shook his head. ‘Get degree is principal thing, not sermon off Ronnie.’
‘Look. It might work, but you’re clever, you don’t need to play games.’
‘Ack, I hate Old English.’
‘Would your mum want you to do this?’
Ben wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t drag my mum into this.’
I’d met Ben’s mum by chance, the previous week. I called in on his shared flat to drop a textbook off and a slim young woman with short hair and Ben’s same neat features was stood chatting in the doorway, jangling car keys.
‘Hello, I’m Ben’s mum,’ she’d said, as I approached, in that yes I will speak to your friends if I want to teasing way.
‘Hello, I’m Rachel. Ben’s friend off his course,’ I added, in case she thought it was a booty call.
‘Oooh Rachel!’ she said. ‘You’re the lovely, clever girl with the musician boyfriend.’
‘Er, yes,’ I said, flattered I’d been described at all, let alone in such a nice way.
‘Now your boyfriend lives – wait, wait – I know it …’ Ben’s mum held her hand up to indicate she was thinking.
‘Mum,’ Ben said, in a low growl, face reddening.
‘Sunderland!’ she announced.
‘Sheffield,’ I said. ‘You got the “S”, though. And the north. Very near, really.’
‘Honestly, you don’t know how healthy it is for my son to have a young woman around who’s immune to his charms, so good for you and your Sheffield-or-Sunderland boyfriend.’
‘MUM!’ Ben shouted, in a rictus of agony, as I’d giggled.
In the library, I said: ‘I liked your mum.’
‘Yeah, don’t remind me. She liked you too.’
‘Plus if you fail the first year, who am I going to sit with in lectures?’ I asked Ben.
Someone nearby coughed, pointedly. We opened our books. After ten minutes I looked up and saw Ben deep in concentration. He had this habit of clutching his shoulder with the hand on the opposite side of his body, chin on his chest, as he squinted at the text. I had an unexpected urge to reach across and brush the marble-smoothness of his cheekbone with the back of my hand.
He glanced up. I quickly reassembled my features into exaggerated boredom, faked a yawn.
‘Drink?’ he whispered.
‘Triple shot espresso with ProPlus ground up in the coffee beans,’ I said, closing my reference book with a thud, half-expecting it to throw up a cloud of talcum-like dust.
Settled in the cafeteria, Ben said: ‘I can’t fail the first year, I have to get this degree and earn some money because my waster of a dad isn’t going to help my mum or sister any time soon.’
‘Do you see him?’
He shook his head. ‘Not if I can help it, and the feeling’s mutual.’
Chin propped on palm, I listened to his account of his dad’s abrupt departure from their lives, his mum working two jobs, and felt guilty I’d ever complained about the boring dependability of my home life. I also thought how, with some people, you feel like you’ll never ever run out of things to talk about.
When Ben got to the part where he tracked his dad down and his dad told him he didn’t want to be found, he was suddenly, to both our surprise, on the verge of tears.
‘I couldn’t believe it, you know, I thought all I had to do was tell him we needed him around and he’d be on the next train, or send my mum something.’ Ben’s eyes had gone shiny, his voice thick. ‘I felt such a dick.’
I sensed he needed a way out of the moment. I wanted to make the grade as a confidante. And I wanted – given at least one important person had fallen short on this score with Ben – to be caring.
I said, with feeling: ‘I know he’s your dad and I hope it won’t offend you if I say he sounds like an utter bastard. You did absolutely the right thing trying to get him to face up to his responsibilities. If you hadn’t tried, you’d always wonder about him and regret it. This way, at least you know it’s a hundred per cent on him. You think it was nothing but pain, but it removed all doubt. Consider it what you had to do for peace of mind.’
Ben nodded, grateful, having had the time to get his emotions back under control.
‘Cheers, Ron.’
I realised then that, underneath the clean-cut clothes and breezy air, Ben was as much of a work in progress as the rest of us. He simply wore it better.
17
‘All rise!’ barks the court clerk, for the last time today.
As I scrabble to put away my notebook and float out the door, this semi-dream state is tested to its limits by the appearance of a fulminating Gretton.
‘You can tell that bird-faced bitch that I’m after her, right? Press on press is not on,’ he splutters.
I wasn’t aware Gretton operated by any code of honour. This is a retroactive one because he’s lost out on a story, no doubt.
‘Who …?’
‘Your little sidekick!’
‘You mean Zoe? What’s the matter?’
I try to get him to lower his voice by speaking more quietly and hoping he’ll match my volume. A few people are glancing over at us.
‘She DELIBERATELY …’
Tactic failing, I clutch his elbow and steer him alongside me as I walk away. ‘Shhh, not here. Follow me.’
Being taken seriously seems to calm Gretton slightly, and he just about keeps a lid on his simmering rage until we’re in the street.
‘She tampered with my court list.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was missing pages on 2 and 3, and when I go and get a replacement, I find those pages have today’s best stories on them.’
‘How do you know it was Zoe? Couldn’t the pages have slipped out? Loose staple?’
Loose screw, possibly. We’re each given our computer printouts with lists of the daily hearings in sealed envelopes every morning by the front desk staff, so I don’t see how this trick is meant to have been played.
‘That happen to have her cases listed on them? I’m not fucking stupid.’
At this moment, Zoe sails past. ‘Alright, Pete?’ she
