So where is he? When do we get to meet him?’
Janice crossed her arms over her stomach. ‘He’s on a geography field trip. Wi’ t’ school.’
Mavis said, ‘Kids today, eh. Who’d have ’em?’ Then wi’ a toss of her head toward Mother, she added, ‘If I remember right, Pam, you married dead young, didn’t you?’
‘He wor a mistake,’ Mother replied waspishly. ‘We wor divorced before a year wor out … Oh, Janice, luv, not that I mean that it won’t last between yersen and … and …’
‘Drew.’
‘Drew … just that I married a wrong’un, that’s all.’
‘What wor his name …?’ Denise asked, pitching in her tuppence worth. Mavis snatched up her lighter, clicking it furiously against t’ tip of another ciggie ’til Nora struck a match for her, then lit one for hersen.
Mother hissed, ‘You know damn well, Denise. You know damn well his name.’
Mother stretched out a smile. I didn’t know if she wor shunting off the topic for her own sake or mine. What wor to know that I hadn’t learnt already by earwigging and nosing about? Some friggin’ carpet salesman, twice her age, who she’d married and divorced like t’ church had revolving doors. It all happened a friggin’ age before I came on t’ scene. And owt that happened before me didn’t really happen. Except in history books and on t’ telly. Of course she didn’t want to blab on about it.
Denise worn’t done yet.
‘Didn’t he take you down to London on honeymoon? Started out wi’ a stall in Leeds market and before you could say shag pile he had his own warehouse in an old church, heavin’ wi’ carpets and linos. Proper little peacock, he wor. Always wore a suit, and drove a car wi’ a walnut dashboard.’
This wor a stinking, fresh cowpat of news to me.
‘What kind of car?’
Mother looked like her hair wor on fire.
‘A bloody posh one,’ said Mavis.
‘So, Janice,’ said Mother, trying to park the conversation elsewhere, ‘any name yet for the … for the …?’
‘Damien,’ Janice said. ‘Or Rosemary, if it’s a girl.’
‘What unusual names, Janice,’ Mother said.
‘I think,’ said Mavis, ‘we should all drink a toast to Janice. And to Nora on becoming a grandmother.’
Nora bridled. I fathomed that ‘grandmother’ didn’t sit well wi’ her just yet. She nodded at me, and said to Mother, ‘Well, I’m sure this one will do you proud when t’ time comes.’
‘Not me. I’m never getting married,’ I said.
The women guffawed.
‘I’m not.’
Behind Janice’s head I could see Don’s barrel bulk heading our way, parting the drinkers like a shire horse fording a river. Denise, who hadn’t clapped eyes on him yet, wor saying, ‘Course you will, Rick. Some lovely lass will catch your eye, and then before …’
‘I told you, I’m not getting married. Ever.’
Mother’s brow knitted painfully.
‘All right, ladies?’ Don’s eyes combed across Janice’s breasts. Janice averted her gaze.
‘We wor,’ piped up Denise, ‘until we saw you waltzing over our way.’
‘Gerald!’ said Gran, as if she’d just hit on t’ answer in a friggin’ crossword puzzle. ‘His name wor Gerald. Had his own carpet business and a big house up Alwoodley way wi’ a garden, a big car and …’
Mother flashed me a pleading look. I said, ‘Gran, we know. Give it a rest.’
Gran cocked her head at me. ‘A gin and tonic, please, young man.’
‘You’ve got one, Gran. Look – right in front of you.’
It wor odd for Gran to call me young man. She usually only called anyone young man whose name she didn’t know or couldn’t recollect. She picked up the glass, downed it in one. ‘Gerald,’ she murmured, looking pleased wi’ hersen. ‘His name wor Gerald.’
The next morn, Mother wor leant against t’ fridge, watching me wolf down beans on toast before heading off to work. Our fridge wor covered in friggin’ fridge magnets. Sunflowers, London buses, Smurfs, Disney characters, cacti, flags, all plastered over t’ ruddy thing like fridge-magnet acne.
I wor wanting to ask her about Gerald and his car wi’ t’ walnut dashboard and that, but I could see she worn’t going to spill. Her face wor taut, her hair still unbrushed and she hadn’t put her lippy on. Mother said little above t’ necessary to make brekkie function.
‘I might be late again,’ I said.
Mother repositioned one of t’ fridge magnets.
‘Again? I’ll keep some cold ham and beetroot for your dinner.’
She spoke slowly, like she wor really saying summat else. I scraped back my chair.
‘It’s all right, I’ll get chips.’
Mother winced.
I rattled Mrs Husk’s letterbox. ‘Corona pop!’
‘It’s open, luv.’
Mrs Husk wor swilling out a teacup under t’ kitchen tap. She shuffled into her front room wi’ t’ teacup dangling from one finger. After a momentary difficulty freeing her finger from t’ cup handle she said, ‘Did yer get my whisky?’
‘Yer whisky?’
She eyed me beadily. I laughed and took the small bottle of Bell’s from my coat pocket and set it on t’ table, together wi’ her usual ginger beer. The things we’re friggin’ well asked to do.
Mrs Husk patted her hairnet. ‘Have you had a win on t’ pools or summat, lad?’
‘Being happy’s not a crime is it, Mrs Husk?’
‘It’s a rum world, lad, when folk are happy for no reason. Sit a moment.’
I sat. Today I had time. Eric wor knobbing some housewife at number 78, but I worn’t going to tell Mrs Husk that. She sloughed into t’ kitchen to fetch her empty. From my spot in t’ lounge I said in a loud voice, ‘My gran’s just moved house.’
I didn’t usually blather about t’ folks, but if I kept Mrs Husk conversationalising then I knew where she wor. Gran had upped sticks, sold sticks and moved about a mile across town into a small, modern, first-floor flat. Fitted carpets, new boiler, double glazing, window locks.
She’d taken as good as nowt wi’ her, but had instructed Mr Cowley – Second
