CHAPTER 1
“Yes, can I help you?”

I really needed to ditch the burner for a new phone. Too many people knew the current number, and that could mean leaks, and leaks meant problems. Not always, not immediately, but almost inevitably. I had managed to keep the address quiet, but, just like the phones, it was only a matter of time. How on Earth had I ended up in this line of sort-of-work?

I found myself smiling, looking over towards the kitchen door, behind which I could hear someone rattling the proverbial and actual pots and pans. Such a difference compared to how things had been when I had first arrived in Cardiff. The only word that had adequately described things back then was ‘lost’.

It hadn’t been the best of times for me after the funeral, to put it absolutely bloody mildly, and when Carol and Peter had dropped the next bombshell, I realised there was nothing at all to keep me in Cannock. Apparently they had felt the same way, and there had been a place that called to them more eloquently than a shithole in the West Midlands, and three months after Mam and Dad had danced away under the immense Northumberland skies, their friends were off to some place on Islay that was full of Buddhists and vegetarians, as well as being close to quite a few whisky distilleries.

Their departure had hurt me badly, but over the months I slowly came to terms with it. I seemed settled, I appeared to be safe, all HGV tests passed, and running loads for Mossman’s on my own, while they had lost a huge part of their lives in my Mam and Dad. Living next door to what had been, in essence, their second home must have hurt in ways I only slowly came to understand.

After they left, I had looked at my life, and realised how fenced in I was. I had workmates at Mossman’s, but no intimates. I had a friend at Druridge Bay, but there was really no place for me with Graham, as he was then steadily building a life of his own with his partner. All I had was Rosie and her family. Dad’s idea of a lifestyle on the road, had worked, but too well; I stood so far outside what the straights called society that I was forever adrift.

All that was left of anything resembling a family was in South Wales. After the next Farmyard Fumble, I stayed a few days longer, trawling the local papers, and there was a terraced house in Adamsdown, well within the money I had stashed with the Connah’s Quay lot. Two months later, after a flying visit to make sure the place was at least still upright and watertight, it was mine. No chain, no need to sell the old Cannock place first. Mr Mossman knew someone running wagons in Cardiff who would give me a trail as a driver, and also gave me the use of a rigid lorry; a couple of the lads volunteered their help on the basis of a night out in Cardiff, and my time in Cannock was over.

It was a wrench, in far too many ways, as it wasn’t really that far from Shrewsbury, where Mam had saved my life, and her soul, with Dad’s, would always be bound to the bricks and mortar of their winter shelter. I had locked the door, at last, after we had finished loading the van, and simply stood on the drive, staring at the place.

Mick’s hand had come down on my shoulder.

“I know, girl, I know. Better to get moving, no looking back. I’ll drive the first bit, if you like”

He towed me towards the lorry, pushed me into the middle of the bench seat, and started the engine. As we moved off, he reached out to push a tape fully into the radio-cassette, and the insistent rhythm of Led Zep’s ‘Trampled Underfoot’ started to blast out. He turned to look at me, a grin splitting his face, and winked.

“Fucking good driving music, girl. I set the tape ready at that song, cause we all know the sort of shit you listen to. Jacko here’s got some buns and flasks and stuff for the run down, so I hope you know a bloody good pub and a decent Chinky for tonight”

I found myself laughing, at long last.

“What the fuck do I know about local pubs in Cardiff? Never been to one, have I?”

Jacko’s turn to laugh.

“Looks like we’ll have to try a few out, then. Might have to stay two nights. You planning on being fit to drive back tomorrow, Mick?”

“Not if I can help it, mate! That be OK with you, Debbie?”

The two of them played tag-team with the jokes all the way down the M5. M50 and A449, not letting up even when we stopped for a leg stretch and a fresher cup of tea. I almost regretted my decision to up sticks and move, for I knew that Mick had always been there for me, like so many of the lads, but the bottom line was always there: Cannock would forever mean Mam and Dad, and I couldn’t face the reminder that would be there every time I woke.

So we took turns driving, and mixed our musical tastes, as the miles rolled past, and the road signs became bilingual. Past Monmouth and Raglan, down towards the big city, finally to park up in front of the new place. Three of us made short(ish) work of unloading the wagon, as it was, in essence, what we did every day for work, and as Mick and I sorted out where the larger stuff would go, Jacko walked round to a corner shop we had spotted on the way in, returning with almost everything we would need for a decent breakfast over the next two mornings. As I should have expected, ha had also taken the opportunity to scout out a pub.

“One just up the road. There’s a caff almost opposite it, and a Chinky just round the corner. That should do us!”

His grin turned into a much gentler smile, entirely for me.

“Going to miss you, love. Best we can do to say good luck is see you’re in this place proper. You’ll need the cooker checked over after it’s plumbed in, but I can do the actual hook-up. Dad’s a CORGI fitter, so I sort of did an apprentice thing with him. Can’t certify it, but I can save you the cost of a specialist. Thing is, till it’s signed off, you can’t do any cooking, ‘officially’, apart from on that camping stove I saw you pack, and we’ll need our stomachs lined before the pub. Grab a fry-up in the caff there, get us some ale and then top up with a Chinese after. Then tomorrow, we do the fitting and fettling, put your beds together and that. No offence, but I don’t fancy the fannying around this evening. You OK dossing on a mattress on the floor for a night? Mick?”

“Yes, mate?”

“You take a spare room. I’ll take the one over the extension. Just need a blanket or two, Deb”

“I’ve got some sleeping bags. They do?”

“Sound as a bloody pound, love. That kettle hot, hint hint?”

They kept me bustling around, and after everything was sorted into the right rooms and stacked ready for unpacking, we made our way up Clifton Street, passing a whole line of little shops. I had noted them on my scouting trip, but hadn’t really taken them in. Just local shops, including a post office and the café and Chinese takeaway already spotted by Jacko, but enough to sort most of my domestic needs until I could find some transport of my own.

The café, the Olive Grove, did the trick for us, and I marked it down as a keeper. The pub across the road turned out to be a proper ‘local’, which was hardly surprising, given the sort of area we were in. The barman looked us up and down, clocking the overalls Jacko and Mick were still wearing, as well as my own old jeans and well-worn leather jacket.

“Those overalls greasy, boys? If they are, could you use the wooden seats?”

Mick shook his head.

“No, mate. We’ve just been doing some removals, for this one here”

“English, are you, butt?”

“Me and Jacko here, we are, but this one isn’t”

“Oh? Where from, girl?”

I didn’t want to say exactly where, because the last thing I needed was someone doing some amateur detective work. Keep it vague, Debbie.

“Not this bit, aye? What’s good tonight?”

“You’re a gog, then. You ale drinkers, lager, what?”

Jacko pointed at a pump.

“The Carling will do me, mate!”

Mick looked at him, with a sneer on his lips that was far from serious.

“Typical kid; no bloody taste. Don’t know the local ales, mate. What do you suggest?”

“Well, we’re a Brain’s pub”

Jacko snorted, and the barman sighed.

“Every bloody time. The brewery, butt. I’m Harry, by the way”

Mick raised an eyebrow, leaving it to me, so I held my hand over the bar for a shake.

“I’m Deb. I’m the one moving in. Mick there, and Jacko, are mates from work, giving me a hand with the furniture and stuff. Now, I like bitter, and so does Mick, I believe. What you got?”

“Well, there’s the IPA as well, but we’ve got two bitters, the standard one there, and the Skull Attack. Ordinary is three point seven, the skull is four and a half”

“OK. Could we start with two of the skulls for me and Mick, and that pint of cold piss for Jacko?”

Harry roared with laughter.

“You going to be coming in her regular, Deb? Welcome to Adamsdown, I think you’ll fit right in! Want any crisps or anything?”

“Later, maybe. We’ve just had a bite over the road, and we’re probably going to hit the Chinese on the way back. Is it OK?”

“Not had a bad meal there, myself. It’s popular when we close, but I don’t think many of the customers have many working taste buds by then”

I found myself easing out of the tension that I suddenly realised had gripped me since stepping out of the front door in Cannock. This could work.

The beer was fine, and Mick and I both switched to the cooking bitter after the first couple of pints, so as not to get too pissed too quickly. The pub filled steadily, and it was clearly a true local in its clientele as well as its style and location. As people came in, they almost always nodded or called out to someone in recognition, and little knots of mates formed round tables and at the bar. We stayed till about eleven o’clock before bidding Harry a good evening and heading for the Happy Wok and a carrier-bag full of little foil tins, followed by a more than comfortable and less than sober night in my sleeping bag.

Jacko’s work on the cooker let us cook breakfast in a sensible, if slightly belated, way, and then we settled down to a day of fitting together and distributing my sticks of furniture, including Dad’s stereo and all the music he and Mam had collected over the years. Another night at Harry’s, although a lot quieter that time, another breakfast, and then, after a round of almost violently powerful hugs, Mick and Jacko were gone.

I realised then, as they drove off down the street, that for the first time in my life, apart from a night in a Chester rowing boat and those days in a horsebox, I was alone. Two days later, I would have a meeting with what I hoped would be my new employer. Two days would be enough to sober up.

I was still at Harry’s well after eleven that night. I dimly recall him making sure I got to my front door safely, but only dimly.