Big and Clever (12 page)

After a couple of minutes the number 84 turns up. We crunch our way through the broken glass, pay the driver and head up the stairs to the top deck. It's a nice trip into town this afternoon. A proper autumn day. The sun is bright and low in the sky and it's lighting up the leaves on the trees, all yellows and oranges and reds. Zoe seems happy, one hand on my knee, snuggling into my shoulder. We don't do a lot of talking, but it feels OK.

It's about twenty to two when we pull into Letchford bus station. We get off the bus and wander up towards the town centre. Glancing into the newsagents on Church Lane, I see the Asian bloke who sold me the programme the other weekend. He's reading the back pages of The
Daily Sport
again.

I look at Zoe.

“Where do you fancy going then?” I ask. I've not been shopping with her for a while. Usually, she goes with her mates from Alderman Richard Martin. I'm not too sure where she likes to go these days.

“I thought we'd have a look around The Lanes,” she says.

I'm surprised.

“Letchford Lanes? Those funny little cobbled streets behind the Town Hall?”

She smiles.

“Yeah. Lots of lovely little boutiques, cafes, vintage clothing shops. Things like that. It's really nice.”

I nod, not convinced. Boutiques, cafes and vintage clothing shops aren't really my thing. The thing is, I didn't think they were Zoe's either.

“Thought you were more of an Ainsdale Centre sort of girl.”

She shrugs.

“A few of us from the
Oliver
cast came down on Wednesday, before evening rehearsals. I told them I'd never really had a proper look round The Lanes, so they took me into all the good shops, showed me where everything was.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Who was that then?”

Zoe takes a breath.

“Oh, just some people I know. Lucy. Melissa. Simon Matthews.”

I nod. Simon Matthews. That name again.

We head into the underpass to The Lanes. There was an article about the underpass in the
Argus
last week. The council has been trying to tidy it up, make it a bit less of a piss-smelling muggers' paradise.

They've steam-cleaned the chewing gum off the floor, moved all the tramps out and put up a tile mosaic on the wall. Two workmen in overalls, linking arms. Celebrating the town's rich industrial heritage. It looks like it was designed by a four year old. As we go past, I notice someone has drawn an enormous dick on one of the men and there's a huge pair of tits on the other. The place still smells of piss. We come back up the slope until we're at street level again. The Lanes zigzag off in different directions in front of us.

“Right then,” Zoe says. “Let's make a start.”

Three quarters of an hour later and I've lost count of how many shops we've been in and out of. I'm trying to put a brave face on things, but I've looked at enough hand-carved soapstone animals, ethnic-design rugs and dead men's overcoats to last me a lifetime. I'm sure my clothes are starting to smell of joss-sticks.

We're in the St Mary's Hospice charity shop now. Zoe's in the changing cubicle, trying on a T-shirt, and I'm looking through the blokes' stuff, trying to keep myself occupied. It's a pretty unimpressive selection. Sweat-stained white and lime green polo shirts. Donnay and Lotto stuff that's priced up for more in here than it would cost you brand new from Soccer World. The old woman behind the counter is listening to Saga FM. She's looking at me like she thinks I'm about to shove something up my jacket and do a runner. I give her a cheesy grin but she just scowls.

Zoe comes out from behind the curtain with her T-shirt on. It's grey and frayed around the edges, with a faded picture of Mickey Mouse on the front. By the look on her face, I can see that she's quite taken with it.

“What do you reckon?” she asks.

I shrug.

“It's OK.”

“I really like it,” she says.

I nod.

She rummages on the rack behind me.

“And I think you'd look great in this,” she says, smiling enthusiastically.

I look at what she's found. It's a grey and black cardigan. It's about thirty years old. There's a price tag on the left sleeve.
£7.99
. For a worn-out piece of knitwear.

I stifle a laugh.

“Do me a favour.” If Ryan or any of the other Letchford lads caught me wearing something like that, I'd get my head kicked in.

Zoe pushes the cardigan up against me, holding the sleeve along the length of my arm.

“I think you'd look great in it,” she says again. “It's a design classic. Timeless.”

I smile. I don't want to offend her, but there's no way I'm spending my money on a cardigan last worn by someone's grandad in the 1970's.

“No,” I tell her. “It's not for me.”

Zoe sighs and puts the cardigan back on the rack. Without saying anything else to me, she goes into the changing cubicle. A minute or so later she's out again. She pays for her T-shirt and we go back into the street.

I look at my watch. Five to three. Zoe still isn't saying anything. There's a bit of an atmosphere building now. I try to think of a way to brighten things up.

“What about going for something to eat?” I say.

She shrugs and checks her watch.

“Alright then. Have you got anywhere in mind?”

“Yeah. What about the Café Rialt in the Ainsdale Centre?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Café Rialt? That's that terrible greasy spoon upstairs near Argos isn't it?”

I nod, but already I know we're not going there.

“No,” she says. “I don't really want to go there. We can go to Mrs Brady's Tea Rooms. It's just round the corner. It's lovely in there. Really rustic. Old-fashioned. Simon took us in on Wednesday.”

“Good old Simon,” I say.

Mrs Brady's Tea Rooms might be rustic and old fashioned, but the prices aren't. Two cups of tea and two cream scones set me back the best part of a tenner. I pick up my tray and make my way across to where Zoe has already parked herself, at a rickety wooden table. There's a mirror on the wall behind her, and I sneak a crafty look at myself as I sit down.

Zoe's noticed what I've just done. She reaches across and runs her fingers over my hair.

“I still can't get used to this,” she says. “You look like a football hooligan. Or one of the Mitchell brothers off
EastEnders
. I'll have to start calling you Phil. You've got the right surname. All you need is a black leather jacket and you'll be ready to go down The Vic.”

I rub my nose. First Dad, now Zoe. It's Have A Go At Tom's Hair Day.

She carries on.

“You will let it grow back now though won't you? You don't really fit as an East End hard man. I'd love it if you had long hair. What d'you reckon?”

I take a slurp of my tea. It's like dishwater. I wish I'd got coffee.

“Maybe,” I say.

By the time we've finished in Mrs Brady's it's getting on for twenty to four. I was hoping that a sit-down and something to eat and drink would get the afternoon back on track. Now I'm in the doghouse because I keep checking for Letchford Town updates on my mobile.

Zoe piles our cups and plates back on the tray and stands up.

“It's not much fun being with you if all you're interested in is the football scores,” she says.

I have another look at my phone. It's still 0-0.

“Sorry.” I get up. “Where do you want to go now?” It's a final effort to save an afternoon that's dying on its arse.

“I suppose we might as well go to the Ainsdale Centre,” Zoe says, without much enthusiasm. “Not that there's anything to look at in there.”

We leave Mrs Brady's and head back down The Lanes. We go under the underpass, across Town Hall Square and through the precinct. For someone who wasn't particularly keen on the idea of going to the Ainsdale Centre, Zoe certainly wastes no time getting stuck into the shops.

By quarter to five we've been round Primark, Peacocks, Republic and New Look, and she's got herself two new belts, a pair of suede gloves and a canvas bag that looks a bit like a satchel. I had a look at a couple of things in JJB Sports and got myself a poppy from the old chap by the shoe repairers, but that's about it.

I'm standing outside the changing rooms in H&M now. Zoe's trying on a pair of jeans. I seem to have spent a fair amount of time standing outside changing rooms this afternoon. The good thing about that, of course, is that it gives me the chance to check the Letchford score on my mobile without being nagged.

Five minutes from time and it's 1-1. Tommy Sharp put us in front on 65 minutes, but we let Kidderminster equalise almost straight from the restart. It's looking like a replay back at Southlands.

Zoe's coming out of her changing booth, heading my way, jeans on.

“What do you think about these?” she asks.

I glance down at my phone.
Kid'ster 2 L'ford 1 Nicholson o.g. 87
.

“Bollocks,” I say.

She blinks.

“What?!”

I shake my head.

“Sorry,” I say. “It's the football. We've just gone behind. To Kidderminster Fucking Harriers.”

She tuts.

“The jeans,” she says. “What do you think?”

I look her up and down. They look identical to the ones she came into town wearing.

“They look OK,” I tell her.

She sighs and strides back down the corridor to her changing booth. By the time she comes back out again, it's full time at Kidderminster. Letchford have been knocked out of the FA Cup by a non-league team. It's not a good feeling. I think about texting Raks and Ryan, but I don't know what I could say.

I stand by the doors while Zoe pays for her jeans. When she's finished, we go out into the centre again, heading towards River Island. Up ahead, there's a group of lads standing outside Harris's Amusements, chewing gum and generally looking hostile. A couple of them are staring at me. Zoe grabs my hand and I can feel her trying to guide me across to the other side of the walkway. I'm not budging though. As we come level with the arcade, one of the lads lunges out towards me.

“Tom, you wanker,” he says.

I grin. It's Gary Simmons. Rob and Jerome are hovering in the background.

“Alright, Gary?” I say.

Gary shakes his head.

“Fucking Kidderminster cocksuckers,” he says. “And what about Dave Nicholson? Mackworth reject twat.”

“Yeah,” I say. “What a tosser. I'm off home now to put my head in the fucking oven.” I start to laugh.

Zoe pulls at my hand again. I glance across and see concern and confusion on her face. I feel really awkward. I've got a nasty feeling I'm going red.

“Er, Zoe,” I say. “This is Gary, my mate from Parkway and from the football. Gary, this is Zoe, my missus.”

Gary grunts and Zoe gives the sort of smile you might use if you were forced to sit bare-arsed on a pinecone at gunpoint. She's not impressed. There's a hard, staring look in her eyes now. The awkwardness isn't going away. It's getting worse. I'm embarrassed, but I can't quite work out what I'm embarrassed about. Is it because Zoe's seen the sort of people I hang about with? Or is it because Gary's caught me playing happy families? I don't know if it's Gary's opinion or Zoe's that's more important to me.

I try to bring things to a close quickly.

“Anyway Gary,” I say. “We'd better get off now. See you on Monday.”

Gary nods.

“Right. See you Tom. See you Zoe.”

Zoe just grimaces.

As Gary heads back towards Harris's, Zoe puffs out her cheeks.

“You know Tom,” she says, “I actually can't be bothered to look in River Island. Let's just go home, yeah?”

I shrug.

“If that's what you want to do.”

We walk back to the bus station in silence. We've still not said anything when the number 84 rolls into the bay at twenty past five. We pay our fares and climb the steps. I fiddle with my phone and pick at threads on the seat. Zoe just stares blankly through the window as the bus heads out of town. We didn't say much to each other on the way in, but that was different. That was a happy silence. This isn't.

Just as we're coming through Medstone, she starts up.

“I'm worried, Tom,” she says, turning to me. “Something's definitely happened to you in the last couple of weeks.”

I shrug.

“Like what?” I ask.

She takes a breath and launches into long list.

“This sudden preoccupation with Letchford Town. Your Phil Mitchell hair. Going around with dickheads like that Gary. I mean, where did this all come from? You surely can't have anything in common with him? And what about this Ryan Dawkins you're always on about? What's he like? I bet he's worse than Gary.”

I shrug again.

Zoe carries on. She's getting sarky now and cocking her head from side to side like a chicken does.

“But hey, maybe it's me that isn't up to speed with things. Perhaps I should just get with the program. Get used to being your
missus
. Start hanging around in the Ainsdale Centre. Polish up my swearing. What do you fucking think?”

I start to laugh. I don't mean to, but I can't help myself.

She's not amused. The sarcasm's gone now.

“It's not funny Tom. There really is something happening to you.”

I say nothing. I'm changing alright, but Zoe doesn't know the half of it.

She shakes her head.

“I'm worried,” she says again. “What's this hard edge that's come over you? You're so…, so unfeeling. Just what are you turning into?”

I look out into the darkness, at the orange streetlights swishing by.

“To be honest,” I say, “I don't really know.”

Ryan looks at Raks, then he looks at me.