“And it is.”
“Exactly.” Shell’s husband moved closer.
“But it doesn’t change much, does it?” Shell said, making a point of not looking at Arthur and noticing Lawrence doing the same. “An’ don’t you think there’s bigger things afoot this evening? As they’ll likely be calling it tonight.”
“Oh come on, love. Cause you’ve no idea—”
“I’ve no idea?”
“No, I mean can we not just think about summat other than the bloody strike for five minutes,” said Arthur. “I just wanted to do summat nice. Not only for us, but for Het and Sam and —”
“Uncle Sam?” said Lawrence. “We don’t even know where he went.”
“Yeah, well…” said Arthur feebly.
“Or what happened.”
“Don’t you bloody start!”
Shell intervened. Better for the boy to hear about his uncle when the time was right. Some loyalties remained. Pity scars covering what had healed badly.
She said, “Look, it’s another nice idea, Arthur. Like I said…”
“But, love—”
“But tea’s on. And Lawrence is cold.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. And it’s getting dark.”
There was no denying that. Shell took her son by the arm and began to steer him down the hill. Arthur stayed where he was. His head resembled an un-cracked egg.
“Coming or what?” Shell called back; then, when Arthur didn’t reply, said “Ballot, Art. Don’t forget.”
He didn’t reply: he simply tugged a leaf from his tree, and the sadness of the act nearly made Shell run over and throw her arms around him. “I’ll see you later then,” she called, leaving her husband to become a silhouette. The surrounding countryside was cloaked in blue and a slit of moon glimmered over everything. Shell now knew that somewhere beyond the muddle of homes and lives below her, beyond the ballot, even, was the richness of Threndle House and a hole in the back garden betraying where Arthur had stolen that tree.
Back home, she flicked on the telly; there was nothing worth watching except the news. Shell could stand no more clips of Jack Taylor, so thought about calling a friend, Jan maybe. Then again she wasn’t sure she could face anyone. She preferred to do her fretting in private. Tonight was the perfect night for that.
She switched the telly off, and from across the room caught sight of her reflection in the dormant screen, recalling the second time she’d seen Arthur, all those years after she first kissed him down the rec, the two of them leant against one of the concrete posts that held the fence up.
He’d been at The Masons. Older, of course, still appealing. His elbow sported a damp patch and his leather jacket hung on a barstool by his arse. The young Arthur had that loose, knowing expression Shell once mistook for confidence: a manner she now knew was born of a detachment akin to panic, like an animal hiding in the hay at the back of its cage at the zoo.
“Remember me?” she’d said.
“Oh, heck.”
“You said you’d be in touch.”
“Summat came up.”
“For six years?”
“How you doing, love?”
“Don’t change bloody subject.”
“Let’s get you a drink.”
“He doesn’t even remember my name.”
“I’m not daft, Shell. See, I remember that smile an’ all.”
“Tell us summat I don’t know.”
“Drink?”
“Can tha afford it?”
“Two beers please, pal.”
“What gives impression beer’s my drink?”
“A man can tell.”
“Oh, aye?”
“What you doing with yourself these days then, love?”
“Keeping myself amused.”
“I’m down pit.”
“Quelle surprise.”
Shell could spit to think of herself. Daft and curly bobbed, all half-closed vowels and hoop earrings, pissed-up then coaxed into a knee-trembler by the bins while the band played, married before she even knew what was right for her.
She’d been pregnant so it had seemed like a good idea, and in many ways it had been. Not now. The morning after the wedding, Shell awoke with such a sore throat after all the cigarettes she’d smoked at the reception that she ordered milk with her breakfast at the Grey Grebe Hotel to soothe it. Arthur had borrowed a neighbour’s scooter◦– a wedding favour, he claimed◦– to chauffeur her. They’d had fried eggs, his hand heavy in her lap while she played with his long hair and frowned at the ring he’d bound her with: a pale band of silver with a stone in it. She’d split her yolks and ate as daintily as she could. The milk furred in a moustache on her lip.
It was getting on for eight, still early. Shell took out an old photo album, searching for the parts of herself that had been lost or irreversibly altered. The album was leather bound and had cream padded pages and a date written in biro on the inside front cover that made her feel old.
She tried to skip the nuptial pictures but inevitably ended up stopping on one: Arthur captured in his brown tux, that yellow tie she’d picked out for him. Booze-grizzled and gap-toothed. Those dated pork-chop sideburns, remember them?
Such a kid. Secret smile. Shell’s eyes were shadowed blue and her blustered face was all styled-up. She’d worn droplet earrings that her gran had bestowed. Hiding behind the veil she’d felt so mysterious, covered by a perforated cloth that now reminded her of the net curtains hanging in the fucking kitchen.
More pictures. Lawrence when he was a baby. What a fidget, frantic clapping. It made Shell feel uneasy, thinking of that, and she wasn’t sure why. She closed the book and went to the window-sill. Her cigarettes were buried in their hiding place in the tissue box. She lit one up out of the back door and had just about finished it when she heard footsteps coming along the backs.
“Shell?”
“Who’s asking?”
“It’s Het.”
Shell stopped herself from touching her hair. A moth buzzed past and broke for freedom.
“Arthur’s broth—”
“I know who you are, daft bastard.”
She still couldn’t see him.
“So is he in?” Het said.
“Who?”
“Tha knows who.”
“Why?”
“Because he weren’t out for ballot, and don’t you go making excuses for him.”
“Well don’t you go telling me what to do on my own doorstep.”
Het’s voice rose, or perhaps he’d come closer to the house. “Most important night in years and he can’t be bothered to show his face. Is he in or what, Shell?”
“No he’s not and this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“And you his wife.”
Shell’s fist caused the door chain to rattle. She stepped into the yard and said “Het you can either come in or leave off because I’m not standing in the cold while you mither me for something I know nothing of.”
Silence followed, the sound of gravel. Shell was about to head back indoors when the latch on the gate clicked and Het faltered into view. He was taller, more broad-shouldered and terse-faced than Arthur. Between his black donkey jacket, his dark hair and the night, Het looked stained by the coal he helped cut from the earth most days. A rubbery burn had scarred part of his neck and jaw and the left tip of his mouth. He touched the scar, as he often did when he was nervous. His hair was slicked to one side, Shell noticed, and that suited him. Everything suited Het.
“Sorry, love. It’s just—”
Shell chucked away her dog-end. “Don’t need to tell me what Arthur’s like.”
“I know that. I do.”
“An’ there’s no excuse for talking to me the way you just did.”
Het made to turn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right.”