in the evening. Tall, slim and handsome, in his nice suit and tie. Making an effort, as he always did, for the customers.
He patted Darren’s arm as he passed him. ‘Terry Harris?’ he said lightly. ‘What’s he been doing to get you niggled?’
So he’d heard them talking. Must have popped down to the cellar first and heard Darren raising his voice. Kathleen shot a look in Darren’s direction, but he wasn’t looking at her.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said breezily. ‘Just giving our Kathleen some advice. I was just telling her’ – now he glanced at her – ‘pick on someone your own age. What is he – thirty-two? Thirty-three? Much too old for her to be sniffing around with that daft look on her face.’
Kathleen felt her cheeks begin to flush. She didn’t know where to look, let alone what to say.
Her father looked at her. ‘Terry Harris? You sweet on Terry Harris?’
The answer came quickly, automatically, out of anger more than anything. It might have been quick thinking but it was too bloody quick! And way too close to the mark for comfort. Darren had actually noticed that? When? How?
But perhaps he was just thinking on his feet. That wouldn’t be unusual. ‘No, I am not sweet on Terry Harris,’ she snapped, bridling genuinely as she said it. ‘We were just chatting about Auntie Sally. Which’ – she glared at Darren – ‘is allowed. He is best friends with Uncle Ronnie, or had you forgotten that?’
Her father’s expression told her he didn’t believe her. So had he noticed too? He chuckled. ‘If you say so, love,’ he said. ‘But Darren’s right. He is a shade old for you. Still –’
‘I am not sweet on Terry bloody Harris, Dad!’ she thundered.
‘So nothing to scrap about then,’ he said mildly. He almost chuckled. ‘Anyway, what you doing home so early, lad?’ he asked Darren. He got the same answer. ‘Well, there’s a nice bit o’ stew in the pan up there if you’re hungry.’
Darren headed off, giving Kathleen a final warning look as he did so, reminding her – as if he needed to – that that was that as far as she was concerned. Well, so be it. That would teach her not to get involved in his business. He was twenty. A grown man. He could fight his own battles. Even so, a gun. And had he got one? She realised she didn’t even know.
She finished up with the tables, while her dad got the bar ready, glancing across from time to time, feeling his eyes might be on her. They weren’t – he seemed as absorbed in his work as he ever was, but, even so, it rankled that he’d said what he’d said – even with the twinkle in his eye as he’d said it.
And as for bloody Darren – Darren who she often liked, and at worst rubbed along okay with – possibly getting himself in trouble. Yet another thing to worry about. A secret she didn’t want to keep for him. Should she tell her dad? Put him straight? But everything in his body language had told her not to. Not now, when, for all his dapper looks and ready smiles, he carried the burden of being married to that harridan upstairs like a physical weight around his neck. And with money always so tight, and her constant selfish nagging …
‘Right, that’s me done, I think,’ she said, smiling across the pub at him. ‘I’m off upstairs. What sort of mood is she in?’
‘She’s having a nap just now,’ her dad said. ‘But I’d keep out of her way for a bit. Migraine’s still niggling …’ he tailed off. He didn’t need to say any more.
And hopefully she’ll bloody stay napping, Kathleen thought irritably as she made her way up the stairs. For forty days and forty nights, ideally. But no such luck – she could hear her and Darren talking in the front room.
And about her, it seemed. ‘You pissing little trollop!’ Irene said to her, as she entered the room. ‘Terry frigging Harris! He’s a widower, you little slut. Have you no respect?’
Once again, Kathleen found herself glaring at Darren. He’d obviously come up and given his mam the same ridiculous story. Talk about covering your tracks and creating a diversion. This was ridiculous!
But Darren, presumably seeing her fury, was equally quick to defend her. ‘Oh, don’t go off on one, Mam,’ he said.
‘Go off on one?’ she rounded. ‘We keep a respectable pub here, if you don’t mind, and that’s the way it’s going to stay. Showing us up …’
‘Mam, you’re being ridiculous,’ Darren said. ‘So what if she is sweet on him? Who’s it going to hurt? It’s not like he’s going to look twice at a girl our Kathleen’s age anyway.’
‘The way she looks at them? I’ve seen her. I’ve seen you, I have, young lady. Making eyes at all the lads –’ She made a move as if to slap her but Darren put himself between them.
‘I was just talking to him about our Sally and the kids!’ Kathleen shouted back at her. ‘I was just being friendly! There’s a law against that now, as well, is there?’
‘No there’s not,’ Darren said before Irene could protest further, placing an arm around her shoulder and leading her to the door. ‘Come on, Mam. I was supposed to be making you a cup of tea, wasn’t I? Special treat, since I’m home early. Take advantage while you can.’
He manoeuvred her through the doorway and then he turned around.
Then he knitted his brows slightly. Not quite a frown. Just an indication of what had passed between them. Then he smiled and disappeared off to the kitchen with his mother. ‘Now, Mam,’ Kathleen heard him say, ‘how about you tell me all about your day?’
Kathleen flopped down onto the sofa and considered her churning feelings. As grateful as she was that Darren had stopped Irene having more of a go at her, she was still angry; angry that she still didn’t know what was really going on with him, and angrier still that he’d made such a good job of deflecting things by turning all the attention on her. She wished she did have a lad – one of any sodding age – just so she could, even if only for the tiniest time, get out of this miserable place.
‘Why don’t you come down and have a drink, lass?’
Kathleen looked up from the TV as her dad came into the room. It was Saturday night and, as usual, the pub downstairs was buzzing, the raised voices, loud music and gales of drunken laughter all conspiring to drown out the sound of Z Cars.
Not that either source of noise seemed to be getting through to Darren. He’d been drinking steadily since he’d returned from work and eaten his tea, and was now fast asleep in one of the two armchairs, a row of empty beer bottles by his feet.
‘Is it busy, then?’ Kathleen asked her dad, not quite trusting his ‘have a drink’ line. ‘You don’t need me to work, do you?’ She knew what Irene was like – chances were, she’d get her down there and then trot off to join the punters while she worked – specially the male ones, who she always enjoyed flirting with. Her dad didn’t seem to mind that, but she certainly did – particularly after a full day of bar-tending and cleaning already.
Her dad
