by Dan Tunstall
I look across at Dad. He’s taken his socks off and they’re lying on the floor like a pair of discarded snakeskins, black against the dirty cream of the carpet. On the TV, the poor man’s Ant, or it could be Dec, is sitting in a glass tank having green gunk poured over him. The cameraman cuts away to a shot of a kid in the crowd. The kid yawns and picks his nose.
I check my watch. Ten past twelve. I’ve only been downstairs for five minutes, but already it feels a lot longer. Dad pushes himself up off the sofa. He stretches again, rolling his head from side to side until his neck clicks.
“How’s about me making us some dinner?” he says.
I shake my head.
“No, it’s alright,” I say. “I’ll get something in town. Zoe’s coming round in a bit.”
He looks a bit disappointed.
“What time’s she coming?” he asks.
“About quarter to one,” I say.
Dad nods. He looks at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“You’ve got plenty of time then. I’ll rustle us up an omelette and some beans. We can eat it in here, watch Football Focus. What do you reckon?” He looks at me, eyes all wide and hopeful.
I shrug.
“Go on then,” I say.
He heads off towards the kitchen and I turn my attention back to the kids’ show on TV. The final credits are rolling now. A boy band in matching beige leather jackets are miming to their latest single and the poor man’s Ant & Dec are dancing with two blokes in dinosaur costumes. I shake my head and flick over to BBC1.
Ten minutes later Dad’s back in with two purple plastic plates of omelette and beans.
“I had to use the picnic set,” he says. “Nobody did the washing up last night.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Well, it was Friday yesterday. It was your turn.”
Dad sniffs. He hands me my plate and a fork.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Is it OK?” he asks. He’s got that hopeful look in his eyes again.
I poke at the omelette with my fork. It’s burnt to a crisp around the edges, but it’s still runny in the middle. Frazzled brown pieces of onion are floating in the uncooked egg. The beans look like they’ve been stuck to the bottom of the pan. A smell of burning is starting to waft through from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s fine.”
We don’t say much during the time it takes us to eat our dinners. There’s nothing very interesting on Football Focus either. News from the Premier League and Europe. Some stuff about sports nutrition and the latest scientific training methods. I can’t imagine much of that going on at Southlands. Letchford do get a mention at one point, but only as potential victims of a giant-killing in the Cup this afternoon. I laugh. To call Letchford Town giants is a bit of a pisstake.
I’m just wiping up the last of my bean juice with the final bit of omelette when I realise Dad’s been staring at me.
“What?” I say.
He strokes his chin. There’s getting on for three week’s worth of stubble on it now.
“I just can’t get over your new hairdo,” he says. “What would Mum think?”
I pull a face. Dad’s hassling me about my appearance. That’s some joke.
“Dunno,” I say. I run my hand over my cropped hair. It’s ten days since I had it done. I was actually thinking it was about time I got myself down to Talking Heads again. It’s starting to get a bit long.
The conversation looks like it’s ground to a halt. I pick up the plates and take them into the kitchen. I brush onion skins off the chopping board and into the bin, then I make a start on the dishes. Today’s and yesterday’s.
I’m just wiping down the work surfaces and trying to get the egg splashes off the hob when the doorbell rings. I toss the sponge back into the sink and make my way down the hall. I open the door. It’s Zoe. Her hair’s tied back and she’s in a navy blue army-style jacket, long multicoloured scarf, skin-tight jeans and a pair of green Converse All Star. If we were at Parkway, I’d have her down as an indie kid. She seems have a different look every time I see her. She’s smiling brightly.
“Hello you,” she says, stepping up and giving me a kiss.
I close the door and get my jacket down from the pegs.
“We might as well get going,” I tell her.
“Tom?” Dad shouts from the living room. “Who is it?”
“It’s Zoe,” I shout back. “We’re off into town.”
I can hear him getting up. I don’t really want Zoe seeing him in his present state, so I start pulling on my jacket as quickly as I can. I’m not fast enough though. Dad’s in the doorway. Unwashed. Bloodshot eyes. Wild hair. Bare feet. Crumpled clothes.
“Hi Zoe,” he says.
She smiles.
“Hi Mr Mitchell.”
Dad shakes his head.
“Call me Tony. No need to be formal. You never know. I could be your father-in-law one day.”
My heart sinks. Dad’s trying to be charming. And what a thought. Having him as your father-in-law. An offer no girl could refuse. Luckily Zoe takes it all in her stride.
“You never know, Tony,” she says, smiling again.
I’ve got my jacket on now. I check that I’ve got my wallet, keys and phone. I have.
“Right then,” I say. “We’re off.”
Dad nods.
“Yeah,” he says. “See you then. You take care, the pair of you.” He looks a bit sad. Nothing more to look forward to than an afternoon in front of the TV and a few cans to make the time pass more quickly.
For a brief second I feel a twinge. I’m not too sure what it is. Affection? Guilt? An idea occurs to me. We could stick around for a bit, cheer him up. We’re not in any rush and I know Zoe would be alright about it. I’m going to say something, but then I change my mind. There would no point in sticking around. We’d all just sit there like bookends.
I open the door.
“Right then Dad,” I say. “I’ll see you later.” I smile as reassuringly as I can.
Zoe steps out onto the path. I shut the door behind me and we head off into the village.
It looks like it was pretty lively in the middle of Thurston last night. There’s a trail of bloodspots along the pavement in front of the shops on Lindisfarne Street, coming in the general direction of the Bulls Head. Someone’s smashed all three of the glass panels on the back of the bus shelter outside Costcutter, and the litter bin on the bus stop pole has been set on fire. It’s still smouldering now, gradually oozing down towards the pavement in yellow plastic blobs like lumpy custard.
After a couple of minutes the number 84 turns up. We crunch our way through the broken glass, pay the driver and head up the stairs to the top deck. It’s a nice trip into town this afternoon. A proper autumn day. The sun is bright and low in the sky and it’s lighting up the leaves on the trees, all yellows and oranges and reds. Zoe seems happy, one hand on my knee, snuggling into my shoulder. We don’t do a lot of talking, but it feels OK.
It’s about twenty to two when we pull into Letchford bus station. We get off the bus and wander up towards the town centre. Glancing into the newsagents on Church Lane, I see the Asian bloke who sold me the programme the other weekend. He’s reading the back pages of The Daily Sport again.
I look at Zoe.
“Where do you fancy going then?” I ask. I’ve not been shopping with her for a while. Usually, she goes with her mates from Alderman Richard Martin. I’m not too sure where she likes to go these days.
“I thought we’d have a look around The Lanes,” she says.
I’m surprised.
“Letchford Lanes? Those funny little cobbled streets behind the Town Hall?”
She smiles.
“Yeah. Lots of lovely little boutiques, cafes, vintage clothing shops. Things like that. It’s really nice.”
I nod, not convinced. Boutiques, cafes and vintage clothing shops aren’t really my thing. The thing is, I didn’t think they were Zoe’s either.
“Thought you were more of an Ainsdale Centre sort of girl.”
She shrugs.
“A few of us from the Oliver cast came down on Wednesday, before evening rehearsals. I told them I’d never really had a proper look round The Lanes, so they took me into all the good shops, showed me where everything was.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Who was that then?”
Zoe takes a breath.
“Oh, just some people I know. Lucy. Melissa. Simon Matthews.”
I nod. Simon Matthews. That name again.
We head into the underpass to The Lanes. There was an article about the underpass in the Argus last week. The council has been trying to tidy it up, make it a bit less of a piss-smelling muggers’ paradise.
They’ve steam-cleaned the chewing gum off the floor, moved all the tramps out and put up a tile mosaic on the wall. Two workmen in overalls, linking arms. Celebrating the town’s rich industrial heritage. It looks like it was designed by a four year old. As we go past, I notice someone has drawn an enormous dick on one of the men and there’s a huge pair of tits on the other. The place still smells of piss. We come back up the slope until we’re at street level again. The Lanes zigzag off in different directions in front of us.
“Right then,” Zoe says. “Let’s make a start.”
Three quarters of an hour later and I’ve lost count of how many shops we’ve been in and out of. I’m trying to put a brave face on things, but I’ve looked at enough hand-carved soapstone animals, ethnic-design rugs and dead men’s overcoats to last me a lifetime. I’m sure my clothes are starting to smell of joss-sticks.
We’re in the St Mary’s Hospice charity shop now. Zoe’s in the changing cubicle, trying on a T-shirt, and I’m looking through the blokes’ stuff, trying to keep myself occupied. It’s a pretty unimpressive selection. Sweat-stained white and lime green polo shirts. Donnay and Lotto stuff that’s priced up for more in here than it would cost you brand new from Soccer World. The old woman behind the counter is listening to Saga FM. She’s looking at me like she thinks I’m about to shove something up my jacket and do a runner. I give her a cheesy grin but she just scowls.
Zoe comes out from behind the curtain with her T-shirt on. It’s grey and frayed around the edges, with a faded picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. By the look on her face, I can see that she’s quite taken with it.
“What do you reckon?” she asks.
I shrug.
“It’s OK.”
“I really like it,” she says.
I nod.
She rummages on the rack behind me.
“And I think you’d look great in this,” she says, smiling enthusiastically.
I look at what she’s found. It’s a grey and black cardigan. It’s about thirty years old. There’s a price tag on the left sleeve. £7.99. For a worn-out piece of knitwear.
I stifle a laugh.
“Do me a favour.” If Ryan or any of the other Letchford lads caught me wearing something like that, I’d get my head kicked in.
Zoe pushes the cardigan up against me, holding the sleeve along the length of my arm.
“I think you’d look great in it,” she says again. “It’s a design classic. Timeless.”
I smile. I don’t want to offend her, but there’s no way I’m spending my money on a cardigan last worn by someone’s grandad in the 1970’s.
“No,” I tell her. “It’s not for me.”
Zoe sighs and puts the cardigan back on the rack. Without saying anything else to me, she goes into the changing cubicle. A minute or so later she’s out again. She pays for her T-shirt and we go back into the street.
I look at my watch. Five to three. Zoe still isn’t saying anything. There’s a bit of an atmosphere building now. I try to think of a way to brighten things up.
“What about going for something to eat?” I say.
She shrugs and checks her watch.
“Alright then. Have you got anywhere in mind?”
“Yeah. What about the Café Rialt in the Ainsdale Centre?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Café Rialt? That’s that terrible greasy spoon upstairs near Argos isn’t it?”
I nod, but already I know we’re not going there.
“No,” she says. “I don’t really want to go there. We can go to Mrs Brady’s Tea Rooms. It’s just round the corner. It’s lovely in there. Really rustic. Old-fashioned. Simon took us in on Wednesday.”
“Good old Simon,” I say.
Mrs Brady’s Tea Rooms might be rustic and old fashioned, but the prices aren’t. Two cups of tea and two cream scones set me back the best part of a tenner. I pick up my tray and make my way across to where Zoe has already parked herself, at a rickety wooden table. There’s a mirror on the wall behind her, and I sneak a crafty look at myself as I sit down.
Zoe’s noticed what I’ve just done. She reaches across and runs her fingers over my hair.
“I still can’t get used to this,” she says. “You look like a football hooligan. Or one of the Mitchell brothers off EastEnders. I’ll have to start calling you Phil. You’ve got the right surname. All you need is a black leather jacket and you’ll be ready to go down The Vic.”
I rub my nose. First Dad, now Zoe. It’s Have A Go At Tom’s Hair Day.
She carries on.
“You will let it grow back now though won’t you? You don’t really fit as an East End hard man. I’d love it if you had long hair. What d’you reckon?”
I take a slurp of my tea. It’s like dishwater. I wish I’d got coffee.
“Maybe,” I say.
By the time we’ve finished in Mrs Brady’s it’s getting on for twenty to four. I was hoping that a sit-down and something to eat and drink would get the afternoon back on track. Now I’m in the doghouse because I keep checking for Letchford Town updates on my mobile.
Zoe piles our cups and plates back on the tray and stands up.
“It’s not much fun being with you if all you’re interested in is the football scores,” she says.
I have another look at my phone. It’s still 0-0.
“Sorry.” I get up. “Where do you want to go now?” It’s a final effort to save an afternoon that’s dying on its arse.
“I suppose we might as well go to the Ainsdale Centre,” Zoe says, without much enthusiasm. “Not that there’s anything to look at in there.”
We leave Mrs Brady’s and head back down The Lanes. We go under the underpass, across Town Hall Square and through the precinct. For someone who wasn’t particularly keen on the idea of going to the Ainsdale Centre, Zoe certainly wastes no time getting stuck into the shops.
By quarter to five we’ve been round Primark, Peacocks, Republic and New Look, and she’s got herself two new belts, a pair of suede gloves and a canvas bag that looks a bit like a satchel. I had a look at a couple of things in JJB Sports and got myself a poppy from the old chap by the shoe repairers, but that’s about it.
I’m standing outside the changing rooms in H&M now. Zoe’s trying on a pair of jeans. I seem to have spent a fair amount of time standing outside changing rooms this afternoon. The good thing about that, of course, is that it gives me the chance to check the Letchford score on my mobile without being nagged.
Five minutes from time and it’s 1-1. Tommy Sharp put us in front on 65 minutes, but we let Kidderminster equalise almost straight from the restart. It’s looking like a replay back at Southlands.
Zoe’s coming out of her changing booth, heading my way, jeans on.
“What do you think about these?” she asks.
I glance down at my phone. Kid’ster 2 L’ford 1 Nicholson o.g. 87.
“Bollocks,” I say.
She blinks.
“What?!”
I shake my head.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the football. We’ve just gone behind. To Kidderminster Fucking Harriers.”
She tuts.
“The jeans,” she says. “What do you think?”
&nb
sp; I look her up and down. They look identical to the ones she came into town wearing.
“They look OK,” I tell her.
She sighs and strides back down the corridor to her changing booth. By the time she comes back out again, it’s full time at Kidderminster. Letchford have been knocked out of the FA Cup by a non-league team. It’s not a good feeling. I think about texting Raks and Ryan, but I don’t know what I could say.
I stand by the doors while Zoe pays for her jeans. When she’s finished, we go out into the centre again, heading towards River Island. Up ahead, there’s a group of lads standing outside Harris’s Amusements, chewing gum and generally looking hostile. A couple of them are staring at me. Zoe grabs my hand and I can feel her trying to guide me across to the other side of the walkway. I’m not budging though. As we come level with the arcade, one of the lads lunges out towards me.
“Tom, you wanker,” he says.
I grin. It’s Gary Simmons. Rob and Jerome are hovering in the background.
“Alright, Gary?” I say.
Gary shakes his head.
“Fucking Kidderminster cocksuckers,” he says. “And what about Dave Nicholson? Mackworth reject twat.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What a tosser. I’m off home now to put my head in the fucking oven.” I start to laugh.
Zoe pulls at my hand again. I glance across and see concern and confusion on her face. I feel really awkward. I’ve got a nasty feeling I’m going red.
“Er, Zoe,” I say. “This is Gary, my mate from Parkway and from the football. Gary, this is Zoe, my missus.”
Gary grunts and Zoe gives the sort of smile you might use if you were forced to sit bare-arsed on a pinecone at gunpoint. She’s not impressed. There’s a hard, staring look in her eyes now. The awkwardness isn’t going away. It’s getting worse. I’m embarrassed, but I can’t quite work out what I’m embarrassed about. Is it because Zoe’s seen the sort of people I hang about with? Or is it because Gary’s caught me playing happy families? I don’t know if it’s Gary’s opinion or Zoe’s that’s more important to me.