window at me.
13.
“Fucking cretins,” Robbie said. “They’re everywhere. There’s no longer any shame to being an arsehole. I used to go see Bournemouth play football but they were everywhere, picking fights, shouting obscenities, getting pissed and vomiting all over the place. Fucking pigsty it was, so I stopped going. You got away with a smashed window, Jack. Better that than a smashed head.”
“Can I get the room back for tonight? Clean up a bit? Maybe have a cup of tea?”
“Good Christ, Jack, you sound like a proper Englishman. Get your car nearly turned over, drive half the night, and what is it you want? A cuppa tea.” He laughed and said, “Of course you can have the room. And Maggie will fix you a cup of tea and you can take a bath and later we’ll go have a pint and you can tell your war stories to the Strykers. And they’ll be wanting to go up to Glastonbury and find those yabboes and do a bit of bashing themselves. Only for a good cause, mind you.”
I went into the kitchen with Robbie where Maggie, turning, said, “Jack Stone! What a surprise!”
“Jack here needs a cup of tea and a bit of care, Mags. He’s had a touch of bad luck. I’m off to Stur, Jack. Market day. I’m still looking for a calf. You’re in good hands with Maggie.”
I sat at the now familiar table and had a cup of hot tea and Maggie sat across from me and listened to my adventure and shook her head and said, “What you need is more than a cup of tea, Jack Stone.”
She went to the cupboard, brought down a bottle of scotch and took two glasses off the drain board. She poured a finger of scotch in each one, set them on the table and said, “I don’t do this often. I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I don’t think I was in that much danger, Maggie. The policeman said they were doing it for the fun of it.”
“Not my idea of fun,” she said. “Still, I’m glad you’re all right.”
She sipped at the scotch, then reached out to touch my hand and said, “I watched you drive out of the farmyard and I thought how brilliant it would be to be able to drive off, make the first turn and go on without ever turning back.”
“It didn’t work out so well for me.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Just the idea that I could go off on my own, no compromise, nobody to ask or say, I’ll be back at five or I’m going shopping. Just to be able to go.”
“What about Terry? And Robbie?”
“I couldn’t leave Terry behind. I’d take him with me.”
“Terry’s your only child.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked toward the kitchen door, as if she expected him to suddenly appear.
“He would have had a brother.”
“You wanted another child?”
“No. I got pregnant. Terry was six. But I didn’t want another child. I love Terry, but somehow another child seemed more than I could bear.”
“What happened?”
“I had an abortion. I had it killed, Jack Stone. Sucked out of me and flushed away.” There was a stillness in the room so heavy that I could feel it pressing on us.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”
“Did Robbie want the child?”
“I never told him. No one else knows. I don’t know why I’ve told you. Now you know a terrible secret about me. Are you good at keeping secrets, Jack Stone?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. And you? Will you tell me a terrible secret?”
“I’m not sure I have any.”
“Rubbish. We’ve all got them. I could probably fill a dustbin with yours.” She touched my hand again, smiling. “I’m filled with them. I’m a cesspit of dark secrets.”
“That’s nonsense.”
She sipped at the glass, made a grimace as she swallowed. “Of course it is. It’s the scotch talking.” She poured another finger of scotch into her glass.
“You should slow down. I don’t want to be blamed for getting you soused before noon.”
“Not to worry. I’ll be the proper farm wife, have the supper on, do the
13.
“Fucking cretins,” Robbie said. “They’re everywhere. There’s no longer any shame to being an arsehole. I used to go see Bournemouth play football but they were everywhere, picking fights, shouting obscenities, getting pissed and vomiting all over the place. Fucking pigsty it was, so I stopped going. You got away with a smashed window, Jack. Better that than a smashed head.”
“Can I get the room back for tonight? Clean up a bit? Maybe have a cup of tea?”
“Good Christ, Jack, you sound like a proper Englishman. Get your car nearly turned over, drive half the night, and what is it you want? A cuppa tea.” He laughed and said, “Of course you can have the room. And Maggie will fix you a cup of tea and you can take a bath and later we’ll go have a pint and you can tell your war stories to the Strykers. And they’ll be wanting to go up to Glastonbury and find those yabboes and do a bit of bashing themselves. Only for a good cause, mind you.”
I went into the kitchen with Robbie where Maggie, turning, said, “Jack Stone! What a surprise!”
“Jack here needs a cup of tea and a bit of care, Mags. He’s had a touch of bad luck. I’m off to Stur, Jack. Market day. I’m still looking for a calf. You’re in good hands with Maggie.”
I sat at the now familiar table and had a cup of hot tea and Maggie sat across from me and listened to my adventure and shook her head and said, “What you need is more than a cup of tea, Jack Stone.”
She went to the cupboard, brought down a bottle of scotch and took two glasses off the drain board. She poured a finger of scotch in each one, set them on the table and said, “I don’t do this often. I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad you’re safe.”
“I don’t think I was in that much danger, Maggie. The policeman said they were doing it for the fun of it.”
“Not my idea of fun,” she said. “Still, I’m glad you’re all right.”
She sipped at the scotch, then reached out to touch my hand and said, “I watched you drive out of the farmyard and I thought how brilliant it would be to be able to drive off, make the first turn and go on without ever turning back.”
“It didn’t work out so well for me.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Just the idea that I could go off on my own, no compromise, nobody to ask or say, I’ll be back at five or I’m going shopping. Just to be able to go.”
“What about Terry? And Robbie?”
“I couldn’t leave Terry behind. I’d take him with me.”
“Terry’s your only child.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked toward the kitchen door, as if she expected him to suddenly appear.
“He would have had a brother.”
“You wanted another child?”
“No. I got pregnant. Terry was six. But I didn’t want another child. I love Terry, but somehow another child seemed more than I could bear.”
“What happened?”
“I had an abortion. I had it killed, Jack Stone. Sucked out of me and flushed away.” There was a stillness in the room so heavy that I could feel it pressing on us.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything.”
“Did Robbie want the child?”
“I never told him. No one else knows. I don’t know why I’ve told you. Now you know a terrible secret about me. Are you good at keeping secrets, Jack Stone?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. And you? Will you tell me a terrible secret?”
“I’m not sure I have any.”
“Rubbish. We’ve all got them. I could probably fill a dustbin with yours.” She touched my hand again, smiling. “I’m filled with them. I’m a cesspit of dark secrets.”
“That’s nonsense.”
She sipped at the glass, made a grimace as she swallowed. “Of course it is. It’s the scotch talking.” She poured another finger of scotch into her glass.
“You should slow down. I don’t want to be blamed for getting you soused before noon.”
“Not to worry. I’ll be the proper farm wife, have the supper on, do the
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