He had never known his father. Several times Daniel had asked for his father’s name but each time his mother refused, or told him that she didn’t know who he was. Daniel had seen his own birth certificate but his father’s details were blank.
Soon he was to have two mothers: one the state approved of and another which the state did not; one he had to care for and another who cared for him. But still no father.
Minnie had the radio on in the kitchen. She was stirring the porridge and moving her hips to the music. When she served up, Daniel blew on his porridge before adding his milk and sugar. Minnie had taught him to pour the milk on to the back of the spoon so as not to pierce the skin of the porridge.
‘Starving,’ he said, as she poured him some orange juice.
‘Well, you’re a growing boy, so you are. Eat up.’
‘Minnie?’ said Daniel, taking a mouthful of the sweet porridge.
‘What, love?’
‘Will it be this week we hear?’
‘Should be. That’s what they said. You’ve not to worry, mind. It’ll happen. But when it does, we should celebrate.’
‘What’ll we do?’
‘We could go for a picnic. We could go to the beach …’
‘Really? But you’d have to drive.’
‘Well, we could take it slow. Take our time.’
Daniel smiled and ate the rest of his porridge. He had never been to the beach and the thought of it made his stomach flutter.
‘Minnie?’ he said, licking his spoon. ‘After the papers come, will I call you Mam?’
She got up and started to clear the breakfast things. ‘As long as you’re civil, you can call me whatever you like,’ she said, ruffling his hair.
Above her pink cheeks, her eyes were shining. Daniel watched – not sure if she was happy or sad.
*
It was still cold, and Minnie made him wear his parka as they set up the market stall. Daniel was now well practised. He pinned the plastic cloth over the wooden table, as Minnie took an inventory of the produce in the boot of her car. She was wearing two cardigans and gloves with no fingers.
Minnie arranged her table: eggs and three chickens she had slaughtered, plucked and gutted herself, new potatoes, spring onions, carrots, swede and cabbage all fresh from the earth. She had pots of her jam to sell as welclass="underline" apricot and strawberry, and eight rhubarb tarts.
Daniel opened up the ice-cream tub that was her till, and counted the float. Anything to do with money was his job. He took the money from customers and counted the change. He counted their profits and his own wage as a percentage. When the car was emptied and the stall was ready, Minnie got out the flasks and the sandwiches: milky coffee for Daniel, sweet tea for her, and strawberry jam sandwiches. If it was busy they would probably not finish the sandwiches until they were packing up to go, but if the stall was quiet they would eat them all before eleven.
‘Zip up your jacket.’
‘I’m not cold.’
‘Zip up your jacket.’
‘Zip up yourself,’ he said, doing as she asked.
‘Don’t be cheeky.’
The stalls were arranged around Brampton’s Moot Hall, which had stood in the centre of town for nearly two hundred years. There were about eight other stalls besides Minnie’s. Most sold either vegetables or meat, or home-made produce, but Minnie was one of the few who offered a range. Her farm was not big enough for specialising. She sold what she made for herself.
The first hour passed quickly, and Minnie sold two chickens, and several half-dozen eggs. She knew that her chickens were the best and even those who disliked her would buy her eggs because of that.
Daniel’s hands were pink from the cold. When Minnie saw him tucking them into the sleeves of his jacket, she rubbed his hands to warm them. She made him put both palms together, as if in prayer, and then she rubbed them between her own hands until the heat returned. She rubbed him vigorously, so hard that he shook.
As the blood returned to his fingers and his arms, Daniel remembered rubbing his mother’s hands. She had always been cold: too thin and not enough clothes. He remembered the bones of her hands against his young palms. He wondered where she was now. He didn’t feel the same need to find her, but still he wondered, and he wanted to know if she wondered about him. He wanted to tell her about the farm, and about Minnie, about counting the float and taking his cut. He remembered the touch of her thin hands, brushing the hair off his face. When he thought of it, he would feel a pain underneath his ribs. It was like an intense hunger – a yearning – to feel her sweep the hair off his face again.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Minnie asked.
Daniel took the plastic cup she handed him into his two hands, so that he could steal its warmth. He shrugged and took a mouthful of sweet tea.
‘You were miles away!’ Minnie reached out to him and Daniel twisted away. Again, she seemed to know what he needed. But it wasn’t the same and it never could be.
A tight-lipped woman approached their stall. Daniel recognised her as Mrs Wilkes from the sweetshop. She was his friend Derek’s mother. Daniel knew she had called an ambulance for Minnie’s dying husband. She had also reported two of his classmates to the headmaster for stealing gobstoppers.
She worried her lips as she considered Minnie’s jam, narrowing her eyes when Daniel caught her eye. He put his hands into the pockets of his parka.
‘How much is the jam?’ she asked, the corners of her mouth turning downward.
‘Two pounds fifty,’ said Daniel, with one of his best smiles, although Minnie had priced the jam at one pound fifty.
‘That’s a disgrace,’ said Mrs Wilkes, slamming the jam on to the table with a force that shook the eggs.
Minnie turned at the noise and frowned. She was holding a half-eaten sandwich.
‘Quality comes at a price, Mrs Wilkes, you should know that,’ said Daniel, taking a hand out of his pocket to straighten the jam.
‘So it would seem.’ Daniel was aware that Mrs Wilkes had now lost interest in him and was addressing Minnie. Minnie had her mouth full and the wind was blowing her hair in her face, but she turned, her eyes giddy with mirth and crumbs on her chin.
‘You all right, Jean?’
‘I’m just baulking at the price here. That’s daylight robbery.’ Mrs Wilkes pushed a pot of jam gently, disturbing Daniel’s display again.
‘Take one, then,’ said Minnie.
Jean Wilkes’s mouth turned down at the corners.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean have one, a gift from me. It’s good jam. Have it, enjoy it.’
Daniel turned to look up at Minnie, but she was finishing her sandwich, watching Jean.
‘I couldn’t possibly. I’ll give you what it’s worth and not a penny more.’
‘Nonsense, take it. Enjoy. Thanks, Jean.’
Minnie turned her attention again to the flasks and the picnic which she had arranged in the boot of her Renault. She helped herself to another sandwich.
‘You’re ridiculous, Minnie,’ said Jean, thrusting three pounds into the ice-cream tub of money which Daniel guarded. ‘You ask for the world and then give it away. It’s like these kids. Everyone knows you’re just doing it to make yourself feel better. Can’t care for your own and then all of a sudden you’re mother to the world … But you’re right, your jam is good.’ Jean held the jar in the palm of her hand. Her tight mouth was pressed inward, as if to smile.
‘What did you say?’
Daniel turned to Minnie’s whisper. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.