Part 34 (1/2)

'Not for families - for singles, or young couples, businessmen. Des is going to convert the loft' - she glances at me nervously, then back at the net curtains - 'and your room. We thought we'd maybe clear out your room.'

'And what happens to my stuff?'

'We thought you could . . . take it with you.'

'You're throwing me out of my room!'

'Not throwing you out, just . . . asking you to move your stuff.'

'To university?'

'Yes! Either that or throw it away. It's just a lot of books and comics and model planes, Bri, it's not anything you're going to need. You are a grown-up after all . . .'

'So I am getting thrown out!'

'Don't be daft, of course you're not. You can still stay in the holidays if you really want to, and over the summer . . .'

'But isn't that your peak season . . . ?'

'Brian . . .'

'Well, that's very good of you and Uncle Des, Mum, but how much do you charge per night?' I can hear my own voice now, high-pitched and wheedling.

'Don't be like this please, Brian . . .' Mum says.

'Well, what d'you expect me to do? I mean, I'm only getting thrown out of my own house 3O8.

And then she spins, and turns to me, and jabs at me with the remains of her f.a.g and shouts, 'It's not your house any more, Brian!'

'Oh really!'

'No, I'm sorry, but it's not! You were here, what, one week at Christmas? One week, and even then you couldn't wait to get back to college. You don't come back at weekends, you don't phone for weeks, you certainly don't write to me, so, no, actually, no, this is not your house. It's mine. It's the house I live in by myself, just me, every b.l.o.o.d.y day, day after day, since your dad died, this is where I've slept every night on my own, and that, that there, that b.l.o.o.d.y settee, that's where I've sat nearly every night on my own, watching the telly or just staring at the wall, while you're away at college, or if you do deign to stay here you're out with your mates, or hiding in your room because you're so b.l.o.o.d.y obviously bored of talking to me, your own mother. D'you have any idea what that's like, Brian, being here all by myself, year after year after b.l.o.o.d.y, b.l.o.o.d.y year . .. ?' but then her voice starts to crack, and she clasps her face with her hands and starts sobbing, great heavy, wet sobs and once again I realise that I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do.

'Hey, come on, Mum . . .' I say, but she just waves her hand at me, gesturing for me to keep away.

'Leave me alone, please Brian,' she says, and I'm tempted to do as she says, because it would be easier after all.

'. . . Mum, there's no need to get . . .'

'Leave me alone. Just go away . . .'

What if I pretend I haven't heard any of this? The lounge door's still open after all. I could just go out, come back in an hour or so, let her calm down, just go. After all, that's what she's told me to do, that's what she wants, isn't it?

'Please Mum, please, don't cry. I hate it when you . . .' and I can't finish the sentence because I find that I'm crying myself, and I cross over to her and fold my arms round her and hold onto her as tightly as I can.

3O9.

I.

35.QUESTION- Circles of standing stones at Lindholm Hoje near Alborg in Denmark indicate that it was a site for which ancient ritual7 ANSWER Viking burial.

I meet Tone at two-fifteen in The Black Prince on the sea front. There's no one in apart from a couple of tubercular old geezers nursing the last warm inch of their pints and reading dog-eared copies of the Sun., but it still takes me a moment to notice him because I'm instinctively looking for light-blue denim, not the charcoal single-b.u.t.ton suit, white socks and light-grey slip-ons that he's wearing today.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Tone, what's happened to your hair?' The Viking look has gone, and instead he's got a neat short-back and-sides with a parting slightly too far to the left. Tone, in a suit, with a parting.

'Had it cut, that's all.' I go to ruffle it, but he karates my hand away, not quite playfully. I want to keep things light-hearted so I say, 'Here, are you wearing gel?'

'A little bit. So what?' he says, then takes a sip from the half-pint of lager in front of him. I don't think I've ever seen Tone holding a half-pint gla.s.s, and it's playing tricks with scale, like he's some sort of giant.

'D'you want another drink?' I ask.

T'm all right . . .'

'Another half then?

'I can't . . .'

31O.

I.

'Go on, you wuss . . .' I cajole, lightheartedly.

'Can't. I've got to get back to work,' he says.

'Surely you've got time for a . . .'

7 don't want another half, all right?' he snaps. I go and get myself a pint and sit back down.

'So - how's work?'

”S alright. I'm out front on the shop floor now, so that's why . . .' and half apologetically, he tugs on the long thin lapel of his suit.

'Which department?'

'Hi-fi and audio.'

'Great!'

'Yeah, well. It'll do. And there's commission, so . . .'

'Spencer told me about you and the Territorials.'

'Did he? Have a good laugh about it, did you?'

'No, course not . . .'

'I don't suppose you approve.'

'I didn't say that, did I? I mean I am a unilateralist, and I think we should definitely reduce defence spending and plough some of that money into social services, but I still understand the need for some form of . . .' but Tone's looking at his watch, not really interested. 'So have you seen Spencer?' I say.