; on such occasions, my erection is very real, and very proud of itself. It's rather bizarre, when you think about it; virtually my whole body is paralysed, but my tiddler seems to have a mind of it's own. I'm sure Germaine Greer would have a thing or two to say about that!
 
Unfortunately, that's not the only thing that happens in my gran's back yard. Kylie, the little cow from next door, often pays a visit. She gives my gran all this Thomas Rot about wanting to keep me company, and my gran falls for it every time. 'Keeping me company' usually involves the nasty swine flicking my nose or whispering such pleasantries as "You thick spaca bastard" in my ear, sometimes spitting in it. She bit my foot once, and I swear I could quite happily have picked her up and thrown her under a bus, if I were capable. She's a clever one, though; all the time she's flicking or nipping, she calls out in a sweet, singsong voice, as though she's a little angel. My gran's forever plying her with Madeira cake and bottles of pop; it's no wonder she's such a fat little get.
 
Her mother's alright, though. She's never patronizing, never talks down to me. Most people speak to me like I'm a baby in a pram, if they speak at all. Others just act like I'm not even there. I know I can't talk back, but Kylie's mother, Mrs Allen, says hello whenever she sees me; whether I'm with my gran, or on my own in the yard. I think she likes me because I used to go to the shop for her when I was young. I had this great tricycle, with a kind of box-cum-basket on the front. I could fit a loaf of bread and a few tins in it, easy as you like.
 
Long before Kylie arrived, (she's adopted, which explains the difference in character, I suppose), I was in and out of Mrs Allen's house all the time. Her husband died ages ago; I can hardly remember him. The back lane was cobbled, and it was always a fine place to play with my toy cars and Action Man. If we wanted to play marbles, Mrs Allen would let me and David use her yard; my gran's was too much of a minefield, with dog muck and clumps of moss all over the place.
 
One of the saddest things I've ever seen was a row of three bald little sparrows in my gran's back yard. They must have fallen out of their nest, and they were far too young to be able to fly; not a feather between them. Their mother was standing on the gutter, singing for her life, and it broke my heart, I'm not kidding. I put their tiny bodies into one of those kitchen-size matchboxes, and buried it in our garden. I was only about eight or nine, but it stayed with me for a long time. Mrs. Allen's husband died not long after that, and for a while I stayed away from my gran's; there was too much sadness around, and I didn't know how to deal with it, being so young.
 
Tuesdays and Thursdays, my mam looks after me. She works in a department store three days a week. Weekends are never the same twice in a row. Sometimes David takes me into town, or to the baths. Other times my gran has me for a while, or my dad takes me to a football match. I don't know why he does that; he knows I used to hate football. Still, it's alright with my dad; he talks to me all the time, and pushes me faster than anyone else, but not in a frightening way. He wouldn't let anything happen to me, my dad. As far as he's concerned, I'm the Golden Child. He never actually came out and said it, but he was always dead proud of the way I did what I wanted to do, rather than be a sheep, when I was at school. I think my dad was more upset than anyone, when I had the stroke.
 
***********************
 
It would seem that my gran's 'conversion' was genuine enough, despite my initial butter-related doubts. She (ie. We) have been to the church every Wednesday for the past six weeks, and she's getting more and more pious with each visit. She even had the nerve to start speaking in tongues a fortnight ago. They call it speaking In tongues, but it just sounds like they're spouting off any old shite that comes into their heads. There's this one couple who are obviously trying far too hard. Every week, they find themselves surrounded by uptight suits, whose duty it is to pass on The Word. For some reason this couple - Joe and Alison - seem to think of themselves as total failures, because they can't 'speak in tongues'. It strikes me that they're the only honest ones in the whole place. Joe was in tears last week; it was absolutely hilarious. He was in the middle of the Circle of Suits, who were asking The Lord to show Joe evidence of his existence through 'tongues'.
 
Obviously Joe, who suspects that The Lord has found out about the time he did in Durham jail for GBH, thinks he's been rejected as Unwashed. He tries giving it all this "sabbuteoelixirattentionalafenetredutempalfeenscakeandeatitpararasol' stuff, and he knows it's rot. This, of course, prompts him into dropping to his knees, clinging onto Head Suit Derek's legs. Derek is clearly thinking only of his dry-cleaning bill when he prises Joe's tear-sodden face away from his crotch. "The Lord loves you Joe", he says, by this time kneeling down and clasping his head in a 'keep-that-bloody-salty water-away-from-my-Man at C+A suit'-like grip. "The Lord loves you, and I assure you he'll let you know it. Only, be patient." It kept me going for ages, that one.
 
A big concern of mine is that they've got me in their sights as a potential front page of the local paper. Apparently, this Derek fella is really big on Healing Through Prayer. He's good mates with some writer at The Chronicle, and I sense they're both rather ambitious. Derek sees it as a chance to get a couple of seats closer to The Lord, while Malcolm Bainbridge dreams of a world beyond 'Sacked For Being Overweight' type stories. And tonight's the night...
 
***********************
 
Well, we got here with only a few mishaps, which is about par for the course by now. The worst bit was when the wheelchair got caught in the automatic doors on the Metro. My gran's an absolute beaut for that. No matter how many times we use it, or how many times she complains to my mam about the size of the gap, she still doesn't lift the front wheels high enough: I get flung around like a bloody rag doll, she starts swearing her head off, and all the time we're stuck there, you've got some pre-recorded oaf telling us to Stand Clear Of The Doors, Please...(Brrrrp)...Stand Clear Of The Doors, Please... (Brrrrp). It's just as well it only ever happens when we're getting off the train, otherwise we'd end up getting lynched by the other passengers. After that, the episode with the randy dog is hardly worth a mention.
 
Since we got here I've been parked in the kitchen area, almost face to face with a net of cabbages. Ha! I thought I was in a hall of mirrors at first!! Joke.
 
I forgot to mention that the alleged 'healing' is to take place in the day room of an old people's home, didn't I? Well, it is. They've shunted those who aren't interested off to watch Coronation Street and Eastenders. It's a Ladies Night, and my gran and the rest of them are listening to Derek spout off about how they shouldn't be disappointed or disillusioned if nothing happens. I can hear him through the food hatch..."The Lord may have other matters to attend to this evening, but I can assure you; he will turn his attention to young Matthew one of these days. Now - Moira has volunteered to give us all something very special, in the guise of liquid refreshment, to get us in the mood. And I, for one, would not miss it for the world, having been warmed through by it on many a chilly winter's evening. I'll give you a hand, Moira. Just give us ten minutes in the kitchen, ladies, and we'll be right with you."
 
They're all chatting amongst themselves, when Derek and Mrs. Williams come gallivanting into the kitchen.
 
"Quick! Put the kettle on."
 
"Do you think it's safe with him in here?" She nods at me like I'm a stuffed owl.
 
"Of course it is. What's he going to say to anyone?"
 
"What about after he's healed?"
 
"Never mind that...Put the kettle on and get over here. I'm busting for it."
 
Mrs. Williams fills the huge kettle and places it on the lit stove. Meanwhile, Derek has unzipped his Man At C+A trousers to reveal his massively erect tadger! He's somehow managed to force his gross testicles through the gap, as well. I think I'm going to be sick. As if that isn't bad enough, Mrs Williams is kneeling down and kissing the thing! She's taking a proper mouthful now.
 
"Who's The Daddy?"
 
"Yu aargh."
 
“I said - Who's The Daddy?"
 
"Yu aargh. Yur na gaddy."
 
He's grabbing the back of her head and pulling it back and forth onto his foul cock, while asking her questions she can't answer, and he's still not happy! I decide to let off a few grunts to show my disgust.
 
"Shut up you, you thick-headed twat...Ooooh...Who's The Daddy?"
 
No answer. He slaps her head.
 
"Who's the fucking Daddy?"
 
"Yur ne gaddy."
 
"Jesus Christ...I'm coming, Lord. I'm coming..."
 
The filthy swine shoots his mess into her mouth and shoves her off him, his semi-hard dick gleaming like a waxed banana. Mrs. Williams rushes to the sink, gagging, while he puts the tackle away and tends to the cups and saucers on the bench. He hasn't even washed his hands.
 
***********************
 
I'm stuck in the middle of a circle of Born Again Christians, with Derek as their leader and spiritual advisor. There's some bloke with a camera hovering around, presumably from the Chronicle, and my gran's face has acquired the mask of serenity that the rest of them wear on these occasions. I must face them alone. I must be brave. I must not allow the fear I feel to be seen by this, my great enemy.
 
JESUS CHRIST! MY FACE IS MELTING!!
 
That Derek has just got down next to me, and his breath smells worse than a dead cat.
 
"Lord, we just ask you to show mercy for this young man. We just ask you to help him out of this chair and into your arms."
 
I wish he'd piss off and leave me alone. Get your stinking hands off my head, you prick! If I wanted to be healed, I'd ask to be healed.
 
"In the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ, we just ask that this unfortunate young man be forgiven for his former sins and welcomed into the house of The Lord. Amen."
 
Good grief...My gran's down on her knees giving it the old 'tongues' thing now. Get up, man! You've had your butter and your cakes, and whatever else you wanted. Don't drag me into it. I never asked to be involved, did I?
 
"Aloettaaloettaspringisintheairbutonlyonasunday."
 
She's making it up! I swear she is! Dear god, he's off again, now.
 
"Dear Lord.. "
 
As though he's writing a letter to him!
 
"We just ask you to show your love for this newly saved lady, and help her grandson to walk."
 
Hell's teeth...I've had enough of this.
 
"JESUS!! You little bas..."
 
"What's the matter, Derek?"
 
"He head-butted me, that's what's the matter!"
 
"Tilt your head back, that'll stop the bleeding. Here...here's a hankie."
 
"It must have been an accident. He can't have done it on purpose. The bairn doesn't know what he's doing."
 
 
The End