You could be upside down               inside out before they’d notice       you could be dancing at the other end of the          ballroom and not one of them would

put up with it. Lukewarm milk. This place.

Hot enough to curdle butter.

29 July 1978

Arthur

A perfect summer’s evening. Step out of the pub and there’s hardly any change in the temperature. The smell of cut grass and spilt beer. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Everything feels like a blessing. The sun going down behind the row of shops, bathing the pub bins in the last light. A quick whiff of warm rotting food and chip fat. May’ll be busy at home – ironing short-sleeved shirts for the holiday and cleaning out the cool-box. She’ll have everything sorted. There’s no point rushing back.

The door opens again. The lads stumble down the steps to a blast of ‘Rivers of Babylon’. Billy tries to do a bit of dancing. The daft bugger. He trips and rams his shoulder into my chest.

‘Watch it, mate.’

‘There you are, Arthur!’ he says, ‘the big man, the king of Her Majesty’s fine postal service.’ So close I can see the acne on his cheeks, the fillings in his bottom teeth.

‘Alright, son,’ Jim is coming down the steps behind him, draping his jacket over one arm. He puts a hand on Billy’s back. ‘Time for home.’

‘Eh? No, Dad! The night is young – right Arthur?’

‘I told you you shouldn’t’ve let him have the last one.’

Jim shrugs, ‘it’s not every day you turn twenty one.’

‘Bollocks to this!’ Billy says, ‘I’m off into town.’ A bus is coming down the road, stopping with a hiss at the traffic lights. ‘Lend me some money will yer?’

‘Not this time. More than my life’s worth. Yer Mum’s waiting at home. Come on.’ Jim tries to pull him by the arm but he hangs on to me like a kid, like I’m Gandhi or Jesus. I push him away – only gently. He never did have much of a clue about personal space.

‘I’m just saying, right, I’m just saying… you’re a bloody legend. No word of a lie.’

Jim shakes his head. ‘Ok son, let’s go before you propose shall we?’

‘I’m just saying… the night is young.’

‘Some of us ’ave got work in the morning.’ Jim helps him down the kerb and out of the path of oncoming traffic. ‘Enjoy yerself, you jammy bastard. Not too much gambling mind,’ he shouts, ‘and whatever you do, leave those classy Welsh birds alone.’

I wave him away, watch him drag Billy round the corner next to the bookies.