Fiona Mozley - Elmet

Daddy said that we should seek out his few friends in the village. There were a handful of people that he had helped in recent months and though Daddy was reticent in his favours, there were perhaps a couple he felt he could confide in. His friend Peter had less affection for Mr Price than we did and we resolved to pay him a visit.

We went the next evening. The morning we spent together on the rough, wet grass outside our wooden house. After an early start Daddy carried the kitchen table and chairs outside and set it up with a chequered cloth. I got the eggs and bacon on. Cathy brewed the tea and we took it all outside to eat in the cold bright sun. The bacon was from the butcher, Andrew, who was also one of Daddy’s few friends. It was well salted and he had cut it thickly but I made sure the rind was crisp before I lifted it from the skillet. The eggs fried quickly in the bacon fat and took on salt from the meat so their bottoms formed caramel crusts while the yolks remained golden. I warmed the plates first in the oven before serving up and afterwards finished them with a slice of fresh bread.

Eating a full breakfast outside with my Daddy and sister was always a joy but this morning more than ever. There were troubles, we knew. Our home was in danger. But right now, with a bright white sun shedding its light onto my pale, thin arms, and thick crispy bacon held between two slices of soft, warm bread, I could not have been happier.

A clutch of gulls cut through the eggshell sky, their bellies caught in dark shadow.

Breakfast and its lazy aftermath took most of the morning and the afternoon was spent in the copse or round about. We set and checked traps and Cathy and I called Daddy to make the kill if there was a catch. Otherwise we saw to the hens or cultivated the kitchen garden as it was needed.

Daddy contacted Peter in advance from a pay phone in the village. We walked down together as dusk fell and Cathy and I huddled outside while Daddy went into the box with a stack of ten pence pieces. The spot stank of piss.

It had been an old, red phone box but the paint was chipping and now it was little more than a rusted metal shell. The glass in its panes was cracked but not yet smashed. Daddy picked up the receiver and I heard an amplified crunch and its echo then a clear dial tone.

Cathy pulled out her smoking equipment and started to roll up. The ground was already strewn with cigarette butts of various ages like little brown slugs slithering in different directions through the ash-stained mud. She rolled a cigarette for me too and lit it with a match from a box in her top jacket pocket before turning the match to the end of the roll-up she was holding between her lips. I inhaled as deeply as was comfortable and blew my smoke in the direction of my sister and up into the night air.

Daddy’s voice sounded muffled from within the box. He spoke to Peter briefly and gave him a few details. When the conversation finished he pushed open the door, took the cigarette from my mouth, took a drag and replaced it.

‘Let’s go.’

It was half a mile walk but we hardly spoke along the way. The main street through the village was lit with amber streetlights. Security bulbs flashed on from the houses by the road as we passed. They darkened again almost as quickly. Some of the houses had televisions playing that could be seen flickering behind the closed curtains. We passed a house where a man and woman were shouting at each other and a baby was crying. Daddy slowed as we passed that house and listened hard but then walked on with us and the shouting and crying faded to nothing.

Peter’s house was on the outskirts of the village and had a long back garden that stretched way out amongst the fields. The house itself was not much bigger than ours. 1970s build. Pebble dash. The inside was sparsely decorated. A TV stand but no TV. CDs but no hi-fi. That sort of thing.

His bed had been moved into the back room so he no longer had to climb the stairs. The double doors through to there were partly open and revealed a jumble of sheets and pillows and a couple of green beer bottles and a box of tissues on the bedside table.

‘So Price wants you to work for him?’ said Peter as soon as Daddy, Cathy and I had sat down. ‘He’ll be getting you to kick me out of here, next.’

‘You’re his tenant?’ asked Daddy.

‘I am,’ said Peter. ‘At least I have been so far only I can’t afford the rent any more. He wants me out, faster than even law would get me out. I bet he’ll want you to do it. Break you in by getting you to shift a friend from his home. He’ll know you helped me that time. That time you saw to Coxswain in that car park.’

That evening we drank the best part of two bottles of whisky. Daddy said the day merited something hard and sent Cathy out with a well-used fifty pound note to get the best spirit stocked by the village shop. Daddy and Peter drank the lion’s share between them. They poured approximate double measures into their glasses then returned for more.

Cathy and I drank more slowly and mixed our whisky with drops of water. She smoked and I had a few too. We stayed in the men’s conversation for the most part but dipped out now and then.

‘Most people round here rent their houses from Mr Price,’ said Peter. ‘And if they don’t rent from Mr Price, their landlord is a friend of his. All the landlords round here go drinking and shooting up at manor. They all have dealings, as they say. They’ll have money invested together. Bubbling around in the same pot.’

‘Where’s pot?’

‘I don’t know, John. Don’t ask me. I don’t even have a bank account any more and when I did it’s not like I had cause to care much for interest rates and investments. But they all have fingers in the same pies. All landlords round here. All led by Price. They’ve all got investments in same businesses and give each other tips. Trading tips. Farming tips. Landlording tips. That sort of thing, I don’t know. But Price is top dog. Always that. So if he takes against someone, they’re out. And it means that — one way or another — Price owns county.’

‘A lot of his business is legal then?’

‘Most of it. Ninety per cent of what he does is above board. It’s just you see other ten per cent because that’s world you’re in, John.’ Peter let out a half-laugh. ‘Why? You thinking of following some kind of paper trail? Uncovering evidence? Going to police?’

Daddy looked at his huge, knotted hands. ‘No. No, you know I could never do owt like that.’ He almost blushed. ‘And you know I could never involve police, neither. As you say, what’s ten per cent of Price’s world is all of mine, as well you know. Nothing I have is based in any law.’ He looked over at Cathy and me, watching him gently. ‘Not land. Not cash under my bed. Not my profession. Not even them.’ He nodded at us. ‘Not even my children. I don’t know if any law or piece of paper could connect them to me. But they’re mine through and through, that’s plain to see.’ He looked back towards Peter and drained his glass. ‘And I woundt involve police anyway. They belong to Price around here too. Big ones anyway. Police chiefs and councillors that I’ve seen driving up to manor.’

Peter refilled Daddy’s glass and continued to speak. ‘I know of two families he’s put out on their arses in last year because they coundt meet rent increase. But don’t take my word for it. You’ll need to speak to others if you want to know more. Ewart Royce and his wife, Martha. Ewart’s the cleverest man for miles around and he still cares about area. He were a union man, back when the pit were still open. And he were a decent one. He’s well connected among the people who aren’t connected to Price. Ex-miners, sons of ex-miners, tenants, labourers and unemployed. He knows about the law too, though I know you don’t want that. But he’s part of your world too. He likes a bet. He likes a horse-race. He likes to watch a good fight and he trades with travellers and gypsies as well as working men. You want to know how to keep your house? You should talk to Ewart Royce.’