‘Bloody hell man. Look at the state of you.’ Arthur Brown slurred his words. He’d not long been back from the Crown. George was waiting in the shadows of the backyard when he arrived home.
‘Been in a bit of a scrap, that’s all.’ George was sweating, his heart thumping. What in God’s name was he going to do now? Stupid kid. What a sodding mess. He wished to God he hadn’t seen the kid outside the allotments, that he hadn’t had the stupid idea of taking her to give Howarth a fucking fright. He pushed his way into the house.
‘Hey, hey!’ Arthur held his hands up and backed off. ‘Steady on. What’s happened?’
‘Told you.’ George held onto the chair to stop himself from falling. His legs shook so much his whole body trembled. ‘Been in a fight.’ He tried the usual joke. ‘You should see the other bugger.’ But the rasp in his voice gave him away.
‘You in trouble? I want no trouble.’
George cursed. ‘All I want is a bit of a wash.’
‘You’ll need more than that. Just look at your togs.’
‘Okay then, a bath – and I’ll wash my clothes in the water once I’ve done.’
‘Well, I’ll have to put the Ascot on. I’ve used up all the hot water for today.’ Arthur paused, looked expectantly at him. ‘Difficult managing on the pittance I have coming in, you know.’ He stood back to let George in. ‘And this bloody National Grid thing is a bloody con – state-bloody-owned, my arse,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s us poor bloody suckers who cop it – price of gas. Festival of Britain? It’s a bloody joke.’
‘Okay, okay.’ George cut him off. Once Arthur started there was no stopping him and he’d had more than enough. He pulled some coins out of his trouser pocket. ‘This do it?’
*
George sat in front of the fire, a tin bath full of cold scummy water nearby; his clothes steamed over the back of a chair to one side of the hearth. He tilted the glass of beer and took a long swallow and belched loudly.
‘I missed the contest later on.’ He held out his glass. ‘Who won in the end?’
‘West Riding Home Guard Band, I think.’
‘How come you missed it?’
‘Had to see somebody.’
‘Who?’
George lifted his shoulders.
‘Another?’ Arthur poured the beer from a jug into a glass. ‘That’ll be a shilling you owe me now,’ he reminded George, ‘besides that bob for the ciggies you’ve borrowed.’
‘Okay, you tight bugger.’
‘Hey, I forgot.’ Arthur straightened in his chair. ‘You missed all the excitement earlier.’
‘What?’ George took a swig of beer. He tried to block out the man’s voice.
‘Ted Booth’s kid’s missing.’
George’s stomach jerked. ‘Ted Booth’s kid?’
‘Aye.’ Arthur looked puzzled. ‘Called Linda … summat like that.’
Fucking hell! George felt the shudder run along his skin. He’d taken the wrong girl.
‘Well, I say Ted Booth’s kid. He took her on, like adopted her or summat. You must know that, you being you?’
George stared. ‘What d’you mean, me being me?’
‘The girl that’s been took. Well you know, it’s her … that kid…’ Arthur spoke slowly.
‘Haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ George interrupted.
‘She were that younger sister’s by-blow.’
George tapped out an impatient rhythm with his foot. ‘If you don’t tell me what you mean I’ll sodding thump you.’
‘All right, all right.’ Arthur was enjoying himself. ‘One time, when she’d had a few, Winnie told me that her youngest … that Ellen what’s married to Ted Booth … once had a bit of a fling with your brother. And Winnie told me that the kid she was ’aving was your Frank’s. You must ’ave known that. So that means…’ Arthur paused for the greatest effect and then said triumphantly, ‘That means the kid’s your niece.’