An email.
Oh Christ. What have I done?
6
MICHAEL
11 May 1985
‘What’s that?’ my brother asks. He’s standing over me, eating a piece of toast, crumbs falling onto the paper. I fold it quickly.
I haven’t been able to draw for a long time. Every time I’ve tried has felt like forcing an image onto paper that doesn’t want to be drawn on. Like I’m intruding, like my mark doesn’t belong. Until last night. Once I’d got home, sleep-deprived but grinning like an idiot, I’d laid the ring on my desk. And just like when I was sitting at the bus stop, with Alice in front of me, the paper hadn’t resisted, the graphite soft and malleable beneath the pressure of my fingers.
‘None of your business. And have you ever heard of a plate?’ He takes another bite, chewing loudly. Give us strength. I need to move out of here, else I’m going to end up killing this little gobshite. He grins at me, jam at the corner of his mouth.
Mam walks into the room, her head poking out above a pile of laundry.
‘Mike’s drawing again,’ he says as she starts pairing socks and shoving them into his drawers.
‘Stop teasing your brother, it’s his little hobby while he looks for proper work. And it keeps him out of trouble, which is more than can be said about you.’
‘He can put away his own laundry, Mam.’ I change the subject.
‘Yes, but if I know your brother, this pile here will be festering on his bed all day and then be thrown on the floor and then I’ll only end up washing the whole bleeding lot again.’
I glare at my brother and nod towards Mam, but my pointed stare is lost on him and I’m not fast enough when his hand swiftly snatches the paper from my hands.
‘Carl, I’m warning you, give that back or I swear I’ll…’
But he’s in full on little brother mode. ‘What is this, a ring? I was at least hoping you’d be drawing a nice pair of…’ He cups imaginary boobs in front of his bony chest.
Mam clips him around the ear, takes the drawing, and passes it back to me.
I fold it into the back pocket of my jeans.
‘I’ve got to go, I said I’d help Kate,’ I say, not meeting her eyes as she moves to my desk, picking up the ring.
My throat thickens as she holds it up.
‘Whose is this?’
‘A girl I met last night, she dropped it. It’s no big deal. I’m going to send it to her in the post.’
‘She’s not local?’ she asks, the slight lift in her voice saying all the things she expects of me: Yorkshire lads work hard, marry a local girl and settle down in a nice semi-detached down the road. And that’s honestly what I thought I’d do. I love my home, my friends, my family. But when Sarah left, when she said she wanted more than a life here, it’s made me question if this is the life I want. If I really want to be a replica of everyone else on my street.
‘No. Well, she lost her job and…’
‘Ah well, best not to get your hopes up then, eh, love? No good ever came of long-distance relationships.’ She realises what she’s just said, an almost blow by blow account of what Sarah had said. ‘Mikey, I didn’t mean…’
‘I’ve got to go.’ I grab my denim jacket and pull it on. ‘I’m helping Kate.’
Her face brightens at that. ‘Lovely girl, our Kate.’
‘Aye. She is.’
* * *
Kate, predictably, is sporting a headache and reaches out gratefully when I pass her a bottle of Lucozade and a bacon butty. ‘Where do you want this?’ I ask, lifting a crate of tomatoes while she rubs her temples.
