Bill stared at his phone, aghast. This couldn’t just be because he was late for lunch. Somehow, Thandie must have found out about Anthony. Well, there was no point going home now. Not without a serious rethink, of the pub variety.
The Boar’s Head was an unreconstructed old-man pub that the hipsters had yet to discover and destroy. The smell of stale beer, windows that let in no light, a carpet that stuck to your feet with every step, ancient geezers in rotting jackets sitting at small round tables drinking bitter and reading the Racing Post, ignoring each other and yet enjoying the companionship of being ageing and cantankerous together. Bill loved the unpretentiousness of it, which he knew made him pretentious himself, but he didn’t care.
Not entirely to his surprise, he spotted Sal sitting at the back of the room, with some leftover chip papers beside her, drinking a lime and soda and making her way through a pile of magazines. Sal’s hobby was hobby magazines. She liked reading them and imagining having the hobbies she didn’t have. Today she had fresh copies of Angler’s Mail, Crochet World and Fine Art Connoisseur. Bill wondered where she had got the money from. He knew she’d been fired from her latest job, in the sweet shop on the high street, for giving sweets away to cute children, cute children being the main customer base of the sweet shop. He’d popped in to see her, and the manager had explained, with regret, that he’d had to let her go, even though she was a pleasure to have around the place. He was sure, he’d said, that she’d find something else. Bill wasn’t so sure.
Bill got himself a whisky and ginger from the bar – the barmaid greeted him by name, another reason he liked this place – and went and sat down beside his sister.
‘You all right, Sal?’ he said.
‘I’m learning how to make an antique-style lace shawl,’ said Sal. She held up Crochet World.
‘I heard about the job.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry, Bill. I really tried this time.’
‘It’s OK, Sal, you don’t have to apologise to me. We just need to find you something more suited to you. Maybe you can become a professional crochet-er.’
‘I don’t think so. It looks really hard. I think it would take me a year to make one antique-style lace shawl with …’ She squinted at the page ‘… broderie anglaise detailing.’
‘Well, don’t worry. We’ll think of something.’ He put his arm around his sister’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
‘Thanks, bro. So. How was lunch?’
‘I didn’t go.’
‘What?’
‘I just called Thandie to apologise for running late, and she was really angry. So I haven’t gone yet. Too scary.’
‘But I took you there myself.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Yes, I did. Half an hour ago. Thandie gave me twenty quid.’ Sal indicated the hobby magazines with her hand.
Bill frowned. Sal wasn’t the sharpest pickle in the jar, true, but she wasn’t delusional. She must be remembering another time, another twenty quid – Thandie giving her money was hardly unprecedented, Bill didn’t think it was a good idea, it was one of the many things they argued about. But that was hardly the main issue now. Losing this job must have affected her more than she was letting on.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘why don’t you try that newsagent that’s just opened, down on the front? They might be looking for someone. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Working with magazines?’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Sal. ‘Thanks, Bill! Are you feeling better now, by the way?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were acting really weird, earlier.’
There wasn’t any earlier. But Bill didn’t want to worry her, so he just said, ‘Yes, I’m feeling much better.’
He knocked back his whisky and ginger, enjoyed the fizz and the burn.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Better go and face the music.’
Though first he was going to drop into that newsagent himself, and have a word with the owner. Not to put off seeing Thandie, obviously not. Just doing a favour for his little sis.