Читать книгу Hidden Sin: When the past comes back to haunt you - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 11

Joey’s window-cleaning cart had been a labour of love. And proof positive that, though seemingly pointless at the time (who really needed a spinning MDF spice dispenser anyway?), his years toiling at GCSE woodwork had not, in the end, been in vain.

It had also been forged in friendship, him and his best mate, Dicky Turner, having built it between them, with a bit of help from his dad and a lot of scavenging round Canterbury Estate. The wheels, in their past life, had graced an abandoned (no doubt stolen) racing bike, and the base was a reclaimed front door.

Trundling it along Dawnay Road, shirtless, because of the warm summer sunshine, Joey felt a sudden pang of guilt. He often felt bad when he thought about his dad these days, particularly when he was out doing his round. It was while working at the job his dad had virtually handed on a plate to him that he felt the distance that was opening up between them most keenly.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy doing his window-cleaning round, because he was. On days like these, as jobs went, it was pretty hard to beat. He was answerable to no one – and how many lads of his age could say that? He worked in the fresh air, out of doors, too, doing hours to suit himself. Wasn’t a slave to a time-clock, cooped up in some factory, clocking in and out, like his mam and dad did. It was also sociable – a little too sociable sometimes, admittedly – and, best of all, he had only himself to fall back on. The harder he worked, the more he could earn. And he’d never been afraid of hard work.

But it wasn’t everything. He knew he should be grateful, and he was, but it wasn’t all he wanted. And, just lately, that truth – never out-and-out spoken – seemed to be driving a wedge between him and his dad. Like, despite his grafting, he was becoming a source of unease.

He lowered the cart handles gently, so as not to slop the bucket of warm suds. How many times, in the last couple of weeks alone, had he heard the same thing? You’re a lucky lad. You’ve got it made. Good solid prospects. Set for life, son. And how many times, just like always, had he agreed that he was? And he was – that was the worst of it – if that was all he wanted. But it wasn’t all he wanted. Why couldn’t his dad see that?

Which wasn’t to diss him. God, that was the last thing he’d do. His mum and dad had done everything for him and he’d never forget that. But there were only so many times he could nod – like a bloody puppet – when inside all he wanted was for his dad to acknowledge that he understood that Joey wanted more. To contemplate the possibility that he might even get it – that he was good at what he did. That – for something other than the bloody window round – didn’t mean the instant end of the world.

And now his mum seemed to be at it, too, which troubled Joey greatly. It was almost like she wasn’t happy that he’d got the job with the band. His mum! Who’d always encouraged him and supported him with his music – it was like, now he’d actually got a place in a proper band, she’d been infected by the same virus. The ‘don’t get ideas above your station, son’ virus, that he’d heard over and over again, both at home and at school, if he ever so much as hinted that he might like to do music for a career.

The ‘nice, steady job’ disease – that’s how Dicky had once put it. That constant ‘knuckle down, have some security, shape up’ line of nagging. It was one of the main reasons Dicky no longer lived with his mam. No, Dicky wasn’t exactly working his socks off at anything – he’d been a labourer since leaving school, here and there, on and off, getting work as and when it came around. And maybe he wouldn’t ever be anything else either. He cut his cloth to suit his choices, and he had rent to pay. But Joey sometimes envied his friend his complete independence to do – and be – whatever he liked, without being constantly held to account.

He bent to unhook his ladder, conscious of a noise coming from behind. He turned around, squinting against the sunlight, to see the silhouetted form of a trio of girls, teetering their way towards him on the far side of the road.

Then a wolf whistle. ‘You can give me a wash down any time you like,’ one of them called out suggestively, causing the others to throw their heads back and roar with laughter.

Normally he’d have blushed, but today he puffed his chest out. ‘Sorry, girls,’ he said, hefting the ladder up as they passed him. ‘I’m already spoken for, otherwise I might have just helped you out.’

The girls duly giggled, and he basked in their approval for a moment. But that was another thing, wasn’t it? What was going on with Paula? No sooner had he asked her out than his mam and dad were all anxious about it. His mum and dad, who (he’d been at great pains to remind them of this only yesterday) had been the ones to say what a lovely couple they would make. Yet now they were an item (well, sort of – they’d only been out the three times so far) there was this weird kind of tension in the air. Which made no sense – yes, she was older than him, but not that much older. And her mam and Paula’s mam had once been really good friends. Till they’d drifted apart, when Paula’s mam and dad had moved to a different part of Bradford, they’d apparently been best friends for, like, years. Since before he’d been born, in fact. God, he and Paula had even played together when they were little. He was still trying to get his head around that. That the girl he’d seen – and couldn’t drag his eyes away from – belting out Blondie in her band was the same girl who’d once played with him in their back garden. If he’d been the sentimental type, he’d have thought it was destiny. But he wasn’t. It was just bloody amazing.

Perhaps that was it, though. That they both saw what he did. That Paula got him. That, unlike them, she really understood his ambitions. Of course she did, because she shared them. And though she didn’t know it – and there was no way he’d be admitting it any time soon – she made him even more ambitious to be more than he currently was. He knew his mum and dad worried that it was an uncertain business (they’d told him that a lot too), and perhaps him being in the band now, however much they liked Paula, made them anxious that he’d throw the whole window round in. As if he was really that naïve – that fucking stupid.

‘Penny for them.’ A chuckle. ‘Well, if they’re decent, that is.’

He turned towards the house. Mrs Hanley was standing on her path, holding out a mug of steaming tea. She nodded to where his admirers had just disappeared round the corner.

Joey leaned his ladder carefully against the front wall and took the hot mug. In truth, he’d rather have had a glass of water, but he took the tea with good grace. The second of several, no doubt – he’d already had his first from Mrs Atkins at number 17 – because dispensing mugs of tea was what most of his regulars liked to do, not to mention ply him with biscuits, like they were fattening up a golden calf; it was a wonder that he wasn’t as fat as one too. Perhaps one day he would be, he thought, if he kept on accepting them.

He leaned down to kiss her whiskery cheek. ‘Always,’ he said. ‘And thanks, Mrs Hanley. I’m ready for this.’ He gave her his best smile – his mam always said he had a way with the pensioners. ‘This is just what I need.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Here, and don’t tell my mam, but you make a much better cuppa than she does.’

Mrs Hanley gave him a friendly slap on the backside. ‘Cheeky bugger, she’ll have your guts for garters if she hears you saying that. How is she, love? Coping?’

For which, read ‘… with your uncle Nicky,’ Joey thought. Was there anyone who didn’t know about his uncle? ‘Oh you know, plodding on,’ he said, taking a slurp of the tea. ‘Bit stressed at the minute, what with my uncle Nicky staying for a bit – it’s a bit cramped and you know what mam’s like about the house. And he’s not the tidiest of blokes, if you know what I mean.’

Mrs Hanley made a good stab at looking surprised to hear this. ‘Oh, so he’s out of the big house, is he, then?’

Joey nodded. ‘Yes, he is.’

‘Well, I have to say, your nan would be pleased to know that, God rest her soul.’ She made a sign of the cross as she spoke. ‘Terrible business, him being locked up for so long. Terrible. Terrible thing to die knowing your flesh and blood’s banged up …’ She shook her head. ‘God rest her soul,’ she said again. ‘Would have almost been better if she’d gone not knowing, wouldn’t it? If she was going to go, that is, if you get my meaning. She was a fine woman, your nan.’ She made another sign of the cross.

Joey nodded. That was another thing. Everyone seemed to know his nan as well. Bar him, that was. His mam hardly ever said anything about her. Never had. Only that she’d died of cancer, very young, and that for the short time she’d known him, she’d doted on Joey. But the little she had said, she’d always said in that way she had which made it clear that that was all you needed to know. That there wasn’t more to come. She could be tight-lipped, like that, could his mam. ‘Still, he’s out now,’ Mrs Hanley was saying. ‘Has he got any plans?’

Joey decided that ‘getting pissed and seeing men about dogs’ perhaps wasn’t quite the thing. ‘Oh, this and that,’ he said instead. ‘Right now he’s just finding his feet. Anyway, I’d better get on, hadn’t I?’ he added, placing the half-finished mug of tea at the edge of the doorstep. She promptly picked it up. ‘I’ll make you fresh for when you’re done,’ she said.

Not more tea. ‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘There’s no need.’

‘There’s every need,’ Mrs Hanley said firmly. ‘Oh, and one thing, love,’ she added, glancing up and down the street. ‘Word to the wise. You take care around that uncle of yours, okay? Make sure you stay on the straight and narrow. Don’t be led. Between you and me, that uncle Nicky of yours can be a bit of a bugger.’

Something else Joey had heard at least a dozen times before. Mud sticks, he decided. And after all, it was probably fair enough, because his uncle was a convicted murderer. But with mitigating circumstances, as his mum had always told him. A good man who had once, long ago, done a bad thing, by accident. Joey had lived with it so long that it ceased to feel shocking. It was something from the distant past, done and dusted, forgotten. He’d served his time for what he’d done, and was apparently very sorry. What more was to be said? His mam loved Nicky, and his dad loved Nicky. And that was good enough for Joey.

But perhaps, when it came down to it, his uncle Nicky was the problem. For all that they loved him, perhaps his mam and dad were scared that he might lead Joey astray. Not the music. Not Paula. Just his plain old uncle Nicky. Perhaps that was it. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, Mrs Hanley,’ he said. ‘I’m good as gold, I am. Pure as the driven snow.’

Mrs Hanley considered him for a moment. Then she winked. ‘Well, whoever she is, make sure you hang on to her,’ she answered. And had gone back in to boil the kettle before Joey had even digested what she’d said.

Then it clicked. I intend to, he thought.