himself understood. Pasquale liked Andy, he liked his good cheer and his determination and Andy wasn’t above giving his oldies a bit of shit either - playing the poor me card whenever he felt he needed it. Pasquale always found a degree of patience with Andy that he didn’t find with others. Andy didn’t try to hide his affection for him either - he was beyond feigned cool. Spending time with him always made him think about what it would have been like to have a younger brother or even a little sister. Be easier in some ways, he concluded, she might give him more space then, she’d have somebody else to worry about.
He hadn’t had a smoke all weekend and on the Monday morning, he’d woken up feeling fresh and curiously optimistic. He’d even beaten her down to the kitchen to make his sandwiches and she gave him a little look about that, pleased and kind of curious at the same time. He swung his bag onto his shoulder as he headed out of the door. Tommy then school, he thought - sorted.
Tommy had spent a fair bit of time with the old man over the weekend and was glad of the break by the time he got back to his flat on the Sunday evening. One good thing though had come from it. He’d persuaded the old fart to have a weekend at the races with the boys from the Crown. His old man loved the nags and Mick was a daily, week in week out student ofthe form. More importantly, a change of scene would be good for him. The old man had prevaricated and had even become a little pissed off with him when he had pressed it. But he’d eventually listened and Mick had handed over the necessary readies to Paul, the Crown’s landlord, when they’d popped down the pub for the Sunday lunch. Again, the old man had pushed most of the food to the side of his plate. Tommy didn’t comment, he’d badgered him enough this weekend.
He was now laid out on the sofa watching some telly for a change. It was a documentary on Mallory and the conquering of Everest. He found it to be both compelling and irritating at the same time. The notion of ‘conquering’ a mountain he found laughable and he speculated as to what Bonnie’s family would have thought about that. Probably, just more confirmation for them that white fellas are intrinsically fucked up.
There was the class thing too. Mallory and his mate were toffs through and through with the raft of assumptions and entitlement that went with it. Tommy had long moved away from class as a primary badge of identification, years away from Britain could do that to you. Those long years away and the seminal experience of being in a relationship with a woman who was from a race of people who, for generations, had suffered the privations of poverty, racism, dispossession, forced relocation and ongoing discrimination. The British working class and its burgeoning underclass would never have to confront that kind of reality. In comparison, they didn’t know what fucking hardship was.
On the box, a contemporary version of Mallory and Lee, (the programme adopting a ‘following in their footsteps’shtick), were being filmed trudging their way to the top of the king of mountains. The climb was a freezing, oxygen deprived, snail paced crawl, which looked about as thrilling and pleasure-filled as dipping your head into a bucket of snot. When they had realised that Mallory wouldn’t be coming back, England’s establishment had given him a huge memorial service in Westminster Abbey. The service was a blue blood gathering of the great and powerful, one of the last hurrahs of the dying empire.
After it finished Tommy flicked the TV off, he fired up the laptop and had a two hour steamy chat with some bird in Watford who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Fuck it, he thought, sometimes it felt good to take a stroll in the gutter.
It had been freezing all week in the run up to the spring. An icy eastern wind had taken hold, more than cold enough to help keep the peace around the shops and the
He hadn’t had a smoke all weekend and on the Monday morning, he’d woken up feeling fresh and curiously optimistic. He’d even beaten her down to the kitchen to make his sandwiches and she gave him a little look about that, pleased and kind of curious at the same time. He swung his bag onto his shoulder as he headed out of the door. Tommy then school, he thought - sorted.
Tommy had spent a fair bit of time with the old man over the weekend and was glad of the break by the time he got back to his flat on the Sunday evening. One good thing though had come from it. He’d persuaded the old fart to have a weekend at the races with the boys from the Crown. His old man loved the nags and Mick was a daily, week in week out student ofthe form. More importantly, a change of scene would be good for him. The old man had prevaricated and had even become a little pissed off with him when he had pressed it. But he’d eventually listened and Mick had handed over the necessary readies to Paul, the Crown’s landlord, when they’d popped down the pub for the Sunday lunch. Again, the old man had pushed most of the food to the side of his plate. Tommy didn’t comment, he’d badgered him enough this weekend.
He was now laid out on the sofa watching some telly for a change. It was a documentary on Mallory and the conquering of Everest. He found it to be both compelling and irritating at the same time. The notion of ‘conquering’ a mountain he found laughable and he speculated as to what Bonnie’s family would have thought about that. Probably, just more confirmation for them that white fellas are intrinsically fucked up.
There was the class thing too. Mallory and his mate were toffs through and through with the raft of assumptions and entitlement that went with it. Tommy had long moved away from class as a primary badge of identification, years away from Britain could do that to you. Those long years away and the seminal experience of being in a relationship with a woman who was from a race of people who, for generations, had suffered the privations of poverty, racism, dispossession, forced relocation and ongoing discrimination. The British working class and its burgeoning underclass would never have to confront that kind of reality. In comparison, they didn’t know what fucking hardship was.
On the box, a contemporary version of Mallory and Lee, (the programme adopting a ‘following in their footsteps’shtick), were being filmed trudging their way to the top of the king of mountains. The climb was a freezing, oxygen deprived, snail paced crawl, which looked about as thrilling and pleasure-filled as dipping your head into a bucket of snot. When they had realised that Mallory wouldn’t be coming back, England’s establishment had given him a huge memorial service in Westminster Abbey. The service was a blue blood gathering of the great and powerful, one of the last hurrahs of the dying empire.
After it finished Tommy flicked the TV off, he fired up the laptop and had a two hour steamy chat with some bird in Watford who was almost young enough to be his daughter. Fuck it, he thought, sometimes it felt good to take a stroll in the gutter.
It had been freezing all week in the run up to the spring. An icy eastern wind had taken hold, more than cold enough to help keep the peace around the shops and the
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