A couple of kids pedal by on their bikes, disturbing a wrapper in the road. It lifts and drifts over, landing by my foot. The wrapper’s been torn in half, so it reads “angles” instead of “Spangles”. I bend over and put it in the bin outside the shop. The sun is beating down, and I feel a thin film of sweat surfacing across my forehead and upper lip. I check my watch. Half past three. Two hours to go. Andy turns the corner at the far end of the street. He sees me and breaks into a run. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and his knees are wider than his thighs. He’s growing too quickly for his body to keep up. He’s officially taller than me now.
“You shouldn’t wear those shorts,” I tell him as he reaches me.
“Why?” he asks, looking down at himself.
“Cos your knees are bloody knobbly,” I laugh. “You look like Olive Oyl.”
“Fuck off, I don’t!” Andy’s trying out swearing at the moment, and it makes him sound like even more of a dork than usual.
“What d’you want, anyway?”
Andy looks over my shoulder to the ice cream chest, just inside the door, and raises his eyebrows expectantly.
“Piss off. I mean what did you come here for?”
He frowns, then light crosses his face. “Oh, yeah. Message from Mum. Go straight to the Royal Oak for your tea. We’re all gonna be there, in the pub garden if it’s still sunny. Dad says we can have scampi and chips or something.”
“What’s the occasion?” I ask, suspicious.
“Dunno, but they seemed really chipper about it, so something good, I guess. Mum told me to meet her there at five thirty. After she’s done the shopping.”
“OK,” I nod, then I look over my shoulder, grab a Rocket from the freezer chest, and shove it into Andy’s sweaty hand. “Go on,” I nudge him, “bugger off before I get caught.”
Andy grins with his stupid goggle-eyed face, and runs back up the road, the way he came.
When Mr Horrocks comes back down to the shop it’s just after four, and we start our shelf filling, him down one side, me down the other. Customers start drifting in on their way home from work, to buy cigarettes and newspapers, and sweets for their kids. Before I know it, it’s 5.30, and Griffin and I are standing in the doorway ready to go.
“See you in the morning, Mr Horrocks.”
“See you in the morning, Jake,” he replies. He picks up a small dog chew, and hands it to me as he pulls down the door blind. “Look after that dog.”
I put my hand up, and wander up the street with Griffin sniffing along by my side. The sun’s still hot, and the streets have come to life, as kids return home from playing out, and cars make their way back for the start of the weekend. As I near the Royal Oak, I can sense the party atmosphere spilling over the garden fence; that end of term feeling when there’s nothing to think about except the holidays ahead.
“Run after your mum and tell her what you want to eat,” says my dad as I come through the gate to the pub garden. “She’s at the bar ordering the food now.”
Dad and Andy are sitting at one of the bench tables dotted about the balding grassy patch in the back garden. There are quite a few other people sitting in the afternoon sunshine. Most of the men look like they’ve just finished a day’s labouring, in their dusty T-shirts and work boots, joking and buying rounds for each other. Over in the corner there’s a smart young couple, teachers or office workers I’d guess, and they seem to be watching the rest of the drinkers with interest. Dad stretches his arms out in front of him, as if his muscles are aching, then he reaches for his cigarettes and lights one behind a cupped hand. He’s squinting against the bright light of the sun. Andy’s got his head on his folded arms, like he’s taking a nap. He doesn’t even lift his head to look at me.
Inside the pub, it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark, smoky atmosphere. Mum’s leaning on the bar, running her finger down the menu card, telling the landlady what she wants.
“Oh, good – here’s Jakey. Jake, what do you want? Andy’s having scampi, and Dad’s having the steak and kidney pie. What do you fancy?”
I choose a cheese ploughman’s and a Coke, and Mum asks me to take the tray of drinks out while she pays. The glasses clink against each other, even though I’m walking super-slow, trying to avoid spilling any of Dad’s pint. Dad and Andy point and laugh at me as I approach.
“Don’t all rush and help at once,” I say.
“Hurry up, son, I’m dying of thirst over here,” says Dad. “You look like a little old man, shuffling about in his slippers!”
Andy laughs again, banging the table with the flat of his hand. “Yeah, come on, Granddad!”
I put the tray down on the table, move the glasses off the tray and then give it a good shake on to the grass, emptying the spilt liquids. My hand’s wet with a mix of beer and Coke, and I casually walk behind Andy and drag my sticky fingers along his skinny neck. “Spanner,” he mutters as he tries to wriggle out of my reach. I lean the tray against the leg of the table and sit down opposite Dad.
“Good day?” Dad asks, lifting his pint to his lips.
“Not bad,” I answer, taking a slurp of my Coke.
Mum comes through the back doors and drops two bags of nuts on the table. She slides in next to me on the bench.
“Cheers,” she says, raising her sparkling water. The lemon slice bobs in the glass, making the bubbles sparkle in the sunlight.
“Cheers,” we all echo.
The landlady appears through the back door, and bustles over to our table.
“Here – you forgot these,” she says, and she places our table number in the middle of the table, along with a small half empty bottle of Schweppes tonic water.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“So they know which table we are, when the food comes,” answers Mum.
“Not that – the tonic water,” I say.
There’s a pause, as Mum and Dad exchange a glance.
“It’s just the one, Jake,” Mum says, sounding annoyed. “I haven’t touched a drop in months now, have I?”
“No,” I say.
“And anyway, we’ve got something to celebrate,” she adds, with a sweep of her hands.
Dad reaches into his back pocket and drops four little black books on the table. “Know what these are?” he asks.
I flip one over. It’s a passport. I look up at Dad with raised eyebrows. He raises his back at me.
“Yup. We’re off on holiday. Last three weeks in August. The Dordogne. France.” Dad looks chuffed to bits with himself.
My face wants to smile like mad; I’ve never been abroad before. But my eyes keep flicking over to Mum’s glass like an itchy rash, and I’ve got that feeling where I can’t make up my mind which feeling to feel, good or bad, because both is difficult to feel at once. Andy is doing his skill punch, and the colour has risen to Mum’s chest. On the next table a young mother runs back and forth to the climbing frame, to make sure her little ones don’t come a cropper from the top bars. Her boyfriend sits at his bench, drinking his pint, not noticing the children all that much.
“But what about Mr Horrocks,” I ask Mum, frowning again, “and Griffin?”
“Nothing to worry about, Jake,” says Mum, smoothing the hair out of my eyes. I wish she wouldn’t. “I’ve spoken to him, and he knows all about it.”
I look at my passport, flicking through the blank pages, until I find the details at the back. And there I am, staring back at myself, pale and serious, in the photo we took in the booth on Brighton station, just before Dad told us he was coming back home. My throat feels tight and bulgy, and my heart is bobbling about in my chest.
“So, what do you think, Jakey?” asks Mum, rattling her ice cubes nervously in the glass.
Andy points at my photo and laughs, and I swipe at him across the table.
“It’s great,” I say, avoiding Mum’s eyes. “It’ll be great.”
On the Saturday before our holiday, Dad says we’ve got to visit Gran.
“Ohhh – do we have to?” Andy’s whining. “It’s miles away. And she’ll only have a go at us.”
“No she won’t. And it’s only ten minutes away, you pansy. Just be on your best behaviour, and she’ll be fine.” Dad’s checking his pockets for his car keys.
“It doesn’t matter how you behave, she still thinks you’re up to something,” I add. “And why does she hate Mum so much, anyway?”
“She doesn’t hate Mum. Now get your coats on and get in the car. We’ll be back in time for a sandwich at the Oak. I’ll give you some money for a few sweets if you’re good.”
Andy and me fight over the front seat, until Dad loses his temper and Andy gets in the back. Dad starts the car, pulling his seatbelt across him after we’ve got on to the main road. He lights up a cigarette, which hangs loosely from the side of his mouth as his tries to wind down the window and drive at the same time. I thought he’d given them up. But then he’s always stopping and starting with the fags. I don’t bother saying anything about it now, because he just gets pissed off with me.
“What happened to our granddad? Did he die before we were born?” I’m looking at the side of Dad’s face, which is set with a deep line between his eyebrows as he squints against the smoke.
“Well, he died when I was little. Don’t really remember him all that much. That’s why Gran’s a bit, you know, grumpy sometimes. She’s had a hard life, bringing up four kids on her own.” He looks at me and I nod. “I’ll see if Gran’s got any old pictures of him if you’re that interested.”
It feels hot and sweaty inside Dad’s car, and I fiddle with the air knobs until Dad slaps my hand away. After a while, we turn into Gran’s road, which is lined with endless terraced houses, all exactly the same, from one end of the narrow street to the other. It’s the house Dad was born in.
When we pull up at the kerb, Gran is already standing on the doorstep, with her pale blue cardigan wrapped around her. Her face is set in stone, and she doesn’t smile as she sees us arrive.
“She looks happy,” mumbles Andy, and I snigger.
Dad growls at us and we all get out of the car, smiling hard.
“Hello, Mum,” says Dad, as he kisses her stiffly on the cheek.
“William,” she nods at him. “Boys.”
We stand in front of her as she blocks the door to her house.
“Give your gran a kiss, boys!” says Dad, nudging me forward with his elbow.
We both kiss her on the cheek, and she never once unfolds her arms from across her chest.
“Well, you’d better come in then,” she says, pushing up at her hair with the flat of her hand. Her hair sits in a stiff shape all round her head, like a piece of moulded plasticine. It looks like it’s in a hairnet, even though it’s not.
Gran makes a pot of tea and lays it out in the front room. We all sit on dining chairs at the small round table in the front window. There’s a crocheted tablecloth, and I remember a time when I spilt my tea on it when I was younger. Gran went mad, telling me that her grandmother had made it by hand for her wedding, and that I should have more respect for other people’s things.
She’s got net curtains that only go halfway up the window, like in a café. I’d never have nets like that in my house, they’re really naff. Outside it’s sunny, and the grime on the windows shows up against the bright light of the street. A man passes the house, walking a large black dog, and Gran lifts her bottom an inch, just enough to peek over the top of the nets to see him go by. “Hmph,” she says, returning her bottom to the chair.
Andy meets my eye across the table, and I have to look away from him before I laugh.
“I’ve given up baking cakes,” Gran says, slicing up a shop-bought fruit cake. “Not much point when it’s just me here.”
She hands plates to me and Andy. I know Andy hates fruit cake, and he stares at it like it’s a spider. When Gran takes a bite of hers, Andy starts to stuff his piece in his face, chewing and swallowing it down as fast as he can. Poor bugger, I can see it’s getting stuck in his throat as he tries to force it down with gulps of tea.
“Greedy guts,” says Gran, without a smile, as Andy takes his last mouthful. “I suppose you’re after another bit.”
Andy’s eyes look terrified. “No!” he almost shouts. “No, thanks, Gran. That was lovely. Thanks.”
Dad gives him a dry smile, and it’s hard to tell if he’s annoyed or not.
“So,” Gran says, pouring a second cup of tea. “How’s that Mary?” She reaches for Dad’s cup and saucer, and pours the tea slowly, her eyebrows arched and wrinkled.
“She’s fine, isn’t she, lads?” Dad replies, patting me on the back, sounding too cheery.
“Still into her clever books and all that?” Gran asks, with a sniff.
“I’m not sure. Jake, is Mum reading anything at the moment?” Dad looks at me, expectantly. I don’t ever remember seeing Mum reading any particular book.
“She reads magazines,” I say. “Woman’s Weekly. That sort of thing. Sometimes Sandy gives her her old copies. What do you mean ‘clever books’, anyway?”
Gran stares at me like I’ve got poo on my forehead.
“What?” I ask.
Gran gives Dad a disappointed look, and shakes her head.
Andy looks at me and mouths, “What?”
I shrug and take my last mouthful of fruit cake. It’s quite nice actually. I’m glad Gran doesn’t bake any more. She’d probably try to poison us if she did.
“So, Mum,” says Dad. “Jake here’s quite interested in seeing a photo of Dad if you’ve got any.”
Gran wraps her cardigan around her again. “Mmm, not sure about that. Can’t be sure where they are. What d’you want to know about that for anyway? You never even met him.”
“I’m just interested, really,” I mumble.
“Speak up, boy!”
“I said I’m just interested,” I say, louder.
“I’m certainly not deaf, if that’s what you think!”
Andy covers his mouth with his hand, and stares at the teapot. I can see his shoulders shaking. I mustn’t look at him. Dad’s fingers start drumming against the underside of the table.
“Well, you can take a look in the cupboard under the stairs, I suppose. There might be an old box of photos in there.” Gran starts clearing the table, shaking her head as she goes. “Although I don’t know why you’re so interested myself.”
After a few minutes of rummaging about in the under-stairs cupboard, Dad pulls out a small dusty leather suitcase with rusty hinges. “This is it,” he says, sounding really pleased, “I remember it.”
As he starts unloading pictures on to the living room table, Gran sits in her high-backed armchair in the corner of the room, and folds her cardigan around her again. Every now and then she clears her throat and pulls her chin in to her chest with an irritated expression. We carry on looking anyway.
“Look at this one, Andy – it’s me when I was your age. Blimey, mate, you’re the spit of me, son!”
Andy looks at the picture and laughs. “Look at your shorts, Dad. Did you have to wear them in the summer?”
“Had to wear them all year round, son. They were my only pair.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Gran. “You make us sound like paupers.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly princes, Mum.” Dad smiles at her.
“Hmph,” snorts Gran, as she turns her eyes to the wall.
Andy passes me the photo, and I can see how like Dad he is. I think about that day when Mum said what she said about Dad not being my dad. I stare at the photo, at this boy’s dark hair and dark eyes, his long skinny arms and legs, his wide, white smile. It’s just like Andy now, gangly and grinning.
“How would you describe my hair colour?” I ask Dad.
“Mousy,” says Gran.
“Well, you were bright white blond as a baby,” Dad replies. “And it still goes blond in the summer, doesn’t it?”
“Matt looked like you too, di
dn’t he?” I ask, waving the photo.
“How is my Matthew?” asks Gran, her face soft for the first time.
“Fine, Mum,” frowns Dad. He carries on rummaging through the box. “It’s weird isn’t it? Sometimes things skip a generation, don’t they?” He searches deeper in the suitcase, then pulls out a brown envelope with the words “Andrews family” written on in biro. “Here we go.”
The photos from this envelope are older. Dad hands me a picture of a young man wearing a trilby hat and a suit, one leg up on a pub bench, his hand resting on his thigh. He’s got a cheeky smirk on his face. He looks like the Artful Dodger in Oliver Twist.
“That’s him. That’s your granddad. When was that taken, Mum?”
Gran leans forward in her chair. “Not long after we got married. That’s the Spotted Cow, off Ship Street.”
Dad carries on through the photos, and eventually pulls out a group shot and lays it down on the table in front of me.
“Right. That’s a picture of him outside his local school. See if you can spot him.”
The picture is browny coloured and faded. There are about twelve or thirteen kids in the photo with two serious-looking school teachers standing at the back row in old-fashioned dresses and rolled up hair. I recognise the garden, from when Dad pointed out the school before. The blossom tree’s still there.
“They’d just opened the school,” says Gran. “That’s why they took the photo. Didn’t normally have school photos in them days.”
I scan the rows of faces staring out of the misty picture, and suddenly there he is, there I am, staring back at myself from this ghost of a photo. My finger comes down on him with a little thud.
“There! That’s got to be him!” I cry out, and I can’t believe it because he’s so like me it can’t be real.
“Get your grubby fingers off that!” shouts Gran. “You’ll ruin it! Don’t you teach them how to treat things properly, Bill?”
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