I can’t tell if he’s trying to take the piss or if he’s actually serious. Please can I punch him? Just the once?
“No, even though I’m a bit of a thicko, I never forget it because it’s Harry’s birth date.”
* * *
There is a pause. A definite pause.
“Hey—
I
know that.”
Yeah, but you’d forgotten, I think. I
know
it.
I’m worried about Nat. I try to tell myself he’s just being a teenager, but he seems so withdrawn and I can’t seem to communicate with him at all. I ask him how things are going with Joanne and he just grunts. She seems like a nice girl, so maybe it’s fine. And he’s barely at home—when he’s not at school or swimming practice, he’s over at Joanne’s or Steve’s.
“So what do you get up to?” I ask him.
“Just, you know, hanging out.”
“Oh. Right.”
It could mean anything. I tell myself it means sitting around chatting and listening to music, maybe even discussing their homework. Not every teenager is off his skull on crack and beating up old ladies for their pension money, I remind myself. The papers are chock full of rubbish. I wish he’d talk to Scott. Or at least just see him other than when Scott picks up Rosie.
Cassie comes round and tells me not to get in a stew about it.
“Nat’s basically a good kid,” she says. “You know he is and you’ve done a good job bringing him up. Don’t keep beating yourself up and telling yourself you’re a bad mother—you’re
not.”
“I know, but he won’t talk to me.”
“Nat’s not the type to talk about how he feels anyway, is he? Takes after Scott. He’s a guy’s sort of guy. I think he must miss his dad an awful lot.”
“Yes, but I try to—”
The door opens and Nat lopes in.
“Yo,” he says to Cassie, but it’s a half-hearted sort of a “yo.”
“Hey, it’s my fave man.” Cassie raises her glass to him. “How’s it going?”
His face bobs up and down, like he’s listening to music.
“'s OK.”
I leap to my feet and say I’ll fetch some crisps for us to have a nibble. I start fiddling about in the cupboards as if I’m not listening to them. Cassie’s more likely to get him to talk if I’m not in his face being Nosy Mother.
“How’s things with that pretty girlfriend of yours? Spend your whole time snogging, I bet. Or worse. Just don’t get her up the duff. There’s enough teenage pregnancies in this country without you two adding to the statistics.”
“Get away!”
Cassie.
For goodness’ sake. Honestly. I clutch the crisp packet to stop myself remonstrating with her. He can’t be having sex. Not at thirteen.
Surely
not. I mean, maybe they play around a little … I don’t want to think about it. This is my little boy we’re talking about. I hadn’t even had my first kiss at his age. I dive back into the cupboard again, looking for some of those mini cheese biscuity things.
I sneak a glance round. Nat’s leaning against the counter, his back to me. I clatter about, must just find a dish for these crisps, giving Cassie a bit more time.
“I hear your dad’s got himself a new pad.”
“Mn.”
“Thought I’d go take a look next week. Rosie says there’s a painting on her wall she wants me to see.”
“Yeah, she’s always on about it—'Natty, Natty—come and
see-ee-ee
!'—she drives me mad.”
“Aaah. Sweet. It’d mean a lot to her if you’d go.”
He shrugs.
“Go
on.
Humour your kid sister for once. She’ll be tickled pink. Let her show off a bit.”
“Mn.”
“You know, your dad’s not such a bad guy.”
Nat jerks his head up, but says nothing. I plunge into the fridge and stand there like an idiot, shuffling things pointlessly from shelf to shelf. I take out the Coke and pour a glass for Nat. Now, ice. Nat’s big on ice.
Cassie carries on.
“Still …” she says. “It’s nice you’re so happy to let Rosie have him all to herself. Pretty unselfish of you, I’d say.
My
big brother was always muscling in, but then he was my dad’s favourite.”
“Oh?”
“Yup.” She raises her voice: “Ask Scott if it’s OK for me to pop round and have a nose, next time you’re talking to him, will you, Gail?”
“Sure. He’ll probably phone tonight. I’ll ask him then.”
Nat is silent when I hand him the Coke but he has his thinking face on. He looks down at his drink and lowers two fingers in like tongs to pull out an ice cube, pops it into his mouth. Then, slowly, he crunches it, and very quietly I hear him start to hum.
You know how it is when your whole life is completely crap and you hit rock bottom? Maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re someone who’s living a fairly normal sort of a life; maybe you and your partner, spouse, whatever love each other to bits; maybe you’ve got some fab career and you earn loads of dosh. If so, be grateful, you fortunate bastard, and enjoy it while you can.
What’s my point, you’re wondering? I’ve no idea. This is another thing that always drove Gail crazy. My inability to stick to the point. Ella thinks it’s funny, though. She says I’ve got a butterfly-mind, she never knows what I’m going to say next, and she thinks I’m like a kid. Only she means it as a compliment. Maybe she’s right. Anyway. Oh, yeah, you hit rock bottom, but gradually, if you’re lucky, things start to improve: Your wife—ex-wife—stops looking at you as if you were something suspect on the bottom of her shoe. You start enjoying your Sundays. You even get yourself a girlfriend and you start to tell yourself maybe you’re not such a bad person after all. You wake up and you dare—fool that you are—to look forward to the day ahead.
This is a mistake, of course. A mega-serious mistake. You think, “It must be someone else’s turn by now. God’s got bored of me and has settled on a new plaything to torment.” So what do you do? You relax. Uh-huh. Bad move.
Because that’s when God comes back to give you another poke in the eye.
They’re selling First Glass.
I have worked at First Glass for over sixteen years. I know, you’re thinking “Sad git, it’s about time you moved on then.” It probably is, but that’s not the point. I’m not saying I’ve made a fortune or it’s stood me in good stead if I should ever apply for the position of Prime Minister—but I’ve done all right. Better than my parents or my teachers ever expected me to for a start. I’ve earned a not bad living, learned a trade, had a laugh. And there was always Harry. He taught me the business, trained me like an apprentice, like he would his—like he would have with Chris. If he’d been here.
Thing is, I know Maureen’s been wanting Harry to cut back on his days for the last couple of years in any case. I’ve even said it myself. And then his ticker went doolally on him, and it looked like he should definitely start taking it a bit easier. But not throw in the towel completely.
There’s bigger companies who’ve been sniffing round First Glass for ages, of course. We’ve got a list of loyal customers that would stretch up the High Street and back, a nice mix of trade and private business. It’s a good solid firm with a good reputation. It may not look much, but it turns a tidy profit, more than you’d think.
It’s that Chris. One minute he’s here, sporting a face the picture of worry for his old dad and a tan so even it looks like it’s come straight out of a spray can, the next he’s acting all concerned and saying Harry shouldn’t be getting too stressed out. Then two seconds later he’s snooping round the database and the invoices and poking his nose in where it’s not wanted. He doesn’t even know anything about the business. But Maureen thinks the sun shines out of his rear end. It’s all: “Chris is ever so clever when it comes to business matters” and “Chris has the experience when it comes to handling finances” and “Chris knows best.” It’s utter bollocks. The man knows diddly-squat about glazing. He knows less than Rosie does and she’s only ten.
Point is, I don’t want to work for some sodding big anonymous company, having to bow and scrape to head office the whole time and be all yes-sir, no-sir, three-bags-full-sir. It’s just not me and I’m not doing it.
Oh-oh, talk of the devil. Look who’s here, rolling up in Harry’s car. It’s Chris—dah-dah, Saviour of the Universe. What a treat.
I’ve seen him approach, but I stay at my desk and don’t look up when he comes in. The door’s open but he should still knock. Acting like he owns the place already.
“Scott? Can I have a word?”
“Sure, carry on. Why not? You’ve had everything else.”
“Hey, come on. There are no bad guys in this. I’m on your side.” I notice he doesn’t look at me when he says this. “I’m sure we can be adult about this.”
I don’t know if there’s something in the air at the moment, but all I seem to have been hearing this whole year is people telling me to be grown-up and adult and mature the whole time. Frankly, I think I’m done with being grown-up. I’m no good at it and it hasn’t got me anywhere. That’s it. I am now officially tendering my resignation. I no longer wish to be a grown-up. As far as I can see, there are only two advantages of being an adult. One is you get to stay up late and eat as many sweets as you like—but that’s out the window, because as soon as you hit about the age of twenty-five, all you can think of is what’s the earliest you can go to bed without looking like a sad fuck—and you don’t eat so many sweets because you spend your time worrying that your teeth are going to fall out and telling yourself that you really should be flossing every day and not just for one minute every six months while you’re sitting in the car just before you go in to see the dentist. Two is—in theory—that you get to have sex when you’re a grown-up. Personally, I reckon I used up my entire allowance, mostly when I was about seventeen, and that’s why I had, let’s call it something of a fallow period, shall we? Still, Ella’s helping me catch up again. She’s considerate that way.
I don’t feel very adult, sitting here, with Chris being all super-cool and casual, leaning in the doorway. I feel as if I’m about eight and he’s some snotty, smooth smart aleck boy in the playground. I want to jump on his foot and give him a good smack.
Chris slips his hands into his pockets and suppresses a yawn. His tan is really annoying me now. He looks like he’s leaning against the door of his cabin, out for a sail on his yacht. I don’t know if he actually has a yacht, but you get my drift.
“I wanted to talk to you face to face,” he says, still not meeting my eyes. “There’s something important …”
I open the invoice file and flick over the pages as loudly as I can, licking my finger at intervals and poring over the fascinating figures in front of me.
“Scotty?”
“Oi!” He’s got my attention now all right. “Only my close friends get to call me that. Don’t push it, mate.”
“Hey—sorry. OK, sorry. Look, I think we kind of got off on the wrong foot here …”
And then he starts talking about the new company and the sell-off and what would have happened to First Glass if we didn’t seize this dazzling opportunity and how it means better job security for the guys and a decent lump sum for Harry and Maureen (and for you too, matey, I bet), which is good news because he won’t have to worry about his retirement and Chris could invest some of the money just in case either of them get ill when they’re older and need nursing care. He’s got it all worked out. Probably had the whole thing planned for years and just took advantage of Harry’s heart attack as an excuse to jet over here and put it into action.
“And the lads’ jobs will be guaranteed?” I know for sure Harry wouldn’t have agreed to anything less, but I want to hear it from Chris’s own lips.
“Yes. Three full-time glaziers. With rotating shifts to cover Saturdays. And four days a week for the girl.”
“She’s not a girl. She’s Denise.”
“Yes. Denise. Four days.”
“Right. And the price will cover all the stock as well as the lease and the goodwill and—”
“Yes. It’s a fair price they’re offering. More than fair, I’d say. But there’s one—possible—sticking point …”
Why should I bother to ask him what it is when I know he’s going to tell me anyway? He’s desperate to tell me, you can see he is. And suddenly, seeing him there tilting forward, I know why he is. In that second, I know exactly what the sticking point is. It’s so bloody obvious, I must have been blind not to see it before. Now it’s as plain and clear to me as—as a sheet of glass.
But I want to make him say it. Why should I let him have it easy? I want to hear him say the words.
He coughs then and shifts from his casual-modelling-leisure-wear pose to something a bit more formal and upright.
“I’ll be straight with you, Scott. The way they see it, they’d be looking to put in one of their own people as manager. It’s standard practice.”
What a surprise.
“And that would make me what exactly? The world’s oldest tea boy?”
He looks shocked. Wrong-footed. He thinks maybe I’m serious, that I’d hang on for dear life and refuse to go. “Well, I …”
“Don’t worry. I won’t stand in between you and your pot of gold. Just tell me what the deal is.”
“Well, of course the overall terms of the negotiation are kind of confidential—family only—”
You bastard. You total and utter bastard. You know that’s not what I meant, you arsehole.
“Yeah, that’s not what I meant. I
meant
what deal am I being offered to trot off quietly into the wilderness without a fuss?”
“Um, your terms of agreement state—what? Are you on a one-month contract …”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Harry and me have never gone in for all that rubbish. We’ve never needed it.
“I’m sure we could push it to three months, seeing as you’ve been here a long time—how long is—?”
“Sixteen years. Sixteen sodding years, with more extra Saturdays and unpaid overtime than you’ll do in a lifetime. And you want to offer me three months’ pay? Well, bollocks to you. Keep the whole lot, why don’t you? Take it and buy yourself an extra case of fucking champagne for your fucking yacht.”
“Yacht? What yacht?”
“Does Harry know about this?”
“Now, I won’t have you bothering my dad about this. I’m sure you understand the doctors don’t want him having any extra anxiety right now.”