Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (2 page)

'All right then?' asked Tom.

He was sixteen, but bigger than me. Tom, then Joe, touched my shoulder before moving aside. Joe was small. He had thick glasses and lots of spots. He looked like a geek, but wasn't that clever.

'See you later,' mumbled Joe. 'Beach football. Same place.'

'See you,' I said with a grin; then hid it. The vicar was nearby. The vicar came up, glanced at my friends with a false smile and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. About six foot tall with a black and white silk gown, he was hot and needed a shower badly.

'I know you aren't religious, but feel free to visit me any time,' he said, clasping my hand with a sweaty grip. 'Come to Church. It will comfort you.'

He continued to hold my hand limply as I slowly tried to withdraw.

Reverend Cook peered through his smudgy glasses. He knew what I was thinking.

'I can see you want to be alone. We'll keep the urn for you. When you're ready.'

Relief. I was on my own again. That's where I wanted to be. I watched them chat to each other in small groups, some glancing at me. At last they made their way to the car park. I was about to wander through the rose beds again, when someone tapped me on my shoulder. It was Mrs Derby. Her eyes were red from crying; her mascara smudging her plump, pretty face. She hugged me and I could smell the plain soap on her pale white skin. For the first time I felt myself choke.

*   *   *

Our flat was crowded with so-called mourners and other hangers-on. Some wake! I was supposed to be the host, but hardly anyone spoke to me. They stood around or leaned on chairs and the table, drinking and snatching crisps and nuts. Some asked me about myself. Most of it was a load of rubbish about school. GCSE exams, what AS levels I would take, football and cricket. They finished their drinks and left after shaking my hand and wishing me good luck. A few remained, but the bitter, lager and coke were almost finished and the wine bottles were empty. Hopefully they would soon be gone. I stroked Jazz and he rubbed against my leg and licked my hand. Other than Mrs Derby and I, the wheaten terrier with his soft, wheat coloured coat, seemed to be the only one who really cared about Dad.

I grabbed a bottle, snatched a few peanuts and walked to the window. Summertime. Hundreds of people down there - a long column from the Captain's Table at the edge of the harbour to the pier below our flat. The tide was out and from where I was looking, the boats seemed to be stuck in the mud. Directly down below, Dave was doing an active trade in spades, buckets and sandals.

If Dad were still alive, we would be having a great day in our fish and chip shop. Taking orders, frying, wrapping and ringing the till. He always said that Bridlington had a future. If only the Council would develop the town. If only it didn't rain so much.

I looked back at the guests in our small two-bedroom flat. Mike, Sheila and Sharon stood next to my other cousin, Alan. They were Martin and Peggy's kids; Mike and Sheila were at University and Sharon worked at Tesco. Alan, sprawled on the sofa, was dozing. His long legs dangled on to the floor, a glass of lager and a sandwich plate next to them. Jazz sped to the half-eaten sandwich and gobbled it up. We watched him sniff the lager and sample a bit. Froth was on his nose. Mike clapped his hands and Alan woke up, startled. He bent down and sipped his lager. We burst out laughing.

That was more like it. The wake was livening up. I put on some CDs of Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald, some of the old-time favourites of Bill, my Dad. He was so mad on jazz that he named our dog after it. The five of us began dancing. Jazz lived up to his name. He jumped up and joined in, allowing each of us to hold his paws.

I was hot and sweaty and needed to change, so I slipped out of the living room. Bursting, I ran to the loo and afterwards washed my hands and face. Looking at the mirror, I noticed a spot on the side of my nose and picked at it. I was still quite skinny with short brown hair, light blue eyes and a small nose and mouth. My front teeth overlapped.

I made my way towards my bedroom. Uncle Martin, Dad's brother, was speaking.

'Look we hooven't seen 'em for yonks,' he said in his thick Yorkshire accent. 'Hardly know laad. I'm skint. Really. Wish we 'ad room for 'im.'

'One of us must take him in, we have to,' whispered Martin's wife Peggy. 'Bill went bust before he died. Left him with nowt.'

'Not us, wish we could,' said a voice that sounded like Uncle John from Mum's side. 'We're also short . . . It weren't easy to chip in for this lot.'

'Nice people! Paid a few quid for their party!' I whispered to myself, deciding whether I should walk in.

'Look, 'e's just turned sixteen, 'e'll find soomething . . . maybe fish and chips,' said Martin.

I slipped quietly into the room and they turned to face me, smiles sheepish. Martin was sitting on my chair sipping his half pint of bitter, his black striped suit jacket, behind him. A button was missing on his white shirt. Through it I could see his fat hairy belly.

'We're wondering where you should live,' said Peggy, puffing away.

She looked dazed from the heat and booze and threatened me with a hug. I carefully avoided her. John, with his bad skin, mean face and skinny arms and hands, managed to catch my arm and ruffled my head. My Mum's brother! Very different. Him ugly, her pretty. I wondered if we were related.

I pushed him away and stared at them, not bothering to answer. The room was full of smoke. I went straight to the window, opened it a lot wider, leaned over and watched Dave down below. They waited and shuffled about embarrassed. Martin said stupid things such as 'Bill was a reight good sooart' and 'pity mother no loonger with you'. I ignored them. Jazz trotted in and came straight up to me. I patted him, saw his lead on the table and put it on. I just stood there, saying nothing; not bothering to look at them. It seemed forever, but at last they took the hint and began to leave the room. Peggy, about to leave and looking guilty, pressed twenty pounds into my hand. Then she kissed me on the cheek and went. I just stood there. Didn't thank her.

At last I could get out of my hot tight trousers. I threw them on to the suit jacket that was lying on the bed, took off my shirt and put on some shorts and a T-shirt. I felt a lot cooler and was about to put on my trainers when Mrs Derby walked in. She handed me an envelope.

'Bill gave it to me a fortnight before he died,' she said.

About fifty, and plump with curly brown hair, Gill Derby had a kind face and a soft voice. She lived upstairs and was our landlady. Gill started crying again and hugged me. Good old Gill. She really loved Dad. I wondered if they had anything going.

'Look I know Bill was behind. Don't worry,' Gill insisted.

'Stay here until I find another tenant. If the worst comes to the worst, you can move in with me.'

Jazz started barking. Like me he wanted to get out of the place. Mrs Derby provided the cover and we managed to escape. I waved just in case some of the others were looking. We ran down the stairs on to the harbour pier, forcing our way through the crowd. We reached the boats at the far end of the harbour and looked back at all the shops and stalls. "Our Plaice" fish and chip shop was boarded up. Next door, Dave was swamped with customers.

*   *   *

It was hot, steaming hot. Hundreds of people were pushing their way down a long wide harbour gangway towards the beach. The past few summers had been wet. That was one of the main reasons why "Our Plaice" and Dad went down. It was a hot July; few clouds, burning sun. Beaches were full.

Reaching the beach at last, I kicked off my trainers, threw down my shirt and took off Jazz's lead. He sprinted ahead of me and I followed. The tide was right out. I felt my feet sink into the wet sand and the shells and mussels crunching under me. We raced across shallows towards the sea, until the water was up to my knees. Then I dived in, Jazz swimming alongside me. The water was cold, numbing cold, despite the heat from the sun. It was the North Sea current that came from Scandinavia, all the way down to the eastern English coast. There were hardly any waves; just the freezing swell. We headed back to the beach, running zigzag alongside the shallow water for about half a mile. Close to the shore and on fairly dry land, Tom, Joe and two other guys were playing football on our beach pitch. Tom kicked towards the opponents' goal but the wind carried the ball away from the pitch and it landed near me. I dribbled on to the pitch, dodged a couple of opponents and took a shot at goal. The ball was light and as I slammed it and misjudged the weight, the breeze from the sea lifted it way past the goal.

Jazz chased after it, but unlike other dogs, used his brain and didn't puncture it. A couple walking past, were amazed. The dog could dribble with his nose and feet. We played for about a quarter of an hour. My side, even with Jazz's skill, was down a goal.

Sue, Jodie, and a girl we hadn't seen before, showed up and watched the game. We stopped concentrating and missed lots of goals as we sneaked glances at the new girl. She was really pretty, with a great tan and long straight, shiny brown hair.

The game was getting so bad, we decided to stop playing and have a dip. It gave us the opportunity to meet her. She was Sandy Swann and was from Australia. We hardly spoke to the other two. Sue, with black frizzy hair, was fun, but a bit silly. Jodie had nice blonde highlights but her teeth stuck out a bit. Sandy's tiny bikini barely covered her breasts. She noticed us make a rush for her and smiled. She was used to guys chasing her.

Sue and Jodie didn't have swimming costumes, so Sandy had five of us all to herself. We charged into the sea and dived into the shallow waves.

'What you doing in Yorkshire?' I asked.

'Visiting my cousin Sue. We're going to London.'

'When do you go back home?'

'Got another two weeks. Then school.'

'Where?'

'Perth.'

'Western Australia?'

She touched my shoulder by mistake and I felt a tingle. She smiled and swam ahead. 'Think she fancies you?' asked Tom.

'Dunno.'

'Come out with us tonight,' said Joe. 'It'll stop you thinking about your Dad.'

'Some relatives are still at the flat,' I said. 'I better go.'

'They've probably left. Let's go deeper,' Tom said.

We swam out towards Sandy. She was hanging on to a red and white buoy. The water was much colder there. Sue and Jodie, paddling in the shallows, were a long way back.

'What do you do around here?' shouted Sandy.

'The usual stuff. Movies, fairs, snooker, clubs,' replied Tom.

'What your clubs like?'

'Much the same as others.'

'There's a comedy show tonight,' said Joe. 'In Whittington's basement.'

'I'm not so sure I feel like it,' I said.

'What's his problem?' asked Sandy.

'His Dad died two days ago. The funeral was today.'

She looked embarrassed.

'Sorry, I'm really sorry.'

'Come on, it will do you good. No point in sitting alone at home,' said Tom.

*   *   *

I took Aunty Peggy's twenty pounds out of my pocket and used some of it to buy tokens. There were six of us at the fair and we went on the Whip, the Big Wheel and the Helter Skelter. Afterwards, we walked to the Whittington Pub. The basement was full, but we managed to squeeze around a table near the front of the stage. John Dimes, the comedian, was trying to be heard above the noise. He was only five foot tall and could easily have been a circus clown. He suddenly went silent and eyed the audience with sad eyes. The tactic worked and the chattering died down. He told jokes; some good, some bad. The audience was so drunk that they laughed at everything. Some jokes were about death. St Peter's Gate, that sort of thing. Tom and Sandy kept looking across at me to see how I was taking it. I wasn't bothered. The comedian now had the audience's full attention. Except for an occasional clatter of glasses and some giggles, they listened to his story routine. He winked at Sandy, tried to pull her on to the stage to help him juggle some balls, but she managed to get away from him.

Sandy touched my hand: 'Want to go for a walk?'

We squeezed through the gaps between the tables and made our way to the promenade. She grabbed my hand and guided me towards some stairs down to the beach.

'How coom, you doon't taalk with Yorkshire aaccent,' she asked, nudging me.

'Because, me moom woos teeecher; taught bairn elecootion,' I laughed.

We took off our shoes and walked in the thick sand. The tide was in and we felt the spray of the breaking waves. It was almost 10pm and the sun had set only minutes before. The sand was cool and through the dusk I could see her dark eyes, longish nose and full lips. She edged closer to me.

'I heard that your Mum also died.'

'Yes, when I was eleven.'

'What did she teach?'

'English and maths.'

'Can't imagine what I would do if I lost my Mum and Dad.'

'You get used to it.'

'Who are you going to live with?'

'Not relatives. They're measuring straws. Short one gets me.'

We laughed and held hands.

'Can't stand mine either. When's your birthday?'

'Turned sixteen, on June 1.'

'I'm sixteen in July. Gemini and Cancer. Do you think we're suited?'

I felt myself blush.

We sat down at the bottom of a sandy mound, well away from the water. No one was around. I put my arm around her. She snuggled up close. I looked down at her and she stared up into my eyes and touched my forehead. I kissed her cheek, then clumsily tried to find her lips. There was a grain of sand there as we began to kiss. It hurt me a bit, probably her too. I tried to slip my hand under her sweater. She pushed me away.

Darkness was beginning to close in. Through the gloom, I could just make out the froth from the waves. She kissed my cheek, grabbed my hand, pulled me up and dragged me towards the promenade.

'Amazing. It's just got dark and it is almost the middle of the night,' she said.

'Come here in winter. Pitch black at four,' I whispered into her ear.