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‘Pretty much the only smiley I’m going to get,’ he mutters.
The museum geezer approaches with the change.
‘It’s OK thanks, Don. I’ve got my money now.’ The lad moves towards him. ‘I can pay what you lent me, and I’ll get the tent back to you – I just, well thinking I might stay another night.’
He’s so hesitant, pleading almost. Want to shake him, tell him to man up. I concentrate on reading the blurb about the sidecar family.
‘It’s a free country, rumour has it,’ Don says, turning to go back to the workshop.
I read about how in the late 1940s ordinary working blokes could buy an ex WW2 bike, paint it black over the army green, and bolt a sidecar to it. Giving the family freedom to get out of their smoky industrial shithole for a picnic. Trip to the seaside once a year.
The lad opens his mouth but says nothing. Catches my glance for a moment. Dark eyes peering through strands of wet hair. His face has a bluish tinge, his cheeks as though they are sucked in. Then he blinks, turns away.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘Oh,’ he looks around the museum. ‘Maybe I’ll take some more photos.’ Pulls a nervous straight-lined smile. Moves to point his phone at the nearest line of bikes. ‘Can’t actually stop me.’
I watch him photograph the next display: a sixties Triton café racer by a milk-bar mock-up. Rain still pelting the metal roof, dripping into tin buckets. Clink of Don’s tools echoing through the space.
The lad continues round until he’s level with the workshop. Don gets up with a spanner in his hand. I sidle over to some nearby bikes.
‘Look, I’m sorry about the other night. I was drunk, you know? I just want to talk to you, as in so many questions…?’ The lad plucks at the police tape and Don stiffens.
‘I’ve got nothing to offer you, Gethin,’ Don’s voice is strained. ‘I’m sorry for your wasted journey.’
Gethin. Yeah, a bit elfin. Suits him, right?
‘Wasted? You lay a trail and then you serve me a blank, is it?’
‘I should no’ have laid it, that’s the truth.’ Don wipes his spanner on his overalls and takes a step back.
‘So, why did you have me in for kippers and whisky? What, are you worried about the locals talking? Your mate Robbie in the pub reckons you’ve only got yourself to blame. Whatever the hell that means?’
‘I thought I warned you not to go about gossiping,’ Don hisses.
‘I didn’t say a thing.’ Gethin’s voice rises. ‘I asked that Laura the way here the other day, and then she was there behind the bar, introduced me to Robbie.’
‘You’ll take no heed of what she has to say.’
‘You’re not ashamed of me, are you?’
Don takes a couple more steps backwards, shoulders pulled up tight. Gethin points his phone at Don, leans into the tape and takes a shot. Don lurches forward and grabs Gethin’s wrist. Prises the phone away, snapping the tape.
‘Hey!’ Gethin reaches forward. ‘Give me my fucking phone!’
‘I’ll no’ be one of your family snaps.’ Don buttons the phone into his top pocket.
‘You can’t cut me off from my roots. And you can’t take my phone.’ Gethin looks round. Catches my glance. Throws up his hands.
Don stands with arms crossed. Lips set tight.
Gethin shoots me a can-you-believe-it look. I attempt a sympathetic smile.
‘He’s taken my fucking phone!’ he shouts.
I shrug. I should leave them to it, right? But I’m kind of hooked in and want to know what’s going on. Could be father and son?
‘I’m guessing Don maybe needs a bit of time,’ I suggest, moving slowly towards them.
