Nicola Barker - Behindlings

Wesley’s hand returned — under the blanket now — to Jo’s foot, and stroked it, unthinkingly, ‘Out of every fifty mugs or plates he sticks into that kiln, he gets — at best — fifteen back. And they are fucked, let me tell you. Crazy-looking things. All the glaze cracked. All the purity gone. Takes literally days to clean them. And Trevor rages against it. He rages. But that’s… What he doesn’t quite understand yet is how that’s just as it should be, because it’s all about… the whole process is all about… not finish or perfection, but turbulence… ’

‘Does he make a living at it?’

Wesley frowned at this question, then shrugged, as if he couldn’t be bothered trying to understand it, ‘The pieces that survive — and this is the whole point, really, the way I see it — the things that somehow survive this chaos are absolutely… they’re dazzling…’

That smile again

‘They’re without compare. They’re magical. Like old soldiers marching on VE day, proudly carrying their medals and their scars of battle.’

Josephine nodded.

‘To have a thing,’ Wesley explained, his cigarette stub burning down to nothing, ‘that isn’t so much an entity in the present sense — I mean entirely functional or anything — so much as an object with its whole history, its whole journey, physically embedded… ’

‘And is Trevor happy?’

Jo immediately regretted this question. It seemed so… so…

Prissy

Wesley shrugged (not appearing, on the surface, to object). ‘He’s perfectly viable.’

Viable?

Josephine pondered this concept for a while. This word.

‘For Trevor,’ Wesley didn’t notice her marginal retreat, ‘for him it’s just a different kind of gambling. It’s another channel. It’s very physical.’

Wesley stubbed out his cigarette and squinted through the windscreen. ‘Looks like… bollocks, ’ he shrank down in his seat, ‘it’s the Old Man. I recognise the glow of his torch. Cover me over with the blanket. He shouldn’t see me here.’

Wesley pushed himself down onto the floor, using the segment of the blanket he already had to cover himself as best he could. Jo stared at him confusedly, then at herself — his distinctive jacket wrapped so tightly around her — then out through the windscreen.

In the distance she saw a flashlight wavering. She pulled the blanket off her legs and covered him more thoroughly, then took off the jacket, the jumper, wound down her window and peeked out, cautiously.

The cold teared her eyes up. She blinked. She focussed again.

It was Doc. He was walking unsteadily (either his feet were still a mess or he was slightly tipsy). As he drew even closer, she wound the window down further — but not too far — so that her whole face was now visible, and the top of her shoulder. She hoped the dark (and the condensation) would protect the car’s interior.

‘I had a gut feeling this was yours when we drove past it earlier,’ Doc shouted at her, kicking the tyre tread, ‘can’t you get the bugger started?’

Jo shook her head.

‘Did you try the points? They’re always the first thing to play up with a Mini.’

Jo nodded, ‘I did try them. But I think it might be the carburettor. It’s squealing. It went once before.’

‘Not with the AA, eh?’

She shook her head. Doc clucked to himself, ‘Hooch couldn’t possibly survive without it. Calls them at the drop of a hat. Got banned by the RAC for taking the piss. He’s useless with technical stuff.’

He peered over her shoulder and into the car. She straightened up a little to impede his view.

‘Shoes said he saw you a few hours back in the Lobster Smack,’ Doc continued benignly. ‘You should’ve come through to the bar. We were all in there, getting royally pissed up.’

Jo nodded again. ‘I should’ve,’ she said, ‘but I was very…’ she paused, embarrassed.

‘I brought you a bit of stuff over, anyway,’ Doc tactfully interrupted her, ‘a spare sleeping bag, a flask, a few sandwiches we had left. It’s a filthy night to be sleeping out if you’re not…’

‘That’s very kind…’ Jo smiled at him (he shrugged, as if momentarily resenting his own amiability) then she wound the window down further and pushed out her hands, ‘I’m actually in my…’

She glanced modestly towards her chest, ‘so it’s a little…’

Doc stepped back, circumspectly –

Pissed, he was

For certain

— then leaned forward, trepidatiously, from his new position (careful not to encroach even a half-inch further) and handed her each item, individually. The bag was a stretch, but she managed to pull it through, with a tug.

‘That’s Hooch’s. He’ll definitely be wanting it back first thing,’ Doc warned her, ‘it’s a good one.’

‘Of course,’ Jo nodded, ‘I’m very grateful to you, Doc.’

Used the name

Doc shrugged, ‘I only hope Shoes didn’t scare you off earlier. He said he saw you in the bathroom. He likes to use the Ladies when he’s had a few. Means no harm by it.’

Jo smiled, said nothing.

‘He went out and collected you some dock leaves. For the cuts. Wes always uses dock. He swears by it. And he wanted me to give you this; to pass the hours, he said.’

Doc offered her some large, glossy green leaves, and under these, a book –

Utah Blaine

Jo took them both, her heart almost missing a beat, immediately slipping the book — surreptitiously — down the side of her seat, ‘Well thank him from me, Doc.’

Doc nodded, ‘Better close that window before you lose all your heat.’

‘Thanks.’

Jo started winding. Doc turned away, paused –

Just please don’t ask…

— then spun back around to face her again.

‘So your police friend didn’t say anything important? Didn’t shed any interesting light on what was happening earlier?’

Jo froze. ‘ Uh… ’ She stopped winding and peeked evasively through the remaining gap. ‘No. Sorry. No. It was all slightly…’ she grimaced. He put his head to one side, as if he couldn’t quite hear her.

She removed her eyes from the gap and replaced them with her lips, ‘It was all just a little bit complicated. ’ She ducked down, reconnecting her eyes with the gap to gauge his reaction.

Doc was shrugging, off-handedly.

‘Let’s catch up in the morning,’ he said, still not moving, but standing and watching her, calmly, as she placed her lips to the gap again, whispered,

‘Thanks, Doc, goodnight then…’ and gladly recommenced her last few inches of winding.

But he stayed.

He remained in place until that keen, water-drenched pane of glass firmly hit its snug rubber lining; still as an old egret in a fertile rice paddy; rigid as a doubting nun at her thrice-nightly prayers; quiet as a dishonest clerk creeping around after hours; firm as Gibraltar — and just as imperturbable — he held and he held and he kept on holding.

They sat in a kind of anti-communion around the table; Katherine and Dewi at either end (making no physical or visual contact whatsoever), Ted and Arthur on opposite sides (their feet and shins occasionally knocking together). Nobody spoke a word. The atmosphere (although by no means every individual contributing to it) was sober.

Four places were set — Dewi had taken Wesley’s; knew damn well he had; didn’t care — but there was no sign, as yet, of the guest of honour. Dinner was burned. It sat congealing in the oven.

Ted politely stifled a yawn and shifted his foot (knocked Arthur’s boot, quickly shifted it back). He nodded a shy apology.