quarrel as he usually was. They both turned to stare. The boy was giving them a present!
‘Thank you, son,’ said Alfred, startled. ‘I appreciate that. I hope you didn’t nick them –’ But Dirk’s hurt face was an annoyance when it was Darren he wanted to see. ‘Sit down, sit down, you’re blocking the light.’
Dirk sat down swiftly, patting at his hair, though bristles like that could never be untidy. May realized that he felt in the wrong. He was patting at himself to put himself right. It’s the parents’ fault if they feel like that. Yet May felt nothing could ever have been different. Do your best, she had told herself day after day, struggling to deal with her growing kids, but her best had never been good enough, and now they had come to this strange place, one by one, to be inspected.
‘How’s work?’ asked Alfred.
‘Same as usual,’ said Dirk. And that was the trouble, his mother thought. The newsagent he worked in was on Hillesden Gardens, only two hundred yards away from home. Their friend George Millington, the owner, was an asthmatic smoker with gammy legs. He had taken Dirk on for ‘work experience’ nine years ago, when Dirk was sixteen, when it wasn’t yet completely impossible to hope that he’d scrape enough GCSEs to go to college. May had stopped hoping before Alfred did.
‘How’s St George?’ Alfred asked. It was a very old joke.
‘All right. He had a turn today.’
‘You’re a good boy to look after him,’ May said quickly, comfortingly.
‘It’s disgusting,’ said Dirk. ‘He goes this horrible colour. Like he was dying, or something.’
‘You’re a good boy.’
‘He’s too old to work.’
‘He’s my age,’ said Alfred, affronted.
‘It’s different,’ said Dirk. ‘You’re not dying, are you.’ There was an uncertain silence, then he carried on. ‘I’m worried he’s going to peg out in my arms.’
‘George has been good to you, young man.’
‘Has he, Dad?’ Dirk went white around the nostrils. ‘You don’t know what it’s like in that shop. He smokes non-stop. I mean
non-stop
. I come out of there, I stink of smoke. Every time he coughs, he starts sicking up his guts. And when he’s not smoking, he’s bloody wheezing. He doesn’t do a shagging stroke –’
‘Language,’ said May. ‘George is fond of you,’ she added, suddenly afraid that Pamela was listening. ‘He must have got fond of you, I’m sure. Not having any sons of his own.’ (She dreamed that George would leave Dirk the shop, and he’d be all right for the rest of his life. Plus Dirk could afford to leave home, at last. They’d be left in peace, her and Alfred – Not that she wanted to get rid of him, of course.)
‘He hates me,’ said Dirk, simply. ‘He couldn’t manage without me, that’s all. I do all the work. He gets all the money.’
‘Of course he doesn’t hate you,’ said Alfred sternly. ‘Course he doesn’t. He’s my oldest friend.’
‘Have you managed to get rid of the Christmas stock?’ May was determined to turn the conversation.
‘The charity ones were rubbish, this year. No one round our way wants fancy things with otters on, they look at them and think they’re rats –’
‘Well
I’m
quite ecological,’ May interrupted him, indignant. ‘I bought two boxes of otters, dear.’
‘We still got lumbered with twenty-three boxes. Chocolates were quite good this year though. No thanks to George. He can’t think beyond Cadbury’s –’
‘Cadbury’s were always good enough for us,’ said Alfred.
‘Point I’m making is, people want Belgian.’
‘Good English chocolates. That’s what you want.’
‘What are you doing with these, then?’ asked Dirk, triumphant, pointing to the giant white-and-gold box that Shirley had left on the bedside table. “Best Belgian Chocolates”, it says, look, there.’
‘That’s Shirley, that is,’ said Alfred. ‘I can’t stop her wasting her money.’
‘She was looking very smart.
‘Thank you, son,’ said Alfred, startled. ‘I appreciate that. I hope you didn’t nick them –’ But Dirk’s hurt face was an annoyance when it was Darren he wanted to see. ‘Sit down, sit down, you’re blocking the light.’
Dirk sat down swiftly, patting at his hair, though bristles like that could never be untidy. May realized that he felt in the wrong. He was patting at himself to put himself right. It’s the parents’ fault if they feel like that. Yet May felt nothing could ever have been different. Do your best, she had told herself day after day, struggling to deal with her growing kids, but her best had never been good enough, and now they had come to this strange place, one by one, to be inspected.
‘How’s work?’ asked Alfred.
‘Same as usual,’ said Dirk. And that was the trouble, his mother thought. The newsagent he worked in was on Hillesden Gardens, only two hundred yards away from home. Their friend George Millington, the owner, was an asthmatic smoker with gammy legs. He had taken Dirk on for ‘work experience’ nine years ago, when Dirk was sixteen, when it wasn’t yet completely impossible to hope that he’d scrape enough GCSEs to go to college. May had stopped hoping before Alfred did.
‘How’s St George?’ Alfred asked. It was a very old joke.
‘All right. He had a turn today.’
‘You’re a good boy to look after him,’ May said quickly, comfortingly.
‘It’s disgusting,’ said Dirk. ‘He goes this horrible colour. Like he was dying, or something.’
‘You’re a good boy.’
‘He’s too old to work.’
‘He’s my age,’ said Alfred, affronted.
‘It’s different,’ said Dirk. ‘You’re not dying, are you.’ There was an uncertain silence, then he carried on. ‘I’m worried he’s going to peg out in my arms.’
‘George has been good to you, young man.’
‘Has he, Dad?’ Dirk went white around the nostrils. ‘You don’t know what it’s like in that shop. He smokes non-stop. I mean
non-stop
. I come out of there, I stink of smoke. Every time he coughs, he starts sicking up his guts. And when he’s not smoking, he’s bloody wheezing. He doesn’t do a shagging stroke –’
‘Language,’ said May. ‘George is fond of you,’ she added, suddenly afraid that Pamela was listening. ‘He must have got fond of you, I’m sure. Not having any sons of his own.’ (She dreamed that George would leave Dirk the shop, and he’d be all right for the rest of his life. Plus Dirk could afford to leave home, at last. They’d be left in peace, her and Alfred – Not that she wanted to get rid of him, of course.)
‘He hates me,’ said Dirk, simply. ‘He couldn’t manage without me, that’s all. I do all the work. He gets all the money.’
‘Of course he doesn’t hate you,’ said Alfred sternly. ‘Course he doesn’t. He’s my oldest friend.’
‘Have you managed to get rid of the Christmas stock?’ May was determined to turn the conversation.
‘The charity ones were rubbish, this year. No one round our way wants fancy things with otters on, they look at them and think they’re rats –’
‘Well
I’m
quite ecological,’ May interrupted him, indignant. ‘I bought two boxes of otters, dear.’
‘We still got lumbered with twenty-three boxes. Chocolates were quite good this year though. No thanks to George. He can’t think beyond Cadbury’s –’
‘Cadbury’s were always good enough for us,’ said Alfred.
‘Point I’m making is, people want Belgian.’
‘Good English chocolates. That’s what you want.’
‘What are you doing with these, then?’ asked Dirk, triumphant, pointing to the giant white-and-gold box that Shirley had left on the bedside table. “Best Belgian Chocolates”, it says, look, there.’
‘That’s Shirley, that is,’ said Alfred. ‘I can’t stop her wasting her money.’
‘She was looking very smart.
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