Part 11 (1/2)

”What are you trying to give us?” She's halfway through peering at the topmost leaflet before her suspicion fades into indifference. ”It's about some bookshop,” she informs her colleagues. ”Writers and reading and that kind of stuff.”

”Put them with the papers,” the adjacent girl suggests. ”People read them.”

From the supermarket entrance Bottomley takes time to include Angus in a despairing stare as the girl takes half his leaflets. Angus trails him to the last occupied property, Stack o' Steak. He's already seated at a table red as a plastic toy, and greets Angus with a cry of ”Hey up, here comes literacy.”

Neither of the staff outside the kitchen, both of whom sport orange T-s.h.i.+rts with So's printed across their chests, appear to welcome this any more than Angus does, or Bottomley's question. ”Can he put some of those on your counter?” 137 By now it has become such a ritual that Angus feels bound to produce the response. ”Do you want to look them over first?”

The man he asked lowers his cropped skull so close to them that Angus is reminded of a feeding animal. ”Don't see why not,” he eventually tells Angus in a tone that also contains the opposite.

Angus isn't sure whom Bottomley's applause is meant for until the author asks him ”Got the point at last?”

”I don't think so.”

Bottomley gives up and turns to the second waiter, who is hairy only by the standards of the job. ”How much do I need to eat to get a bottle of your house?”

”He can just have the bottle, can't he?” the man says in a voice like a shrug rendered vocal.

The author squints at a plastic menu half the size of the table he lets it drop on. ”Tell you what, I'll have the white and a plate of Chunks o' Chicken.”

Angus grows aware of being watched. No doubt the diner staff wonder why he's lingering. He can't leave until he has at least begun to understand. He hurries to the table and sits opposite Bottomley. ”What point?” he pleads.

”Any chance of the bottle while I'm waiting? Just one gla.s.s.” Having called that, he says nothing to Angus in the interim. He scowls at the gla.s.sful of wine he's brought and downs half of it before grumbling ”A bottle and one gla.s.s, I meant.” When he mutters after the waiter ”Too many apostrophes round here” Angus takes the chance to respond. ”Not only mine this time.”

Bottomley peers at him. ”Do they expect you to have any qualifications where you work?”

That sounds so insulting that Angus raises his voice to be heard by the staff of the diner. ”I did three years at university.”

”Well, bring on the trumpets. Three more than me then, 138 son, and you still don't get the point. Go away and think about it. I mean go right away. Maybe that'll help.”

Angus feels his spine pressing against the chair to push it back. He struggles not to give in to somebody for once. ”You keep refusing to tell me things,” he protests. ”You said someone had to know.”

”That's right, and they will. Whoever bought my book from you.” With even more weary indifference he adds ”That's if they can be bothered to read that far.”

Angus watches him sink into his bitterness and imagines him pulling it over his head like a stale blanket. He can see no point in talking further to the author. He leaves him to the bottle the waiter has brought and hurries out. Swapping all the colours for the monochrome of fog and tarmac feels like starting to go blind. As he hurries back along the pavement, the window displays past the graffiti look faded by the murk. n.o.body seems aware of him, yet he feels observed, a sensation at least as oppressive as the fog. He must be nervous of encountering Woody, he thinks as Woody emerges from the shop to say ”Did you have enough for all the cars?”

”All the ones I saw.”

The trick makes Angus feel the reverse of clever. He would mention Bottomley if he thought he'd learned anything worth telling. Instead he asks ”What did you say was in that book about here?”

Woody stares at him while he comprehends the question or decides how to answer. ”Just some history.”

”Such as ...8 Angus forces himself to prompt.

”It was settled a couple of times.”

Angus doesn't know why he feels Woody has managed to pay him back with a trick, unless it's guilt that he's experiencing. He hasn't thought of any further question when Woody says ”Better scoot off to your shelving now. But listen, thanks for going out there and thanks for staying here this afternoon. Hey, that's exactly what we need to see. Keep that up.”

”Keep what, sorry?” 139 ”The smile.”

Angus feels it cling to his lips and writhe like an insect. ”That's nearly it,” says Woody. ”Work on it while you're in the stockroom.”

Angus is retreating in that direction when Woody adds ”Let's get through this afternoon and then we'll be back to normal.” As Angus flees along one of Lorraine's aisles he wonders what Woody regards as normal. He's almost sure that he hears Woody's parting murmur, which seems to freeze to the nape of his neck, unless that's a breath of the fog. ”Smile,” Angus fancies Woody is repeating to him or to himself, and feels as if something has stretched an arm at least the length of the shop and closed its reptilian grasp around his mouth. 140

GREG.

He has taken the fog into account, of course. It used to be a leisurely twenty minutes' drive from Warrington to where the slip road for the retail park is now, but since his first visit to Texts, when he almost let himself down by arriving late for his interview, he has added seven--two more than five, to be safe. He brakes as soon as he sees fog basking in the afternoon sun on the motorway ahead. Some of the cars in front don't slow until the fog is almost thick enough to put their lights out, and none of them heads down to Fenny Meadows. He knows management couldn't have predicted how fog would settle in the area--it never did last winter when he used to drive past en route to work at the library in Manchester--but the world is changing to n.o.body's benefit. He'll keep that in mind if he's ever called upon to judge a location for a branch of Texts. leisurely twenty minutes' drive from Warrington to where the slip road for the retail park is now, but since his first visit to Texts, when he almost let himself down by arriving late for his interview, he has added seven--two more than five, to be safe. He brakes as soon as he sees fog basking in the afternoon sun on the motorway ahead. Some of the cars in front don't slow until the fog is almost thick enough to put their lights out, and none of them heads down to Fenny Meadows. He knows management couldn't have predicted how fog would settle in the area--it never did last winter when he used to drive past en route to work at the library in Manchester--but the world is changing to n.o.body's benefit. He'll keep that in mind if he's ever called upon to judge a location for a branch of Texts.

He's travelling at under thirty by the time he reaches the slip road. As he steers the Rover onto it a car on the motorway swings out to overtake, blurred both by speed and the murk. Greg braces himself to hear a screeching skid and an impact, and when neither penetrates the 141 upholstered whitish air he nevertheless drops his speed to compensate. He coasts off the roundabout and cruises behind the unfinished buildings to Stack o' Steak, beside which a large grey dog or some wild creature about as tall is digging its face into a garbage bin. He would stop to focus on it and, more to the point, to suggest to whoever's in charge of the diner that they should make their rubbish secure from animals, but he has come to work early to release his colleagues for Lorraine's funeral. If they're going to insist on attending, it's only right that they should be punctual. It would be hypocritical of Greg to join them when Lorraine's att.i.tude to the job couldn't have been more unlike his own. If he were a manager he might have felt required to put in an appearance, though he understands that Woody doesn't feel comfortable with leaving Greg's colleagues unsupervised in the shop. Greg did consider pointing out that he'll be there but doesn't want Woody to think him presumptuous.

Beyond Frugo he lets the fog dictate his pace, which gives him a chance to observe who's parked where. He doesn't recognise any of the very few cars in front of the shops as belonging to a workmate. He'd refrain from telling Woody if he did. Not only does Woody have enough to deal with, but Greg believes in giving people the opportunity to mend their ways; he always did when he was a school prefect, for minor offences at any rate. He drives behind Texts and parks alongside several vehicles beneath the name the fog has rendered invisible from the motorway. Briefcase in hand, he locks the steering wheel and then the Rover before marching around the shop.

Though the inside of the window is patched with grey, the patches aren't where he would like them to be. They don't obscure the three faces of Brodie Oates, three round smooth self-satisfied faces bunched like balloons on strings of bodies that aren't small enough, not when the one that isn't wearing a suit or a kilt is done up in a dress. All this isn't even Jake's doing, which might be 142 understandable if certainly no more palatable. People like him can flaunt themselves all they want now, and n.o.body else is permitted to comment; it's the same sort of unfairness as Greg's father keeps objecting to--as he says, a fellow can't call a black fellow a black fellow any longer, but the black fellow can call a fellow any kind of fellow he likes. At least they aren't bound to have any on the staff at Texts, not like the library where Greg's parents work and he did. All it does is make people feel uncomfortable, robbed of words, because they no longer know what they're allowed to say. There again, what's to be said to Jill? Did she mean to shock people with her window or indulge in a sly joke? Greg wouldn't think anyone loyal to the shop would want to do either, and you ought to be as proud of your place of work as you were of your school. He is, and he means to keep it that way, even if that entails not always being liked by everyone. He got used to that at school.

As Greg pa.s.ses between the security pillars the guard looks uncertain how to greet him. Was that a simper that's swallowed up by his flattened pugnacious face? ”Good afternoon, Frank,” Greg says to put him at his ease, and receives a grunt for his trouble. He strides under the false ceiling of music towards the staffroom and encounters Agnes pus.h.i.+ng a trolley at no great speed into the Travel section. ”Better put a smile on if you want to keep people happy,” she tells him.

”None of us can do too much of that.”

Her mouth takes on a shape like a smile reflected in stagnant water. ”You sound just like him.”

”If you're referring to Woody I'd call that a compliment.”

The water Greg imagined seems to drag her mouth down further. ”What are you doing here, anyway? You aren't due for nearly an hour.”

”I thought I'd make sure you could do your duty by the funeral, those that are going. We don't want you being late when you're representing the shop.”

”It isn't a duty, it's anything but. My G.o.d, she's only 143 been dead a week.” Agnes leaves her mouth open for a moment before adding ”She was worth quite a few of some people here.”

All she's achieving is to remind Greg how quarrelsome Lorraine was--indeed, Agnes is demonstrating how that has infected her--but he won't allow himself to be provoked. ”Well,” he says instead, ”I think we'd both better be getting on with our work.”

She seems ready to argue even about that, though he was careful to include himself. He almost fancies she has managed to incite the staffroom entrance to rebel; he has to show the plaque his badge twice to convince it he's authorised to enter. As the door clanks shut he runs upstairs to entrust his briefcase to his locker. He's sliding his staff card under the clock when Woody steps out of his office. ”I thought someone was pretending to be you on the monitor,” he says. ”Why, you're nearly as early as me.”

”I thought you might need me if we've got staff going off.”

”That's the kind of guy we want,” Woody tells Angus, who is crouching over the table and the remains of his lunch as though hoping not to be noticed. ”Would you do anything for this place, Greg?”

”I'd like to think so.”

”It isn't asking much, is it, Angus? Why don't you show him. You're top dog so far.”

For a moment Angus seems worse than reluctant. Greg is wondering if he has caught the att.i.tude Lorraine appears to have bequeathed to Agnes when Angus twists around to face him. The sides of his mouth strain upwards as if they've been pierced by invisible hooks. ”Welcome to Texts,” he mumbles.

His expression is more desperate than welcoming, and his voice falls short of both. ”Hey, you did better before,” Woody cries. ”See how special you can make me feel, Greg.”

Greg would do his best for him and Texts even if 144 Woody's eyes didn't look raw with pressure. ”Welcome to Texts,” he says with his biggest smile and holds out his hand as well.

”You need to match that, Angus. We don't want anyone taking the lead, do we? You can show the others how it's done, Greg, and that's how you greet every customer that comes through the door. The hand too, I like that. Just one more thing--whenever you talk to a customer, recommend a book.”

”Any in particular?” Greg asks, since Angus has found some lunch to duck towards.