balance.’
‘You could be in shock.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not.’ He pointed to the woman who was staring at him and still screaming. ‘You want to look at her. I reckon she is.’
He brushed at his jacket as he walked quickly off and round the corner. All the same, he was shaken. He remembered this as a quiet bit of Lafferton. How could traffichave bred like that?
There was a pub. He went in.
There were pubs enough in Lafferton and he had known a lot of them but maybe not this one. It didn’t smell of beer and tobacco, it smelled of coffee. There was a mirror running along behind the bar and a barman who looked more like a waiter in a black jacket was slamming metal coffee holders into an espresso machine.
Andy Gunton ordered a pintof bitter.
‘We only have bottled.’ The barman rattled off a list of foreign names. Andy grabbed one as it passed.
He got a bottle. No glass. He looked round. He lifted the bottle to his mouth.
No one paid any attention to him at the bar. He went to an empty table. It was pleasant. The sun shone in on the back of his neck.
He realised that his hands were shaking, that he was breathing too fastand his ears rang as if he had just surfaced after a dive. This place panicked him, just as the traffic had. Lafferton which he had thought at first glance looked the same, was not; little things were tripping him up, it was like living in a looking-glass world, everything slightly wrong.
Jeez. What was four years? A bloody lifetime, half his youth, but then again nothing, a blink; he didn’tknow where he was or what he was doing, he might have landed from Mars.
The probation officer had had good legs in a very short skirt. Long slinky hair tied back. A lot of eye make-up. She talked in riddles, but he was used to that. They learned another language when theyjoined up, social workers, probation, briefs, whatever. Only the screws talked English.
‘Your rehabilitation programme willreally get under way once you start a job, Andy. Have you anything you are especially interested in doing?’
Fighter pilot. Brain surgeon. Formula One driver.
‘Gardening,’ he had said. ‘I did eighteen months’ horticulture.’
‘There’s a new garden centre operating at the Kingswood.’
‘Garden centre?’
‘I suppose most people do their own gardens, don’t they? I wouldn’t think there was much callfor your skills in Lafferton.’
‘It’s market gardening. It’s professional.’ He had a flash picture of the raised beds of young broad beans and early peas, the beautifully arranged sandy rows of tiny carrots. He’d learned about what hotels and restaurants wanted now; earlies, picked young, not stuff that was stringy and leathery and huge in old age. Cabbages the size of a baby’s fist not of a bride’sbouquet.
She was sifting through the papers in the file on her desk. Was she older than him? Not much.
‘You’re living with your sister. How are you finding that, Andy?’
‘How’s she finding it more like.’
‘Do you have good relations with her? The family?’
‘OK.’
‘Well, that seems quite positive.’
‘It’s only till I get somewhere. A place. They’ve got three kids.’
‘You can put your name downfor a council flat.’
‘How long’d that be?’
‘There aren’t many for single people, I’m afraid.’
‘So where are we supposed to live then? Where d’you live?’
‘As I say, you’re lucky to have your family, your sister is obviously very supportive, that’s good. You won’t feel excluded.’
‘What from?’
‘Your parents …’ she began to sift the papers again.
‘They’re dead. Dad when I was twelve of lungcancer, Mum after I’d been six months at Stackton and don’t say you’re sorry because you’re not, why would you be?’ He felt an anger which was like foam in his mouth waiting to froth out all over this yellow-curtained office, all over Miss Long Legs.
He stood.
‘Try to be positive, Andy.’
Garden centre, she’d
‘You could be in shock.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m not.’ He pointed to the woman who was staring at him and still screaming. ‘You want to look at her. I reckon she is.’
He brushed at his jacket as he walked quickly off and round the corner. All the same, he was shaken. He remembered this as a quiet bit of Lafferton. How could traffichave bred like that?
There was a pub. He went in.
There were pubs enough in Lafferton and he had known a lot of them but maybe not this one. It didn’t smell of beer and tobacco, it smelled of coffee. There was a mirror running along behind the bar and a barman who looked more like a waiter in a black jacket was slamming metal coffee holders into an espresso machine.
Andy Gunton ordered a pintof bitter.
‘We only have bottled.’ The barman rattled off a list of foreign names. Andy grabbed one as it passed.
He got a bottle. No glass. He looked round. He lifted the bottle to his mouth.
No one paid any attention to him at the bar. He went to an empty table. It was pleasant. The sun shone in on the back of his neck.
He realised that his hands were shaking, that he was breathing too fastand his ears rang as if he had just surfaced after a dive. This place panicked him, just as the traffic had. Lafferton which he had thought at first glance looked the same, was not; little things were tripping him up, it was like living in a looking-glass world, everything slightly wrong.
Jeez. What was four years? A bloody lifetime, half his youth, but then again nothing, a blink; he didn’tknow where he was or what he was doing, he might have landed from Mars.
The probation officer had had good legs in a very short skirt. Long slinky hair tied back. A lot of eye make-up. She talked in riddles, but he was used to that. They learned another language when theyjoined up, social workers, probation, briefs, whatever. Only the screws talked English.
‘Your rehabilitation programme willreally get under way once you start a job, Andy. Have you anything you are especially interested in doing?’
Fighter pilot. Brain surgeon. Formula One driver.
‘Gardening,’ he had said. ‘I did eighteen months’ horticulture.’
‘There’s a new garden centre operating at the Kingswood.’
‘Garden centre?’
‘I suppose most people do their own gardens, don’t they? I wouldn’t think there was much callfor your skills in Lafferton.’
‘It’s market gardening. It’s professional.’ He had a flash picture of the raised beds of young broad beans and early peas, the beautifully arranged sandy rows of tiny carrots. He’d learned about what hotels and restaurants wanted now; earlies, picked young, not stuff that was stringy and leathery and huge in old age. Cabbages the size of a baby’s fist not of a bride’sbouquet.
She was sifting through the papers in the file on her desk. Was she older than him? Not much.
‘You’re living with your sister. How are you finding that, Andy?’
‘How’s she finding it more like.’
‘Do you have good relations with her? The family?’
‘OK.’
‘Well, that seems quite positive.’
‘It’s only till I get somewhere. A place. They’ve got three kids.’
‘You can put your name downfor a council flat.’
‘How long’d that be?’
‘There aren’t many for single people, I’m afraid.’
‘So where are we supposed to live then? Where d’you live?’
‘As I say, you’re lucky to have your family, your sister is obviously very supportive, that’s good. You won’t feel excluded.’
‘What from?’
‘Your parents …’ she began to sift the papers again.
‘They’re dead. Dad when I was twelve of lungcancer, Mum after I’d been six months at Stackton and don’t say you’re sorry because you’re not, why would you be?’ He felt an anger which was like foam in his mouth waiting to froth out all over this yellow-curtained office, all over Miss Long Legs.
He stood.
‘Try to be positive, Andy.’
Garden centre, she’d
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