fingers.
He started wearing the half-rims a couple of months ago. Because of them everyone began calling him ‘Prof’. But I think the glasses only brought out something already there. It was like his face had been waiting for the glasses to complete it. Mick himself had been waiting. Mick Hammond, the man who likes to let you know he thinks.
‘It has a meaning . . .’
He was all shy at first about wearing them, but now he fancies himself in them, he likes the business of looking over the top of them. And I quite like Mick in his reading glasses. Because they make him look serious, and that makes me want to laugh.
‘It has a meaning . . .’
I could see he really was doing some thinking now, but he was also in a bit of a fix. I thought: You started this, Micky mate.
But mainly I thought: I’m gasping. And I thought: He’s only dawdling over his tea because he’s trying to quit the fags. He doesn’t want to cross the yard with me and slip out the gate to what we used to call Death Row. Till Ronnie Meadows died.
Mick’s a mate, but this whole giving-up thing’s a bastard. It doesn’t seem right for Mick to stop me nipping off for a drag. But it doesn’t seem right for me to nip off anyway without Mick. Even if he’s not going to smoke himself, he should come outside with me and stand beside me while I do. But that’s daft too.
‘If . . .’ he says, ‘if . . . a famous mountaineer dies while trying to climb a new way up the north face of the Eiger, the papers would call that tragic, but it wouldn’t be.’
That seems a long way from Macintyre’s warehouse, but I let it go. I can see Mick is getting all important with himself. I thought: Stay calm.
‘What would it be?’
‘It would be. . . well, heroic maybe.’
‘Or mad,’ I say.
‘No, no, it would be the right sort of death for a mountaineer, wouldn’t it? It would be how a mountaineer might even
want
to die.’
I don’t say, ‘Who
wants
to die?’ And I don’t say, ‘Why are we talking about mountaineering?’
‘So?’ I say.
He shifts the half-rims on his nose a little, lifts them up with one finger, lets them drop again. Any moment now he’ll take them off and wipe them. He didn’t just get new glasses, he got a whole new act, a whole new bloody Mick Hammond, or the one that had only been waiting.
Maybe because of Mick and his glasses, I thought: Tragedy’s about acting too. It’s about stuff that happens on stage. Shakespeare and stuff. That’s the thing about it. It’s not real life. And Mercer can’t have been thinking that Ronnie Meadows dropping off his fork-lift was—well, like
Hamlet
.
Micky Hamlet, I thought. Mickey Mouse.
‘If, on the other hand . . .’ he says. I thought: Here we go.
‘. . . if a famous mountaineer dies not on the north face of the Eiger, but climbing up some easy-peasy little mountain in, I don’t know, the Lake District, then that’s tragic.’
I didn’t know what to say to this. Mick must have done some thinking, I’ll give him that, to come up with this. I sort of got what he was getting at, but then again I didn’t, I didn’t at all.
I thought: I never knew Mick had a secret hankering to be a mountaineer. And I thought: We’re nowhere near the Lake District, Micky, we’re in Stevenage.
So I said, ‘Why?’
Which is always the killer question. When I said it I couldn’t help thinking of when Gavin, our first, started up with his ‘Why? Why? Why?’. It often sounded more like ‘Wha! Wha! Wha!’ but, God, he knew it was the killer question.
Gavin’s nearly eighteen now.
‘Well, don’t you see?’ Mick says. ‘It’s got something about it. It’s not how a mountaineer would want to die, or should die. It’s—’
‘Just stupid,’ I say.
‘Tragic,’ he says.
Mick Hammond’s totally different from me. But, yes, he’s my mate, has been for years. Search me.
‘If you say so, Mick.’
And those glasses sometimes make Mick look like a granddad, twice my
He started wearing the half-rims a couple of months ago. Because of them everyone began calling him ‘Prof’. But I think the glasses only brought out something already there. It was like his face had been waiting for the glasses to complete it. Mick himself had been waiting. Mick Hammond, the man who likes to let you know he thinks.
‘It has a meaning . . .’
He was all shy at first about wearing them, but now he fancies himself in them, he likes the business of looking over the top of them. And I quite like Mick in his reading glasses. Because they make him look serious, and that makes me want to laugh.
‘It has a meaning . . .’
I could see he really was doing some thinking now, but he was also in a bit of a fix. I thought: You started this, Micky mate.
But mainly I thought: I’m gasping. And I thought: He’s only dawdling over his tea because he’s trying to quit the fags. He doesn’t want to cross the yard with me and slip out the gate to what we used to call Death Row. Till Ronnie Meadows died.
Mick’s a mate, but this whole giving-up thing’s a bastard. It doesn’t seem right for Mick to stop me nipping off for a drag. But it doesn’t seem right for me to nip off anyway without Mick. Even if he’s not going to smoke himself, he should come outside with me and stand beside me while I do. But that’s daft too.
‘If . . .’ he says, ‘if . . . a famous mountaineer dies while trying to climb a new way up the north face of the Eiger, the papers would call that tragic, but it wouldn’t be.’
That seems a long way from Macintyre’s warehouse, but I let it go. I can see Mick is getting all important with himself. I thought: Stay calm.
‘What would it be?’
‘It would be. . . well, heroic maybe.’
‘Or mad,’ I say.
‘No, no, it would be the right sort of death for a mountaineer, wouldn’t it? It would be how a mountaineer might even
want
to die.’
I don’t say, ‘Who
wants
to die?’ And I don’t say, ‘Why are we talking about mountaineering?’
‘So?’ I say.
He shifts the half-rims on his nose a little, lifts them up with one finger, lets them drop again. Any moment now he’ll take them off and wipe them. He didn’t just get new glasses, he got a whole new act, a whole new bloody Mick Hammond, or the one that had only been waiting.
Maybe because of Mick and his glasses, I thought: Tragedy’s about acting too. It’s about stuff that happens on stage. Shakespeare and stuff. That’s the thing about it. It’s not real life. And Mercer can’t have been thinking that Ronnie Meadows dropping off his fork-lift was—well, like
Hamlet
.
Micky Hamlet, I thought. Mickey Mouse.
‘If, on the other hand . . .’ he says. I thought: Here we go.
‘. . . if a famous mountaineer dies not on the north face of the Eiger, but climbing up some easy-peasy little mountain in, I don’t know, the Lake District, then that’s tragic.’
I didn’t know what to say to this. Mick must have done some thinking, I’ll give him that, to come up with this. I sort of got what he was getting at, but then again I didn’t, I didn’t at all.
I thought: I never knew Mick had a secret hankering to be a mountaineer. And I thought: We’re nowhere near the Lake District, Micky, we’re in Stevenage.
So I said, ‘Why?’
Which is always the killer question. When I said it I couldn’t help thinking of when Gavin, our first, started up with his ‘Why? Why? Why?’. It often sounded more like ‘Wha! Wha! Wha!’ but, God, he knew it was the killer question.
Gavin’s nearly eighteen now.
‘Well, don’t you see?’ Mick says. ‘It’s got something about it. It’s not how a mountaineer would want to die, or should die. It’s—’
‘Just stupid,’ I say.
‘Tragic,’ he says.
Mick Hammond’s totally different from me. But, yes, he’s my mate, has been for years. Search me.
‘If you say so, Mick.’
And those glasses sometimes make Mick look like a granddad, twice my
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