Blood Relatives

‘He knows, but I wouldn’t want to give him the extra ammunition, if you get my drift.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that you being underage jailbait, it’s better that he disnae know. I cannae trust Steve not to use something like that.’

Jim handed me t’ money for his usual order, and an extra bottle of Coke for Steve.

I said, ‘What about t’other one? Has he been warned off an’ all?’

Jim fiddled wi’ t’ drawstring of t’ velvet bag.

‘What other one?’

Craner had his feet up on t’ desk, flicking paperclips at the tits of Miss July on t’ wall calendar. It had barely rained since t’ end of May. We wor out on t’ road from dawn to dusk. Sales of pop wor skyrocketing. We sold it, drank it, sweated it, pissed it up the sides of walls and into hedges. Eric had even pissed full an empty bottle of limeade, and somehow we sold that. Craner hauled his eyes off Miss July’s tits and onto my face.

‘I hope you had a wash, Thorpy, cos by mid-morn in this heat you’re gonna stink like a wrestler’s laundry basket.’

‘Always wash, Mr Craner. Just wondering if t’ round-book wor ready.’

He tossed the round-book toward me. It fell short by my boots. I picked it up.

‘So, Thorpy, who’s going to win the cricket at Headingley, eh? England or the West Indies?’

‘Dunno, Mr Craner. Don’t follow it none.’

Friggin’ cricket ruled that week. Wherever we delivered, doors wor slung open, sash windows raised or lowered, radios cranked up to distortion, every last soul hanging on to t’ plummy vowels of t’ cricket commentators. Some folk had set up their TVs in t’ back yard, wi’ t’ cable running through an open window. Folk who never watched cricket wor watching cricket. Pubs had brought in TVs to drum up extra trade. Even kids had got the cricket bug, overarming tennis balls toward chalked stumps on brick walls or tapping cheap bats into t’ ground in front of upended box stumps.

Up at Headingley cricket ground, the Windies wor giving England a pasting.

Craner arched his eyebrows over t’ rims of his glasses and flicked off another paperclip. This one pinged against Miss July’s left eye.

‘Don’t follow cricket? Even my good friends at the Ukrainian Club are following the cricket. They don’t know a bloody thing about it, but they’re following it all t’ same. They know what’s important in this life, Mr Thorpe.’

‘Didn’t know you wor a Yu-ker-ranium, Mr Craner.’

‘My grandfolks wor from Lvov. Came to this country before t’ first war, changed their name to Craner. So now you know. Corona supplies the Ukrainian Club wi’ soft drinks and mixers. A lot of ’em are ex-forces that got left in Yorkshire at t’ end of t’ war. Same as for t’ Poles. Lvov wor part of Poland back then. Did you know that?’

‘No, Mr Craner.’

I wor thinking they could come from t’ moon for all it mattered.

‘All t’ things you don’t know or show no interest in. Connections, boy. To get on in life you have to show interest and propagate connections. It’s no good sitting back and waiting for life to grab you by t’ goolies. Remember that and you’ll make summat of yersen.’

‘Like you, Mr Craner?’

‘Aye, like me.’

‘Use your connections?’ Eric said. ‘Is that what he said?’

We wor parked up by t’ side of t’ road, scoffing lunch. We’d peeled off our shirts and the sun wor baking our bods through t’ windscreen, our reddened arms and necks contrasting wi’ t’ paleness of t’ rest. I liked sitting there half-naked, wi’ Eric half-naked alongside me.

I said, ‘Well, it wor Mitch’s connection to Craner that got me this job, so there must be summat in it.’

‘I wouldn’t trust Craner an inch. Not an inch. As for that shite about cricket and U-Cranes … I bet Craner don’t even know where U-Crane is.’

‘Hey, geddit? U-Crane? Craner? Funny one, that.’

‘No bloody wonder we’re losing the cricket,’ Eric said, ‘what wi’ it being so hot and the pitch so parched and playing like it is. Put up a few banana trees and they’ll think they’re back home.’

We ate slobbily, shovelling fried duck and eggy rice wi’ ‘special curry sauce’ into our mouths, washing it down wi’ swigs of pop. Sauce droplets slithered off our plastic forks and, I clocked, splattered onto Eric’s crotch area.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ he muttered to himsen, rubbing the spots wi’ his hankie. ‘Bloody effin’ ’ell. These keks wor clean on this morning.’

He mopped his forehead wi’ t’ same hankie, screwing his face up at the sun.

‘Must be up in t’ 90s today. Granddad’s as pleased as punch. Says it’ll bring on his allotment lovely, all this sunshine will. He’s out there every day, tendering, watering. Won’t last, mind.’

Eric rolled up the Sun and squished a wasp against t’ windscreen.

‘So, tell Eric, who is she?’

‘Who is she what?’

‘The girl, stupid. You know – Saturday afternoons? You all tetchy and eager to finish the round and cash up and get away at day’s end. Come on, spill all. We’ve all been there.’

I flicked the dirt from under a fingernail. The distant tower blocks shimmered in t’ heat. Somewhere nearby, an ice-cream van tinkled listlessly.

‘Ain’t no one.’

‘Ain’t no one? Is she blonde? Dark? Pretty? Don’t tell me, she’s already got a boyfriend and you’re seeing her on t’ sly? Married? If you want any advice on the best way to …’

‘I don’t need no advice. There’s some stuff I prefer to keep to mesen.’

Eric scented the air like a gun dog.

‘Vanessa’s right, you’re a dark horse all right.’

He scrunched up his foil tray and tossed it into t’ road. He pulled on his shirt.

‘We’d best get on,’ he said, turning the ignition key. The engine spluttered into life.

‘Aye,’ I said, buttoning up my own shirt. ‘We’d best get on.’

The heat wave lasted ’til t’ end of August. The grass withered away, leaving brown, naked patches, the sunbathers and park picnickers turned red and weary. Allotments, including Eric’s granddad’s, wilted away and fell foul to insect plagues and hosepipe bans. The government put up standpipes. Van washing, even washing the outsides of t’ bottles, had been banned, and everything wor looking grimy. In t’ queues for water, neighbours rediscovered each other and chattered like finches set free.

It wor August Bank Holiday before t’ heavens finally opened, but not before t’ Windies had crushed England in t’ final Test at the Oval. Every West Indian on t’ round wor celebrating to our faces. Back at t’ depot, our two West Indian drivers, Phillip and Chester, wor hollering to all who could hear, ‘Who said we’d grovel? Eh? Didn’t the England captain say it, eh? Didn’t he say he’d make dem West Indies grovel?’

I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t give a rat’s behind about cricket.’