accumulating. At the end of two weeks they went, with hands scarred and chapped from stripping each gas mask down to that small particle of precious metal, and delivered their hoarded wealth to Piebald Lundy, a local scrap dealer. He gave them two pounds ten shillings to split between them.
She told him about the standard lamp fiasco. She was going to tell him about—
‘Mrs Docherty,’ the man said. ‘Let's stop there. Tell me any more and I'll feel obliged to lend you a pound from my own pocket.’
He took a letter he had on his desk and tore it up and put it in a waste basket. When she came home and told them what had happened, there was general relief and laughter. Only their father was quiet, brooding by the fire.
‘One thing, Betsy,’ he said darkly. ‘He didny give ye the name o’ the bastard that shopped me?'
Next day he sold the van to the Burleys for thirty pounds. That was maybe ten days before.
Now he stands up and nicks his cigarette into the fire. He puts the stub on the mantelpiece.
‘Be careful. Conn,’ Tam's mother says.
His father shrugs to her. John Garfield couldn't have done it better. Tam is impressed by that shrug, for the Burleys are a known family in the town, violent and fierce and sudden, offering the rule of force. Anyone who tries to take them to a law beyond their own is liable to appear in court with a bandaged head and an imperfect set of teeth with which to state his case. Tam's father goes to the front door. Tam and his mother wait tensely in the living-room. He watches her. Her eyes are scouting the room nervously. Perhaps she is looking for a suitable object, should things turn physical.
The living-room has been redefined for Tam. He sits in a cave of warmth and brightness. Beyond its entrance bad things can happen, dark creatures roam. His father guards that entrance. The sounds that come from there rumble and threaten. The voices of all three Burleys are deep and indistinct. They all seem to be making noises at the same time. His father's voice is light by comparison. His mother and Tam are statues. The exchange that is taking place out there is only sometimes meaningful.
‘No’ good enough' growls towards them.
‘Sold in good faith.’
‘Some kinna refund.’
‘Ye'd have tae take that out the brig.’
It's an expression Tam has heard his father use before. The brig, Tam realises with panic, is the bridge of the nose.
‘Ah don't have a copper tae spare.’
‘It's no’ gonny do.'
The grumbling continues, ebbing and flowing.
‘Look, boays. Decide what ye want tae dae. It's cauld oot here.’
The voices growl on but slowly, Tam realises with relief, the growling is receding. He hears the door being closed.
On the wireless, Valentine has completed his story aboutthe man in the funeral parlour, unaware that he has been broadcasting to Madame Tussaud's for the last few minutes. It seems the other man, who put the bet on with him, persuaded a friend to lie in one of the coffins. He had tapped on the glass three times when he heard the recording being made.
When the funeral parlour is opened in the morning, only one man survives from the two who were alive the night before. At first, they can't tell which it is, for he is transformed, lined with age and grey-haired and raving. Eventually, they understand that he is the man who bet he could stay in the place overnight. He had thought the man in the coffin was a ghost and had strangled him and had lived the rest of the night in dread that another ghost would come. Unusually, Tam hasn't been able to give in to the horror the man is supposed to have felt. He thought ghosts were frightening? Had he met the Burleys?
Tam's father comes back in and takes the butt of his cigarette off the mantelpiece. He sits down, finds a match and holds its head against the hot grate till it flares. He lights his cigarette and throws the match in the fire. He looks across at Tam's mother and, beginning to smoke, he winks.
THAT
She told him about the standard lamp fiasco. She was going to tell him about—
‘Mrs Docherty,’ the man said. ‘Let's stop there. Tell me any more and I'll feel obliged to lend you a pound from my own pocket.’
He took a letter he had on his desk and tore it up and put it in a waste basket. When she came home and told them what had happened, there was general relief and laughter. Only their father was quiet, brooding by the fire.
‘One thing, Betsy,’ he said darkly. ‘He didny give ye the name o’ the bastard that shopped me?'
Next day he sold the van to the Burleys for thirty pounds. That was maybe ten days before.
Now he stands up and nicks his cigarette into the fire. He puts the stub on the mantelpiece.
‘Be careful. Conn,’ Tam's mother says.
His father shrugs to her. John Garfield couldn't have done it better. Tam is impressed by that shrug, for the Burleys are a known family in the town, violent and fierce and sudden, offering the rule of force. Anyone who tries to take them to a law beyond their own is liable to appear in court with a bandaged head and an imperfect set of teeth with which to state his case. Tam's father goes to the front door. Tam and his mother wait tensely in the living-room. He watches her. Her eyes are scouting the room nervously. Perhaps she is looking for a suitable object, should things turn physical.
The living-room has been redefined for Tam. He sits in a cave of warmth and brightness. Beyond its entrance bad things can happen, dark creatures roam. His father guards that entrance. The sounds that come from there rumble and threaten. The voices of all three Burleys are deep and indistinct. They all seem to be making noises at the same time. His father's voice is light by comparison. His mother and Tam are statues. The exchange that is taking place out there is only sometimes meaningful.
‘No’ good enough' growls towards them.
‘Sold in good faith.’
‘Some kinna refund.’
‘Ye'd have tae take that out the brig.’
It's an expression Tam has heard his father use before. The brig, Tam realises with panic, is the bridge of the nose.
‘Ah don't have a copper tae spare.’
‘It's no’ gonny do.'
The grumbling continues, ebbing and flowing.
‘Look, boays. Decide what ye want tae dae. It's cauld oot here.’
The voices growl on but slowly, Tam realises with relief, the growling is receding. He hears the door being closed.
On the wireless, Valentine has completed his story aboutthe man in the funeral parlour, unaware that he has been broadcasting to Madame Tussaud's for the last few minutes. It seems the other man, who put the bet on with him, persuaded a friend to lie in one of the coffins. He had tapped on the glass three times when he heard the recording being made.
When the funeral parlour is opened in the morning, only one man survives from the two who were alive the night before. At first, they can't tell which it is, for he is transformed, lined with age and grey-haired and raving. Eventually, they understand that he is the man who bet he could stay in the place overnight. He had thought the man in the coffin was a ghost and had strangled him and had lived the rest of the night in dread that another ghost would come. Unusually, Tam hasn't been able to give in to the horror the man is supposed to have felt. He thought ghosts were frightening? Had he met the Burleys?
Tam's father comes back in and takes the butt of his cigarette off the mantelpiece. He sits down, finds a match and holds its head against the hot grate till it flares. He lights his cigarette and throws the match in the fire. He looks across at Tam's mother and, beginning to smoke, he winks.
THAT
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