‘Don’t need one, do I? I’ve got qualifications.’
‘Right, yeah, with that BTEC they’ll be making you Prime Minister.’
‘Shut up. It’s a start.’ Vee raised her glass. ‘Anyway—cheers. It’s nice to be out.’
‘Yeah, cheers.’ As they clinked, the braided woman took notice of me. I must’ve seemed especially glum or lonesome, because she said: ‘You all right over there, kiddo?’
I smiled at her.
‘Is anyone with you? You look a bit lost.’
‘Leave him, Karen—he’s fine,’ said Vee.
‘It’s okay. I’m with my dad. He’s gone to—’ I realised the truth would cast him in a poor light. ‘He’s gone out to the car, I think.’
‘Ah,’ said Karen. She canted her head. ‘Are you on your holidays? You don’t sound like you’re from round here.’
‘We’re supposed to be going to Leeds,’ I said.
‘Supposed to be?’
I shrugged.
She took a sip of beer.
Vee said, ‘Where’s Gary getting the money from for all that, anyway? I thought he was skint.’
‘He got that payout, didn’t he—from work.’
‘Yeah, but I thought he’d spent all that by now. I would’ve.’
‘I know you would’ve.’ Karen’s attention was still on me. ‘Leeds,’ she said, ‘why Leeds? You got family there?’ She had a gentle manner, a sympathetic tone.
‘Have you ever watched The Artifex?’ I said.
‘Er, yeah,’ she answered, bug-eyed. ‘It’s ace.’
Vee glared at her. ‘What’s that?’
‘The Artifex. It’s on the telly.’
‘A kids’ show?’
‘Yeah, but it’s weird. Loads of people watch it. Gary watches it.’
‘When’s it on?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Five o’clock on a Wednesday,’ I said.
‘What side?’
‘ITV.’
‘Loads of adverts, then.’
‘Yeah. But it’s not on at the moment, anyway. They’re still making the next series.’
Karen beamed at me. ‘The lad knows his stuff.’
I shrugged again.
‘Who’s home at five o’clock on a Wednesday?’ Vee said. ‘I’m still at the shop at five o’clock on a Wednesday. My shift don’t finish till seven. You’re such a layabout.’
‘I can’t help it if I work from home.’
‘Yeah, right. Work.’ Vee stared at me now. ‘She reckons she’s a musician. But all she does is sit on her arse and listen to the Bee Gees. I don’t think it’s the same thing.’
‘No way do I like the Bee Gees.’ Karen elbowed her. ‘Button it.’
‘Watch my drink. You’re gonna knock it over.’
Karen settled down. She seemed to be pondering my situation intensely; her lashes were convulsing. ‘I still don’t see what The Artifex has got to do with Leeds, though.’
‘That’s where it’s filmed. Well, most of it,’ I said.
‘No way! I never knew that.’
‘Can’t be that good then, can it?’ Vee said.
I let a moment skid by. ‘You know, my dad’s actually on . . .’ I trailed off.
‘Yeah?’
‘My dad’s on the crew.’
‘No way.’
‘Yeah. He’s taking me to see the studio.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Karen said. ‘He sounds like a right cool dad. Mine’s a window cleaner. He’s never even let me up his ladder.’ I didn’t say anything, and she probably mistook this silence for an affirmation. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘you’re not far away now. What is it, Vee, ten minutes?’
‘To Leeds? More like fifteen.’
‘You must be dead excited.’ Karen rubbed her palms. ‘I’m excited for you. Jealous, to be honest.’
‘It’s taking forever, though. To get there.’
‘Good things usually do,’ she said.
‘I suppose.’
Vee coughed. ‘So where are you recording this demo, then? I thought that place you found was too dear.’ And Karen turned to answer her, letting me continue my surveillance of the car park.
They were still discussing the ins and outs of it when my father returned, empty-handed. The bandage was gone from his scabbed knuckles and the swelling had worsened, yellowed. He sat down next to me. ‘I just went round everyone in the pub, and no one smokes. Can you believe my rotten luck today, or what?’ He directed this to me, but he was facing the women. ‘A boozer full of farmers, not a pipe or a rollie between ’em. What kind of a town is this, eh?’
‘The crap kind,’ Karen said to him.
‘We smoke,’ Vee added, a bit too keenly. ‘You need one?’
‘Yeah,’ my father answered, ‘but I’m fussy about the type.’
She wet her lips. ‘What’s your type?’
He prodded my knee with his own. ‘Tell her.’
‘Wintermans,’ I said.
Vee snorted. ‘And what’re they when they’re at home?’
‘They’re like those little cigar thingies,’ Karen said. ‘My granddad smokes them. Crème Brûlée, or something.’
‘Café Crème,’ said my father.
Vee snorted again. ‘You what?’
‘I can give you Silk Cut,’ Karen said. ‘Otherwise you’ll need to walk about three miles to the shops.’
‘You know, I think I’m desperate enough to take you up on that. Thanks.’ My father stretched his arm over my seatback, sighing.
Karen went fishing in her handbag. She brought out a pack still in its cellophane, tore it off. ‘You can have the first one.’
‘Is that meant to be lucky?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Shame.’ With the slowest of movements, he leaned close enough to draw two cigarettes from the box. He enclosed one in his fist, tucked the other behind his ear, holding his gaze on Karen all the while. She watched him in return. ‘Aren’t you going to have one?’ he asked.
‘Maybe later,’ she replied. And there it was—that testing smile, barely a crease.
He reciprocated.
‘You’ve a good lad, there,’ she said, motioning at me. ‘He’s been telling us about your trip.’
‘Oh yeah?’ My father’s arm sunk round my shoulder. ‘Things aren’t quite going to plan at the moment, but it’ll turn out fine in the end, won’t it, son?’
Vee broke in before I could answer: ‘He says you work in telly. You must know a load of famous people.’
‘One or two.’
‘Oh my god, have you met Noel Edmonds?’
‘She has a thing for Noel Edmonds,’ Karen said. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘Crikey,’ my father said. ‘It’s always the ones you least expect.’
Vee blushed. ‘It’s not that weird, if you think about it. Have you actually met him?’
‘Yeah. Doesn’t it show?’ My father winked. ‘Am I not bathed in his almighty glow?’
‘Shut up. You don’t have to take the mick.’
Karen was laughing now. ‘I can’t believe you work on The Artifex. I mean, I know it’s for kids and everything, but it’s still good telly.’ She toyed with her braid, sipped her drink, fidgety all of a sudden.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘The book’s better, so they tell me.’
‘Was it a book? I never knew that.’
‘Yeah. We’ve just been listening in the car. I don’t think it’s quite as weird as the show is, personally.’ Then he seized his opportunity: ‘D’you girls want another drink? Least I can do for you keeping him company.’ He tousled my hair again, fingernails roughing my scalp.
‘I’m meant to be driving,’ Vee said. ‘But, go on, I’ll have another half.’
‘That’d be nice, yeah, thanks,’ Karen said.
‘Same again?’
She nodded.
He got up and made for the bar, then paused in the doorway. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get your n
ames.’ He was only looking at one of them.
‘Mine’s Karen,’ she said.
‘It’s Vee.’
‘I’m Fran. That’s Daniel.’ He took the cigarette from behind his ear. ‘You don’t happen to have a lighter in that bag of yours, do you, love? I’m going to take this outside. Prefer to do my smoking in the fresh air.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ Karen started rummaging, then a better thought came to her. ‘Y’know, I think I’ll come out with you. There’s a bench in the back. It’s not raining, is it?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘And what about me?’ Vee said. Her jaw was hanging slack.
‘Well, obviously I meant you, too.’
‘Obviously,’ my father said, and he muttered to me: ‘You’ll be all right here for a bit, won’t you, Danno?’
I was expecting this. ‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘I don’t want you breathing all our fumes. Look what’s happened to your grandpa. It’s really bad for you.’ To Karen and Vee, who didn’t know him, this must have seemed like fatherly concern; but Fran Hardesty was only ever one better proposition away from dispossessing me. ‘Hey, tell you what—’ He walked over, dug into his pocket for a handful of small change, and counted it off on the table. ‘There’s three quid. Let’s see if you can make it fifty by the time we get back.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll show you.’ He wagged his head towards the door. Karen and Vee were gathering their things.
‘But what if QC shows up?’ I swept the coins into my hand all the same. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like.’
‘Who’s that?’ Vee said to my father.
‘Nobody. A mate of mine.’
‘He single?’
‘Vee. Honestly!’ Karen slapped her arm. ‘Ignore her.’
My father snickered. ‘Yeah, he’s single. But he couldn’t hold a candle to Noel Edmonds.’
‘Ha ha. Not many can, sweetheart,’ said Vee. ‘Not many can.’
I followed the three of them through the pub, into the room we’d left earlier; it was busy now, rumbling with chatter. My father dragged a stool to the fruit machine and lifted me onto it. ‘You girls head out,’ he said, over his shoulder, ‘I’ll catch you up.’ And they did.
When they were out of earshot, he gripped my collarbone. ‘Right, son, put your money in.’ The machine’s lights intensified as I dropped a coin into its guts; it made newer, brighter noises. But I couldn’t summon any interest in the game. ‘If someone comes and says you’re not allowed to play on it, you run and fetch me, okay? I’ll be back in five.’
‘But, Dad—’
‘I know, I know. QC. Don’t worry.’ He checked the doorway, trying to extend his neck enough to take in the entire car park. ‘If you see anyone wearing bright red trainers and a hooded top, that’s him. Tell him you’re my lad, and there won’t be a problem. You show him where to find me.’
‘When are we going to be leaving?’ I said.
‘Soon, I promise. As soon as he gets here, we’ll be on our way again.’ And he backed away, firing the gun of his hand in my direction. ‘Win me that jackpot, yeah?’
I sat there playing the fruit machine until my eyes became imprinted with the after-images of cherries and my pocketful of change was almost spent. The coin tray never rattled for me once. With every failed nudge and hold, I willed the arrival of a stranger in red trainers and a hooded top. I prayed that QC, whoever he was, could deliver us to Leeds in time for me to call my mother from the Hotel Metropole—for my father’s sake, as much as mine. It was clear that if we didn’t make it to the Metropole that night, we’d never be allowed to see each other again. The last skein of our connecting tissue would be severed. Our lives would not recover. From there on, if I ever spoke the name Fran Hardesty, my mother would perceive it as a slight on the completeness of her parenthood. She would be different without knowing it: guarded, possessive, prone to resentment. I could see it all coming. I was twelve years old, but I was better equipped to understand it than I was to appreciate the workings of a fruit machine.
I had three coins left.
At the bar, a line of people leaned and perched. A man whistled to the barmaid, brandishing a tenner. An elderly couple were eating stew and dumplings, chatting to the landlord about tomorrow’s weather. I climbed up on an empty stool and waited to be noticed.
It was the barmaid who saw me. ‘Can I help you, love?’ she asked, putting down a set of dirty glasses. ‘You shouldn’t really be up here, you know.’
‘My dad sent me to ask something.’
‘Which one’s your dad?’ She scanned the room.
‘He’s in the back.’
‘Well, what is it you need?’
I showed her the coins in my hand. ‘I’ve got 60p. I was wondering, if I gave you this, would it be all right to use your telephone?’
Her expression gave me hope. ‘Let me ask the boss,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’ She went straight over to the landlord and posed the question. He came bounding down to meet me. ‘Is it an emergency?’ he said.
‘No. I just—my mum’s expecting me to ring her.’
The landlord crossed his arms. ‘She’s not in New Zealand or anywhere, is she?’
‘No. Little Missenden.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Down south.’
‘Right. Well, I can’t let you through the bar, I’m afraid. Against the law. But you can come round the side and—’
‘There he is: Harry Houdini,’ my father said. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ His hand settled on my shoulder, tightened. ‘I thought I told you to stay out of people’s way.’ He lifted me down from the stool by my armpits. I kicked my heels into his shins, but he didn’t let go. ‘Sorry about this. I had reins for him once but he chewed through them.’ The barmaid tittered. And he ushered me towards the corridor, pushing at my back. My legs weren’t quite fast enough.
‘They’ve got a phone,’ I said, twisting.
‘Shshh.’
‘We can use it right now if we want to. He just said so.’
‘Dan, hush, will you? People are staring.’
‘We need to phone mum.’
‘Not right now,’ he said, ‘not right now. We’ll call her from our room, later.’
An old woman came out of the toilet and sidled past, apologetically. Then the corridor was ours.
‘Are we leaving?’ I said.
‘Not yet.’
‘When is QC coming?’
‘I don’t know, but we need to sit tight until he does.’
‘But how much longer?’
He sucked in a sharp breath. Then, as casually as a man fanning a bluebottle from his food, he slapped the side of my head. It was not a hard blow, but it jarred me. I thought of crying. My eyes brimmed but didn’t spill. ‘Listen to me, okay? You’re acting spoiled,’ he said. ‘You know I can’t get you on the set without QC. We’ve no choice but to wait. And if we ring your mother now, she’s not going to understand about the change of plan. You know her: she’ll panic. She’ll make me bring you home, and then what, eh? The whole trip will be for nothing. I don’t want to let you down like that again. No way am I giving her another thing to rub my nose in for the rest of my life. So this is happening. Believe me, it’s happening.’ He loosened his stance. ‘We might not get to Leeds exactly when I thought we would, but I’ll get you there—I swear on my life and the Holy Bible—and all this hanging about is going to seem like nothing in the long run.’ As he drew me close, I could smell a different scent on him: a cheaper, more savoury smoke. I blotted my eyes on his shirt. ‘Look, don’t cry, all right? I shouldn’t have clipped you round the ear like that, I know.’
I said nothing.
‘But we’ve got to toughen you up a bit before you get to that new school. You don’t want all those posh kids picking on you, do you? Sometimes you need to dish it out, sometimes you need to take it on the chin. That’s how the world is. At the minut
e, we’re taking more than our fair share on the chin, but all that’s going to change. It has to.’ He paused. ‘You okay, or what?’
I nodded.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I knew you had some Hardesty in you somewhere.’
He steered me back to the dark-wood room where we had met the women earlier. They had reclaimed the same table but weren’t sitting at it. Karen had an acoustic guitar strapped upside down against her back and was standing there while Vee assessed a pad of paper, saying, ‘I don’t know, Karen, I’m not one for poetry. They look all right to me.’
‘Do you get what they’re about, though?’
‘Not really . . . Gary, I suppose.’
‘Shut up.’ Karen snatched the paper. ‘As if I’d write that about Gary.’
‘So it’s not a love song, then.’
‘No, you duffer. It’s a protest song. Anti-war.’
‘What war?’
‘Not the war. Any war.’
‘Oh.’ Vee made a face at me. ‘Well, that’ll come in handy, soon as one breaks out.’
My father knocked the wood of Karen’s guitar as he approached. She spun round. ‘Hey. You’re back.’ Her smile was beautiful, I thought—it softened the bonier parts of her face, lent them pleats and ley lines.
‘What time does it all get going, then?’ he said.
‘They’ll start letting people up around sevenish. First act’s normally on by half past.’ She peered down at me. ‘You going to come and hear me play, Dan?’
‘She’s got a gig,’ Vee told me.
‘Not really—it’s just a folk club. Anyone can sign up. But it’s regular and they let me play my own stuff.’
‘All good experience,’ my father said.
We sat with them while they finished their drinks. I helped Karen tune her guitar by holding an electronic box up to the sound-hole as she picked the strings with her thumbnail. She and Vee explained the tribulations of life in Rothwell to my father, and he offered a few drips of detail about his own life in return. He asked them veiled questions about what they thought they’d missed out on at school, if they felt they’d have had a better chance in life by going ‘somewhere fancier’. They spoke as though their school lives were only recent memories. Karen was noncommittal: ‘There’s no point looking at things that way. You get what you’re given and you try to make the best of it, don’t you?’
A Station on the Path to Somewhere Better Page 9
