caption saying: JEFF ’ S GOLDFISH HAD DIARRHEA AGAIN . She sizes me up and waves her hand towards the booths, meaning,
Sit where you want
. “Actually,” I say, “I just wanted to ask if you know how to get to Black Elm Farm.”
She looks up, shrugs, looks back, and breathes smoke.
“It’s here, on Sheppey. I’ve got a job there.”
She returns to her paper and taps her fag.
I decide to phone Mr. Harty: “Is there a pay phone?”
The old moo shakes her head, without looking up.
“Would it be possible just to make a local call using your—”
She glares at me, like I’ve asked her if she sells drugs.
“Well … might anyone else here know Black Elm Farm?” I hold her gaze for long enough to tell her the quickest way to get back to her paper is to help me.
“Peggy!” she bawls, into the kitchen. “Black Elm Farm?”
A clattery voice answers: “Gabriel Harty’s place. Why?”
Her button eyes swivel my way. “Someone’s askin’ …”
Peggy appears: she has a red nose, gerbil cheeks, and a smile like a Nazi interrogator’s. “Off fruit-picking for a few days, is it, pet? It was hops in my day, but hops is all done by machines nowadays. You take the Leysdown road—thataway”—she points left out of the door—“past Eastchurch, then take Old Ferry Lane on the right. On foot, are you, pet?” I nod. “Five or six mile, it is, but that’s a stroll in the park for—”
There’s a godalmighty clatter of tin trays from the kitchen and Peggy hurries back. I deserve a packet of Rothmans now I’ve got what I came in for, so I go to the machine in the main part of the café: £1.40 for a packet of twenty. Total rip-off, but there’ll be a bunch of new people at the farm so I’ll need a confidence booster. In go the coins before I can argue myself out of it, round goes the knob, plop go the ciggies. Only when I straighten, box of twenty Rothmans in hand, do I see who’s sat behind the machine, bang across the aisle: Stella Yearwood and Vinny Costello.
I duck down, out of sight, wanting to puke. Did they see me just now? No. Stella would’ve said something breezy and poisonous. There’s a gap between the machine and the screen. Stella’s feeding Vinny ice cream across the table. Vinny looks back like a lovesick puppy. She runs the spoon over his lips, leaving dribbly vanilla lipstick. He licks it off. “Give me the strawberry.”
“I didn’t hear the magic word,” says Stella.
Vinny smiles. “Give me the strawberry,
please
.”
Stella spikes the strawberry from the ice-cream dish and pushes it up Vinny’s nostril. He grabs her wrist with his hand, his beautiful hand, and guides the fruit into his mouth, and they look at each other, and jealousy burns my gut like a glass of neat Domestos. What sicko anti-guardian angel brought them to Smoky Joe’s right here, right now? Look at the helmets. Vinny’s brought Stella here on his precious untouchable Norton. She hooks her little finger through his, and pulls, so his arm and body follow, until he’s leaning all the way over the table and kissing her. His eyes are shut and hers aren’t. Vinny only mouths the next three words, but he never said them tome. He says it again, eyes wide open, and she looks like a girl unwrapping an expensive present she knew she was getting.
I could erupt and hurl plates, call them every name under the sun, and get a ride back to Gravesend in gales of tears and a police car, but I blunder back to the heavy door, which I pull instead of push and push instead of pull ’cause my vision’s melting away, watched by the old moo, oh, Christ, yeah, ’cause I’m bags more interesting than the
News of the World
now, and those button eyes of her don’t miss one single detail …
O UT IN THE open air my face dissolves into tears and snot, and a Morris Maxi slows down for the old fart at the wheel to get a good eyeful and I shout, “What are
you
bloody looking at?” and, God, it hurts it hurts it
hurts
,
Sit where you want
. “Actually,” I say, “I just wanted to ask if you know how to get to Black Elm Farm.”
She looks up, shrugs, looks back, and breathes smoke.
“It’s here, on Sheppey. I’ve got a job there.”
She returns to her paper and taps her fag.
I decide to phone Mr. Harty: “Is there a pay phone?”
The old moo shakes her head, without looking up.
“Would it be possible just to make a local call using your—”
She glares at me, like I’ve asked her if she sells drugs.
“Well … might anyone else here know Black Elm Farm?” I hold her gaze for long enough to tell her the quickest way to get back to her paper is to help me.
“Peggy!” she bawls, into the kitchen. “Black Elm Farm?”
A clattery voice answers: “Gabriel Harty’s place. Why?”
Her button eyes swivel my way. “Someone’s askin’ …”
Peggy appears: she has a red nose, gerbil cheeks, and a smile like a Nazi interrogator’s. “Off fruit-picking for a few days, is it, pet? It was hops in my day, but hops is all done by machines nowadays. You take the Leysdown road—thataway”—she points left out of the door—“past Eastchurch, then take Old Ferry Lane on the right. On foot, are you, pet?” I nod. “Five or six mile, it is, but that’s a stroll in the park for—”
There’s a godalmighty clatter of tin trays from the kitchen and Peggy hurries back. I deserve a packet of Rothmans now I’ve got what I came in for, so I go to the machine in the main part of the café: £1.40 for a packet of twenty. Total rip-off, but there’ll be a bunch of new people at the farm so I’ll need a confidence booster. In go the coins before I can argue myself out of it, round goes the knob, plop go the ciggies. Only when I straighten, box of twenty Rothmans in hand, do I see who’s sat behind the machine, bang across the aisle: Stella Yearwood and Vinny Costello.
I duck down, out of sight, wanting to puke. Did they see me just now? No. Stella would’ve said something breezy and poisonous. There’s a gap between the machine and the screen. Stella’s feeding Vinny ice cream across the table. Vinny looks back like a lovesick puppy. She runs the spoon over his lips, leaving dribbly vanilla lipstick. He licks it off. “Give me the strawberry.”
“I didn’t hear the magic word,” says Stella.
Vinny smiles. “Give me the strawberry,
please
.”
Stella spikes the strawberry from the ice-cream dish and pushes it up Vinny’s nostril. He grabs her wrist with his hand, his beautiful hand, and guides the fruit into his mouth, and they look at each other, and jealousy burns my gut like a glass of neat Domestos. What sicko anti-guardian angel brought them to Smoky Joe’s right here, right now? Look at the helmets. Vinny’s brought Stella here on his precious untouchable Norton. She hooks her little finger through his, and pulls, so his arm and body follow, until he’s leaning all the way over the table and kissing her. His eyes are shut and hers aren’t. Vinny only mouths the next three words, but he never said them tome. He says it again, eyes wide open, and she looks like a girl unwrapping an expensive present she knew she was getting.
I could erupt and hurl plates, call them every name under the sun, and get a ride back to Gravesend in gales of tears and a police car, but I blunder back to the heavy door, which I pull instead of push and push instead of pull ’cause my vision’s melting away, watched by the old moo, oh, Christ, yeah, ’cause I’m bags more interesting than the
News of the World
now, and those button eyes of her don’t miss one single detail …
O UT IN THE open air my face dissolves into tears and snot, and a Morris Maxi slows down for the old fart at the wheel to get a good eyeful and I shout, “What are
you
bloody looking at?” and, God, it hurts it hurts it
hurts
,
Similar Books
