England's Lane by Joseph Connolly Page B

that. His start is buggered. His start is over. But his future, whatever it holds, and for however long … well: got to do my bit, haven’t I? I’m his Dad, aren’t I? Yes I am. So I’ve got to do my … no, not my bit. My utmost—that’s what I’ve got to do.
    â€œNow then, Paul—all right, are we?”
    â€œYes thank you, Mr. Miller.”
    â€œStill raining, is it?”
    â€œNot quite so much now. Just spitting. Anthony ready?”
    I jolly well hope he is ready because I’m only just on time today because my stupid Uncle Jim—he really is so completely stupid, Uncle Jim—he called me into the shop just as I’d got my satchel all buckled up and my raincoat on and everything, which is just so typical. Come in here Pauly, he was going: it’s my string. And honestly, it’s quicker not to argue or ask questions or anything because then he only starts up and goes on and on for hours. So I went into his dirty old stinky shop and there was the string, unwound from the tin thing, the tin sort of dispenser thing, and all over the floor. Dropped it, he said: help me wind it all up again, hey? There’s a good lad. Well honestly—how stupid can you be? To get the string into such an awful mess. Amanda, she says I’m always going on about Uncle Jim and he can’t be that bad. Oh yes? Well you just try living with him Amanda, that’s all, is what I said to her. It’s allright for her, isn’t it? She’s got a proper father, and he’s normal. Auntie Milly says that Mr. Barton the butcher, he’s a real gentleman. Uncle Jim isn’t. Uncle Jim is a real idiot. I really do like Amanda, though. Talking to her, and everything. I wouldn’t tell Anthony or anyone, but last summer in Regent’s Park, she taught me how to make daisy chains and she put this buttercup under my chin and she said oh look, Paul—you don’t like butter. I didn’t actually know what on earth she was talking about or anything, but I didn’t say so—and I do like butter, actually. It’s margarine I don’t like, and I said so to Auntie Milly and she doesn’t get it any more. And then we lay on the grass and it was really hot and I went all squinty in the sun and I sort of just touched her on the knee once, and she didn’t say anything. And a bit later I wanted to do it again, but I didn’t.
    â€œWhere is he, Mr. Miller …?”
    â€œHe won’t be a jiffy, Paul. Just going to the Gents. Spending a penny. And talking of pennies … what takes your fancy on the tray today, eh?”
    â€œOh gosh. Thanks a lot. Um … think I’ll have a Black Jack if that’s all right, Mr. Miller.”
    â€œBlack Jack? That’s a new one for you, Paul. Well Black Jacks—they’re only a ha’penny, they are. So take a couple, eh? Three, say. Take three.”
    â€œOh thanks. Thanks a lot, Mr. Miller.”
    â€œThey color your teeth, mind.”
    â€œThat’s what’s good about them. Gobstoppers—they color your tongue.”
    â€œYou boys. You boys. Ah! Here he comes—the man himself.”
    Anthony, wearing his customary expression of anticipation, his bright blue eyes seemingly eager to be caught by anything at all, clumped his way through the shop from the stockroom at the back.His cap was crooked on his head, and what with grabbing at that and raising a gray metal crutch in greeting to Paul, he very nearly had himself over. Both Paul and his father moved instinctively toward him, but he batted them away.
    â€œI’m okay. I’m fine, Has the rain stopped, Paul?”
    â€œPretty nearly. We’d better get a move on, though.”
    Stanley Miller laid his hands on Anthony’s shoulders and bent down to softly kiss the side of his head. And he would have embraced him—hugged him so very tight, squeezed the very life out of the little