Kate Tempest - The Bricks that Built the Houses

David catches her smile and pins it to his chest like a Year 6 swimming badge. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but after all that horse meat stuff, we thought better to buy locally, you know, off someone we can trust.’ His voice sounds like it’s being funnelled through a decaying log; there’s a phlegmy, damp quality to it. ‘And, it’s actually worked out cheaper this way’ — Pete shudders as David’s voice ascends the nasal cavity — ‘because we only buy what we need.’ Everybody nods.

Miriam places her knife and fork on the edge of her plate, looks wistfully towards the window, punctuating her sentence by floating her hands towards the ceiling. ‘It seems such a shame. I remember when you could go into a shop, and you knew the person who owned it, and you wanted whatever it was you wanted, and you knew it would be of a certain quality, you could trust that it was what you thought it was. Those days are gone now, when you could trust anything to be what it purported to be. It’s just plastic packets on shelves now. They could have anything inside.’

David reaches for her hand and strokes her knuckles.

Dale looks up from his plate, picks something out of his teeth with his knife. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss is for,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Horse is a delicacy, ain’t it? Some places? Two for the price of one, if you ask me.’ Miriam nods, smiles at Dale. ‘Paying for beef,’ he tells her, ‘and you end up with beef, and horse.’

She nods. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘Would anyone like another beer?’ Pete asks the table, getting up to go to the fridge.

‘There was no room in there,’ David pipes up. ‘They’re in a bucket outside the front door keeping cold.’ Pete looks wearily at David, and heads down the hall to the front door.

Miriam leans in and whispers urgently. ‘It’s his birthday next week.’ David leans in too, excited. ‘His sister’s organised a party. Dale, will you come? You must come? We’re going, and all the family. And friends too. But it’s a surprise though, so not a peep, OK?’

‘Sure, yeah, I’ll come,’ Dale says loudly. ‘I love a good party.’

‘Do either of you boys fancy watching a movie or something?’ David says. ‘We could see what’s on the telly, couldn’t we? Watch a bit of telly together?’

Pete can feel it in the room. Maybe Dale doesn’t have any mates, or maybe Miriam is worried about him not having any mates. Or whatever it is, he can feel it. Something urgent and hopeful and sticky in the air.

‘I tell you what,’ Pete says. ‘It’s getting late, and I’m sure you guys will be thinking about getting to bed soon. Why don’t I take Dale out for a pint on our way home and let you guys relax?’

Miriam’s eyes light up. ‘That’s a lovely idea, son.’

‘I’m up for that, Pete.’ Dale slaps his hands down on the table and pushes himself to standing. ‘Come on then, no strippers though, eh? Not on the first date!’ Chuckle chuckle all round. Happy families .

At the door, David shakes Pete’s hand and clasps him warmly by the shoulder. Is this a hug coming? Pete stands awkwardly receiving David’s affection. Can’t be. no, wait. Shit. It is . Standing there, in the nervous arms of David, Pete feels suddenly close to his father. As much as he can’t stand his old man, at least he doesn’t swaddle him in steaky embraces at the door.

They find a pub near the station. Neither of them have drunk in here before. They push through the doors and Dale nods at the barman. He wears long shorts with pockets in the side and a polo shirt with a sports club logo on it. He jokes with the regulars, the barmaid rolls her eyes. They busily own their space. Pete looks around, Live music! Tonight! Mitch! says the blackboard above the bar. To the left, in the corner of the room, a man in his late fifties, wearing a Jack Daniels T-shirt and black jeans, is playing electric guitar. He triggers a backing track from a tiny laptop taped to a music stand and plays to a bedroom recording of drums, bass and his own voice doing backing vocals. He’s playing a medley of Beach Boys songs. Two old men stand in the corner watching him, singing along under their breath. A younger man, long-haired and leather-jacketed, is swaying out of time at the bar. Beside him his two mates, in brightly coloured shirts and short-back-and-sides haircuts, tell each other stories they’ve already heard. Four middle-aged women sit on high bar stools tapping their feet, clapping on the one. Their hair is perfectly cloudlike and their earrings are sparkling. At a table by the back door that leads out to a smoking yard, a group of younger women in pretty tops and tight jeans gossip and drink red wine.

Mitch finishes the medley and speaks into the mic. ‘Well, that was some songs about surfing, and if the lovely lady at the bar wants to surf some beer up this way that would be much appreciated!’ He grins into feedback and silence. ‘Let’s get some more surf action from the bar, shall we, ladies and gents?’ he says enthusiastically.

The peril of a microphone . Pete is fascinated. Why does it make people say such strange things? Mitch is ignored by the punters and the barmaid looks at him, confused.

‘Are you asking for a beer, Mitch?’ she says.

‘Oh, that look she’s giving me!’ says Mitch, speaking to the room, although the room’s ignoring him. ‘I get that look at home.’

He is desperate for applause, laughter, justification. He has been singing these same songs in these same pubs for thirty long years. The silence is not enough to deter him. He pulls his trousers up over his belly, smooths his hair down on both sides and enters into a psychedelic, vaguely tango version of ‘Black Magic Woman’. On the wall behind him is a close-up picture of a frowning gorilla with the caption SOD OFF . On the other wall is a picture of a sentence written in broken nails. WHEN ALL YOU’VE GOT IS A HAMMER, EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE NAILS .

The barmaid has a kind face, massive dangly earrings and a piercing in her lip. She’s wearing jogging bottoms and a short vest that stops before her belly button. She has tattoos across the inside of her arms and a word in Celtic script on either hip.

Mitch finishes his song. No one claps. Suddenly everyone’s conversations are too loud and everyone stops talking.

‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen!’ A couple of the older people clap politely.

Dale and Pete sit opposite each other with pints of lager and double whiskies, and begin the challenge of keeping a conversation going. They start with the usual preliminaries — football, Dale’s work, weather. Work in general. Football. Pete’s lack of work.

‘Oh yeah,’ Dale agrees with him. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, mate — it’s a fucking trap is what it is. Get on the dole to keep you going, but then you can’t afford to get off it. You take a job, part-time or whatever — you’re worse off than you are getting your JSA.’ Dale speaks loudly, fast.

‘Tell me about it.’ Pete stares into his pint. Shaking his head. ‘It’s fucking outrageous.’

‘They just want to keep everybody down.’ Dale knocks his whisky back, maintaining eye contact. He doesn’t flinch as he swallows it. Slams the glass down. ‘That’s the thing. Better for the government, innit, if we’re all skint and miserable and feeling like we can’t even get a day’s work. If we can’t feel good about the work of our own fucking hands, how we gonna rise up, make trouble?’

‘True. When you put it like that.’ Pete has his elbows on the table, leaning over them, head down.

‘You heard about the toothpaste?’ Dale asks him, sitting upright, square in his chair.