He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tenner. ‘Call it a bonus, eh?’
‘I…’
‘Take it. You’re worth five of the last lot of pillocks that the job centre has sent over.’
Shame I’m not getting paid five pillocks’ wages.
‘I used to work with your dad a while back,’ he continues, eyes behind his thick glasses softening. ‘I just, well… we all appreciate what he and the rest of them did. Even if Thatcher won in the end.’
Feeling uncomfortable, but in no position to look a gift horse in the mouth, I pocket the note. The miners’ strikes might be over, but the aftermath is hanging heavily over our heads. Mam had had to borrow money from her parents to cover the loss of income and she’s paying them back as best as she can.
There were moments over the last year when I thought Dad might cave, but he stuck to his coal-coated guns, even though their evening meals consisted of potatoes, eggs and – if we were lucky – a roast on a Sunday. Carl never stopped harking on about quick showers and only being allowed to have a bath once a week.
Some of the others couldn’t afford to strike any longer, though. Forced back to the pits, and down the local pub? Shunned. Our community is a force of good, well, for the most part, everyone looking out for each other, but a tight community has sides to it too, and ours is unforgiving to scabs.
‘Come on, lad. Just a quick one, eh? I’ll shout you a pint.’
‘Fair enough.’
It’s just after nine when I get back. Mam is in the kitchen ironing, Dad’s asleep on the sofa. Carl is upstairs listening to Dire Straits… ‘Money for Nothing’ on sodding repeat.
‘Hi, love. Dinner’s in the oven,’ Mam says, eyes focused onMinderon the small portable TV on the kitchen side, cup of tea cooling in her mug. ‘Let me get it for you…’
‘You’re all right.’ The picture on the TV keeps jumping, Dennis Waterman disappearing and reappearing among the fizzing reception. I give it a swift thump and move the aerial.
‘Reminds me of your dad in his younger days, him.’ She nods to the telly as I reach over for the Quality Street tin, battered and fading, and put the tenner in. The housekeeping stash is looking pretty thin this week.
‘Thanks, love.’
Reaching for the oven gloves, I pull out the plate, ripping off the foil, where two crispy pancakes and a pile of shrivelled chips sit, the beans already congealing.
She continues watching, the sounds punctuated by the hiss of the iron, while I shovel the food into my mouth. I wait for the theme tune to play before asking if there’s any post, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
‘Not unless you count an encouraging request from British Gas.’
She collapses the ironing board. ‘Let me make you a cuppa, eh, love? You look done in.’
‘I can do it, Mam—’ But she’s already filling the kettle.
‘No, love, you finish your dinner. Won’t do to have you turning to skin and bones, will it?’
She scruffs my hair before I scrape my plate and wash it up.
I wait until Dire Straits has finally stopped singing about money for nothin’ and free chicks, before I grab a quick shower. The water lukewarm at best. Bloody Carl. For a lad whose feet stink, he still manages to use most of the hot water.
I wrap a towel around my middle and retrieve my art kit from where my folder is leaning up against the bookcase, Carl lying spread-eagled and snoring gently. He looks almost like the kid he used to be. He was all smiles and grazed knees back then. No sign of the man he’s being stretched into. My shoulders are knackered, and if I’m going to be able to put a full day intomorrow, I need to work at a decent height table. This desk ain’t going to cut it.
Downstairs is empty, just the loud tick of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. I stick the kettle on, make myself another brew, sit at the kitchen table and look at the beginnings of my portfolio. In the past, I’d tried landscapes, then later, the buildings of my hometown. I’d considered architecture for a time, but the buildings around here did nowt to inspire. These, though… I lean closer to the ring, the lines of Alice’s face…theyare the kind of images that stir folk.
I keep the light low, but turn on the radio. John Peel is playing The Smiths: ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’. Fitting. Aye. You and me both, Morrissey. I turn the dial down so I don’t disturb the rest of the house and by the time New Order’s ‘Blue Monday’ starts, my pencil finds the lines and contours of her face. I can remember every line and dip of her side profile, that challenging smile. I’m so engrossed I don’t notice Dad standing at the doorway, heavy eyebrows creased as he takes in my secret night-time activities.
‘Bloody hell, Dad, you nearly gave me a heart attack!’ I slide the portrait under the sketch of the ring.
‘What’s that you’re drawing?’ he asks, his words getting caught on a thick cough.
‘Nowt. Couldn’t sleep. Thought it’d help me relax.’
‘Do you know what else works?’ he asks, heading to the kitchen cupboard, pulling out a bottle of whiskey from behind the boxes of cereals, and lifting it up.
