Buddy got up at eight-thirty, had breakfast and started cleaning the rooms downstairs. It took him ages and they still didn’t look as good as when his mum did them. It was an improvement, though – especially the kitchen, which had been in a terrible state. When his dad finally staggered downstairs at twelve-fifteen, Buddy asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I want a cuppa tea,’ his dad said, rubbing his eyes.
‘No, the cleaning, I’ve done all the rooms.’
‘You must be thirsty, then. So make some tea.’
Buddy made the tea and sat down at the table, feeling a bit disappointed. His dad sipped the tea then looked around the room.
‘Make a good charlady, you would. ’ow much d’you charge?’
Buddy smiled – his dad was pleased after all.
‘No, come on – ’ow much?’
‘Nothing,’ Buddy laughed.
‘Blimey, don’t never do nothing for nothing, mate. Let’s see… I reckon it’s worth… a tenner?’ He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a bundle of notes. He peeled off two £5 notes and put them down in front of Buddy. ‘Go on – they’re yours. Plenty more where that came from. And we’ll go down the shops later. Get you some trousers.’
Buddy could hardly believe it but one look at his dad’s smiling face told him it was true. ‘Where did you…’ he began, but his dad tapped him on the cheek – it was a friendly pat but hard.
‘Ask no questions and I won’t tell you no lies. I’m working, right? Now shut your gob and pour us another cup.’
His dad was in great spirits. He put a Buddy Holly LP on and turned it up really loud. The music boomed round the house while they both went upstairs to get ready.
‘Make sure you’ve got clean underpants,’ his dad shouted. ‘Don’t want you showing me up in the shops. My old mum used to say, “Terry, always make sure your undies are clean. If you get knocked down by a car, I don’t want the doctors thinking I let you run around dirty.” Poor old dear meant it, too. Bless her heart.’
They stopped off at a pub on the way to the shops. Buddy was going to wait outside but his dad told him to come in with him. The pub was crowded but there was a table near the door. Buddy sat there while his dad went to the bar to get the drinks.
‘There you go,’ his dad said, putting down a half-pint for Buddy and a pint for himself.
‘It’s beer,’ Buddy whispered.
‘’Course it is – it’s a pub, ain’t it?’
Buddy would have preferred a Coke but he sipped his beer and pretended to enjoy it. His dad even offered him a cigarette but he didn’t take it.
‘That’s right, son, you stay off ’em. At your age I was on twenty a day; now I can’t stop,’ his dad said with a laugh as he lit up. ‘Lovely, though, eh?’
Buddy liked the noisy, smoky atmosphere and the way his dad was treating him like a grown-up. He took a big gulp of his beer and finished it.
‘Right little boozer, ain’t you?’ his dad said and went back to the bar for some more. He came back with two pints for himself, another half-pint for Buddy and four packets of crisps.
‘Didn’t know what flavour so I bought ’em all.’
When they left the pub, the bright sunshine made Buddy squint and he walked along the street feeling slightly light-headed. Everything his dad said made him laugh. In the first clothes-shop they came to, his dad took a pair of bright yellow trousers from the rack and held them up. Buddy got such a fit of giggles that they had to leave.
In the next shop, Buddy picked out a pair of very ordinary grey trousers and tried them on.
‘Bit boring, ain’t they?’ his dad said when Buddy came out of the changing cubicle. ‘Why don’t you buy some nice drainpipes like these?’ he asked, pointing to his own trousers that were so narrow that they kept riding up over his pink socks.
‘They’re for school, Dad.’
‘Blimey, my son’s a right square,’ his dad said to the shop assistant. ‘Now, what else you want?’ His dad made him buy a couple of shirts and a sweater. Buddy thought of mentioning the parka – it really was too small – but his dad had spent enough already. After all, how long would this job last? It certainly paid well whatever it was. All sorts of questions about the job still buzzed in his head but he tried to push them away.
They walked along the streets looking at the shops and his dad talked happily about how he would soon be able to get his bike back.
‘You never know – might even get another record shop. That’d be a bit of all right, wouldn’t it?’
That would be great. Buddy could still remember the tiny shop filled with records. There’d been posters of Elvis and Buddy and other Rock ’n’ Roll singers and the shop had been loud with music. Rock ’n’ Roll fans, lots of them dressed – like his dad – in Teddy Boy clothes, had come from miles away to talk, listen to the music and buy rare records of the fifties. It had been more like a club than a shop and his dad had been really happy.
Then, one night, it had burned down. Everything had been destroyed. Buddy had only been eight at the time but he could still remember the look on his dad’s face when he’d heard the news. They’d all rushed round there and stood looking at the gaping, charred hole where the shop had been. During the fire the records had melted. As the plastic had cooled, it had set into a hard, black stream that flowed across the pavement and into the gutter. There, in the middle of the road, a terrible row had started when his mum found out that his dad had never bothered to insure the shop. It must have been the first bad row between them that Buddy had ever heard, because even now it made him shudder.
Oh yes, it would be terrific if his dad could start another shop like that.
Oddly enough, though, this sudden hope for the future made Buddy nervous. It hadn’t been long after the shop had burned down that his dad had gone to prison. If only he could be sure that he wasn’t doing something that might get him into trouble. The thought nagged him all the rest of the afternoon and while they were having tea Buddy finally plucked up courage to say something.
‘Mrs Rybeero told me they need taxi drivers.’
‘You’re too young to drive, big-boots.’
‘Not me. Don’t muck around. I meant you.’
‘Me? Working for jungle-bunnies? Do us a favour.’
‘They’re not jungle-bunnies,’ Buddy said, trying to keep his voice calm despite a spasm of anger that went through him.
‘Coulda fooled me.’
‘Anyway, that’s not the point. It’s a good job.’
‘I’ve got a job, ain’t I?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘But what?’ His dad put down his knife and fork and glared at him.
Buddy longed to go on – to ask what the job was, to beg him not to do anything that might send him back to prison – but he didn’t.
‘I don’t get you,’ his dad said. ‘First you moan ’cos we ain’t got no money, then you moan when I make a bit. You got your trousers, didn’t you?’
‘I’m not moaning,’ Buddy mumbled.
They finished their meal in silence and Buddy felt awful. His dad was doing it all for him and he wasn’t even grateful. All he did was criticize. Not just about this. It was everything. Things his dad did irritated him – like the noise he made eating and drinking, the unusual clothes he wore, the swaggering way he walked. Why couldn’t he be more like other kids’ dads?
Yet he didn’t always think like that. There were times when he loved the fact that his dad was different. He liked it when he mucked around and he was glad that he wasn’t like Mr Normington and people of that sort. It was all so confusing. Sometimes these opposite feelings swirled about inside Buddy’s mind until he wished he could open his head like a window and let it all go flying out.