‘Oh, I think we can just about manage that.’ I glance up to where Mr and Mrs Jenny have their arms wrapped around each other, both grinning.
‘Tell you what… how about you draw me a picture so I can meet this bear of yours, eh?’
‘Mike! These skirting boards aren’t going to paint their bloody selves!’ Jim shouts from downstairs.
She runs back to her parents, and I make a swift exit before Jim blows a gasket.
‘Pleased as bloody punch with those clouds, I tell you.’ Jim climbs down the ladder, ceiling paint pebbledashed in his hair. ‘It’s as if she’s got the bleedin’ Sistine Chapel in her box room the way she’s going on about it.’
I bend down and pick up the tin of gloss from the plastic sheets covering the floor tiles. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
I take a knife and run it under the edge of the lid, lifting it up with a click. ‘Little lass wants a Care Bear too.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘As long as she’s going to keep paying, you could paint the Mona Lisa for all I care. Just don’t be letting it go to your head.’ He steps off the final rung.
I set to work. I’ve got four rooms to do before the carpets are delivered on Friday. ‘It would be great if carpet fitters worked on a weekend, I tell you,’ he continues. ‘Would make our lives a whole lot easier. Supermarkets should open later too – by the time the misses finishes her shift, they’re all closed.’
‘Aye.’
The day goes quickly. Just before I leave, he pulls me aside. ‘Mike, a word?’
I brace myself; maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to the bear without asking him first, it’ll put us back a few days. ‘Ken’s leaving. Him and the misses are emigrating to bleedin’ Australia. Why, I don’t know.’
‘What, as opposed to the joys of unemployment and grey skies we have here?’
He ignores me. ‘I want to offer you a job. Not as an apprentice, full-time, like. What do you say?’ He slaps me on the back as though it’s a done deal. And I guess it is. I can’t afford to turn this down, regardless of the portfolio waiting to be completed. It was a daft dream, anyway. I’ve heard nothing from the application.
‘I’ve got another job starting on Monday, full pay.’
I should be relieved. A steady job, a paintbrush in my hand and the chance to maybe move back out of my parents and still help them out a bit.
‘Great.’ The word has come out as flat as a crispy pancake. His eyebrows furrow.
I clear my throat, ‘Really,’ I inject more enthusiasm. ‘Thanks. That’s… great news.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve earnt it. Care Bears or no.’
My feet feel like lead when I walk home. I hesitate on the corner of Victoria Street.
I don’t walk past the mural. I don’t want her eyes to follow me. Not today.
* * *
The chip pan is on, the house filled with the smell of old cooking oil and sausages. I take off my black jacket and try to find a hook that isn’t already taken. I push one of Carl’s hoodies aside and hook it on. The phone rings in the hall.
Dad’s voice bellows from the lounge. ‘Jesus bleeding Christ!’ He stomps into the hall. ‘What is with that thing today?’
‘Hello?’ he barks. ‘What? No, there isn’t a Ben living here. Who? Ben Dover?’ Dad’s face is flushed more with anger at the wrong number than the words he’s saying. ‘Who? No there’s no Anita either, you’ve got the wrong numb— Anita Hardcock?’ I quickly take the receiver from Dad’s hands.
‘Piss off,’ I say, slamming the receiver down.
‘Been ringing off the hook all day. It’s like we’re a bloody hotel. Someone was asking after a Teresa Green earlier. I told them there was no Teresa Green round ’ere.’ I try not to laugh as he makes his way back into the lounge, bending over with a wince, and turning the sound up on the Six O’clock News.
‘Anyone asking for me?’ I say, slouching down on the sofa and taking off my boots.
‘I don’t know. Do I look like a secretary to you?’ He puts his hands on his hips, scowling, then sinks back into the brown armchair that is moulded to his body. He coughs loudly, reaching for his fags and sparking the lighter. ‘There’s a job going. At the pub.’ Dad flicks a look towards me.
‘Oh, aye?’
