in stopping by.
‘Tea, please. Is it okay to bring Treacle in?’
‘Depends.’ She held his eye. ‘Is she going to stay here
comfortably in a relaxed way, happy to be here with me,
or is she going to leg it if someone knocks on the door
or get spooked by anyone walking past the window?’
Treacle lay on the floor with her head on her paws,
already in a semi-dozing state. ‘I think she’s happy to be
here with you.’
‘Well, all right then.’ She reached for the tea bags and
made the tea, smiling at him over her shoulder.
* * *
Nick was awake a tad before the alarm roused him and he
woke with a smile on his face. He whistled as he show-
ered, and upon the discovery that he had run out of milk
simply settled on toast instead of cereal. It seemed that
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nothing could dampen his mood. He felt excited with
the stir of something a lot like happiness in his gut. He
tried to remember the last time he had felt this way and
realised it was when he started courting Kerry and sud-
denly getting up in the rain to walk to school for another
day of monotonous instruction didn’t seem too bad, not
when he got to see Kerry, be with Kerry, stand next to
Kerry, share lunch with Kerry…
He and Beverly had kissed goodbye after their cup
of tea – not the frenzied, booze-fuelled, clothes tugging,
skin mauling make out that had occurred on New Year’s.
No, this was something more sedate, considered, and in
truth it had lit this flame of happiness that warmed him.
He parked the car and saw Eric dismount from his
bike. He tried to imagine arriving for work and not seeing
his friend ahead of him on his bike. It was unthinkable.
Nick walked alongside him.
‘Morning, lad.’
‘Morning.’ Eric eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re full of
beans this morning.’
‘Something like that.’ He decided not to elaborate; it
was one thing not to hide away, but quite another to set
the wheels of gossip in motion before he absolutely had
to. Plus, he was still unsure of what to say to Oliver, and
when. Timing … ‘I told Jen you were thinking of going to Australia last night and she—’
Eric held up his hand. ‘Do you know what, mate?’
He looked into the middle distance and spoke sincerely.
‘I don’t want to talk about her, not anymore. Okay?’
‘Okay. But I just wanted to ask you one thing.’
‘What?’
‘What happened when you and Jen had that weekend
away? It felt like there was a possibility of something
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more and then it seemed to…’ He shrugged, unsure of
how to phrase it.
Eric took a deep breath. ‘Short story.’ He licked his
lips. ‘I told her I loved her and she burst into tears before running out of the room and coming home. That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep. That’s it.’’
‘I see,’ he said, even though he didn’t, not really.
‘But as I say, mate, I don’t want to talk about Jen.’
The two walked on in silence and Nick tried to think
of a time when his sister had not been the first choice
in topic of conversation for his friend. He couldn’t.
‘Are you still seriously thinking about going?’ he asked
as they made their way across the yard and into the
warehouse.
‘Did you not think I was serious?’ Eric asked again
with his new air of solemnity that was more than a little
unnerving. Nick watched him park his bike and lock it.
‘No, I did think you were serious.’ He took his time
in forming his answer. ‘I guess I just hoped you weren’t.’
It was as close as he could get to telling his friend just
how much he would miss him and how he feared a little
for a life in Burston without Eric Pickard in it.
‘Good, because my visa application is in and I’ve
ordered a book off the Internet – a guide to living and
working in Australia.’
‘Oh, well, if you’ve ordered a book.’ Nick thumped
‘I know you think it’s a big joke. I know everyone
will, but that just makes me more determined to get on
that bloody plane. I’m sick of everyone laughing at me
or about me…’ He zipped up his fleecy top. ‘I’m bloody
sick of it.’
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‘Actually, Eric, most people, me included, laugh with
you. You’re a funny bastard.’
‘Well, let’s hope I get to be funny in Australia with
the sun on my back and budgie smugglers under my work
clothes so I can hit the beach after work.’
Nick wanted to laugh at the term ‘budgie smugglers’
but, aware now of Eric’s sensitivity, didn’t know if that
would enflame the situation. Instead he bit the inside of
his cheek and clocked on.
With the mad rush for Christmas and New Year’s
orders over, work was back to a steady, less hectic pace.
Nick oversaw the loading of the lorries and organised the
rota for the drivers for the coming month before taking
the time sheets up to the office. He knocked on the door
and felt a little coy, trying not to look over the desks to
where Beverly sat, closest to Julian Siddley’s office door.
She was on the phone, but still he caught the way her face
broke into a smile at the sight of him and it made him feel
good that he could conjure this reaction. It might have
been his imagination, but it seemed the other women in
the office all paid him a little more attention, nodded at
his arrival and smiled briefly if he caught their eye, as if
they too might be in on the secret. It felt like approval
of sorts.
By lunchtime Nick was pleased to see that Eric’s mood
had mellowed. They sat at their usual table on the worn
benches with the metal trestle legs beneath the strip light
that flickered irritatingly, with a group of lads from the
shop floor who either tucked into sandwiches eaten from
small plastic boxes or the meat and two veg option that
the canteen rustled up for a subsidised fee each day. Kath
Watson and her team had an average age of seventy and
had been running the canteen forever and ever. Their
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banter was warm, the atmosphere they created homey,
but as for the cooking? As Eric had pointed out on more
than one occasion, MasterChef wasn’t going to be sending an application form their way any time soon.
‘What is that?’ Eric pointed at the brown sludge that filled Roy’s plate.
‘Stew.’ He lifted his spoonful and paused briefly be-
fore taking a mouthful. His expression said it all and he
immediately reached for the salt and pepper.
‘It’s what’s been stewed that bothers me!’ Eric chortled.
‘So, come on, Nick.’ Roy paused from his stew con-
; sumption and placed the spoon on the side of the plate.
‘What’s the deal with you and Bev?’
He felt his face colour and kicked his boots against
the concrete floor, keeping his eyes trained on his corned
beef and pickle between two slices of white.
‘There is no deal.’ He took a bite.
‘No?’ Roy continued. ‘It’s just that a little bird told
me she’d seen you coming out of Bev’s house last night.
And it was dark, she couldn’t be sure of the time, but said
it was probably nearer bedtime than not.’
‘Would that little bird happen to be your sister, Ellen
– who lives three doors down?’ Eric asked.
‘Might have been.’ Roy chuckled.
‘Well, in that case it was a big bird!’ Eric quipped.
Roy and his sister both shared a rather solid frame.
Even Roy laughed at that.
‘Stop changing the subject.’ Roy pointed at Eric.
‘Come on, Nick, you seem to be spending a bit of time
with Beverly and I’m just asking what’s happening.’
‘There’s nothing happening. Nothing.’ He felt his
leg jump beneath the table and wished the subject would
change. It wasn’t that he minded so much talking about
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it with the lads, despite his embarrassment, but he knew
that these conversations were conveyor belts onto which
words would hop and be carried right to the door of his
sister-in-law and, ultimately, all the way to Birmingham
University…
‘So there’s nothing happening?’ Roy pressed.
Nick shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Well, in that case, you won’t mind if I ask her out for
a pie and a pint, will you? I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and as there’s nothing happening with you two…’
Nick stared at Roy, holding his sandwich in mid-air,
at a loss for words. ‘I … I … I mean…’ he stuttered.
It was Eric who laughed first, loudly, quickly followed
by all the lads at the table. He sat back and watched as
Eric reached over and high-fived Roy, who picked up
the spoon and tucked into his stew.
‘Your face!’ Eric doubled over, pointing at his friend.
‘He got you good,’ one of the younger packers piped up.
Nick stood and grabbed his sandwich box. ‘You’re
bastards, all of you…’ He decided to take his lunch box
to the car where he could have five minutes’ peace – that
and he hoped his puce face might calm in the cold. But
he also knew it was time to think about the conversation
he needed to have with Oliver and he wasn’t looking for-
ward to it, not one bit. The car was chilly yet preferable.
He finished his sandwich and his phone rang. It was Jen.
‘What’s up?’ he asked without preamble; she only
called him when something was wrong or something
needed doing.
‘Nothing!’ she fired.
‘Nice. That’s just what I want on my lunch break, you
calling up to yell at me. Can’t I get five minutes’ peace anywhere?’ He went quiet. Their silence was unusual in that
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the air between them crackled. He could hear her breathing
and she swallowed once. This was not the manner of the
boisterous, aggressive older sister who had taunted, harassed, teased and loved him for as long as he could remember.
‘You okay, Jen?’ he asked, softer now.
‘I … I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you hurt?
In danger?’ He thought for the first time that it might
be a good idea to roll out his code red emergency drill
to the whole family.
‘No, nothing like that. I just keep thinking about
what you said.’ She paused.
‘About what?’
‘God, Nick! About Eric,’ she spat.
Ah there she is … ‘What about him?’
‘I guess … I guess I don’t like the thought of him
going away.’
He sat forward and rested his arms on the steering
wheel. ‘I would have thought you’d be having a party
and popping champagne corks. You’ve been going on for
years about how much he annoys you and he’ll finally be
out of your hair.’
‘Shows what you know.’ Again that pause; seemingly
it was a struggle for her to get the words out. ‘I don’t
want him to go.’
‘Why not?’
Her response when it came, was whispered. ‘Because
… Because I love him.’
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock. Instead he sat back in
the driver’s seat and let her words permeate.
‘You love him?’ He knew it wasn’t the time or place
to point out that her behaviour towards Eric was not that
of someone traditionally in love.
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‘Yep.’ She sounded like she might be crying.
‘So why have you never done anything about it?’ He
was curious.
‘Because I’m just scary old Jen! Jen who can’t join the
boys club that Dad created in our own bloody garage! I even
asked once, and you just laughed at me. Jen who annoys
everyone, Jen who becomes a policewoman just to show
she’s as good as any of the boys … I was always just a joke
to you lot and I know he would get fed up of me eventually
and I couldn’t stand to see that happen. It would hurt too
much, Nick, so better to keep him close as my friend, like
when we were kids. That routine I can keep up forever…’
‘Jesus!’ There was so much about her speech that
bothered him he didn’t know where to start. ‘Dad was
proud of you. You didn’t let him down, don’t forget. I
did. He was so disappointed in me.’
‘True, he was,’ she offered without humour. ‘But he
was wrong. You did the right thing by Kerry and that
should have made him proud. But he was never proud of
me. It was always about the Bairstow Boys, and therein
lay the problem – I couldn’t compete.’
‘Jen, you can’t let any issues you might have had with
Dad affect your life with Eric.’
‘God, I wish it were that simple!’ She laughed dryly. ‘I
never feel like I’m good enough, never feel that anyone is
going to want me, not in the long run, and I don’t know
how to be any different and now he’s going away.’
Nick closed his eyes and took a breath. Her timing
could not have been worse.
‘You need to tell him,’ he offered gently. ‘Tell him or
you might regret it.’
‘I don’t know what to say to him.’ She rounded the
sentence with a small laugh, admitting that for woman
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in her late thirties this was the most ridiculous state of
affairs. ‘As you can tell, I’m not very good at all this stuff.
Colin used to say I was cold, hard, but I’m not really,
only on the outside.’
It was a rare admission, and even rarer that she men-
tioned her ex-husband.
‘Well, he was a dickhead.’
‘Correction, he is a dickhead.’
‘Good point.’ He smiled.
‘I thought I had more time,’ she began. ‘Eric has always
been there and I’ve never thought about him not being there until yesterday, when you said about Australia.’
‘The thing is, Jen, you’re my sister, and I hear what
you’re saying.’ This was his way of telling her she was
loved. ‘But he’s my best mate and I don’t want him to
be messed around. I don’t want him to go, of course I
don’t, but I would hate you to get his hopes up or lead
him on – he doesn’t deserve that. So if you really feel
like you say you do, say something, but if this is another
Marvellous Montague moment…’
He could sense her smiling as he mentioned the snake
she had begged for, cried for, stamped her feet over, until
their dad had relented and presented her with a tank
containing a small yellow python, which she instantly
christened Marvellous Montague. It was a mere twenty
minutes after being introduced that she came down the
stairs screaming and declared how much she hated snakes.
With his daughter near hysteria, her dad had had to take
Marvellous Montague immediately back to the pet shop,
where he was politely informed that there was no refund
for a ‘change of heart’.
Jen seemed to be considering this. ‘I need to think
about it, Nick. I know it’s not fair to mess him around
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and I don’t know if I have the courage to be that honest
with him. I don’t know if I could tell him how I feel.
You’re right.’
‘Sorry, Jen, I didn’t hear that, could you repeat it?’
‘I said you’re right!’ she shouted.
‘I thought so.’ He smiled; it was rare she gave him
any credence.
‘Dickhead.’ She ended the call.
* * *
Nick lit a candle in the sitting room and sniffed at the
odour of dust that filled the room. It wasn’t quite what
he had been hoping for, but knew the candle had been
sitting around for years, its scent long faded. He blew it
out immediately. Treacle, lying on the rug in front of the
fire, looked up at him.
‘I know, I’m overthinking it. I’m nervous, Treacle,
that’s for sure.’
He looked at the picture on the mantelpiece of Kerry
holding Oliver when he was a newborn and felt the fam-
iliar tremor of uncertainty through his veins. Truthfully,