Chapter 16
MICHAEL
I lean against the door frame, Just Jenny’s praise making my skin prickle.
‘Goodness, I had no idea it would look this, well, good. I was expecting a blue background and a few fluffy clouds, but this…?’ Her fingers touch the wall.
They follow the purples at the top, trailing down through lilac towards where burnt orange leaks from the base of the wall. ‘It’s exquisite work.’
‘Aye, it’s alright.’
I don’t mention that I’ve had to put in extra hours to get it finished.
She turns and runs the gold pendant on her chain back up and down. ‘You’re wasted on this job.’
‘Pays the bills,’ I reply as she frowns.
‘But talent like yours should be explored! Where would we be without art, culture, music!’ she exclaims, large gold earrings swinging violently. Where would we be without grafters painting folk’s houses? I want to say, but clamp my mouth shut. ‘Just think of Van Gogh, his work fetches millions!’
I don’t say that he died penniless and going half-mad.
I step aside as a suited and booted Mr Jenny lowers a little girl from his hip. She rushes into the room, blonde pigtails swinging from pink glittery bobbles.
She freezes, eyes like saucers, cheeks pink. ‘Is this my room?’ She jumps up and down on the spot. ‘My room has a skyyyyyy?!’
‘It. Is!’ Jenny replies, bending down. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Can I have a Care Bear too?’
Jenny glances at me, a question in a raised eyebrow.
‘I don’t know.’ She turns her daughter towards me. ‘We’d have to ask the artist, really nicely now, wouldn’t we?’
The girl bounds forwards, takes my hand in hers, squeezing my fingers surprisingly tight.
‘Purleeeease! Pretty please with sugar on top, can I have a Care Bear on my skywall?’
I crouch down. ‘Well, that depends. What does this Care Bear look like?’
‘She’s pink and fluffy and has a rainbow on her tummy!’
‘Oh, I think we can just about manage that.’ I glance up to where Mr and Mrs Jenny have their arms wrapped around each other, both grinning.
‘Tell you what… how about you draw me a picture so I can meet this bear of yours, eh?’
‘Mike! These skirting boards aren’t going to paint their bloody selves!’ Jim shouts from downstairs.
She runs back to her parents, and I make a swift exit before Jim blows a gasket.
‘Pleased as bloody punch with those clouds, I tell you.’ Jim climbs down the ladder, ceiling paint pebbledashed in his hair. ‘It’s as if she’s got the bleedin’ Sistine Chapel in her box room the way she’s going on about it.’
I bend down and pick up the tin of gloss from the plastic sheets covering the floor tiles. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
I take a knife and run it under the edge of the lid, lifting it up with a click. ‘Little lass wants a Care Bear too.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘As long as she’s going to keep paying, you could paint the Mona Lisa for all I care. Just don’t be letting it go to your head.’ He steps off the final rung.
I set to work. I’ve got four rooms to do before the carpets are delivered on Friday.
‘It would be great if carpet fitters worked on a weekend, I tell you,’ he continues.
‘Would make our lives a whole lot easier. Supermarkets should open later too – by the time the misses finishes her shift, they’re all closed. ’
‘Aye.’
The day goes quickly. Just before I leave, he pulls me aside. ‘Mike, a word?’
I brace myself; maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to the bear without asking him first, it’ll put us back a few days. ‘Ken’s leaving. Him and the misses are emigrating to bleedin’ Australia. Why, I don’t know.’
‘What, as opposed to the joys of unemployment and grey skies we have here?’
He ignores me. ‘I want to offer you a job. Not as an apprentice, full-time, like. What do you say?’ He slaps me on the back as though it’s a done deal.
And I guess it is. I can’t afford to turn this down, regardless of the portfolio waiting to be completed.
It was a daft dream, anyway. I’ve heard nothing from the application.
‘I’ve got another job starting on Monday, full pay.’
I should be relieved. A steady job, a paintbrush in my hand and the chance to maybe move back out of my parents and still help them out a bit.
‘Great.’ The word has come out as flat as a crispy pancake. His eyebrows furrow.
I clear my throat, ‘Really,’ I inject more enthusiasm. ‘Thanks. That’s… great news.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve earnt it. Care Bears or no.’
My feet feel like lead when I walk home. I hesitate on the corner of Victoria Street.
I don’t walk past the mural. I don’t want her eyes to follow me. Not today.
* * *
The chip pan is on, the house filled with the smell of old cooking oil and sausages. I take off my black jacket and try to find a hook that isn’t already taken. I push one of Carl’s hoodies aside and hook it on. The phone rings in the hall.
Dad’s voice bellows from the lounge. ‘Jesus bleeding Christ!’ He stomps into the hall. ‘What is with that thing today?’
‘Hello?’ he barks. ‘What? No, there isn’t a Ben living here. Who? Ben Dover?’ Dad’s face is flushed more with anger at the wrong number than the words he’s saying. ‘Who? No there’s no Anita either, you’ve got the wrong numb— Anita Hardcock?’ I quickly take the receiver from Dad’s hands.
‘Piss off,’ I say, slamming the receiver down.
‘Been ringing off the hook all day. It’s like we’re a bloody hotel.
Someone was asking after a Teresa Green earlier.
I told them there was no Teresa Green round ’ere.
’ I try not to laugh as he makes his way back into the lounge, bending over with a wince, and turning the sound up on the Six O’clock News.
‘Anyone asking for me?’ I say, slouching down on the sofa and taking off my boots.
‘I don’t know. Do I look like a secretary to you?’ He puts his hands on his hips, scowling, then sinks back into the brown armchair that is moulded to his body. He coughs loudly, reaching for his fags and sparking the lighter. ‘There’s a job going. At the pub.’ Dad flicks a look towards me.
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Thought you might be interested. Earn you a bit extra. Cash in hand, like.’
A headache pulses behind my eyebrow.
‘No need. Jim’s offered me a permanent job.’
‘Well that’s—’
‘Mike!’ Mam calls from the kitchen. ‘Is that you? Give me a hand, will you, can’t get the bloody boiler to light.’
Mam is leaning forwards with a match, trying to ignite the pilot light.
She flaps her hand at it then hurries to rescue the chips. ‘Don’t know what’s wrong with it.’
I crook my head forward, turn the dial and squint.
There’s no sign of the pilot light. I can’t hear the gas either.
It’s no wonder, with the TV blaring from the lounge, the hiss of the chip pan and the news on the portable on the kitchen side.
Changing my position, I try smelling for the gas, but there’s nothing getting through over the smell of tea cooking.
Carl comes storming into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his skinny waist. ‘Shower isn’t bloody working!’
Mam flicks him sharply with the tea towel. ‘Language!’
‘Mike swears all the time.’
‘Your brother is a fully grown man. He’s allowed.’
‘Fully grown man living with his mam and dad,’ he grumbles as he reaches over and snatches a piece of bread and butter off the table, then heads back out of the room.
‘Mam?’ I say quietly. ‘Is there any chance the gas has been cut off?’
Her eyes widen a touch, and she opens the odds and sods drawer, pulling out a letter. ‘Those bastards.’ Her cheeks flood. ‘I told them your dad’s on industrial and I’d pay them at the end of the week when his money comes in.’
At least we’ve got Industrial Disability coming in now.
Dad ignored the cough at first, said it was just a bit of dust. Only when he couldn’t make it up the stairs without practically coughing up a lung did Mam finally manage to drag him to the doctors.
They’re waiting on another payout soon, compensation from the Coal Board.
Like that’ll make up for years of breathing coal dust for shit pay.
‘Thank God we’ve still got electric, eh?’ Her voice is bright, but her knuckles are white as she folds the letter, shoving it back in the drawer.
‘Jim’s offered me full-time, full pay too.’
Her whole face lifts. ‘Well, the good Lord gives when he takes away. That’s great news, son. Pleased as punch, I am. I’m not going to be coy and say a bit more coming in is needed, love. Well done.’
I smile, but I know its tight. I’ll have to move out sometime.
I boil the kettle. ‘I’m going to wash up before dinner.’ Mam puts a hand on my arm, eyes darting to the door then back again. ‘Best not mention the gas to your dad, eh? Stuck to his guns to make life better for folks around here, and this is the thanks we get.’
I empty the kettle into the bathroom sink and lather up my hands with Imperial Leather.
Mam calls from downstairs telling me tea is ready.
I swipe the steam from the mirror and look at my reflection.
Around my eyes, fine lines are already beginning to form.
My life is moving too fast. Too slow. Mam shouts again, as I rub my stubble.
I don’t even have time for a shave. I turn my back on the defeated look on my face.
In the lounge, we eat our egg, chips and beans on our knees, eyes glued to Crossroads.
‘Any post?’ I ask through a mouthful of fried egg.
‘Bloody postman as well as secretary, am I?’ Dad answers shaking his head.
‘By the housekeeping, love,’ Mam answers, laughing at the telly as Benny pulls down his woolly hat, once again getting into trouble with Miss Diane.
‘Anyone call asking for me?’ I prompt.
Carl chews loudly next to me. ‘There was someone asking for you yesterday,’ he says around a mouthful of food, tomato sauce dribbling down his chin. His eyes stay fixed on the TV.
‘Who?’ I swallow and look at my brother.
‘Huh?’
‘Who called for me?’
He shrugs. ‘I dunno. Alex someone?’
‘Alice?’
‘Could have been.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Will you shut up?’ Dad barks, shaking his head and leaning forward to hear the TV better.
I lower my voice. ‘Did she leave a message?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘The message.’
‘Don’t remember.’
I grit my teeth. ‘You didn’t write it down?’
‘Didn’t have a pen, and I was on my way out, weren’t I?’
I try to calm my voice. ‘Do you remember anything she said?’
‘Asked for you to call her back.’
‘What’s her number?’
He shrugs.
‘Carl. What. Is. Her. Number.’
‘Can’t remember. Thought you’d have it anyway.’
Fuck’s sake.
I stand and take my plate into the kitchen, washing it up in cold water.
I leave it on the drying rack and go over to the post stacked under the Quality Street tin, leafing through it until my eyes rest on the white envelope sticking out amongst the brown.
My name is typed neatly on the heavy paper.
Heart hammering, I glance over my shoulder to check they’re all still in the lounge.
A communal wave of laughter from the sofa reassures me.
I unfold the letter, scanning the contents.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.