Counter Culture

by JL Merrow

  “Good luck explaining to your mum why his first word is a four-letter one.”

  Bridge strapped Jerrick into his seat with a deft hand. “I’ll just tell her your mum taught him it.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” Archie folded his arms.

  Bridge emerged from the car to roll her eyes at him. “Sense of humour failure, much? I’m not actually in the habit of lying to my mother. Look, I don’t have a problem with you seeing someone. If you think I’m nursing secret dreams of us getting back together, don’t flatter yourself. It’s just . . . I don’t get it, all right? I mean, Jerrick’s everything to me. I don’t need anyone else. You thinking about someone else like that, it’s like you’re saying he’s not enough for you.”

  Jerrick gave a wordless cry, as if in outraged agreement.

  Thinking about someone else like that . . . Was he really that obvious? Archie replayed his few minutes of blither in his head and realised that yes, he probably was. Sod it. “Bridge, of course I’m not saying that. It’s . . . just a thing, all right? A reaction. To a fit bloke. Who I’m not planning on asking out. Here you go, mate, here’s your muzzy.” He pulled the crumpled muslin cloth from his breast pocket. Jerrick seized it with eager hands and began to chew on it happily.

  Bridge looked away. “This is how it starts, isn’t it? You moving on, finding someone else. You’ll be busy nights seeing whats-his-arse, so I’ll start leaving Jerrick with Mum and Dad while I’m working. First it’ll be odd nights, then it’ll get to be a regular thing. You’ll stop seeing him every day, and it’ll be just once or twice a week. Then every other week. By the time he’s in school you’ll be down to Christmas and birthdays. If he’s lucky.”

  “Thanks for giving me a say in how I live the next six years of my life. Bridge, listen. It’s not gonna be like that. Jerrick’s my son, and I’m his dad. I’m going to be there for him. Do . . . whatever dads do.” Archie tried to smile through the old panic—what the hell did he know about what dads did, anyhow? There had to be more to it than kicking a ball around in the park or teaching the kid to ride a bike, but that was all he could remember wishing he had a dad for when he was a boy, and then only because he’d seen other kids with their dads.

  Well. Until his mum had had to go away. He’d wished, then, he’d had a dad, or rather another parent of any variety, so he wouldn’t have had to go . . . elsewhere. And maybe if there had been a dad around, he’d have looked after Lyddie, and she might not have got so bad. But when she had been there, his mum had been everything. Maybe Archie hadn’t had ironed shirts for school or a lot of help with his homework, but he’d had fun.

  Okay. It hadn’t been fun all the time. But Lyddie had done her best.

  “I’m not moving on, and I’m not asking anyone out, all right?”

  Bridge deflated. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get all heavy on you.” She dredged up a smile. “That kid was way too young for you anyhow.”

  She most likely wasn’t wrong. Seeing him in daylight, in a sweater that had to have been bought by his mum, Archie had revised his estimate of the lad’s age downwards to a depressing degree. He slung a not-entirely-altruistic arm around Bridge. “Doesn’t matter how old he is, does it? Since I’m not going to ask him out. And don’t worry. I may not have a clue what I’m doing, but I’m going to be there for Jerrick all the way. Think I’m gonna miss out on embarrassing him when he’s in his teens?” Hopefully it wouldn’t be by dating boys who were still in their teens themselves.

  She gave a weak smile. “Think it’ll take until then?”

  “Probably not. What age are they capable of being embarrassed?”

  “Weirdly, not actually one of the milestones in that baby book my nan got me. I’d guess primary school age, though. So you’ve got five years to work on being really mortifying. You know, learn some dad jokes, practice your dad dancing—”

  “Work on the dad bod.” Archie nodded, patting his stomach. “Hey, I could start on that this lunchtime.”

  “Wish you would.” Bridge frowned down at her own figure. “He’s six months old and I’m still the size of a bloody whale. Think it’d look weird if I wore a corset every day?”

  “You’re asking me? But yeah, probably. I’m guessing most of the mums down at the toddler group are a bit more casually dressed.”

  “Yeah, and it’d be a bitch getting the puke stains out. Sod it. Bring on the next Steampunk event. I want my figure back, even if it takes the whole flippin’ family and a forklift truck to lace me up. And don’t tell me I look great again. My skirts don’t lie.”

  “All right, I won’t say it. I’ll just think it. While I’m wondering how exactly a forklift truck’s gonna help lace anyone into a corset. Come on, your mum and dad will have started without us.” Archie cast a final glance back at the house. He’d hoped Lyddie would relent and come with them. It didn’t feel right, leaving her a cling-wrapped plate of sandwiches with a note saying EAT ME on the top.

  “She’ll be fine,” Bridge said, reading his mind.

  Archie’s face twisted in an unhappy grimace. “I don’t like her spending so much time on her own.”

  “You can’t be there for her 24/7. And it’s her choice. You have to respect that. Come on, get in the car, or I’m driving off without you.”

  Archie, Bridge, and Jerrick got to the Ploughman just as her mum and dad were getting out of their car. Bridge tooted her horn, and they all met up at the door of the pub. There was a hug for Archie from Bridge’s mum, despite her only having seen him a couple of days ago.

  “Aren’t you looking splendid today? And as for my little angel . . . he’ll be breaking hearts all over, won’t he? Come to Nanna, darling.” She held out her arms for Jerrick, who leaned into them happily.

  As Bridge passed him over, Archie was left to return her dad’s nod. Pat didn’t do hugs—at least, not with other men. “All right, Pat? Shall we go in?”

  “Well, I wasn’t planning on standing out here in the cold any longer.” Pat held the door open for the ladies.

  Usually, when Archie saw him, Bridge’s dad was sunk deep in his favourite armchair watching the telly, or sitting on the floor playing with his grandson. He worked long hours as a mechanic in a local garage, and when he was home he liked to put his feet up.

  It always somehow came as a surprise to Archie just how big Pat was when he was standing up. Intimidating, even. There wasn’t much difference in their heights, but Pat had a solid bulk to him, the softness of middle-aged spread not doing much to disguise the muscle underneath. They’d never got on as well as Archie had hoped they might, despite how much Bridge took after him personality-wise, and the breakup hadn’t exactly helped. Archie always got a guilty feeling he ought to apologise to Pat for making Bridge a single mother, despite the fact that Bridge herself would tear a right strip off anyone who dared to suggest she hadn’t chosen that route herself.

  It must be a dad thing. Archie had never experienced parental opposition to anyone he’d been dating—Lyddie always seemed to fall in love with anyone he went out with, for as long as it lasted—but there were loads of jokes, and even TV shows, about dads disapproving of their daughters’ boyfriends, so there had to be a kernel of truth in it, didn’t there? Pat never actually said anything like that, obviously. He just had a dour, unsmiling way of looking at Archie that seemed to come with its own subtitles.

  Or maybe I simply don’t understand the dad dynamic, he mused as he made up the rear of their little procession through the Ploughman and over to their table at the back of the restaurant.

  Janet, Bridge’s mum, settled into the chair Pat pulled out for her, still holding Jerrick. She’d dolled herself up for the occasion as much as Bridge had, in a fashionable top and her biggest, dangliest earrings, which Jerrick was currently making a determined effort to yank out of her ears. Archie gave her a smile as he sat opposite. “Is that a new top, Mrs. M.? It looks great.”

  Her face creased into a happy map of smile lines. “Ooh, thank you.
I only got it this week. Quite a bargain it was too. See, some people notice these things,” she added, digging her husband in the ribs.

  Pat leaned back in the chair next to her, sweater straining over his belly. “Some people have more important things to think about than clothes.”

  “Like what Liverpool’s new manager thinks he’s playing at, and whether they’re going to win the cup this year?” Bridge shot back.

  Pat found a smile easily enough for his daughter. “It’s important stuff, football is.”

  “Just a bunch of overgrown boys kicking a ball around a muddy field,” Janet sniffed. “What’s so important about a flippin’ ball?”

  “Ah, but it’s not a ball, is it?” Pat jabbed a finger at her. “It’s a symbol of community and working-class pride.”

  “Working class? Have you seen how much those footballers get paid? Ridiculous. Ow! Don’t pull Nanny’s earrings, love. Bridget, can you take him?”

  “I’ll have him,” Archie offered, but Pat already had his arms out.

  “Come to your gramps, lad. That’s better. Now, young man, when are you going to start walking? Can’t kick a ball around until you’re on two feet.”

  Jerrick listened gravely, while Bridge and Janet stifled giggles.

  They weren’t trying to make Archie feel like a spare part. He knew that. It just worked out that way sometimes, that was all.

  “Right, has everyone chosen?” Bridge asked. “They’ll be coming over to take the order soon. I’m starving.”

  There was a general opening of previously ignored menus.

  “Anyone going for the carvery?” Archie asked.

  Pat snorted. “I don’t come to a restaurant to go fetch my own dinner. I’ll have the curry.”

  “Vegan?” Bridge asked with a twinkle.

  “As if. I’ll have the lamb. What about you, lad?”

  Archie, who’d had his head down in his menu after Pat’s last remark, startled. “Same, I think.” He hoped it wouldn’t seem like he was trying to—hah—curry favour by following Pat’s lead.

  Bridge grinned. “His mum went veggie again last week, so he’s missing his meat.”

  “How’s she doing, your mother?” Janet asked in that careful and ever-so-slightly sympathetic tone she always used when speaking of Lyddie.

  “Noticed she’s not here with us.” Pat jiggled Jerrick on his knee.

  “She’s fine. Just busy.” Archie probably ought to say she’d sent her apologies, but he didn’t reckon they’d be deceived for an instant.

  Their waiter arrived, notepad at the ready, which was all to the good. After they’d given their food choices, Pat ordered beers for himself and Archie and a bottle of rosé “for the ladies.”

  “We are capable of speaking for ourselves,” Bridge said without much heat.

  “Oh, hush, love.” Janet put a hand on her arm. “If your father wants to treat us, then why not let him?”

  Archie made a mental note to insist on paying half the bill.

  The conversation over lunch turned to work. Pat always had a few stories to tell about idiot drivers who didn’t have a clue how their cars worked. Janet worked at Sainsbury’s, and regaled them with the latest about the state of her colleagues’ marriages, and which alcoholic customers had fallen off the wagon again. Bridge, who’d been yawning a bit while her mum retold stories she’d clearly heard before, then had them in fits about the late-night drunks who’d come into the chippie. Archie, feeling a proper part of the conversation at last, got a few laughs for the daft questions he’d been asked by recent visitors to the museum, such as did workhouse inmates get wi-fi, and why didn’t they just claim benefits and carry on living at home?

  He was the one to finish his meal first, so he hoiked Jerrick out of his high chair before he could get bolshie, and sat him on his knee. There was a suspicious fullness about the lad’s rear end. “Think he’s going to want a change soon.” He sent Bridge an apologetic look.

  “I’ll do it,” Janet said, putting down her fork.

  “Mum, finish your meal,” Bridge said with a touch of impatience. “He’s not about to explode.”

  Pat huffed. “Why can’t his dad do it? It’s not like I never changed your nappies, young lady. I thought you young folk were all for sharing the burden.”

  “There’s no changing table in the gents’ here, and they’re funny about blokes going into the ladies’.” Archie was starting to feel a bit got at again.

  Janet stood up. “I can’t manage any more of this anyway. They put far too much on my plate. Come on, hand over that changing bag.”

  “Sit down, Mum. I’m doing it.” Bridge stared her mum into submission before heading off with bag and baby.

  Janet picked up her fork again with a sulky air, while Pat grumbled something unintelligible yet somehow clearly disgruntled.

  Archie would honestly have preferred to have been facing the nappy right now. Even if it’d been a cauliflower or broccoli one.

  Robin got to the bus stop just in time to watch the bus rumble away without him. He slumped in despair on the narrow, sloping bench seat, clearly designed to deter rough sleepers. The next bus, as it was Sunday, was due in half an hour.

  And it was late. A furious text conversation en route established that no, Azrah couldn’t be persuaded to head over to the Ploughman without him and let Mum and Dad know he was running late. Literally, as he legged it from the bus stop in the centre to the Millstone, grabbed a surly-looking Azrah, and hurried her across town to the Ploughman.

  He got there a sweaty, dishevelled mess, wishing he dared take off his sweater but knowing he’d need all the brownie points he could get with Mum. The place was packed out, mostly with families of the grown-up-kids-and-wrinkly-parents variety, although there were also a fair few high chairs in evidence. Their occupants variously smeared food on themselves, shouted incoherently or banged crayons on the tray. Some of them were doing all three at once. There was a strong smell of gravy in the air, and Robin’s stomach rumbled. He cast the bar a yearning look, but Azrah got a pincer grip on his arm and dragged him off through the restaurant to where Mum was waving impatiently from a table by the window.

  “Robin! There you are. We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  “It’s only two minutes past twelve!”

  “Late is late, Robin. And I see you’ve brought your little friend.” Mum’s voice flattened noticeably at the end. Generally, she liked Azrah—as much as she liked anyone—but last-minute changes to plans never found favour.

  “Hi, Mrs. Christopher,” Azrah said in an aggressively chirpy voice.

  Mum’s lips remained resolutely turned-down at the corners. “I do hope the restaurant will be able to accommodate you. We only booked for three.”

  Robin’s face ached as he tried to jolly her along. “Mum, you’re sitting at a table with four chairs. In what world would they not be able to accommodate her? Hi, Dad.”

  Azrah courageously took the seat next to Mum, so Robin slid into the seat beside his father. Dad glanced up with a brief, sardonic grunt from the menu he was studying. Robin wasn’t sure why he bothered. He always, without fail in all of the twenty-four years Robin had known him, went for the carvery anyway. “Glad to see you finally made it. Still working in that shop?”

  “You make it sound like I’m stacking the shelves in some cut-price convenience store.” Robin could hear the whine in his voice and cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m still pursuing a retail career.”

  Mum sniffed. “We warned you a music degree wouldn’t lead to a proper profession, but you would have things your own way.”

  “Mum, did you even listen to what I just said?”

  Azrah leaned forward. “Our manager is expecting big things from him,” she said pointedly.

  Dad snorted and returned to his menu.

  Mum’s daggerlike look was completely wasted on Dad, so she gave it up and turned to Robin with a forced smile. “I’m sure that’s lovely, dear. And of c
ourse, you must get to meet a lot of nice young ladies there.”

  “Like me, you mean?” Azrah’s tone was so arch you could use it to hold up a cathedral roof.

  “I’m afraid we’ve long given up hope on that score. Still, perhaps it’s for the best. Mixed-religion marriages can be terribly difficult.”

  Robin chipped in quick before Azrah could recover the power of speech. “Mum, you know I’m not religious. And neither’s Azrah. Not that we’ve got any intention of getting married,” he added hastily.

  “Too right,” Azrah muttered. “To anyone. Ever.”

  It was enough to draw Mum’s fire. “You’ll want children one day, and then what will you do?”

  Azrah gave a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not planning on having kids.”

  “You’ll change your mind. I was never very keen on children, but I gave in to it in the end.” Mum sent Robin a glare that seemed to say, I didn’t make that mistake twice.

  The morning’s coffee churned in Robin’s stomach like an alien parasite about to make an explosive exit through his abdomen. Robin half wished it would. At least it’d put that godawful sweater out of his misery. Apart from its unfortunate looks, Robin was way too hot in it and the label appeared to have been made out of barbed wire. He rubbed his neck, trying to soothe it.

  “Robin! Stop scratching at the table. It’s so uncouth.”

  “Are you ready to order?” The arrival of the waitress, a pretty young blonde woman, was a lifeline Robin grabbed with both hands.

  “Yes— I think so? Azrah, are you ready?”

  “Yeah, I’m having the carvery. Gotta love that meat-feast.”

  Mum’s eyes narrowed. “Make sure you get plenty of vegetables too. A young girl like you shouldn’t be looking so peaky.”

  “I’ll go for the carvery too,” Robin said quickly, seeing Azrah bristle. “Dad?”

  Dad made them all wait several minutes while he scoured the menu one last time before throwing it down on the table. “Carvery.”

  Mum smiled, order restored. “Four carveries, then. You don’t need to tell us how it works. We’ve been here before. And we’d like some bread rolls, and a jug of water for the table.”