They drank the bottles of stout, then Mr Sharpe said why didn't they nip over to the off-licence in Marks and Sparks on Chapel Market and get a couple of bottles of cider? It was cheap. In fact, if Steve would lend him the money; a fiver, say... no, make it a tenner, seeing as he felt generous and Steve was a real pal... he'd get the drink himself, seeing as Steve had been so generous in the pub and all. He'd pay him back next Wednesday, when his Giro came through.
Steven thought this sounded fair, and so he gave Mr Sharpe two ten pound notes. "Have twenty," he said. Mr Sharpe was taken aback and said again what a gent Steven was. He went off to the shop and got four bottles of cider and a canon of cigarettes.
Although he felt drunk, Steven didn't feel all morose like he usually did when he'd had a lot to drink; he felt quite happy, sitting on the bench under the trees of Islington Green with the traffic rushing harmlessly by all around. It was nice to have somebody to talk to, somebody you felt was on your side, who didn't laugh at you or show contempt for you, who felt sympathy for the way you were treated but not pity for who or what you were; somebody who wished you happy birthday. He didn't mind that Mr Sharpe was doing all the talking.
"You take the likes of my old boss, right?" Mr Sharpe was saying, drawing smoky patterns with the cigarette he held between his fingers. "Good bloke, good bloke, you know; strict but fair; wouldn't stand for any nonsense or people turning up late or anyfink, but straight, know what I mean? In the textile trade "e was; "ad to mix with a lot of Jews. Didn't like it, of course, but that's business, innit? "E went bust last year, didn't "e? "Ad to lay me an" the rest of the lads off, see? Recession, it was, basically, but also the fackin" unions. "E used to give them short shrift, I can tell you; wouldn't "ave them in the place, an" quite right too, say I, but "e reckoned they'd got at "im be'ind "is back, like, an "e's a smart bloke, right? Anyway, it was the recession what really did it, "e said, and "e said "e was really choked "e "ad to let us go on account of "ow we'd all stood be'ind "im. An" we did; when "e explained to us what was "appenin" a couple of years ago, we didn't take no pay rise, did we? We even took a pay cut last year, that was "ow much we was prepared to look after our jobs, see? Not like these fackin" union cans; we was responsible, we was. Yeah, "e was really choked, Mr Inglis was. That was "is name, was'n" it? 'Inglis by name and English by birth, and proud of it', "e would say." Mr Sharpe laughed.
Steven took his blue safety helmet off and wiped his brow. He would have to go for a pee soon. It was lucky there were toilets at one end of the Green. "Yeah, "e's a good bloke, that Mr Inglis. An" you know wot "e told me? "E told me "e didn't even make a profit the last five years. These fackin" Troskyists, they talk about bosses an" that, but they don't know nuffink, do they? I know, "cos one of my nephews; "e's a Troskyist, isn't "e? Little can; I nearly knocked "is bleedin" teeth out last time I saw "im; only tryin" to tell me I was one of them racialists, wasn't "e? I said, 'Lissen, son,' I said 'I've worked with blacks an" I've even made friends with some of them, which is prob'ly more than you've ever done, an" I quite liked some of "em; they was Jamaicans - not these little Pakkie cans -and they was okay, some of them, but that don't alter the fact there's too many of them over "ere, an" that don't make me your racialist, now, does it?' Little can. That's wot I told "im. Straight, I did." Mr Sharpe nodded aggressively, reliving the confrontation.
Steven was toying with the leather sweatband of the hard hat.
He was hot. It was probably safe to take the hat off; there was no scaffolding nearby. He put the hat down on the bench, between him and Mr Sharpe, who went on,
"Where was I? Oh, yeah; Mr Inglis, "e said "e "adn't made a profit for five years, but people think just because "e rides round in a Rolls-Royce, people fink "e's bleedin" rich, don't they? They don't know, see, that it don't even belong to "im; it's "is company's. Even "is "ouse isn't "is; it's "is wife's, innit? "E'd just as soon drive a Mini, but people in the trade wouldn't take "im seriously, would they? Specially them jewboys."
Steven shook his head, thinking this seemed to be required. He wasn't all that happy about this mention of a Rolls-Royce. He considered telling Mr Sharpe about the dangers of disembowel-lings by Rolls-Royce mascots, but he thought he'd better not.
"But I'm glad to say," Mr Sharpe said, smiling, lighting another cigarette, "e's managed to get back on "is feet again. I "appened to see "im the other day when I was looking for a job; "e's got a new place up in Islington Park Street making dresses an" all an" repairing machines. "Course, the place is full of these little wog wimmin, but, like Mr Inglis says, "e'd love to "ave whites working for "im but people've got lazy, "aven't they? "E can't find white wimmin to work for them wages, an" why? Cos the fackin" money they're gettin" from the government an" from workin" on the side's too much, that's why. Mr Inglis, "e'd love to take me an" the lads back on for the machines, but the fackin" unions they've priced us all out of a job, "aven't they? Mr Inglis can't afford to take on more than a couple of experienced blokes an" all the rest are these YOPs or wotever they're called; you know, them young kids wot the government pays you to train, an" that."
Steven nodded. He watched the reflections of the trees above him as they slid and swayed about the shiny blue surface of his safety helmet. It really was the most lovely shade of blue. He took it off the bench and put it on his lap.
"An" that stupid young nephew of mine, "e'll tell you they won't take our jobs! Little poof. I think "e's on that canopus stuff; I bet if you looked at "is arms you'd find them pot-marks. I tried that stuff, you know; when I was in the navy I did, out in wogland somewhere; some fackin" place... but it didn't do nuffink for me an" anyway I wasn't that stupid to take enough to get me "ooked, was I? Not me, mate; give me a pint an" a fag an" I'm quite "appy."
Mr Sharpe puffed on his cigarette and took a drink of his cider.
Grout was thinking about beer crates. He'd had one, once; he remembered coming down Essex Road, on the very bit of pavement they could see in front of them, over the grass. The crate had seemed like such a good idea at first; a way round searching for parked cars all the time. He had taken the beer crate, which he'd found behind a pub one night, with him when he went to look for work one day, about a year ago. Whenever he was running out of breath and there were no parked cars or low walls to protect him from the laser-axles, he simply had to put the crate down on the ground and then stand on it. Safety at last!
It had been a brilliant idea, but people treated him like some son of maniac. Young men shouted at him, women with children avoided him, a gang of kids started to follow him. He threw the crate into the canal eventually, cruelly hurt not just by the reaction people had exhibited, but also because he knew he didn't have the strength of character to resist them; he couldn't take that much scorn, he couldn't keep up such a high profile for long.
Yes, it had hurt, but he liked to think he had learned from the experience. He knew how cunning they were now, how carefully they made sure that he had no easy ways out. Mere ingenuity wouldn't help him live any easier here. He had to concentrate on escape, on finding the Key, the Way Out. Maybe he should ask Mr Sharpe about Hotblack Desiato. He seemed to know the area a bit, though Steven couldn't remember having seen him before either in the Nag's Head or anywhere else... but he said he lived locally. Maybe he would have some idea.