1 1
NEXT MORNING I woke regretting that I’d given in the night before. And to such a sob story, even if it were true. In the cold grey grainy fog of a late November dawn, when your clothes are clammy and the house smells of tacky new paint laced with the heavy sweaty tang of decorator’s dust, then reigniting the living-room fire from the remains of last night’s cinders and getting washed in tepid water at the kitchen sink and making breakfast are tedious enough. Having to attend to someone else as well – the space he occupies, somehow making the place seem smaller than it is, too small now, his coming and going, his noises and smells, his grunts and sighs and coughs and sniffs and belches and farts, his behaviour at the sink, splashing water onto the bench where I’m trying to cut bread and make toast for HIM, dammit, as well as myself – having to think instead of zombie your way into the day was enough to make me wish I hadn’t been such a soft touch.
To make things worse, while Adam scoffed bread and honey as if stoking up for a winter famine, I got to reckoning the financial cost of letting him stay. Two can live as cheaply as one? Tell it to the birds. Two can live as cheaply as two. Or three, if one of them eats like Adam did that morning.
I soon learned that he usually ate very little, it was just that he liked snacky bits at times when I didn’t – I’m a regular meal, no snacks eater, due to strict training as a child. In fact, I was the problem. I’d make plenty for two, serve him as much as myself and he’d leave half, which I threw away, till I realized after two or three days what was happening and gradually cut his share down. Not that Adam noticed. And eventually I learned how much to give him in order to satisfy his appetite with just enough left over that could safely be kept cold for him to snack on when he wanted. I even got to the point of enjoying this secret game. The pleasure came from the skill of judging exactly how much food to make, how much to serve up at the meal and which things in the meal would do for snacks or keep till next day, when I could use them as part of another meal. He liked potatoes, for example, and he liked them done in their jackets in the fire, and he liked them mashed and fried. So I’d do more in their jackets than I knew we’d need, keep the leftovers till next day, when I’d mash them up and fry them as potato pancakes. I don’t think he ever noticed that the pancakes were the old potatoes done that way. Which was another part of the game and the pleasure: his not noticing what I’d done. Of course, the weather being cold, stews were good, and keeping a stew pot of cheap scrap-ends going on the fire was easy. I simply chucked in any leftovers so that over a few days it went from being a meaty stew to being a thick vegetable soup. It was cheap and Adam could snack on it whenever he liked.
But this developed over the next few days. That first morning all I could think of was how I wouldn’t have enough money to feed us both, even with the stuff Tess gave me and my mother’s weekly parcel. But I was too morose to mention it. Just glowered into my tea.
And another thing niggled me.
‘We’ll have to get you a bed,’ I say when we’ve finished eating.
‘I’m not bothered.’
‘But I am. The place looks like a dosshouse with you on the floor.’
He doesn’t respond.
‘And more bedclothes.’
‘There’s plenty.’
‘No, there isn’t. I was cold last night. It’ll get worse as well, winter coming on.’
And that was the moment when the postman arrived, delivering Dad’s letter about Mother.
2
‘She’ll be OK,’ Adam says.
‘I ought to go home.’
‘Why? Your dad says don’t.’
‘He’s just saying that so I won’t feel pressured. He’s always like that. Do nothing till you have to, that’s his motto.’
‘I like it! He’s right.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘OK, don’t believe me, ask Tess.’
‘No, no! I don’t want her to know.’
‘No, leave it.’
‘Why . . .?’
‘Because I don’t. I don’t know why. I just don’t, that’s all. You said yourself, you don’t want everybody knowing your personal details.’
‘But Tess is supposed to be a friend.’
‘Just shut up about it, will you! You say one word, and that’s it, all right?’
‘OK, OK, I’m not saying a word.’
‘Well, just think on!’
‘Calm down, will you. No sweat. I’ll be tight as a duck’s arse, honest. But at least talk to your dad before you go. Ring him. He says you can.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Yes, you are. Do it.’
‘It’s too early, he won’t be at the office yet.’
‘But as soon as he is.’
‘There’s the tolls.’
‘Remember me? I’m here. I’ll hold the fort. You’ll not be gone for long.’
I dither.
‘Told you I’d be useful, didn’t I,’ Adam says.
‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ I say, clearing the table. ‘Bloody painting. We’ll never be done in time.’
Adam stands up, stretching in his loose-limbed animal way. ‘You worry too much. Relax. Leave it to me. I like painting. You can see where you’ve been and it passes the time. Everything’ll be OK, honest.’
‘That a promise?’
‘You betcha, squire.’
Suddenly I really am glad he’s here. Everyone needs somebody to break the closed circle of his mind. Adam used a blunt instrument and banged his way straight in, no subtlety, no fash about wounded feelings. The quickest form of ventilation. If you can stand the blows. A month before, I couldn’t have survived them.
3
Dad was adamant. Stay away. Mother would feel worse if I suddenly turned up for whatever excuse and she had to explain. Christmas was the right time. She was expecting me then, was preparing herself for it.
I told him about Adam. Or, at least, that I’d made friends with this out-of-work boy who was good at decorating so he was staying for a while to help me get finished.
‘You’ll need a bit of extra cash then,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll send you something.’ I suppose I knew he would and had subconsciously hoped he would. So didn’t refuse, but felt a twinge of failure as well as guilt for exploiting him while talking about Mother’s trouble.
4
Half past ten, Bob Norris appeared. We were busy clearing stuff out of the living room to get it ready for painting.
‘Come outside,’ he said to me while giving Adam a close inspection. ‘Want a word with you.’
He took me to the middle of the bridge and leaned on the parapet, looking down at the water.
‘What’s this I hear about a friend staying with you? Is that him?’
‘He’s a good help. I need it if we’re to get done in time.’
‘How good a friend?’
‘He’s all right.’
‘Known him long?’
‘Long enough.’
‘In other words, not long enough. You should have asked.’
‘I only decided last night. There hasn’t been time.’
‘Look, son, you’ve done all right so far. Don’t go and spoil it.’
I didn’t reply.
‘It’s a position of trust, you know, yours. There’s money involved.’
‘We’re hardly taking ten quid most days!’
‘Ten quid is ten quid, and I’ve only your word about how much you take.’
‘Are you saying I fiddle the books, Mr Norris?’
‘No, no! Just the opposite. I trust you. It’s this other lad. You’re sure he’s all right? It’s not just money. There’s property as well, and the bridge to keep an eye on. And with all this other business, these sackings and plans to sell, it’s getting difficult, that’s all. I’m having to be extra careful. There’s a lot at stake.’
I recognized his tone of voice. The breathiness of anxiety. I’d heard it in my own voice only a couple of hours ago.
I said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Is it OK?’
He stared down at the water and thought for a while before saying, ‘All right. But you’ll have to answer if anything goes wrong. So remember, he’s your responsibility.’
That word again! Another cold grey regretful realization. But I’d talked myself into it and pride wouldn’t let me back out. At least I had enough wit left to say, ‘While we’re at it, Mr Norris, is there any chance there might be a camp bed or anything going spare somewhere? He’s sleeping on the floor.’
It was the only time he smiled. ‘I’ll see. Might be something in the scout hut.’
‘Thanks.’
His smiled faded. A few days before he’d have been joshing me now, but since B-and-G he’d become solemn, bad-tempered even.
‘Sure you can manage, two of you, on your pay?’
I shrugged. ‘We’ll get by.’
He glanced at the toll house, his brows furrowed, lips pursed.
‘Everything has its day,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just get on as fast as you can. The agent says there’s a lot of interest. Wants to start showing the place as soon as things have settled down after New Year.’
He turned away and walked back to his van.
‘There might be a sleeping bag as well,’ he said as he climbed in.
5
‘What did he want?’ Adam asks.
‘To know if I could trust you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Yes.’
He smirks. ‘And do you?’
‘No.’
‘Lied, then!’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ He’s serious now.
‘Because I’m an idiot.’
He says nothing for a moment. Then he undoes a silver chain from round his neck and holds it out to me. ‘Here, take this.’
‘No. What for?’
‘Because I want you to. Go on. It’s worth a few quid. Real silver, nothing fake.’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘It’s OK. It’s mine. Didn’t nick it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Wear it. Insurance.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I mean it.’
‘No.’
He moves towards me. I step back.
‘Take it, craphead!’
‘No!’
He lunges at me, grabs my shirt. I try to push him away but he pulls me to him and tries to get the chain round my neck. I knock his hand away, sending the chain flying across the room. We struggle, saying nothing, wrestling, not half-hearted, not playful, but using all our strength, meaning it. A contest. I am heavier, but he is stronger. The first time I feel his strength. It takes me by surprise. And he is so much tougher than I, harder muscled, and practised, knows what he’s doing, where to hold, how to shift balance, when to move. And whereas I am tense, his body stays relaxed, supple all the time.
I feel trapped, become desperate, flay with my hands, swing and punch and strain against him and push. He easily dodges and absorbs and deflects and uses my movements to his own advantage, which makes me feel even more trapped, more a victim.
Soon I’m breathless. And Adam begins applying a painful force, a frightening violence that I don’t know how to deal with except in the end by giving in, going limp, allowing him to put me down and sit astride my waist, his knees on my upper arms, like kids do in playground fights.
I stare up at his flushed face, on which a sheen of sweat has broken out, smiling, his eyes full of the pleasure of the fight.
The chain lies within reach. He leans over, causing me to cry out as his knee digs into my bicep, picks up the chain, slips it round my neck, and sits back again, regarding me now with that absent stare which turns his face into a mask.
For two, perhaps even three whole minutes we remain there, silent, unmoving, staring at each other, until able to bear it no longer I say:
‘Have you done?’
The Grin then. Adam again. Pushes himself up. I too, dusting myself off. My arms ache from the bony pressure of his knees, and other bruises burn on my body.
6
A car horn tooted. I went out and took the toll. When I got back Adam was busy Polyfilling cracks round the fireplace. Neither of us said anything, not then nor later, about the silver chain. I went on wearing it simply to prevent another bout of wrestling. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Every morning as we passed each other on the way to and from washing at the sink, he’d make a show of checking it was still there, and grin and nod, until this daily inspection became a routine, a ritual we would only have noticed had it not been performed.
I still wear his chain, never take it off, now as a kind of talisman, a memento, a charm against the evil comfort of forgetting. Insurance after all, though not of the sort Adam had in mind. Not that it was Adam who gave it to me, as I should have known from that mask-faced absent stare.