cause I know some Dorises that deserve a fucking good slapping; all I’m saying is that their ain’t no real satisfaction in it.
– Sure, it’s a pleasure doin business with such foine folks, Shorthand says, and we just piss off leaving the family in peace, while we’re buzzing on the old adrenalin. One thing I am glad of is that we didn ’t have to wake any of them kiddies. I got a little un of my own and the thought of some cunt doing something like that there … well, no cunt would fucking well dare. The thought makes me wary though, sort of puts me in mind to check up on the little un. Maybe go round there tomorrow morning like.
Wolverhampton, 1963
Spike laughed and raised the glass of Bank’s bitter, halting it an inch from his lips. – Cheers, Bob, he grinned, his deep-set eyes furrowing into one narrow slit which looked like a mouth, – moy all your problems be little uns!
Bob winked, and took a sip from the pint. He smiled at his workmates around the table. He felt good about them all, even Spike. Spike wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t want to get on, that was up to him. Spike would be happy to be stuck in The Scotlands for the rest of his life; no ambition but to use up the big wages on more drink and more hopeless horses. He’d felt the gulf grow between them since he’d flitted, and it was to do with more than his physical displacement out to the Ford Houses Estate. He remembered what Spike had said: Y’all don’t want tall boi movink out there, spending all that good brass on a bloody house when the council’ll rent ya’ll woon chayp. Ya’ll got to enjoy loife!
That was Spike’s view of enjoyment, tipping Bank’s down his neck. Molyneux’s North Bank on a Saturday, after the bookies. That was his life, but he was standing still. Bob was working-class and proud of it, but he was a skilled man. He wanted the best for his family.
His family. The first one on the way. The thought warmed him with the rum he had with his pint.
– Another one, Bob? Spike urged.
– Don know about that. Oive got the hospital tonight. Could happen any toime, they said.
– Roobeesh! Ferst woons ur orlweys loite, everywoon knows that! Spike roared as Tony and Clem gave a drum-roll of encouragement on the table with their empty glasses.
But Bob got up and left. He knew that they’d be talking about him and what they’d be saying: that he had gone soft, that he was spoiling their excuse to get drunk, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to see Mary.
It was raining outside: a dull slow drizzle. Although it was still the afternoon, the winter darkness was starting to fall and Bob pulled his collar tight against a whipping wind. A Midland Red bus came into view, then it was upon him, then it was zooming past his outstretched hand. It was half empty and he was at the bus stop and it hadn’t stopped. The stupid injustice of it bemused and angered him. – Fucking bastard Midland Red! he shouted at the vehicle’s waddling, teasing rear as it receded away from him. He trudged on.
He sensed that something was wrong when he got to the hospital. It was just a flash, that fleeting sensation that something was amiss. Every expectant father must feel this, he thought to himself. Then he felt it again.
Something had gone wrong. But what could? This was the twentieth century. Nothing went wrong these days. This was Britain.
Bob’s breath was almost knocked from him when he saw his wife in the bed, howling through her obvious sedation. She looked terrible. – Bob … she wailed.
– Mary … what happened … you had it … is it okay … where’s the baby!
– You have a little girl, a healthy little girl, a nurse said without enthusiasm or conviction.
– They won’t let me see it, Bob, they won’t let me hold my baby, Mary whined.
– What’s happening ere! Bob shouted.
Another nurse had appeared behind him. She had a long, tortured face. She looked like someone who had seen something that was both
– Sure, it’s a pleasure doin business with such foine folks, Shorthand says, and we just piss off leaving the family in peace, while we’re buzzing on the old adrenalin. One thing I am glad of is that we didn ’t have to wake any of them kiddies. I got a little un of my own and the thought of some cunt doing something like that there … well, no cunt would fucking well dare. The thought makes me wary though, sort of puts me in mind to check up on the little un. Maybe go round there tomorrow morning like.
Wolverhampton, 1963
Spike laughed and raised the glass of Bank’s bitter, halting it an inch from his lips. – Cheers, Bob, he grinned, his deep-set eyes furrowing into one narrow slit which looked like a mouth, – moy all your problems be little uns!
Bob winked, and took a sip from the pint. He smiled at his workmates around the table. He felt good about them all, even Spike. Spike wasn’t so bad. If he didn’t want to get on, that was up to him. Spike would be happy to be stuck in The Scotlands for the rest of his life; no ambition but to use up the big wages on more drink and more hopeless horses. He’d felt the gulf grow between them since he’d flitted, and it was to do with more than his physical displacement out to the Ford Houses Estate. He remembered what Spike had said: Y’all don’t want tall boi movink out there, spending all that good brass on a bloody house when the council’ll rent ya’ll woon chayp. Ya’ll got to enjoy loife!
That was Spike’s view of enjoyment, tipping Bank’s down his neck. Molyneux’s North Bank on a Saturday, after the bookies. That was his life, but he was standing still. Bob was working-class and proud of it, but he was a skilled man. He wanted the best for his family.
His family. The first one on the way. The thought warmed him with the rum he had with his pint.
– Another one, Bob? Spike urged.
– Don know about that. Oive got the hospital tonight. Could happen any toime, they said.
– Roobeesh! Ferst woons ur orlweys loite, everywoon knows that! Spike roared as Tony and Clem gave a drum-roll of encouragement on the table with their empty glasses.
But Bob got up and left. He knew that they’d be talking about him and what they’d be saying: that he had gone soft, that he was spoiling their excuse to get drunk, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to see Mary.
It was raining outside: a dull slow drizzle. Although it was still the afternoon, the winter darkness was starting to fall and Bob pulled his collar tight against a whipping wind. A Midland Red bus came into view, then it was upon him, then it was zooming past his outstretched hand. It was half empty and he was at the bus stop and it hadn’t stopped. The stupid injustice of it bemused and angered him. – Fucking bastard Midland Red! he shouted at the vehicle’s waddling, teasing rear as it receded away from him. He trudged on.
He sensed that something was wrong when he got to the hospital. It was just a flash, that fleeting sensation that something was amiss. Every expectant father must feel this, he thought to himself. Then he felt it again.
Something had gone wrong. But what could? This was the twentieth century. Nothing went wrong these days. This was Britain.
Bob’s breath was almost knocked from him when he saw his wife in the bed, howling through her obvious sedation. She looked terrible. – Bob … she wailed.
– Mary … what happened … you had it … is it okay … where’s the baby!
– You have a little girl, a healthy little girl, a nurse said without enthusiasm or conviction.
– They won’t let me see it, Bob, they won’t let me hold my baby, Mary whined.
– What’s happening ere! Bob shouted.
Another nurse had appeared behind him. She had a long, tortured face. She looked like someone who had seen something that was both
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