Claire Moss - Who Do You Think You Are?

Tash frowned. ‘How good a reason can it have been? He was single, he had no kids, no mortgage, no rent even.’

‘He paid the rent,’ I protested. ‘He chipped in: him, Mum and Leanne, they all shared it. Me and Lisa were still at school. Anyway, what is this? I thought I was meant to be the journalist here. I’m used to being the one asking the uncomfortable questions.’ I tried a laugh and so did she but I think we both knew our hearts weren’t in it.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be awkward. And yes, I didn’t know your brother at all. I just meant, you know, he didn’t have a family to support, he didn’t have many overheads. Some people, I suppose, you could just about understand them going back, but – ’ She became aware of the look on my face and she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Look, Ed, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that your brother was, I don’t know, taking the easy way out, I just – ’

‘What did you mean,’ I said coldly, ‘when you said you could “just about” understand some people going back.’

She leaned back in her chair, away from me. Suddenly the quiet of the restaurant became oppressive and I wondered if the other diners were listening to our conversation. ‘Well,’ she said steadily, as though consciously regulating her tone, ‘I guess I meant that some things are wrong, and we all know they’re wrong, but people sometimes do them anyway, and sometimes there are understandable reasons for that.’

‘So you’re comparing going to work to feed your family with something like robbing a bank, is that what you’re saying?’

She winced. ‘No, no, that isn’t what I’m saying, not at all. I just meant that – I don’t know what I meant.’ She fell silent a moment, swirling the black-red wine around her glass. Then, as I was about to speak, she said, ‘No, what I meant was, that they did a lot of harm, the people who went back, they undermined what everyone else was fighting for. And I think that, unless you had a good reason for it, then it’s pretty hard to justify.’

‘To justify? Justify to whom? To you? You and your middle-class, idealistic family? To Scargill and his gang of nutters? Look, my brother went out on strike for that whole year, and I saw firsthand how hard it was. No money, no prospect of another job, no future. But there were others on our estate and round the village, families where someone had gone back – they had to, they had kids, they had lives. They had to. And it was just as hard for them – other people in the village made sure it was. It was a whole generation ago and there’s people who still won’t speak to them, who spit on the pavement when they go past. I don’t know how you can say it was the easy option.’ I was aware that my voice was significantly louder than when I had started speaking. I wanted to make some conciliatory gesture, to show that I wasn’t angry really, that this was just a theoretical debate, that I’d still very much like to go home with her tonight, please, if she wouldn’t mind. But the trouble was, I was angry, and I know it must have shown in my face.

Tash shook her head, trying to be the conciliatory one. ‘Look,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this any more. It’s like you said, it was a long time ago, but it’s still a topic probably best avoided in polite company. Why don’t you tell me more about Dubai? It’s somewhere I’ve never been.’

So I did. I told her about the footballers and champagne bars and mile-high, half-finished buildings, built by men from Bangladesh who slept twelve to a room and couldn’t afford proper shoes. I told her about shops full of gold, and sports cars being sold for half their true value because their owners had gone bankrupt and were having to go back to the UK, cap-in-hand. But the spell, if it had existed, was broken. She laughed at my jokes, and asked intelligent questions, and she acted for the rest of the evening as though our disagreement had not happened, but I think we both had a slightly sour taste in our mouths when we left the restaurant.

I offered to walk her home, still holding out a faint hope, but she dismissed the offer as though I hadn’t really meant it, and walked off in the opposite direction to me, with a wave over her shoulder and a ‘See you later’.

My mood was not improved by the walk into town past drunken schoolchildren and stinking kebab shops, nor by the half-hour wait for the bus back to Leanne’s. When I got in, Lisa was there, drinking tea and watching TV.

‘Where’s Leanne?’ I asked.

‘Outside,’ Lisa said, with a jerk of her head. ‘Having a fag.’

I really wanted to go up to bed and be alone, but I don’t get to see Lisa very often – largely because I make little effort to do so – and I felt as if I ought to at least pass the time of day with her now, so I sat down. It’s not that Lisa and I don’t get on but I’m just not close with her, not like I am with Leanne. Lisa and I are similar: slim, quiet, self-contained, sandy-haired and fair-skinned. We take after our dad. Leanne and Pete are short, dark and dominate every room and every conversation, whether they intend to or not, the same as Mum used to. Lisa and I tend to rely on Leanne to bring out the more relaxed, life-loving side of ourselves. When it’s just the two of us, the conversation is usually either awkwardly stilted, or it’s non-existent.

‘So, Leanne says you’re still going on about our Pete.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not “going on about” him. I’m doing some research. I’m trying to find him.’ Her tone hadn’t been overtly hostile, not like Leanne’s the other day, but I could tell she too was unconvinced that my whole project was a good idea.

‘I know,’ she said, looking me in the eye – something, I realised, she rarely did. ‘But why? What do you think you’re going to find out that nobody else has found out these last twenty year?’

I was silent a moment. ‘That’s what Leanne said, too. But I just want to try, you know?’

‘What, a last ditch effort?’

I shrugged. ‘Something like that.’ I rubbed my hands down my face, searching for a way to explain why I was doing what I was doing. ‘I mean, twenty years is a long time. People will have forgotten about it or at least stopped thinking about it as much. If I can do something to stir it up a bit, even if that just means writing a little piece for the Donny Free Press then it might help us find him. Don’t you think?’

‘Who, though? Whose memory are you trying to jog? Everyone who ever met him?’

‘Well, yeah. Why not? I mean even you and Leanne, I know you both still think about him all the time, same as I do, but people bury things, put them away, choose not to look at them. We all do it. And, you know, by us talking about it, even just this here, tonight, maybe that’ll make one of us think twice about something that happened back then, maybe some pieces will fall into place that never have before.’

Lisa was still looking me in the eye, and the coolness of her stare unnerved me. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad, or simply uninterested. ‘Maybe,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

Leanne came into the room through the back kitchen, trailing chilly evening air and stale cigarette smoke. ‘Good night?’ she asked me, barely suppressing a wink.

Lisa grinned, the coolness of our conversation instantly thawed by Leanne’s presence, both of them sensing yet another opportunity to gang up on me. ‘Yeah, hot date wasn’t it?’

I pursed my lips. I wasn’t ready for this. ‘No, we’re just – ’

‘What?’ Leanne interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me the sexy librarian was too buttoned up to put out, even after three dates. You’re losing your touch, bro.’