Don’t You Forget About Me(36)

‘Erm not really … I mean … I’d like to write, actually, but I don’t think that makes me one.’

The grin that transforms Devlin’s face is one you can’t help but smile back at. ‘You’d be ideal! It’s for new starters! You can have time to do it during work and everything. Can’t she, Luke? We’ll easily cover for half an hour. Encourage our staff to get their faces known, help us launch ourselves into the community.’

I laugh, nervously. Not only write, but perform it?

And I’d thought Lucas McCarthy would be above the customer facing stuff. He would spend his time striding around in Belstaff coats, with a pack of fox hounds at his heels, carrying an oil lantern.

Devlin turns back to me.

‘I’ll give people trial shifts but I won’t set anyone on permanently unless you feel you work well with them. I think good chemistry is vital. You have power of yay or nay.’

Devlin’s head jerks up and his eyes narrow and I know without a doubt, over my shoulder and behind my back, Lucas made an: OH THE IRONY face at him.

‘Come on, Keith,’ Lucas says. ‘You alright to see Georgina out?’ to his brother. ‘See you Monday,’ to me, and I nod.

This is more gracious than I expected. I sense the McCarthy brothers, despite the casual manner and attire, have quite considered manners.

‘You’ll get used to that surly wretch,’ Dev says, after Lucas has rounded the bar and a door has closed.

‘Do you both live above the pub?’ I say, to distract, as my getting used to the surly wretch is something I need to process when I am alone.

‘No that’s a one-bed flat, Luc is up there and I’ve rented round the corner.’

So Lucas is the one who’ll be on site, most of the time.

‘What sort of things do you think you’ll write about?’ Devlin says, nodding back up towards the poster. ‘Shameful things is the brief? I’d be buggered as I’ve never done anything shameful in my life.’ He grins.

I gulp.

‘Yeah, same.’





15


If you grow up with parents who are unhappy with each other, you accept it and work around it. You no more directly address or it or expect it to change than if your family home has low ceilings, or you live in a cul-de-sac. You unquestioningly accept your lot. The only time it spooked me was when I’d visit a friend and their mum and dad could amicably disagree without venom, or decibels. That’s possible, I thought?

When I was small, I used to accompany Dad on his Saturday outings, no matter how mundane: DIY stores, the tip, over to his friend Graham’s, dragging round vinyl shops looking for jazz records, watching the football, to collect the fish supper from the chippy. I was never bored, I actively volunteered for service – Esther was invited at first, but made it clear it held no charm for her, compared to doing her own thing.

I used to love staring out the car window, hopping along holding Dad’s hand, legs dangling from chairs I was too short for.

A huge amount of fuss was made of me by cashiers and shop assistants. I was never a girly little girl, I liked trousers and sweatshirts with superheroes on them, and somehow that provoked even more cooing.

I can’t remember how the tradition began, but every so often, Dad finished whatever the task in hand was and said: ‘Where to, captain?’

This meant a treat. And it could be, within city limits and budget, anything I wanted. It was unspeakably thrilling. Imagine, as a kid, being put in charge for an afternoon.

‘Chocolate pudding … in a glass?’

We went to a department store café, and I had a tower of aerated mousse pierced with a wafer shaped like a fan, while Dad sipped a cup of tea.

‘An adventure, with flying.’

The local multiplex, Batman, and a bag of Revels.

‘Ice skating.’

I did endless unsteady circuits of the rink, hired boots laced so tight they were cutting welts into my feet, while Dad read his paper.

There was an uncomfortable adjustment period when I became too old for our Saturdays. Dad jangling his keys in the hallway, having to shout over blaring music: ‘You coming or what, Georgina?’

Mum snapping: ‘Of course she’s not bloody going to a farm shop with you, John.’

After the uncertain interlude where I felt too old for it, but too young to abandon it, we adapted: I went into town to shop, and when we were both done with our errands, we met for lattes and macchiatos and wedges of gaudily iced sponge cake.

One wet-to-the-bone winter, when I was fifteen, I had a different idea. Darkness had fallen by 5 p.m., Mum and Esther were still out shopping somewhere.

‘Can we go for a curry?’

Mum despised spicy food and I’d never so much as had an Indian takeaway. Dad didn’t miss a beat.

‘It’s Saturday. You’re the captain.’

An adult saying yes to spontaneous fun: it felt so freeing. Mum always found five reasons to snap: ‘Another time, maybe.’ Dad understood me, and I understood him.

We went to a place on Glossop Road that’s not there anymore. Dad perched his readers on his nose and authoritatively supervised a representative selection of famous dishes, rice, breads and some yoghurt to ‘put out any flames’.

To this day, much as I can appreciate an upmarket Indian restaurant with lassi cocktails, colonial fans and stylish plating, what I really want is a neon sign, sitar music, flock wallpaper, sizzling Balti and hot lemon towels and tongs. It’s my Proustian rush.