Sweet Sorrow(60)

‘Nice work, guys,’ said Ivor at the end of the day. ‘Great process,’ and I felt an entirely unexpected bloom of pride. Stepping outside, Miles squeezed my shoulder and offered me the magic water. ‘I think we’re on to something.’ I felt another hand on my other shoulder, lightly touching as she passed by. ‘Someone has been doing their homework!’ said Alina, with the bare ghost of a smile, and I knew that I was safe and could stay on, if I chose to.

And waiting for me on the wall of the rockery garden, kicking at the stones with her heel and grinning, was Fran Fisher, ready to walk home.

Forget to think of her? O teach me how I should forget to think!

At the petrol station, I sat behind the till and muttered Shakespeare.

‘Madam, an hour before the worshipped sun peered forth the golden window of—’

A horn sounded on the forecourt, and here was Harper stepping out of his brother’s car, with two other figures in the backseat, slumped low. I stashed the script away and made sure my sword was out of sight. Harper entered and we went into our act.

‘My brother has won some money on the scratch cards. Can I please cash them in here please?’

‘Certainly! May I see the cards?’

‘Yes. Here are the cards.’

I took the cash from the till. ‘Congratulations!’ I said but he was already walking away. I watched him cross the forecourt and this was where I finally broke character and sprinted round the counter and outside.

‘Excuse me! Quick word?’ We stood stiffly by the bags of barbecue charcoal, Harper uncomfortably eyeing the getaway car.

‘What is it?’

‘Just wondered – how’ve you been?’

‘I’ve been all right. I thought you said we were on video?’

‘We are, it’s fine, no one watches. It’s just if people drive off without paying. I haven’t seen you since—’

‘I came by your house. Your dad said you were out. He said he’d not seen you either.’

‘No, I’ve been … was he all right?’

Harper laughed. ‘I don’t know, he’s your dad. Same as always. We’d better go.’ I heard the rev of the engine, saw his brother tapping his watch, saw it was Lloyd and Fox low in the backseat. I raised my hand but no response.

‘So, is Lloyd still pissed off with me?’

‘A bit.’

‘Okay. Well, I’ll come and get the money later.’

‘No, don’t do that, it’s late.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ It was not yet nine.

‘I’ll give it to you now, but I don’t want to do this again.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m earning good money with Dad; I don’t need it. In fact you can have the lot.’

‘No, you take half.’

‘No. You need it more than I do.’

‘Here? Now?’

‘I’ve got it in my hand. I’ll slip it to you, save the bother.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Okay, be careful.’ We shook hands and I felt my fingers curl around the notes, which I tucked straight into my pocket. The handover felt smooth enough, underplayed and discreet, and it was only later, when it became evidence against me, that I thought of the furtive look each way, the glance I gave into the lens of the security camera, the stiff and twisted handshake that had no motivation. Why would the clerk be standing on the forecourt in the first place, shaking hands with a customer he’d not met before?

When performing on camera, it’s always important to do less.





Prospects


The Capulets were playing rounders against the Montagues, Polly for the Capulets, crouching low, the bat held over her shoulder with two hands like an axe-murderer.

‘You’re holding it too high, Polly,’ said Miles, about to bowl.

‘Miles, I’m sixty-eight years old, don’t tell me how to play rounders, please.’

‘But it’s too high, it needs to be down here.’

‘Miles, I will send this ball directly at your face.’

‘No, not the face!’ shouted Alex.

‘Fine. Do it your way.’ The ball left his hand and with a satisfying pok, Polly sent it high into the blue sky as Fran and Colin and Keith left their bases and ran, followed by Polly, sliding home to whoops and cheers.

George was last in, picking up the bat with clear distaste. ‘Team sports. Fascism in action. The only reason I’m here is to avoid team sports.’

He didn’t last long, then it was my turn. Having failed at badminton, it now seemed vital to me that Fran think I was extraordinary at rounders, but I could only knock the ball a few metres into the hands of Lucy. The rest of the Montagues fell soon after and then both houses lay sprawled across the lawn in the morning sun.

I’d promised Fran a week of my time. A week, I felt, was long enough to give up without misleading anyone but – she must have known – the idea of leaving had faded day by day, and it wasn’t just Fran that kept me coming back. As the individual faces of the company had come into focus, I’d grown to like these people and even to imagine a time when I no longer thought of them as ‘these people’. In the same way that accents are contagious, I’d found myself adopting the company manner of irony, archness, deadpan. They made jokes and their faces didn’t move at all. They spoke as if they hoped that someone was writing it down, conversation that aspired to dialogue, stuffed with inverted commas and in-jokes. They teased each other too but without malice. Accustomed to the blunter tools of sarcasm and abuse, I wasn’t sure that I could pull this off but every now and then I’d say something and the company would laugh and I’d have that sensation, pok, of sending a ball into the sky. Yet just as often the conversation would take a turn that I couldn’t follow and I’d find myself swiping at the air.