Sweet Sorrow(106)

After they’d gone, Dad and I stood at the sink and washed up, eyes fixed on the back yard. ‘I don’t think we did our job, did we?’ he said. ‘Your mum and me.’

I shrugged. ‘You had other things on your mind.’

‘Bad timing, though.’

‘It was a bit.’

‘Still. I am proud of you.’

‘For one “A” and a “B”?’

‘Not for that. For other things.’ He placed one hand lightly on my shoulder for a moment and then we put away the dishes.

And still they came, on the Tuesday too, so many guests and visitors.

Next was Mike, my ex-boss. Dad opened the door and I saw him falter, torn between deference to the wronged party and loyalty to me. A conference was needed and, somewhat uneasily, we sat in a row on the sofa, too baggy and informal for such a solemn discussion.

‘So there’ll be no legal proceedings. That’s a sledgehammer approach, and it was never our intention. As you know, Charlie here was employed on a, how shall we say, casual basis, as an apprentice.’

‘Illegally,’ said Dad, straining for lawyerly fire.

‘Informally, Mr Lewis, and it’s in no one’s interests to take it further. We could if we chose, there’s plenty of evidence: video footage of accomplices, discrepancies in accounts, but – well, it’s the principle really. We’re just disappointed.’ The sofa was sucking him down, and he had to plant his knuckles firmly and hoist himself up from its depths. ‘We won’t be expecting Charlie to return to work and there’ll be no employer’s reference, either good or bad. There is the matter of financial recompense …’

‘Oh. Really?’ said Dad, the old fear returning. ‘How much?’

‘Well, frankly, Mr Lewis, it’s hard to put a figure on it. It seems that all the staff were at it one way or another, and of course everyone’s denying it …’

‘I’ve got a hundred pounds,’ I said suddenly. ‘In my room.’

I could see Dad wince. ‘You shouldn’t have to do—’

‘No, it’s fine. I want to.’

‘One hundred should do it.’

I clambered out and ran upstairs to retrieve my escape fund, the roll of notes hidden in the bunk-bed tubing. One hundred and five pounds – in one last criminal flourish, I’d lied about the amount, and though the fiver wouldn’t get me far, I peeled this off and ran back down.

Even so, I hoped that Mike might tell me to keep the cash. He did not. Instead, he hauled himself from the sofa’s maw, tucked the roll into his pocket, money to blow in the golf-club bar, and held out his hand. ‘Well, Charlie, no hard feelings. You’re a good lad.’

‘He is,’ said Dad.

One last caress of his moustache. ‘I wish you all the best. You too, Mr Lewis,’ he said and we stood on the front step and watched him go.

‘I’d have offered him a drink,’ said Dad, ‘but all our glasses are nicked.’

I laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter now.’

‘A hundred quid though …’

‘It’s worth it.’

‘Exactly. Clean slate.’

‘I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.’

‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘Me too.’

And we would be fine. We would find a way to fill the days and the evenings would close in and wrap around us, and there was the TV, and films to watch from the library, and we’d settle back into our strange domesticity, Dad and me.

But first there would be one more visit, later that night.





Swings and Slides


I heard the car horn before I saw them. Dad had just gone to bed and so I rushed to the window and saw Miles’ old VW Golf pulling up into the cul-de-sac, the doors opening and too many people tumbling out: Helen, then George, Alex, Colin, Lucy, Miles himself, then Fran, laughing and stretching out twisted shoulders and cramped legs, one, no, two open bottles between them.

I stepped back from the window. If I pretended to be out they’d ring the bell and keep ringing but God, I was a mess, barefoot in a stained T-shirt, a souvenir from Portugal four years ago, the word ‘Algarve’ across the chest, my deodorant far out of reach. I could see their shadows at the door.

‘Is this the one?’

‘Yep, this is it.’

I could tell them to go away. Open the door on the chain, like some old hermit. Demand they leave me alone.

‘Okay, everyone ready? One, two, three …’

‘God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay—’

I threw the door open. ‘Shhhhh!’

‘For Jesus Christ our saviour was born on—’

‘Be quiet! Dad’s asleep.’

‘Sorry!’ said George. ‘Sorry!’

‘We know what you’re thinking,’ said Helen. ‘You’re thinking, who is this rag-tag bunch of gypsies?’

‘We need to see you, Charlie,’ said Miles.

‘It’s urgent,’ said Lucy.

‘Why aren’t you rehearsing?’

‘We have been!’ said Miles. ‘We’ve just done the technical run.’

‘It was a disaster!’ said Alex, swigging from a bottle of wine.