Despite this, I was sure this time, with a confidence I never normally felt, that if I were to ask to see her again, she would say yes. I was glad I’d told her about Pete and Mum and Dad. Not that I’d planned it, not that I’d wanted to use them in that way, but I think it had been something – albeit something miserable – that we could hold in common, that put us both on the same team.
So I waited the obligatory couple of days then texted her to see if she wanted to go out again. I had wanted to go into the library and ask her in person – because I wanted to see her as soon as I could, to get another look at her, hear her voice again – but I held back. Texting would give out a stronger message, I decided, prove that this wasn’t only to do with work, that it could also be a purely social – purely romantic? – relationship.
After the fumbled non-kiss on the cheek, I was becoming increasingly, uncomfortably aware of our lack of physical contact so far, other than an arm round her or a brief holding of hands during emotionally charged conversations. Before things progressed too far towards the cul-de-sac of Just Good Friends, I decided to make my intentions clear by suggesting a meal at one of Doncaster’s few fancy restaurants and by arranging it for a Saturday night. Saturday nights were about couples and exclusivity, they were a precious resource you only spent with someone you valued. ‘I really, really like you’, I wanted to say. ‘This is special treatment. I haven’t put this much thought into taking a woman out for several years – possibly ever.’ The idea was to stop short of saying, ‘Please like me too, I’m desperate’.
She said yes, to my intense relief – replied almost straight away, in fact – and I spent most of the week looking forward to Saturday with agitated excitement. I dithered for a while over what to wear – something of a pointless exercise as the only constituents of my current wardrobe that were suitable for Doncaster in early summer were two shirts, two light jumpers (one of which had a hole under the armpit, one of which had gone an odd purple colour in the wash), a pair of jeans and a pair of combat trousers that had been left in my flat in Dubai by a previous tenant, and which I had adopted when an old pair wore out. I got my hair cut. I had a proper wet shave. I bought condoms – I knew that I was tempting fate, but if and when my chance came, I wanted to be able to capitalise on it straight away.
I got to the restaurant early, just in case. Tash struck me as the sort of person who liked to be on time for things, and I didn’t want to risk keeping her waiting. I was right, kind of. She turned up at four minutes past eight; just late enough to prevent her looking unattractively keen, not late enough to be rude. She had, I decided, probably walked round the block a few times to make sure she wasn’t early.
The restaurant was perfect, all heavy linens and artful table centres and barely audible mood music. This, as I had hoped, was very obviously a place you brought someone you wanted to have sex with. Tash looked beautiful, tall and lovely in a black dress with a red scarf and red cardigan and red lipstick. It was, I realised, the first time I’d seen her wearing make-up. My heart thumped in anticipation as I realised that she was making an effort too. Hopefully this night would end the way we both seemed to want it to.
‘So how are things going in your search for the long lost brother?’ she asked me after the waiter had brought our bottle of Chianti.
I felt slightly deflated. I had wanted to try and find some alternative topic of conversation, some way of drawing her closer and finding out more about what was behind the scary spectacles and the teenage-goth pallor. ‘Not so bad, I suppose. I’ve been through all that stuff you gave me – which has been great, by the way – ’ She smiled and my heart jumped so much it made me cough ‘ – but not much new has come up since then. I’m going to try and talk to a few more people – you know, friends, neighbours – to see if I can throw any light on this Edgarsbridge stuff.’
She nodded. ‘So you think it’s true then? That he was working during the strike?’
I shrugged. ‘I think it’s the most likely explanation, don’t you? I’m going to assume it’s true until I can find evidence that indicates otherwise.’ I sounded, I was pleased to note, smooth and professional. It was true, I did think it was the most likely explanation. Unfortunately, if it were true, then it threw up a hundred million new questions, none of which I knew how to answer. Nor did it chime with the treasured ideal I had held all these years of my brother as a flawless, blameless hero.
‘So – ’ Her face was questioning. ‘How do you feel about that?’
‘About what?’
‘About, you know, him being a scab.’
I narrowed my eyes. It was an emotive choice of words. ‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘But I do know that, if it was true, then he must have had a good reason. Pete would never have done that without a good reason.’
Tash frowned. ‘How good a reason can it have been? He was single, he had no kids, no mortgage, no rent even.’
‘He paid the rent,’ I protested. ‘He chipped in: him, Mum and Leanne, they all shared it. Me and Lisa were still at school. Anyway, what is this? I thought I was meant to be the journalist here. I’m used to being the one asking the uncomfortable questions.’ I tried a laugh and so did she but I think we both knew our hearts weren’t in it.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be awkward. And yes, I didn’t know your brother at all. I just meant, you know, he didn’t have a family to support, he didn’t have many overheads. Some people, I suppose, you could just about understand them going back, but – ’ She became aware of the look on my face and she squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Look, Ed, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that your brother was, I don’t know, taking the easy way out, I just – ’
‘What did you mean,’ I said coldly, ‘when you said you could “just about” understand some people going back.’
She leaned back in her chair, away from me. Suddenly the quiet of the restaurant became oppressive and I wondered if the other diners were listening to our conversation. ‘Well,’ she said steadily, as though consciously regulating her tone, ‘I guess I meant that some things are wrong, and we all know they’re wrong, but people sometimes do them anyway, and sometimes there are understandable reasons for that.’
‘So you’re comparing going to work to feed your family with something like robbing a bank, is that what you’re saying?’
She winced. ‘No, no, that isn’t what I’m saying, not at all. I just meant that – I don’t know what I meant.’ She fell silent a moment, swirling the black-red wine around her glass. Then, as I was about to speak, she said, ‘No, what I meant was, that they did a lot of harm, the people who went back, they undermined what everyone else was fighting for. And I think that, unless you had a good reason for it, then it’s pretty hard to justify.’
‘To justify? Justify to whom? To you? You and your middle-class, idealistic family? To Scargill and his gang of nutters? Look, my brother went out on strike for that whole year, and I saw firsthand how hard it was. No money, no prospect of another job, no future. But there were others on our estate and round the village, families where someone had gone back – they had to, they had kids, they had lives. They had to. And it was just as hard for them – other people in the village made sure it was. It was a whole generation ago and there’s people who still won’t speak to them, who spit on the pavement when they go past. I don’t know how you can say it was the easy option.’ I was aware that my voice was significantly louder than when I had started speaking. I wanted to make some conciliatory gesture, to show that I wasn’t angry really, that this was just a theoretical debate, that I’d still very much like to go home with her tonight, please, if she wouldn’t mind. But the trouble was, I was angry, and I know it must have shown in my face.
Tash shook her head, trying to be the conciliatory one. ‘Look,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this any more. It’s like you said, it was a long time ago, but it’s still a topic probably best avoided in polite company. Why don’t you tell me more about Dubai? It’s somewhere I’ve never been.’