Counter Culture

by JL Merrow

  “Bless him, isn’t he a darling?” Lyddie said vaguely. “You go and play with Jerrick, love. Me and Robin will sort the kitchen out.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” Archie hesitated, then headed towards the living room, Jerrick in his arms.

  There was a wail. Then another.

  Archie came back, frowning. “Think he wants you,” he said to Lyddie.

  She beamed and held out her arms, and sure enough, the howling stopped as soon as Jerrick was back in her embrace. Archie shrugged and turned to Robin. “Looks like it’s you and me on cleaning duty, then.”

  He had a slightly lost quality about him, as if he’d found Jerrick’s blatant favouritism a little wounding. Robin pasted on a cheery smile and opened the cupboard under the sink, because what else would you keep there but cleaning stuff? “Not to worry. We’ll be finished in no time, then we can all go and play.”

  Amongst other things, the cupboard held a new packet of J-cloths, three bottles of washing-up liquid of varying degrees of fullness, and what appeared to be a pair of Lyddie’s shoes. Did she ever wear stilettos? They were definitely too small for Archie. Robin blinked, and pulled out the J-cloths and one of the bottles. “Have you got a mop?”

  “Right. Yeah.” Archie seemed to snap out of himself, and grabbed a mop and bucket from behind the door. “Just let me fill this, and I’ll do the floor and you can clean the surfaces, if that’s okay?”

  “No problem. Oh, do you think we should take a look at that pie first? Wouldn’t want to burn it.”

  “Good plan.” Archie opened up the oven and peered inside. “No, I’d say we’re good for at least another ten minutes. Maybe longer.”

  If Robin had ever been asked his opinion on cleaning as a date activity, he’d probably have turned his nose up at the idea, but in fact it was weirdly companionable. He and Archie worked around each other with quiet efficiency, smiles, and a lot of Watch that bit, I’ve just cleaned it. Robin was always a bit uncomfortable being a guest in someone’s house—shades of his mother’s disapproval of his behaviour when visiting her friends as a child hovered in his subconscious at all times. But it was impossible to be awkward while wiping their kitchen worktops and trying not to step in the wet patch.

  By the time they’d finished, a rich meaty-cum-tomatoey smell filled the air, cutting nicely through the aroma of lemon-scented cleaning products.

  “Are we done?” Robin asked. “I think the pie may be.”

  Archie smiled and parked the mop. “Yeah, we’re done.” He’d rolled up his sleeves, and a pair of strong, tattooed forearms were on display. Robin tried not to stare too overtly. One arm had a vaguely mythic, floral design, while the other, which was Robin’s favourite, showed the cogs and gears of a mechanical arm. Steampunk down to the bone, almost.

  They ate the pie sitting at the freshly cleaned kitchen table, Jerrick in his high chair once more as he chewed on a piece of cooled-down pie crust. The pastry was excellent—okay, it was kind of soggy on the bottom, but Robin actually liked that in pies—and even the weird mix of fillings was surprisingly tasty.

  “He’s not really hungry, bless him,” Lyddie said. “I fed him before we started cooking.”

  “He’s lucky to have a granny to do baking with,” Robin said, giving him a fond look. “I never knew mine. Either one. All my grandparents died before I was born. Mum and Dad had me in their forties, and their parents had them late as well, so . . .”

  “Archie never had any grandparents either,” Lyddie said. Her mouth turned down, and she drew in a breath. “At least—”

  “I didn’t need them,” Archie said fiercely, putting his hand on hers.

  Robin felt spare-partish for the first time that night. Then the moment passed, and they talked about something that’d happened at Archie’s museum that day.

  They moved into the living room after they’d eaten and washed up. Lyddie’s COC placards were still neatly stacked against the wall.

  Robin wasn’t sure what to do. It’d probably be polite to ask her how it was going—but it’d also make him feel like a traitor, pretending to sympathise with her cause. Then again, did he owe it to all his fellow employees to get over his personal scruples and do what he could to stop their jobs being endangered?

  In the end, he decided it was entirely too complicated a moral dilemma to solve while full of pie, and settled for pretending that corner of the room didn’t exist.

  After playing for a while, Jerrick went grizzly for five minutes, then conked out, asleep. Lyddie did her disappearing act again, which Robin felt guiltily glad about. He and Archie sat on the sofa and mostly ignored the telly, chatting about all kinds of stuff—Robin’s years at uni, Archie’s stint on the streets, and nothing in particular.

  It felt like no time at all had passed when Archie glanced at his watch. It was a strange one, with a cutaway face that showed all the little gears whirring and oscillating inside. How on earth did he manage to tell the time from it? The hands didn’t show up at all. But apparently he did, because he gave a sigh and said, “Bridge’ll be here soon to pick up Jerrick.”

  “I should get going,” Robin said quickly. “Work tomorrow, and all that. But thanks for dinner. It was really . . . interesting.”

  Archie laughed. “I’ll pass on your compliments to the chef.”

  “You should get him a little hat. And an apron that says Kiss the Cook.” Robin could feel his face heating up. Should he have mentioned the k-word again?

  Archie’s eyes seemed to darken, and Robin wondered if he was thinking about kisses too. His breath hitched—but then Archie turned away and the moment was lost.

  Robin swallowed. “So, are we still on for Sunday?”

  “Yeah! Absolutely. If you come round here about nine, say? Then we can travel up together.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Robin forced himself to make a move. For the door, unfortunately, rather than for Archie. “Bye, Jerrick,” he added in a whisper, giving the sleeping child a wave.

  Then he dragged himself out of the front door and into the night.

  Archie closed the front door softly, so as not to wake Jerrick. Should he have kissed Robin good night? Archie wished he’d held his nerve and gone for it—but he’d been worried how bad it would look to Bridge if she ambled in and found them mid-snog. Or even mid-peck-on-the-cheek.

  Lyddie came downstairs while he was still debating with himself. “Oh, has Robin gone, then?”

  “As if you weren’t listening for the front door. Yeah, he’s gone.”

  “So you’re seeing him now?”

  “Not . . . exactly. But he’s coming to the convivial on Sunday.”

  “Then you’re seeing him. That’s good. He’s a sweet boy.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

  Bridge turned up not long after Robin had left—in fact, if he’d stayed any later, he’d have bumped into her on the way out.

  “How’s he been?” She sounded tired, but not fed up.

  “Asleep for most of the evening.” Archie was pretty sure it was Jerrick she was asking about, not Robin. “I think Lyddie wore him out with all the baking.”

  “Yeah?” Bridge shot Lyddie a look that was equal parts admiring and incredulous. “Rather you than me. I get enough messes to wipe up without letting him loose on the contents of the kitchen cupboards.”

  “He was a little angel. Hardly made any mess at all.”

  Archie didn’t bother to suppress a snort. “Selective memory, much?”

  Bridge laughed. “Right, next time they need cakes for the toddler group I’ll get you and him on the job. S’pose I’d better get him back home now.” Despite her words, she dropped onto the sofa with an Oof and did a spot-on impersonation of someone who wasn’t planning on moving for a good long while.

  “Cup of tea first?” Archie offered.

  “Shouldn’t.” Bridge grabbed a cushion, punched it into submission and stuck it behind her back with a wriggle and a sigh.

  “I’ll put the
kettle on,” Lyddie said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Archie sent Bridge a speculative glance. She had her eyes closed, and there was a half smile on her face. Would now be an opportune moment to tell her about him and Robin? Not that there was a him and Robin, not yet at any rate. It was definitely starting to look like there would be, though. Archie couldn’t help smiling at the thought. And Bridge seemed in a good mood tonight, if a bit weary. There must have been a friendly crowd of customers at the chippie.

  Yes. No time like the present. Archie opened his mouth to begin—and was interrupted by a gentle snore.

  Okay. Maybe not quite the time to tell her, then.

  Robin spent an uneasy night after leaving Archie’s house. His conscience was pricking him not only about the continued deception, but also about the whole homelessness issue.

  The more time he spent with Archie and his mum, the more he could see Lyddie’s point about that advert. Or at least, could see it wasn’t entirely nonproblematic. And while he didn’t agree with her methods—the ad was a done deal, and damaging Willoughbys wasn’t going to help anyone—he did think that perhaps some amends ought to be made.

  He’d have to admit there was a smidge of self-interest in there too. Well, maybe more like a splodge. No, not that much. A smodge? But if Willoughbys redeemed itself, hopefully Lyddie would call off the Black Friday demonstration, and what was better for the store’s image would definitely be better for Robin and his friends’ long-term employment prospects. And it’d make it much, much easier for Robin to own up to working there.

  But how, exactly, could Willoughbys redeem itself? What did homeless people actually want from the store? Archie would probably have a good idea, but that might lead to awkward questions.

  He tried to sound Sheppy’s Mum out over a cup of soup after work the next day, but she was having a bad day and wasn’t all that chatty. “Where’s John?” he asked finally, as the large, friendly bloke was nowhere to be seen.

  “He managed to get into the emergency shelter on Queen Street. Nick of time, too. He’s not very well at the moment. Bad cough.”

  The shelter! Why hadn’t Robin thought of that? The shelter was bound to need donations, and they’d be able to take stuff like food from the café and get it to people who needed it. “Do you ever go there?”

  She shook her head, lank orange hair escaping from her hood. “Can’t leave Sheppy.”

  “Oh. I suppose they don’t take pets? That’s a shame. Are you okay, though, out here on your own?”

  She nodded and didn’t say anything else. Conversation over, Robin guessed. He gave Sheppy a pat and headed home, his mind working.

  The shelter was probably pretty busy right now, with people turning up for a meal and a bed. If that was how it worked? From what Sheppy’s Mum had said, it sounded like it was a bit more complicated than just rolling up at the door. Anyway, he could go over there one lunchtime and speak to someone. If they were open. Did homeless shelters open during the day? Or were they like bed and breakfasts, and kicked you out to fend for yourself during daylight hours? The longer Robin thought about it, the more he realised he was utterly clueless.

  He made a mental note to read up on it all online. When he got home, though, the first thing he saw was this week’s Echo on his doormat. Robin picked it up with nervous fingers, and turned to Letters to the Editor.

  As he’d feared, there was one complaining about the Willoughbys advert in last week’s edition, although if it’d been written by Lyddie she’d used an assumed name. It was signed Ms. Shirley Gatsby. Robin winced as he skimmed it, his eyes catching on words like outrage and rampant capitalism.

  Then he read the editor’s response, and physically cringed. The editor, apparently, was either best mates with Willoughbys’ owners or had received a hefty kickback. The phrase bleeding heart liberals actually appeared in print. As did the suggestion that the author of the complaint should attempt to purchase herself a sense of humour. Possibly at Willoughbys, which was a fine local store steeped in tradition.

  In his mind’s eye, Robin could see the battle lines being drawn up, with Archie, Lyddie, and their friends on one side, and Willoughbys plus various other establishment figures on the other.

  And Robin caught, like a bunny in the headlights, in the kill zone between them.

  He turned the page, hoping for something to stop the churning in his stomach—a heartwarming story of a local man winning a tenner on the lottery, say, or a report on a school nativity play. Instead, he found a rerun of the sleeping bag advert, complete with Robin, his colleagues, and his teddy bear.

  Robin felt a strong urge to go to bed, cuddle Teddina very tightly, and never get up again.

  Robin soon realised he couldn’t do the hostel visit in his lunch hour. By the time he got there, and factoring in time to walk back, he’d have around twenty minutes to spare. Not nearly long enough for an in-depth discussion on how Willoughbys might best help them, including the tricky bit where he’d have to explain his lack of authority and how this was all pie in the sky for now, when what the hostel really wanted was pie in the dining room. No, it’d be better to go in on a day off, which as he had the steampunk convivial on Sunday meant not before Monday.

  Robin felt guiltily glad to be able to put off worrying about the hostel visit until next week. It meant he had more time to worry about the convivial. What if he made Archie look bad in front of his fellow steampunks? Called them steampunkers by mistake, or made some other hideous gaffe Archie hadn’t got around to warning him about? Archie had promised to lend him a few things, so not all his clothes would be an embarrassment, but what if he wore them wrong?

  What if he just didn’t suit steampunk? Archie had assured him facial hair wasn’t obligatory, which was good, because the only time Robin had tried to grow a moustache he’d been mortified to find nobody even noticed. But actors and actresses were often described as having “the look” for period drama—maybe Robin had a particularly modern face, one that’d be totally ridiculous in steampunk stuff?

  What if—and Robin would have had to admit under torture that this was what he was really stressing about—Archie took one glance at Robin next to all his wacky, crazy steampunk mates and wondered what the hell he was doing with someone so normal and boring. Robin could see him now, confessing to his mates he didn’t know what he’d been thinking, his face twisted up in a sneer that was uncannily like Ethan’s . . .

  Oh God. Robin shuddered. Get a grip. Archie hadn’t found him boring when they’d spent all that time together in his house, had he? And he’d asked him to the convivial, so there was a good chance he wanted him there. Wanted him to meet his mates, even. Although as it was out of Hitchworth, of course, there might not be many of them there . . .

  Stop it. Archie thought he was interesting. At least enough to turn up for drinks at the Millstone and still invite him out again. It would be fine on Sunday.

  Right.

  The rest of Robin’s week seemed to pass at the speed of a geriatric snail that’d just had a hip replacement, probably because, despite his best efforts, he didn’t once manage to bump into Archie or even Lyddie. Of course, he could have called or popped round, but if his relationship with Ethan had taught him anything, it was that most blokes didn’t find neediness an attractive quality.

  They had a date for Sunday that Robin was almost certain might actually be a date. That would have to do. At least he was kept busy at work, what with preparations for the Loyal Customers’ Christmas Shopping Evening and a number of increasingly desperate attempts to get Heath to tell him what, precisely, his pivotal role was supposed to be.

  Robin barely slept Saturday night. He’d dug out his waistcoat that evening, but as Sunday dawned he still wasn’t sure whether to wear it or not. Did it look too modern? Too pinstripey? All the steampunks he’d seen online wore fabulous waistcoats in a variety of eye-catching colours and designs. There were jewel-coloured paisley waistcoats, airship waistcoats, dinosaur waist
coats, and—Robin’s mouth had literally watered—Van Gogh-style exploding-Tardis waistcoats. Some of the designs were more prosaic, true, but they were generally paired with jet packs, mechanical arms, or splendidly coggy ray guns, none of which Robin felt able to knock up on short notice. Or long notice, for that matter.

  All Robin had was a boring waistcoat. Although it did have the advantage of making him look decidedly accountant-esque.

  No. No, he wouldn’t wear it, he decided, feeling a sudden, inexplicable aversion to the thing. Archie had said jeans and a plainish shirt—grandad collar if possible—would be fine for Robin’s first event.

  Robin riffled through the shirts in his wardrobe dispiritedly. Why didn’t he have any grandad neck shirts? Okay, so maybe they hadn’t been in fashion in his lifetime, but surely they were a style classic? Robin briefly considered cutting the collar off an ordinary shirt, but the trouble was, he liked all his shirts. All the unflattering ones Mum had bought him had ended up at the charity shop when he’d moved. He couldn’t quite bring himself to commit acts of sartorial vandalism on any of the shirts that remained, so settled for the least modern looking of the bunch.

  Jeans he could do; Robin pulled on his favourite washed black pair, and topped them off with a thick leather belt with a plain buckle. He grabbed his biker boots from the back of the wardrobe—Mum had put her foot down about him getting a moped, but he’d fallen in love with the boots. They were so wonderfully strappy and buckle-y. Robin checked his reflection in the full-length mirror, and nodded. Okay, the shirt wasn’t great but he looked good from the waist down, even if he did jingle a bit when he walked.

  At least he didn’t have to leave the house before it was light, which was one of the most depressing parts of going to work in a British winter. Steampunks were apparently not noted for their early rising. Robin felt an affinity with them already.