Counter Culture

by JL Merrow

  Archie laughed and put on a posh voice. “How dare you, sir! Accusing me of normality—the very idea! This means teacups at dawn.”

  “It does?”

  “Er, that works better if you’ve actually heard of tea duelling.”

  “People duel with tea?” Robin’s eyes widened. “I suppose a fresh pot could give you a nasty scalding.”

  “No, nothing that painful. It’s like competitive biscuit dunking,” Archie explained, lingering by the door to the living room. “It’s a steampunk thing.”

  “Is that what you are? A . . . steampunker?”

  Archie did wince this time. “Steampunk. No er. You’d be amazed how uptight people can get about that.”

  “So that’s why you dress up, um . . .”

  “Like an extra from a Charles Dickens movie? Yeah. Well, and my job. I’m a guide at the workhouse museum, so they actively encourage this sort of thing. Most steampunks can’t be splendid 24/7. Uh, that’s what we tend to call going full-on steampunk. It’s being splendid, not dressing up. We should probably take these drinks in before they get completely cold. After you. Nice shoes, by the way.” Archie followed Robin into the living room, telling himself firmly to stop lecturing the poor bloke.

  Robin stopped and looked around. “Where did your mum go?”

  “Who knows?” Archie had a pretty good idea that this was her being subtle and trying to matchmake, but he wasn’t going to come out and say it. “Don’t worry about the tea. I’ll make her a fresh cup later.”

  They sat down on the sofa, and silence fell for a moment. Archie almost wished Lyddie had stayed—except if she had, subtlety would probably have gone right out the window. In its socks, metaphorically speaking.

  Some of the tension was back in Robin’s eyes when he cleared his throat. “So, you and your mum are pretty into this COC thing, are you?” His eyes widened. “I mean, Communities Over Consumerism. I wasn’t trying to imply you were both into, um . . .”

  “Cock?” Archie laughed, then grimaced. “It’s . . . complicated. Lyddie’s always had a thing about Willoughbys—she’d most likely disown me if I ever even went in there for a browse—and if you ask me, they really have gone too far this time.”

  “They have?” Robin looked properly concerned about it, bless him.

  “I take it you haven’t seen their ad in the local paper, then? It came out last week. It basically makes a mockery of homeless people.”

  “Um, I’m sure they didn’t mean to . . .”

  Archie grabbed the paper, which was on their old-fashioned sideboard still folded to the offending page, and showed it to Robin. “See that? I bet they had to clear out half a dozen actual rough sleepers so they could put their poncey sleeping bags down.” He could hear the bitterness in his own tone.

  “There . . . probably weren’t that many. And maybe they, um, made some recompense?”

  “Doubt it. People like that don’t care about anything other than profit.”

  “People like what? You mean retail workers?” Robin’s tone was sharp.

  Archie ran a hand through his hair, and tried to calm down. Robin didn’t deserve his anger. “No. Sorry. Not expressing myself well. Don’t suppose they had much choice in taking part, and I’m not suggesting anyone should have put their jobs on the line by refusing. It’s management I blame—or whoever comes up with their marketing ploys.”

  Robin was studying the picture. “You know, it’s a pretty harsh climate in retail at the moment. Maybe they’re just trying to survive?”

  Archie barked a laugh. “Trust me, I know who owns that store. They’re trying to survive in a million-quid house, and if the store goes under, they’ll make a fortune selling the premises anyway, in a prime site like that.”

  “That’s— I mean, that must be worrying for the people who work there.”

  “Yeah.” Christ, this was ruining the mood good and proper. Archie tried to lighten his tone. “Hey, you haven’t said what you do for a living.”

  Robin was staring at Lyddie’s campaign stuff again. “I’m, um, an accountant?” It came out sounding like a question, as if he was worried Archie might not know what one was.

  Or maybe he was just worried how Archie would take it. Accountants didn’t exactly have a reputation for being the life and soul of the party. Archie tried not to be charmed that Robin so obviously cared what he thought of him. “What’s that like?”

  “Really boring. I don’t like to talk about it.” It came out in a rush. “So tell me about your biscuit duels?”

  Archie grinned, relieved at the change of subject. “Tea duelling. Well, basically, the idea is you get two people going head-to-head, and each has a biscuit and a cup of tea. They dunk for a count of three seconds—more if the tea’s getting cold—and then hold the biscuit up. The winner is the one who eats it last—but you lose if it falls to pieces. The goal is to get a clean nom. Wanna try?” Archie crossed mental fingers. Like a well-dunked biscuit, this could go one of two ways. Either Robin was about to say, No, thanks, it sounds a bit silly to me, or—

  Robin’s eyes brightened. “Go on, then.”

  Delighted, Archie jumped up. “I’ll grab the biscuits—you hold on to what’s left of your tea.”

  He brought in a couple of tea towels too. “Put this over your lap—you don’t want to ruin your clothes. Of course, in an actual competition we’d both have cups of English breakfast or Earl Grey, and the same amount of milk for fairness, but this’ll do for you to get the idea.”

  “Are you just assuming I’m going to be rubbish at this? I could be the next world champion tea dueller.” Robin gave him a sidelong look. “You’re going to tell me there is a world champion, now, aren’t you?”

  “Not a world champ, at least not as far as I know, but they do have national finals at the Asylum.”

  Robin’s look now had so much side it was a wonder he didn’t sprain an eyeball. “At the asylum. Entertainment for the inmates?”

  Archie laughed. “The Asylum’s the UK’s biggest steampunk festival. It’s held in Lincoln on the site of a former asylum, which is—”

  “Where they got the name?” Robin grinned. “I’m starting to get the feeling steampunks like people to think they’re a bit weird.”

  Archie hadn’t had this much fun in ages. “Yeah, now you’re getting it! So are we going to dunk these biscuits or what?”

  Robin took hold of a biscuit and adopted a fierce glare. “Bring it on.”

  After three goes, Robin was forced to face the painful truth: he was utter pants at tea duelling. They’d had to stop at three as there was now more soggy biscuit in his tea than tea.

  “I can’t believe I just failed at biscuit dunking. Never ask me to do this in public.”

  Archie stopped laughing long enough to give him a sympathetic smile. “You need to work on your technique, that’s all. Hold the biscuit more vertically. And away from the steam.”

  “Nope. I’m never doing this again. There’s only so much humiliation I can stand. Aren’t there any other steampunk games that might be more suited to my skill set?” Assuming he had one, which he was beginning to doubt.

  “Teapot racing? How are you with a remote control? Or there’s Are You There, Moriarty? Which basically involves hitting someone over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.”

  “I could probably manage that,” Robin said cautiously.

  “Blindfolded? And you have to hold hands.” The gleam in Archie’s eye hinted he was about to suggest they give it a go there and then.

  Oh God. Holding hands with Archie. Blindfolded. Robin’s nerve broke. “Um, maybe some other time? Oh, is it really that late?” He looked around desperately—and fruitlessly—for a clock. Who didn’t have a clock in their living room? Then again, Lyddie didn’t seem like the sort of mum who needed to know to the second exactly how late her son got back after a night out so she could guilt-trip him about it for the rest of the week. “I ought to be going.”

  Archie ducked his h
ead. “Sorry. I forget normal people aren’t into all this kind of stuff.”

  Robin felt oddly as though he had whacked Archie on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. The Sunday edition, with all the supplements, and a free audiobook of War and Peace stuck to the cover. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s great. I just . . .” All he could think of was some awful crack about not getting into the kinky stuff on a first date, so he shut his mouth tight before it could escape. Because this wasn’t a date. This was Archie being friendly, that was all. It wasn’t his fault Robin’s mind kept going to unsuitable places. “Seriously, it’s been fun, and I’m sure that would be fun too, but I just . . .”

  “Yeah, no worries.” Archie stood up. “Cheers for coming round. Lyddie enjoyed meeting you.”

  Robin had ruined it. He’d ruined it all. Archie was visibly retreating into polite-acquaintance mode. “Maybe I should say goodbye to her?” Robin was suddenly desperate not to leave until he’d fixed things at least a little bit.

  “Uh, yeah, I could give her a shout?”

  “I mean, I don’t want to disturb her, if she’s, um, in the bath or on the loo or something.” Great, Robin. So smooth.

  Archie gave him an unreadable look. “How about I tell her you said goodbye? And, uh, I’m sure she’d like to see you again. Anytime you’re passing. I take it you live pretty close?”

  Was he imagining it, or did Archie not want him to go either? “Yes. Wells Street. Not quite as nice as this place. I guess museum guiding pays better than, um, accountancy.” Robin gave a nervous laugh.

  Archie snorted. “I doubt that, big-time. No, Lyddie was left the house by a mate in his will.”

  Robin’s eyes widened. “I wish I had mates like that!”

  “Careful what you wish for. I used to call him Uncle Charlie, but he wasn’t a relation.” Archie shook his head briefly, and Robin got the impression there was more to the story than he was saying. “Lyddie hung around with an arty set when she was younger. Used to model for them.”

  “Have you got any of the paintings of her? I don’t know anyone who’s had an actual painting done of them. Well, not a proper one, you know, where they pose, instead of just doing it from a photograph.”

  Archie snorted. “You should have seen the attic when we moved in. Wall to wall nudes, most of them of my mum aged around fifteen.”

  Robin’s eyes widened. In his (it was now clear, very limited) experience, the words mum and nude didn’t belong in the same sentence. They didn’t belong in the same language. “Uh, wasn’t that a bit weird? Seeing your mum in the, um, altogether?”

  And at age fifteen?

  Archie shrugged. “She had a big nudist phase when I was a kid. Used to walk around the house naked all the time.”

  Robin swallowed. “Um, does she still do that?”

  “Nah, don’t worry. She reckons this place is way too draughty.”

  “Didn’t her mum and dad mind her posing nude at that age for a load of—” Robin stopped himself in the nick of time from saying dirty old men—after all, some of them might have been dirty old women “—artists?” Had it even been legal, for that matter?

  “Oh, they minded.” Archie’s tone was grim.

  “I mean,” Robin went on, trying not to trip over his tongue, “most parents would get a bit overprotective about stuff like that.”

  “Oh yeah. They got so fucking protective they kicked her out of the house and told her never to come home.”

  Robin wasn’t usually shocked by people swearing. But coming from Archie, in that tone . . . “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad stuff. Families, eh?” His laugh sounded horribly fake.

  “Wouldn’t know. Lyddie’s all I’ve ever had.” Archie grimaced. “Uh, and Jerrick, now, obviously. And Bridge, and her mum and dad. Huh.”

  He seemed genuinely surprised, as if he’d somehow failed to twig that he now had a family and it’d all happened without his conscious input.

  “So, no brothers or sisters, then?”

  Archie shook his head. “You?”

  “No. Mum and Dad were in their forties when they had me. Bit of a late decision. Dad’s always said Mum was never that keen on kids before.” Or since, he didn’t add.

  “Lyddie loves kids. Of course, she’s a lot younger.”

  Robin didn’t quite dare to ask how old she’d been when Archie was born. If she’d been fending for herself since age fifteen . . . “Is Archie short for something?” he asked instead. Robin hoped it wasn’t Archibald. Archie was a great name, but Archibald? That always made Robin think of hair loss. He had trouble coming up with anything else it might be short for, though. What other names even started with Arch? Archaeopteryx? Archenemy? Archipelago?

  Archie shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. Oh God, it was Archibald, wasn’t it?

  “Mars,” he said in the end.

  Robin blinked. “Uh?” It might not be the most articulate comment, but it pretty much summed up his feelings.

  “That’s my given name. Mars.”

  “So . . . your mum was into astronomy? Or did she just really like gooey chocolate bars?”

  Archie laughed. “Roman gods, actually. Or one of them, at any rate. Lyddie liked the story of how Juno had him, what with being a single mum and all. You know there’s this version of the myth where Mars the god doesn’t have a dad at all, just his mum and a magic flower?”

  “Uh, Hitchworth Comprehensive wasn’t all that hot on a classical education, so I’ll take your word for it.” Magic flower? That’s what Juno told her mum and dad, was it? “So is Archie your middle name or something?”

  “It’s a nickname.”

  Robin was acutely jealous. His one and only nickname, which thankfully hadn’t survived the transition from primary school to high school, had for a period of years been Pooh. “How do you get a nickname like Archie?”

  “Railway arches. Dossed in one for a while. Back when I was in my teens.”

  “You mean you were, um . . .” Robin swallowed. Suddenly COC made a lot more sense.

  “Homeless. Yeah.” Archie gave a jerky shrug that made Robin want very much to put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Sorry.”

  “Why? It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t Lyddie’s either,” Archie added fiercely. “She was ill, so she couldn’t look after me for a while, and then people she ought to have been able to trust just swept in and took advantage. Made it a lot harder for her to get me back. I didn’t much fancy the options I was given by social services, so . . .”

  “No, but . . . So that’s why you’re . . .” Robin gestured at the placards in the corner.

  “Yeah. I wasn’t happy when I saw the ad, and Lyddie’s really got herself fired up about it. She’s not wrong, either . . .” Archie sighed. “She hates thinking about that time in my life. She feels she failed me, you know? Even though none of it was her fault.”

  Robin literally couldn’t imagine what it must be like. Mum had strong views on people who slept rough, especially if they begged for money. Back when he’d still lived at home, he’d had to hide the copies of The Big Issue he bought. She’d found one once, and had not only chucked it in the bin, she’d also made a production of disinfecting all the surfaces it might conceivably have touched. If he’d ever slept on the streets, she’d probably have refused to let him in the house ever again.

  Either that or she’d have dragged him home by the ear, scrubbed him with Dettol, and never let him out of the house again. It wasn’t always easy to tell with Mum, although maybe that was just him.

  “So, um, are you going to take part in the demonstration?” Oh shit, would an accountant know about the demo? Robin had a brief yet intense moment of panic before reminding himself that there probably weren’t a lot of other reasons to prepare placards. He crossed his toes inside his shoes nonetheless.

  Archie shook his head. “Not sure. I’ve got a big school visit due that day.”

  So there was a day set alread
y? Well, duh. Black Friday. It had to be. Just like they’d said in the letter.

  “But even if I didn’t,” Archie went on, “me being there might not be a good thing. A bit too much of a painful reminder for Lyddie. She gets protective. I think she forgets I’m not that kid anymore.”

  Robin wasn’t certain how Archie staying away from the demo was supposed to make Lyddie think about him less, but he guessed the guy knew his own mum best. And to be honest, she did seem a bit . . . distractible. His heart lurched. Maybe it hadn’t been a physical illness that’d stopped her looking after Archie when he was a teenager.

  “Bridge has offered to go along and make sure she’s okay,” Archie said, sounding like he was worried Robin would think he didn’t take enough care of his mum. Or like he was trying to convince himself.

  “Scary—I mean, Jerrick’s mum, right?”

  Archie grinned. “That’s right. The one I’m not married to.”

  That wasn’t good. Not that Archie wasn’t married, no, that was entirely good and wonderful and altogether fantastic. But if Bridge or, God forbid, Archie was at the demonstration, and if he or she happened to see Robin working at Willoughbys . . .

  Then again, would they? The demo would presumably be outside the store—or at least, Robin fervently hoped that was where it’d stay. In the unlikely event the shop was stormed, Robin couldn’t see the protesters bothering to march all the way through Perfumes and Cosmetics, past Haberdashery, Kitchen and Home, and on into Menswear. And if they did, he could always hide behind the counter until they went away again. Which would probably be the safest thing to do in any case.

  Speaking of safety . . . “Wasn’t it really dangerous living on the street when you were a kid? How did you even live if you were too young to claim benefits?” Oh God, he hadn’t had to sell sex to buy food, had he?

  Archie shrugged. “It was all right, actually. You get to know people, and you look out for each other. And I was six foot tall by the time I was fourteen, with a punk haircut—not a soft target. It was only for six months, anyway.”