I pushed him away and stared at them, not bothering to answer. The room was full of smoke. I went straight to the window, opened it a lot wider, leaned over and watched Dave down below. They waited and shuffled about embarrassed. Martin said stupid things such as 'Bill was a reight good sooart' and 'pity mother no loonger with you'. I ignored them. Jazz trotted in and came straight up to me. I patted him, saw his lead on the table and put it on. I just stood there, saying nothing; not bothering to look at them. It seemed forever, but at last they took the hint and began to leave the room. Peggy, about to leave and looking guilty, pressed twenty pounds into my hand. Then she kissed me on the cheek and went. I just stood there. Didn't thank her.
At last I could get out of my hot tight trousers. I threw them on to the suit jacket that was lying on the bed, took off my shirt and put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I felt a lot cooler and was about to put on my trainers when Mrs Derby walked in. She handed me an envelope.
'Bill gave it to me a fortnight before he died,' she said.
About fifty, and plump with curly brown hair, Gill Derby had a kind face and a soft voice. She lived upstairs and was our landlady. Gill started crying again and hugged me. Good old Gill. She really loved Dad. I wondered if they had anything going.
'Look I know Bill was behind. Don't worry,' Gill insisted.
'Stay here until I find another tenant. If the worst comes to the worst, you can move in with me.'
Jazz started barking. Like me he wanted to get out of the place. Mrs Derby provided the cover and we managed to escape. I waved just in case some of the others were looking. We ran down the stairs on to the harbour pier, forcing our way through the crowd. We reached the boats at the far end of the harbour and looked back at all the shops and stalls. "Our Plaice" fish and chip shop was boarded up. Next door, Dave was swamped with customers.
* * *
It was hot, steaming hot. Hundreds of people were pushing their way down a long wide harbour gangway towards the beach. The past few summers had been wet. That was one of the main reasons why "Our Plaice" and Dad went down. It was a hot July; few clouds, burning sun. Beaches were full.
Reaching the beach at last, I kicked off my trainers, threw down my shirt and took off Jazz's lead. He sprinted ahead of me and I followed. The tide was right out. I felt my feet sink into the wet sand and the shells and mussels crunching under me. We raced across shallows towards the sea, until the water was up to my knees. Then I dived in, Jazz swimming alongside me. The water was cold, numbing cold, despite the heat from the sun. It was the North Sea current that came from Scandinavia, all the way down to the eastern English coast. There were hardly any waves; just the freezing swell. We headed back to the beach, running zigzag alongside the shallow water for about half a mile. Close to the shore and on fairly dry land, Tom, Joe and two other guys were playing football on our beach pitch. Tom kicked towards the opponents' goal but the wind carried the ball away from the pitch and it landed near me. I dribbled on to the pitch, dodged a couple of opponents and took a shot at goal. The ball was light and as I slammed it and misjudged the weight, the breeze from the sea lifted it way past the goal.
Jazz chased after it, but unlike other dogs, used his brain and didn't puncture it. A couple walking past, were amazed. The dog could dribble with his nose and feet. We played for about a quarter of an hour. My side, even with Jazz's skill, was down a goal.
Sue, Jodie, and a girl we hadn't seen before, showed up and watched the game. We stopped concentrating and missed lots of goals as we sneaked glances at the new girl. She was really pretty, with a great tan and long straight, shiny brown hair.
The game was getting so bad, we decided to stop playing and have a dip. It gave us the opportunity to meet her. She was Sandy Swann and was from Australia. We hardly spoke to the other two. Sue, with black frizzy hair, was fun, but a bit silly. Jodie had nice blonde highlights but her teeth stuck out a bit. Sandy's tiny bikini barely covered her breasts. She noticed us make a rush for her and smiled. She was used to guys chasing her.
Sue and Jodie didn't have swimming costumes, so Sandy had five of us all to herself. We charged into the sea and dived into the shallow waves.
'What you doing in Yorkshire?' I asked.
'Visiting my cousin Sue. We're going to London.'
'When do you go back home?'
'Got another two weeks. Then school.'
'Where?'
'Perth.'
'Western Australia?'
She touched my shoulder by mistake and I felt a tingle. She smiled and swam ahead. 'Think she fancies you?' asked Tom.
'Dunno.'
'Come out with us tonight,' said Joe. 'It'll stop you thinking about your Dad.'
'Some relatives are still at the flat,' I said. 'I better go.'
'They've probably left. Let's go deeper,' Tom said.
We swam out towards Sandy. She was hanging on to a red and white buoy. The water was much colder there. Sue and Jodie, paddling in the shallows, were a long way back.
'What do you do around here?' shouted Sandy.
'The usual stuff. Movies, fairs, snooker, clubs,' replied Tom.
'What your clubs like?'
'Much the same as others.'
'There's a comedy show tonight,' said Joe. 'In Whittington's basement.'
'I'm not so sure I feel like it,' I said.
'What's his problem?' asked Sandy.
'His Dad died two days ago. The funeral was today.'
She looked embarrassed.
'Sorry, I'm really sorry.'
'Come on, it will do you good. No point in sitting alone at home,' said Tom.
* * *
I took Aunty Peggy's twenty pounds out of my pocket and used some of it to buy tokens. There were six of us at the fair and we went on the Whip, the Big Wheel and the Helter Skelter. Afterwards, we walked to the Whittington Pub. The basement was full, but we managed to squeeze around a table near the front of the stage. John Dimes, the comedian, was trying to be heard above the noise. He was only five foot tall and could easily have been a circus clown. He suddenly went silent and eyed the audience with sad eyes. The tactic worked and the chattering died down. He told jokes; some good, some bad. The audience was so drunk that they laughed at everything. Some jokes were about death. St Peter's Gate, that sort of thing. Tom and Sandy kept looking across at me to see how I was taking it. I wasn't bothered. The comedian now had the audience's full attention. Except for an occasional clatter of glasses and some giggles, they listened to his story routine. He winked at Sandy, tried to pull her on to the stage to help him juggle some balls, but she managed to get away from him.
Sandy touched my hand: 'Want to go for a walk?'
We squeezed through the gaps between the tables and made our way to the promenade. She grabbed my hand and guided me towards some stairs down to the beach.
'How coom, you doon't taalk with Yorkshire aaccent,' she asked, nudging me.
'Because, me moom woos teeecher; taught bairn elecootion,' I laughed.
We took off our shoes and walked in the thick sand. The tide was in and we felt the spray of the breaking waves. It was almost 10pm and the sun had set only minutes before. The sand was cool and through the dusk I could see her dark eyes, longish nose and full lips. She edged closer to me.
'I heard that your Mum also died.'
'Yes, when I was eleven.'
'What did she teach?'
'English and maths.'
'Can't imagine what I would do if I lost my Mum and Dad.'
'You get used to it.'
'Who are you going to live with?'
'Not relatives. They're measuring straws. Short one gets me.'
We laughed and held hands.
'Can't stand mine either. When's your birthday?'
'Turned sixteen, on June 1.'
'I'm sixteen in July. Gemini and Cancer. Do you think we're suited?'
I felt myself blush.
We sat down at the bottom of a sandy mound, well away from the w
ater. No one was around. I put my arm around her. She snuggled up close. I looked down at her and she stared up into my eyes and touched my forehead. I kissed her cheek, then clumsily tried to find her lips. There was a grain of sand there as we began to kiss. It hurt me a bit, probably her too. I tried to slip my hand under her sweater. She pushed me away.
Darkness was beginning to close in. Through the gloom, I could just make out the froth from the waves. She kissed my cheek, grabbed my hand, pulled me up and dragged me towards the promenade.
'Amazing. It's just got dark and it is almost the middle of the night,' she said.
'Come here in winter. Pitch black at four,' I whispered into her ear.
3 - THE LIQUIDATOR
I was dreaming about Sandy. We were kissing, but she was slobbering all over me. I half opened my eyes. Red tongue, black nose and fur. I pushed away Jazz and looked at the clock. It was about half eight. The sun was streaming in and the dog wanted his food and walk. Jazz ate some leftover sausages and bread from the wake and nibbled a banana. I brushed my teeth, looked in the mirror and felt good. We charged down the stairs on to the pier, down the long gangway to the beach. The port was virtually empty and the desolate Bridlington beach seemed to go on for miles. I thought of what Bill used to say: 'Magnificent North England beach. Pity the town's tatty.'
Filey is only about ten miles away. No comparison. A wood overlooks part of its beach and it has quaint cottages, hotels and shops. Tourists pour into the town. If only Dad had opened "Our Plaice" there, we wouldn't have been broke. He might have lived.
The tide was going out and the waves were tiny. We ran in the shallows for about half an hour, the sweat trickling down my back, the sun getting hotter. Only my feet were cool. Jazz found a stick and I threw it and followed him into the water. I ducked under a medium sized wave; felt free, completely free.
About a hundred metres out, I glanced back towards the shore. A few pretty houses were on the outskirts of town. They were the exception. Far towards the right, overlooking the harbour, was the shabby, crumbling building where I lived.
A dark cloud appeared and it turned cold, so I raced out of the water and jogged at a fast pace towards home.
* * *
Mrs Derby called me when I passed her flat on the way up the stairs. A man in a grey suit was in her living room. He stood up stiffly, put out his hand and introduced himself: 'Mark Baton, Bailey & Baton.'
He shook my hand tightly: 'We represent your father's creditors.'
The accountant, in his late forties, was balding, with thin lips and a narrow mean face. Must have come from years on the job. Baton was patronising and I took an instant dislike to him. When he smiled, he couldn't help but sneer.
'I gather you know that your father's business was failing,' Baton continued in a posh accent. 'Did you know that the bank called in his loan?'
'When?'
'A week before he died?'
Gill Derby winced and turned away to pour me some tea. This guy wasn't exactly tactful.
'I'm afraid I have to value his remaining assets. The equipment in the shop, stock and investments, that sort of thing,' he said. 'Help the creditors recover their money.'
'Suppose that's what a liquidator does!' I snapped.
He looked at me self-righteously.
'I can understand your feelings. But he did borrow the money, you know. Good people and companies are short.'
'Like the bank,' I murmured sarcastically.
'Yes, but there are others too. Mrs Derby is one of them. Your father was about three months behind on her rent. Almost two thousand pounds.'
Gill interrupted him as she passed me a cuppa and a biscuit: 'Look, I don't really care. They've lived here for a long time. Bill always paid. It was only recently . . .'
She looked at me sympathetically and shook her head: 'I don't want to be part of this. The lad's got enough problems.'
'Yes, I realise that, Mrs Derby. You've already told me. But it must be done,' he continued pompously.
'Now, young man, please show me where your father kept his papers and his computer; the keys of the shop.'
'OK,' I said and took him up to our flat.
I had meant to clear up the mess from the wake. Empty bottles, dirty glasses, crisps, peanuts, cigarette ends and bits of bread were all over the place. It was a rats' paradise. Jazz slammed his paws on a small living room table and gobbled up a congealed sausage. Baton shuddered. He walked around the room, making sure that he didn't touch anything. He made notes of the table, chairs, the battered telly and other bits and pieces. Baton followed me into Bill's bedroom and he quickly examined the dressing table and a cupboard.
'Did your father make a will?'
'Dunno. He used to put all his papers in this,' I said, pulling them out from the dressing table and piling them on top.
Baton tried to ignore the mess on the bed, the banana skin on the floor and Jazz's dirty dish next to his basket. He shook his head in disgust.
'Well? Anything more?'
I went to the cupboard and clutched the box file of the shop's invoices, expenses and bookkeeper's accounts. Baton double-checked to see that nothing was left. He found a small leather case and a bag with some more papers.
'Where's the computer?'
'In my room.'
He followed me there. My small second-hand laptop was on my unmade bed; the printer on a table.
He examined it with a sneer: 'Isn't this obsolete. Do you manage to connect to the Internet?'
'Use it for school. Not for broadband. Get that at Internet café,' I said biting my lip.
'Where do you go to school?' he asked peering down at me. 'Done your GCSEs? Do you think you'll pass?'
'Bridlington. Yes, I think I've done OK.'
I was getting irritated with this idiot. I felt like punching him on the nose, but he was the type who would call the police.
'Are your father's records on it? Emails?'
'Some stuff about the shop.'
'His mobile?'
'Can't find it. Must have got lost when the ambulance took him to hospital.'
'Any investments?'
'Don't think so. Don't think he had any. Never spoke about it.'
'Where can I work?' he said huffily.
We went into the kitchen and I cleared the table and wiped his chair. He waited impatiently as I went to get the laptop, files and papers. I dumped the papers on to the table in a messy pile. Baton flushed.
He took a laptop out of his bag, pushed some papers aside to give him some working space, sat down and began to work. I connected the laptop to the power as he began to sort out the papers. I was tempted to blow a fuse and crash his computer. But he watched me suspiciously and was soon itemising an inventory of junk.
I grabbed a broom, a pan and some black bags and went into the living room to clean up the place. After about three hours or so, Baton came into the living room with the envelope that Mrs Derby had given me.
'What's this?'
'Dunno, I haven't read it yet.'
'It could be the will. Could you open it please.'
I glanced at the letter: 'Doesn't seem to be a will.'
'Can I see it?'
'It's personal.'
'I must read it.'
Losing his patience he snatched it from me and read it quickly. For some reason, which I couldn't understand, he went into Bill's room and directly to Jazz's basket in the corner. He took the cushion out and picked it up, examined it carefully and placed the basket back in the corner. I put back the cushion and looked at him puzzled. For the first time, he was embarrassed. He even softened a bit.
'My apologies . . . Sorry . . . I had to read the letter . . . It's my job, you see.'
I put the letter in my back pocket and turned away. I didn't want to show him that I was upset.
'Can I have the key of the shop?'
It was hanging on a hook behind the kitchen door and I handed it to him.
'The shop's downstairs, almos
t directly below the flat. That's why we moved here,' I said. 'The equipment is still in good condition.'
'Doubt if it's worth much. We'll see when we sell the business.'
He half mumbled to himself, but in a spiteful way, making sure that I could hear: 'Doubt if the creditors will get 5 pence in the pound.'
Baton put the papers that he needed in his briefcase, took the box file and my computer.
'I'm sorry, I'll have to take this; I'll return it as soon as possible.'
'But that's got all my personal stuff on it; my addresses, my emails.'
'Sorry we have to do a proper search.'
He gave me the small leather case and shook my hand: 'I think you'll want this.'
At last he was gone. I continued to clean up the flat and filled lots of large black bags. After making my bed, I lounged on the battered sofa and opened up the case. There was a knock on the door. It was Gill.
'What a thoroughly unpleasant man,' she said wearily.
She glanced at the landscape print on the wall and Mum and Dad's wedding picture on the mantelpiece.
'Make sure that you don't leave anything personal. He's going to have an auction.'
'Won't get much money for this lot.'
'The creditors will get nothing. Not even the bank. All of this will go to Bailey & Baton,' she said.
'They don't call them liquidators for nothing. What do you think of the flat?'
'Tidy . . . clean! I'm impressed . . . I meant what I said . . . You can stay here until I find another tenant.'
'Thanks. I'm not sure what to do.'
'Is one of your relatives taking you in? Martin? John?'
'Don't think so.'
She was silent, obviously disgusted.
'If the worst comes to the worst, you can move in with me.'
I gave her a cup of tea and offered her a few of the leftover biscuits from the wake. We sat on the sofa and she noticed the open leather suitcase filled with photos and letters. She picked up a picture of me as a baby.
Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) Page 2
