“We’ve got to get him cleaned up before we start talking about bikes,” she said, trying to look stern, “Jack, upstairs with you – you need a bath - and I’ll get me scissors out when your hair’s clean.”
An hour later we stood back and looked at
him – new jeans and a sweat-shirt over his own pants and tee-shirt, and he’d
found a pair of trainers that’d stay on if he wore two pairs of socks. Maggie wasn’t that expert with the scissors,
but I could take him to the barbers in a week or so when the heat had died
down. What mattered for now was that he
looked as different as we could make him. We had a sticky moment or two when I
told him he had to call me Dad, but when I said it was only to keep him safe he
said, “You mean it’s part of my disguise?” and I said yes – I wasn’t planning
on being the kind of Dad he’d had so far.
Then we made him up a bed in the box-room out of pillows and duvets, and
I said I’d buy him a proper bed on Saturday.
I was busy making a stew – it ain’t often I
get the time to cook, but I’m a bit of a Keith Floyd fan when I get the chance
– when Den walked in the door.
“Who’s this?” he asked, jerking his head at
Jack and heading for the sink to wash his hands. I elbowed him away from the sink – didn’t
want him getting engine grease in my stew – and said, “Jack’s stopping with us
for a bit – and we’re making out he’s my kid.”
“Fair enough,” said Den – he knows if I do something
I’ll have a good reason, “Save the explanation till I’ve had a bath, will you?”
“Don’t take all day about it,” I told him,
“I’ve just put the spuds on. Jack – say
hello to your Uncle Den.”
“Uncle?” Jack squeaked, and shot out the
back door into the yard.
“What’s up with him?” I said, standing
there like a wally with the wooden spoon in my hand.
Maggie glared at me like I’d farted, “You and your stupid
great gob! The poor kid’s had enough
uncles as it is.”
The penny dropped with a clang you could’ve heard in London
and I dashed outside but I was too late – Jack had unbolted the back gate and
legged it. I didn’t even know which way
he’d gone, and I wasted time dithering, but then I ran down to the garages at
the end. There was no sign of him there,
so I ran back up the alley to the other end and saw him disappearing round the
next corner. I yelled, “Jack!” and
belted after him, and round that corner I saw a grey sweatshirt. I raced to catch him up, but when I grabbed
the shirt and swung him round it was the wrong kid. I had to back off in a hurry with his mum
screaming blue murder.
I must have gone up and down the street a
dozen times, looking in the corner shop and the chippy and even sticking my
head through the plastic strip curtain of the bookies’. By that time I was wishing Maggie’d left Jack
in his pyjamas and dinosaur slippers, cos half the kids in the neighbourhood
were wearing jeans and grey sweatshirts – even the girls – and I couldn’t find
Jack anywhere. I was out of breath,
partly through running round in circles but mostly through panic, cos if
anything happened to Jack now it was my own stupid bloody fault. I should’ve known what the word ‘uncle’ meant
to the poor kid – I could’ve picked on a hundred different ways to introduce
Den and I had to choose that one.
Cursing myself for all kinds of a wanker I started walking again, trying
to think which way I would’ve gone when I was his age, but I hadn’t known
Brighton that long and I had no idea where to look next.
Hi Lizy - great extract with lots going on. (Sorry I missed it earlier)
ReplyDeleteBut you seem to be the only one who read it!
ReplyDelete