Chapter 1

‘... I did it my way.’ End of record. Golden oldies! Bloody jukebox!

Kid feeding space invader machine in the corner. Is it war fever? Xenophobia? He can’t be very good at it – putting his coins in every few minutes. Bloody thieving machine! Where’s the kid get the money anyway? Poor kid must be bored silly.

In the other corner of the café: me. Watching the kid playing space invaders. My coins for each cup of tea lasting me a bit longer. Watching the back of the girl who’d put the record on. Watching the waitress – surreptitiously though: the kid is concentrating on his game; the jukebox girl is looking the other way; but the waitress looks this way from time to time. She smiles at me when our eyes meet; but it’s embarrassing. So I’m pretending to read my book. Well – actually reading it, between times. But every now and then realizing that I’ve taken nothing in and going back a couple of pages. I wonder if anyone has noticed that I’ve been reading the same two pages for an hour and a half?

An old news vendor trudges into view down Market Street. Grey hat. Grey jacket. Grey trousers. Grey bag of grey papers. Even his face as grey as any I’ve seen. In a grey street, under a grey sky. Crosses Bridge Street by the zebra crossing and comes into the Britannia. His shoes are falling off his feet: even though he’s got a job, I bet he’s no better off than I am. Looks worse off.

‘Tea love, ta. Two sugars.’

‘Sugar’s on the table again now, sir. Shortage is over, you see, and it’s less work for me. Eighty pee that’ll be. Thank you sir.’

‘Ta lass. You don’t seem overworked at the moment you know.’

‘No. But you should be here in the afternoon. Two of us. Hammer and tongs.’

‘Aye. Mebbe.’

The news vendor comes and sits opposite me. Perhaps he recognizes my inability to reject anyone. No reason to reject him. Lonely old codger, absolutely harmless. Just needs a bit of companionship. Not enough of that in the world. He starts to talk about his life, his job, his home. But I’m not really thinking about him: barely able to say the right things at the right time. After a while I look at my watch and excuse myself.

I expect he knows I’m only escaping, but he can’t accuse me of lying. Anyway, maybe he realizes he can talk to me again, and I’ll be increasingly embarrassed pretending to have somewhere to go.

Stand up, put on my coat. Catch the waitress’s eye: ‘See you later.’

‘See you.’

Strange: that isn’t embarrassing at all. Perhaps because it’s clear cut: know what’s going on, what’s coming next. Over and out.

Over the zebra. Up Market Street. Left into Northgate. Now I’m out of sight of the Britannia: no need to look purposeful any more.

Admit it Pete: you too are bored silly. So, probably, are the jukebox girl and the waitress. Nothing to do. The lot of five million Britons. No – more. The waitress, for instance, has a job. Not one of the five million. And I bet the old news vendor is bored silly too. Bored and lonely.

A travel agent’s window: bloody package tours. Half-naked models on sunny beaches. In an empty grey street under a darkening grey sky.

Mike’s gone to see his parents: not back till next Thursday to sign on. Lonely – not just bored: don’t want to go and see anyone, they’re only acquaintances. I need friends. Mike’s away.

Half-naked models on sunny beaches. Man in bright clothes leaning back on rope in impossible position on sun-soaked cliff with dizzying drop to out-of-focus below. Jumbled houses on narrow cobbled street on hill in brilliant sunshine. Drizzle starting and street lights coming on.

Left again into the arcade out of the drizzle. Mike’s away and June isn’t talking to me. Now there’s the truth of this mood. Amazing how the mind shuts things out. Is it all over with June? Do I want her back, anyway? Hasn’t this been coming for a long time? Pretty girl at the bottom of narrow cobbled street in brilliant sunshine – where? Italy? Cornwall? Haven’t I been looking at other girls and thinking, for a long time? And just what has June been thinking, for a long time?

Andy’s café. Bright lights. Loud music. Lots of video games. Lots of kids. Steamed up windows. Tina loves Terry in the steam. Rubbed out quick with a cardigan sleeve. A vivid green-and-red sleeve. Quick sight of a pretty face through the clear patch.

Keep on walking. Looking purposeful. Pity the Arcade’s so short: drizzle again. What’s up with me anyway? Doubt if ‘Tina’ – was that Tina? – even saw me. Why should I care what she thinks of me anyway? Still: I’m not going back into the Arcade. Nor am I going to stand in a doorway: this drizzle could go on for hours. And I’m not going home yet: I would die of boredom and loneliness. And I can’t go back to the Britannia yet: the news vendor might still be there. And anyway I can’t afford to spend all my time in cafés.

Pity the library’s shut. Go there during the day tomorrow, Pete: it’s cheaper than cafés. And you’ll have to go to a café for the evening. I wonder what June’s doing, thinking?

Bridge Street again – I hope the newsvendor can’t see me from the Britannia! Still, it’s dark out here and light in there and he isn’t right by the window. Better go the other way for the moment anyhow.

Queue waiting to go into the Odeon. I wonder what’s on? Don’t bother to look: it’s four and a half quid. Stop here on the bridge.

Wharfe Street lights on the water. Little rings in the water where the raindrops land. Dark backs of Quebec Street warehouses. Limestone parapet wet, dampening my coat sleeves.

It’s raining harder now; I’ll get soaked. Hope the newsvendor (Mr Grey? that’s a good name) has gone: I’ll go back to the Britannia.

Streetlights glistening on the surface of Quebec Street. Noise of tyres on wet road. Headlights reflecting on wet road. Over the zebra.

‘Think I’ll have a meal, love, please. Can’t be bothered to go home and cook. Egg and chips.’

‘And a tea?’

Nod.

‘Two fifty-five please.’

‘Ta.’

Take coat off. Sit down in a corner. Mr Grey has gone. So has the space-invader kid. Jukebox keeps looking at her watch and then down the street. Maybe she’s being stood up.

Reading the same two pages again. Wishing I’d bought a paper from Mr Grey. Maybe, just maybe, there might be a job in it worth the effort of applying for.

Egg and chips. ‘Ta love’. Red sauce. Can’t hold the book and eat egg and chips at the same time. Watch a group of kids up Market Street, playing the fool and shouting. Two cars pass. An old van.

Young bloke running down Market Street, noisy on the wet pavement. Straight across Bridge Street – don’t think he looked at all. Straight into the Britannia, up to Jukebox.

‘Sorry I’m late love. Head office is snowed under with work and Sergeant Robinson’s been briefing us on how to do some that they’re offloading onto us. Now I know why we were given those two kid recruits to train the other week.’

‘Relax love. We’ve time for another tea before we set off. When’s the next train?’

‘Not for an hour and a half. Come on, if we run we can catch this one.’

Exit young couple, fast. She sounded nicer than she looked. Wonder where they were going? Don’t know the comings and goings of trains. Not used one for years.

‘Another cup of tea love?’

What? I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before!

‘No ta.’

‘It’s all right. It’s on the house. I’m having one.’

‘Oh! Okay – thanks.’

Two cups of tea.

‘Mind if I join you?’

She’s got more guts than I have. Or just less confused motives to get embarrassed about.

‘Be my guest. Thanks for the free tea.’

‘There’s no-one to know. I’m quite glad you’re here. I don’t like being on my own in the evenings. Anyhow, I don’t like to see you so depressed – it makes me depressed. You’re usually so cheerful. Old Tom was quite worried about you, cutting him off like that.’

She takes more notice of people than I do. I’ve noticed she’s a pretty girl with a warm smile. That’s about all, in all the months she’s been working here.

‘Do you know him then?’

‘Tom Green? He’s a regular. He’s in here as often as you are; I’m surprised you’ve not met before. He’s a bit more talkative than you – I’d say I know him quite well.’

‘I feel bad about cutting him off now. I figured I’d given him enough time not to offend him. I’d...’

‘He wasn’t offended. Most people scarcely give him the time of day. He was just surprised, and a bit worried about you. But you weren’t giving him time, he was giving you time, Pete.’

‘How’d he know I’d not be another who’d scarcely give him the time of day? Why should he be surprised? Why should he worry about me? Anyway, how’d you know my name? And what’s yours?’

‘You know, I do believe you’re actually listening to every word I’m saying. But I can’t answer six questions at once. Ask them again, one at a time!’

Laughter.

‘I doubt if I can remember them exactly!’ More laughter.

‘I’m Cathie, anyway, for one. And, maybe you’re always on your own when you come in here, but I see you around town with Mike and Jill and June, and you call each other by name. But to get back to old Tom: he knows you’d normally chat to him for an hour or more, ’cause he does talk to his mates, you know. He knew you weren’t listening really, and he knew why you left. He’s not stupid, you know. When you came out of Quebec Street and went down towards the canal, he shot off quick. Didn’t want you to get soaked waiting to come back in here.’

God. People are more conscious than I am. I’ve never connected anyone I’ve seen around town as being the same person as ‘the pretty waitress in the Britannia’; but she’s even caught my name. And the old codgers’ club that to me were just disconnected lonely old men needing companionship talk about me and are concerned for me.

‘I didn’t see – Tom? – leave. I just guessed he’d be gone by now. Where would he go to on an evening like this? I just don’t understand other people’s lives.’

‘I reckon he thought you’d be watching for him to leave. Don’t know where he’ll have gone though. He won’t be wandering the streets on his own, that’s for sure. What will you do later on?’

What does that mean? Or doesn’t it mean anything? Can’t go wrong assuming it means only what it says.

‘I’ll walk home, read my book for a while, and then go to bed, I expect. Maybe get a paper and look at the situations vacant. What about you?’

‘My dad’ll come down and walk me home come closing time. If this weather clears up my little brother’ll want to show me the stars; else we’ll all be round the telly.’

Can’t have meant anything; her evening is cut and dried.

‘Does your dad walk you home every night? How old’s your little brother? How much does he know about the stars?’

‘You and your questions! My dad doesn’t reckon it’s safe for me to walk home alone. My brother’s ten, and I don’t know how much he knows ’cause he knows more than I do. Have you got any family?’

‘Not around here. I’ve got an elder brother in Sheffield but the rest of the family still lives in London. Mum, Dad, little sister, one Granny still going strong.’

‘What brought you up here?’

‘I came to stay with my brother, looking for work. Got a job at Ripley’s. Couldn’t stand commuting from Sheffield so I got myself digs. Then Mike found this flat for me. If I’d still been in digs I’d have left when Ripley’s went broke.’

‘Have you been out of work ever since then? I was still at school then.’

‘Apart from a temporary job on the canal project, yes.’

‘My dad used to work at Ripley’s. Twenty years. He reckons he’ll never get another job. Not much work in light engineering any more. He thinks he’s too old to change trades. Do you think you’ll get another one?’

‘Sooner or late, I hope. Scarcely keep body and soul together on today’s benefits. Might go abroad. Some folks reckon it’s not so bad in Germany.’

‘I don’t reckon much to Germany. My Uncle Jack’s just got back off a temporary job on a shelter complex there. He says unemployment’s as bad there as it is here, and there’s a lot of violence and disruption.’

‘What did your dad do at Ripley’s? Maybe I know him.’

‘He was in charge of the presses. Hello, I’ve got a customer.’

Young man in jeans and a filthy yellow jumper. Mud. Clean jeans. Very strange.

‘Two teas love please. My mate’s just coming. Have you anywhere we can wash?’

‘Up the stairs, straight ahead. Can’t do anything for your jumper, though!’

Laughter. No explanation. Couldn’t really expect one, I suppose. So Cathie’s dad was – is – Mr Jordan. Cathie Jordan. Cathie Jordan back behind the bar. Cathie Jordan whose dad walks her home every evening – but who is alone in the Britannia half the evening every night.

Splashing noises upstairs. Another – less muddy – young man arrives, with a blue kit bag. Sits down.

‘Your mate’s upstairs in the bathroom.’ Cathie.

‘Thank you. I’ll follow him if I may. He has ordered some tea, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. I’ll bring you them when you come down.’

‘Thanks.’ Southern accent, but a precise, foreign-sounding turn of phrase. I wonder where he’s from?

I wonder what time this place shuts? I’ve never stayed very late. Do I want to meet Mr Jordan with his daughter? Would Cathie find it embarrassing? Come on, Pete, it’s you who would find it embarrassing. Shall I ask her what time she shuts? Or shall I just leave fairly soon?

Get up. Coat on. ‘See you.’

‘Are you going already?’

‘Aye. I’ll most likely be in tomorrow.’

‘Okay – see you tomorrow love.’

Bloody coward Pete.

Over the zebra. Still raining, little streams down the gutters now. Up Market Street. Interesting: the gutter stream is muddy. Past the end of Northgate. All the shop lights out now. Wonder if Andy’s is still open? Wonder what time the Britannia closes? Wonder what Cathie is thinking? Wonder what Mike is doing at home with his parents in Somerset? Wonder what June and Jill are doing?

Bicycle splashes past up the hill, lights flickering. Slow on the hill. Maybe dynamo slip on wet tyre. Turns left into Long Lane.

Cross the end of Long Lane. Top of the hill. Mud in the road, road works signs. Temporary traffic lights. Digger. Dark stretch of road, one street light not working. Turn right into Fieldhouse Road. Pedestrian approaching on the other side of the road, heavy man, striding out.

‘Evening Pete.’

Oh. Who is it? Can’t see his face with the light behind him. Voice sounds like George. What’s he doing here? Hope it is George.

‘Evening George.’

Hope it was George.

Quarry Road. Park Hill. Rose Lane. Walker Terrace. Number 30. Round the back through the passage. Flat 2. Fumble for keys. Let myself in. Empty. Same dreariness as when I left this morning. Unlived-in feeling. Cold. Lonely. Boring. Things not washed up. Can’t be bothered to do that now; have to wait for the water to warm up. Wouldn’t change the feel of the place anyway. Miss Mrs Wooller; digs in her house felt more like home than home used to. Pity the Benefit Office won’t pay for digs.

Independence! A dreary flat. Still, I suppose it’s less embarrassing to have my friends round here than it used to be at Mrs Wooller’s. ‘Cup of tea, dear? Do have one of my home-made scones.’ Couldn’t hold a private conversation unless she was out, which wasn’t often.

Damn! Left my book at the Britannia. Hope Cathie keeps it for me. Cathie. See her tomorrow. Cathie Jordan.

Probably nothing to it. Anyway, what about June? Is it all over with her? Do I want it to be all over? Is there any chance of being just friends? It’s going to be awkward with Jill and Mike otherwise. Does June want it all over? Or doesn’t she know, like me? Anyway, maybe I do know: I do want it all over. I just want to be friends. I think.

What to do tomorrow? Wash up. Clean up. Wish I could afford some paint to brighten the place up! And a few big soft cushions, and a carpet. Wish I could even afford to keep the place warm! Go to the library. Join if they’ll let me, and borrow some books. Britannia in the evening.

Cathie Jordan. What is she thinking? Has her dad come and walked her home yet? What is the time, anyway? Who cares? To bed.

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