Page 19 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
There is so much that he’s not saying. I think perhaps there is a wife or girlfriend, or there was. But I won’t ask, not now. Not when he’s picked his words so carefully to avoid disclosure.
‘We’re in the same line of work,’ I say instead.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. I run a pub.’
‘Tell me about it.’
What is there to tell about the Pheasant? I tell him it’s in town, that I live above it which is a blessing when you wake up on a frosty winter morning and don’t want to step outside, and a curse when you lock up and want to get as far away from your job as possible. He nods, like he understands. I tell him that it was a bit of a dive when I took it on, that one of the barstools is moulded into the shape of Derek’s arse. How I managed to keep him happy while also attracting a younger crowd with a new menu and a cocktail list. How I got a long line of chefs to cook dinner for David and me before finding Gabriel, who’s Romanian and cooks like a demon while managing to be nice to the waiting staff.
‘It means a lot to you,’ he says.
It isn’t a question. It’s come through in my words.
‘Yes.’
‘Would you ever give it up?’
I wonder why he asks this particular question. When someone tells you about their job, or their hobby, or their relationship or whatever, you don’t ask about ending it.
‘I don’t know. Would you give up the restaurant?’
‘Yes,’ he says immediately. ‘It’s just a job. It’s not my whole life.’
Is the Pheasant my whole life? It’s felt like it, at times. I live there, work there. David’s always saying I don’t have any time for him. But now, I don’t have to think about what David wants, do I? I don’t have to consider David in my future.
‘I do have this one dream,’ I say, surprising myself.
Matt crosses his arms and leans forward. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, pubs are all I know and now I have my own, it would be hard to walk away from it, but I have always had this idea that one day I’ll do something that helps people. You know, work for a charity or something like that.’
He nods. ‘You should do that. One day.’
We’ve both finished our drinks and he takes my cup from me and goes over to the bin. Will he go now? Is this conversation over? He doesn’t sit down again, but he paces a little.
‘Is there anything else you need?’ he asks. ‘Before I go?’
I need to know what’s going on. Whether anyone’s told my mum I’m here. Where David is. Why Dee didn’t really tell me anything. But he can’t help with any of that, so I shake my head.
‘Tomorrow?’ he asks, pulling on his jacket.
He’s asking for permission to come again, and I want him to, because the hours are so long in here with no one to talk to and nothing to do. But I’m scared to say it.
‘If you’re passing,’ I say.
And he nods and makes his way out of the room without saying goodbye. After he’s gone, I wonder about the work I do, about how I ended up there. Was it all inevitable, from the days I would sit and watch my mother get ready to go to work behind a bar? Was I always destined to end up there?
12
THEN
Before Mick hit me, I had an idea that I would go to university. I liked art, both the making of it and the learning about it. I thought I might try to make something of that. But that day, a flick switched in me and I started to see things differently, and my future was one of the casualties. There’s a fuck-it attitude to me now, and it almost led to me leaving school straight after my GCSEs, but Annabelle talked me round and we are both taking A Levels – Annabelle’s in English Lit, French and Geography and mine in Art, English Lit and History. Annabelle is talking about being a Geography teacher, and I don’t say anything but I can’t think of anything worse than signing myself up to a lifetime spent in school. Our own school’s Geography classrooms, which had walls covered with maps and diagrams of riverbeds, and always smelled like no one had ever opened a window, had put me off the subject for life.
We both work in a pub, the Three Crowns, on Saturday nights and Sunday lunchtimes. We’re not allowed to serve behind the bar, because we’re still only seventeen, but it’s legal for us to be paid five pounds an hour to wash dishes and serve food and clear plates. For Annabelle, it’s strictly about themoney. She is saving up for a dress from Topshop that her mum refuses to buy for her, and there are always things to be paid for – McDonalds milkshakes and makeup palettes and earrings and vodka from the cheap off-licence to replace what we’ve taken from Annabelle’s mum’s Smirnoff bottle. But I have started to think I like this life, have started to enjoy my hours in the pub more than my hours at school, where I have to sit still and pay attention while my young body wants to move and be free.
I’m getting ready for a shift. I’m wearing opaque black tights, a stretchy and short black skirt, and a white shirt which Mum makes me iron myself. I have three that I wear in rotation and I always leave the ironing of them until all three have been washed and I’m due to be at the pub in half an hour. There’s no one at home so I’m ironing my shirts in my skirt and bra, singing loudly and out of tune to Girls Aloud’s ‘Love Machine’, when Mick comes in. Instinctively, I hold up the shirt I’m currently ironing to cover my chest. It’s too warm, and I feel sweat start to prickle under my arms. This is one of the difficulties of living with someone to whom you’re not related and you don’t love or feel comfortable with. Not being able to wander around in minimal clothing. Mick says nothing, goes to the fridge and takes out a beer. The hiss and fizz after he cracks it open makes me want one myself. But I never drink before a shift. Afterwards is another matter. Often, once we’ve locked the doors, Annabelle and I and the other staff put the Scissor Sisters or Eminem on the jukebox and dance and drink for an hour or two. When a shift feels long, or my feet are hurting, I look ahead to those times, to the vodka the landlord will turn a blind eye to us drinking and the sneaked cigarettes we will smoke.
