saturday
I think more than anything Brocco should be remembered for its cleanliness. One foot out of line, one inkspot, one bracelet brushed against the chalky white paint, and you tasted the bill as you gritted your teeth, the money burning straight out of your pocket.
It was not a place that invited parties, breakages, debauchery, or high spirits of any variety, since each block had been cleverly constructed to minimise your chances of encountering other people. There was no courtyard area to oversee kitchen-sink dramas through the windows of others, to whisper sweet nothings over stagnant binbags, to make eye contact with potential kindred spirits in the lift. Even if you did nothing would ever coax a smile from this particular fount of youth. An upturned nose at best.
And so with bitter regret it soon became apparent I would never walk to lectures with my neighbours, never waltz around their handbags, never exchange "sew gid"s on the staircase. In All Fairness, To Be Fair, it seemed To Be Honest that I was never going to befriend anyone, At The End of The Day. Probably not even by the end of the year.
Of course, we immediately had a resident kitchen gang, the glorious six; two of whom lived with us, the other four self-elected residents. The kind who would come hammering on the front door until a harassed Kayleigh opened it in a towel, then smirking, announce "Mind if I come bother you for a bit like?"
But of course they never did mind, because they were the Kitchen Gang, and woe betide if you attempted to use the stove during the course of one of their illuminating conversations about theme-parks, cars, A Levels, how Daddy was going to reshuffle the business once Little Chappy himself was old enough to run it: for the glorious six were better than you chaff. After all, the glorious six came together in conjugal harmony the first night that Sheffield began, inpenetrable ever after. It seemed they would share a crypt.
They had parties, from time to time, but parties of a sedate and cliquey nature; lovingly crafted dinners followed by coquettish card games and verbal dalliances. Actually the gang's parties were just like their mealtimes, only Viki would be dressed a bit prettier, a bit poutier, taking more and more pleasure in each delicious masculine putdown. She certainly wouldn't acknowledge me or Lorna then. And despite Elliot's having ordered an entire squadron of Kopparberg from IKEA, we plebs would never be invited to have some.
Oh, it stung, not being allowed any of that Kopparberg, but I suppose sometimes I rather exaggerated my stance. I suppose the strain of being chained to our bedroom walls, gnawing our shoulders and drinking our own urine rather than go out and face the darlings sometimes drove Lorna and I to malicious extremes. At approximately eleven pm when they'd left to go to Gatecrasher we would collapse heaving from our doors to gulp in the kitchen air, make tea and complain endlessly about our Brocco existence.
And what sort of upstart complains about having a toilet two feet from their bed, or a de-luxe kitchen simply because it is too long? Well, it was too long. There was nothing central in it; the large table shunted roughly to one side and this was where the greasy plates lived. The staffroom chairs next to the window we barely felt we could sit on. The TV bracket minus the promised TV. The exorbitant cost of accommodation we hadn't even applied to live in. My bottle of Robinsons' orange juice Viki seemingly had confiscated. My, what couldn't we find to complain about. And sometimes my gripes made it too far afield, to my downfall: walking up the hill once, after the eleventh crane or so, a friend remarked,
"so, Viki, is that the bitch?"
whilst a metre in front, highlighted hair glinting neon in the sunlight deflected off his dark glasses, stood Boring Ian in his little Fred Perry costume with his ears pricked up.
Extravagantly, screechingly, I gasped,
"Bitch? There is no bitch!!"
so at least Ian KNEW that his ignoring me was justified. I'm sorry, boyo. I'm a nasty piece of work.
But there wasn't any bitch. It was the sort of exclusion you could never put your finger on; they weren't consciously being unkind, they just couldn't seem to detect me or Lorna standing there. And sometimes you just have to admit that intimacy cannot be forced. Even Kayleigh, friendly, witty and approachable as she was, had signed her way into the faustian dealio and so was off limits to us. That's the way some things are.
Anyhow, the point I was making was about the lack of debauchery. Yes, there would be crumbs afterwards, yes there would be discarded cans of cider. The next day, in between essays, Viki would clear it all diligently away. And that was as febrile as things got.
At least until Salty.
Salty. Salty, the friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. Surely every decent boyhood is characterised by a Salty. The greatest regret of my own boyhood is that I never got to meet him until now. You know, the Salty figure. "Salty jumped off the roof today" "Salty gave aar Baz a chinese burn" "We went the park and Salty was trapping wasps in his penis".
Well, as it turns out Salty was the missing ingredient with which to transform Brocco into authentic student accommodation. After valiant endeavours on Cribley's part to get us kicked out for arson, it all came down to Salty. Salty, Salty. It was all so simple; why did none of us think of it before? Hire Salty in, get him to set your friend's leg on fire and burn a good deal of the carpet, wait with said friend in A&E til seven in the morning, et voila! you're a fully certified bloody reckless student.
So that's Brocco, the building itself. We're still waiting on the bill, by means of apology for sullying its pristine condition. Sorry, Brocco.
Now, the surroundings! this place will be unrecognisable next year on account of the never-ending construction of palacial edifices for the de-luxe modern student - so here are some valuable details for posterity.
Edward Street Flats were once the residential focus of Edward Street. I know nothing about them except apparently a few years ago somebody got murdered there. Fear not, that could never happen to a student, Daddy would kick up hell. As it is Daddy has nothing to complain about but the prostitution, which remains the most enchanting feature of this barren land.
Heck, I know how my loan's getting covered. I've had as many offers as anything else female from Brocco, twenty-two in total, my favourite being the one where the man lunged for my arm as I was going up some steps, but I think I've got all the mileage out of that story since it is the red light district after all.
It's the prostitutes you felt bad for, standing bare-legged in the rain. I didn't have many close encounters with them, one shouted "Bitch!" once as I was on my way out, and there are blurred memories of another thanking Zoë vigorously for a cigarette after Corp. Still, you couldn't miss 'em. Every night they'd be yelling things to each other, for hours on end. Things like "WHERE'S HE GONE NOW?", "I'VE BEEN WAITING AGES!", and memorably, "BRIGID, WHERE'S ME FUCKIN' SKIRT?!!"
And the last night in Sheffield, walking back at three or four past St Georges' church, part of an affable altercation between two hunched-over, black-clad males and the tallest, most recognisable, most emaciated of the prostitutes:
"I've eaten y'shit, I 'ave!"
"I know y'ave!"
"Well, then!"
Well, then. Brocco, you've been a doll. Sharrow Vale Road will seem boring as hell after you.
