mind. Let them know I’m not impressed. ‘F’ this, ‘f’ that. Awful it is, bloody awful. And that’s swearing.
One of them’s looking at me. The one with the curly hair and the bag, he’s looking right at me like butter wouldn’t melt. Oo, that face … it’s not right. It’s not
nice
. He’s got a look like he wants me purse. Like he’s going to have it away with me handbag any moment. Wouldn’t
dare
look at me like that if my Bert was still around, if he was sitting here by my side. Give him short bloody shrift, my Bert would’ve, no messing about. Wipe that expression off his face quick bloody smart, Bert would, if he was able to. My Robert as well. Saddest day of my life, that, when the officers called round at the house … so smart, they looked. I was making a nice fish pie. It is our painful duty, they said. Died a hero, they said. Oo, they looked so smart in their uniforms. Twelve years ago now and not a day goes by without I think of them both, my Bert and Robbie. Keep expecting Robert to turn up at the door. With the flowers he always used to bring of a Sunday after church. Such a good boy he was. Such a
brave
boy he was.
He’s still staring. Perhaps I’d better move to another carriage, I mean what you read in the papers about what goes on in these trains; young girls raped, old ladies mugged. Enough to keep you awake at night, it is. Enough to keep you behind locked doors, safest place to be although even there you’re not completely safe, what with them bogus workmen and burglarers an all the rest of it. The
Mail
’s full of it. All the time, you’ve got to be on your guard. Everywhere they are, all around, these bad people. Nowhere’s safe. Without your husband or your son, you’re all on your own. No one to protect you. The world’s a dangerous place, it says so in the
Mail
. Can’t trust anyone these days.
I glance at him once as I get up and move to another carriage. Ee, these old bones. Shouldn’t have to move like this, I mean I shouldn’t let him intimidate me, but … best just to be safe. Better safe than sorry, as they say. The
face
on him, tho, the
eyes
… brrrr. Sent a shiver down me spine it did.
Never mind; best not to think about it. Don’t let it bother you. What’d be nice for tea is a nice bit of fish from the precinct; nice bit of mackerel, with the head still on. Fry him up in butter. Nice bit of fried fish, give the head to the pussens, Winnie. Cheer anyone up, that would, and Winnie’s been down in the dumps lately ever since her mother Cassie passed on. So a nice bit of fried fish for myself and Winnie and that’s something to look forwards to, at least, isn’t it? Got to have that, oh yes, something to look forwards to each day. Got to treat yourself, haven’t you?
—See the friggin gob on that bastard, Ally?
—Who?
—Im in the ticket office. See the friggin kite on him? Fuckin ’tude on im lar, no messin. Shitehawk.
Alastair just shrugs, says nothing. They ascend the stairs to traverse the footbridge to the far platform.
—An see im when I gave im the fifty nicker note? Bet he thought it was snide, like, probly never even seen one before. That’s cos yeh werk in a ticket office in fuckin Wrexham Station, lad. Get yerself a life an earn some proper fuckin dough.
They pass graffiti: TRFC ARE HERE and SCOUSERS DIE. WREXHAM SHITE and ROVERS FUCK OFF. They descend on to the platform, empty but for three dirty pigeons picking at a pizza crust; the Racecourse Ground swelling above it all, the four spotlights like the stanchions of alien craft or illumination for a titanic operating theatre. Litterfruited bushes on the trackbanks shimmy in the wind and the sky is blue and almost cloudless yet seemingly without a sun. It is cold and their breath can be seen puffing over their shoulders as if driven they are by steam.
They sit in a shelter to await their train. The shelter, of course, smells of urine as such places always do, and on one of the
One of them’s looking at me. The one with the curly hair and the bag, he’s looking right at me like butter wouldn’t melt. Oo, that face … it’s not right. It’s not
nice
. He’s got a look like he wants me purse. Like he’s going to have it away with me handbag any moment. Wouldn’t
dare
look at me like that if my Bert was still around, if he was sitting here by my side. Give him short bloody shrift, my Bert would’ve, no messing about. Wipe that expression off his face quick bloody smart, Bert would, if he was able to. My Robert as well. Saddest day of my life, that, when the officers called round at the house … so smart, they looked. I was making a nice fish pie. It is our painful duty, they said. Died a hero, they said. Oo, they looked so smart in their uniforms. Twelve years ago now and not a day goes by without I think of them both, my Bert and Robbie. Keep expecting Robert to turn up at the door. With the flowers he always used to bring of a Sunday after church. Such a good boy he was. Such a
brave
boy he was.
He’s still staring. Perhaps I’d better move to another carriage, I mean what you read in the papers about what goes on in these trains; young girls raped, old ladies mugged. Enough to keep you awake at night, it is. Enough to keep you behind locked doors, safest place to be although even there you’re not completely safe, what with them bogus workmen and burglarers an all the rest of it. The
’s full of it. All the time, you’ve got to be on your guard. Everywhere they are, all around, these bad people. Nowhere’s safe. Without your husband or your son, you’re all on your own. No one to protect you. The world’s a dangerous place, it says so in the
. Can’t trust anyone these days.
I glance at him once as I get up and move to another carriage. Ee, these old bones. Shouldn’t have to move like this, I mean I shouldn’t let him intimidate me, but … best just to be safe. Better safe than sorry, as they say. The
face
on him, tho, the
eyes
… brrrr. Sent a shiver down me spine it did.
Never mind; best not to think about it. Don’t let it bother you. What’d be nice for tea is a nice bit of fish from the precinct; nice bit of mackerel, with the head still on. Fry him up in butter. Nice bit of fried fish, give the head to the pussens, Winnie. Cheer anyone up, that would, and Winnie’s been down in the dumps lately ever since her mother Cassie passed on. So a nice bit of fried fish for myself and Winnie and that’s something to look forwards to, at least, isn’t it? Got to have that, oh yes, something to look forwards to each day. Got to treat yourself, haven’t you?
—See the friggin gob on that bastard, Ally?
—Who?
—Im in the ticket office. See the friggin kite on him? Fuckin ’tude on im lar, no messin. Shitehawk.
Alastair just shrugs, says nothing. They ascend the stairs to traverse the footbridge to the far platform.
—An see im when I gave im the fifty nicker note? Bet he thought it was snide, like, probly never even seen one before. That’s cos yeh werk in a ticket office in fuckin Wrexham Station, lad. Get yerself a life an earn some proper fuckin dough.
They pass graffiti: TRFC ARE HERE and SCOUSERS DIE. WREXHAM SHITE and ROVERS FUCK OFF. They descend on to the platform, empty but for three dirty pigeons picking at a pizza crust; the Racecourse Ground swelling above it all, the four spotlights like the stanchions of alien craft or illumination for a titanic operating theatre. Litterfruited bushes on the trackbanks shimmy in the wind and the sky is blue and almost cloudless yet seemingly without a sun. It is cold and their breath can be seen puffing over their shoulders as if driven they are by steam.
They sit in a shelter to await their train. The shelter, of course, smells of urine as such places always do, and on one of the
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