Life_ An Exploded Diagram - Mal Peet [23]
“Why, George?” Sleepy question.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“He’s a lovely boy, George. Don’t you worry. That’ll be all right.”
The next morning, in the kitchen, yawning, she handed the certificate to him. Win saw it.
“What yer want that for?”
George put the paper into his overall pocket and smiled at her.
“Forms to fill in, Win. National Insurance. The welfare state. What we voted for. Everything down on paper, fair and square.”
Win looked at him, drying her red hands on her apron.
“Welfare state, my arse,” she said.
WHETHER OR NOT ex-Captain Gordon Roake interceded, George waited only two years and a bit for his council house. The letter arrived on a bright June morning in 1950. Win had already left for work. (Willy’s electric road-boat had been replaced by a petrol-engined van, which Willy drove as though it were a high-spirited and unpredictable stallion, never trusting it enough to risk third gear.) Clem, as a treat, had been allowed to eat his porridge sitting on the back step in the sun. George used his bread to wipe the marge from his knife and slit the envelope open.
Ruth watched him, holding her cup with both hands. Outside of birthdays and Christmas, the postman paid rare visits to Thorn Cottage. She suspected trouble.
“What is it, George?”
He didn’t answer her but read the letter through again, then handed it to her. She studied it, squinting. (Soon, she will be able to read only through round-framed National Health glasses, which will make her look owlish and somewhat foolish.)
“Whas this mean, George?”
“It means, Missus Ackroyd, that in three months we are going to be out of this dump. That we’ll have a place of our own.”
“You put us down for a council house?”
“Damn right I did. That’s the least we deserve.”
“Whyever dint yer say nothun?”
George shrugged. “There’s a waiting list. It might’ve been years. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ruth sat down. “Bloody hell, George.”
He grinned at her.
“Where’s 11 Lovelace Road, anyhow?”
“The Millfields estate. Off the Aylsham road.”
“What, in Borstead?”
“Of course in ruddy Borstead. You noticed a new council estate in Bratton Morley?”
She gaped at him. “You expect us to move to Borstead?”
He put his cup down. “No. I don’t expect. There’s no expecting about it, Ruth. There’s a nice new house waiting for us. It’ll be ours from September, and we’re going to go and live in it. I thought you might be pleased, to be honest.”
“Well, I . . . Thas all a bit sudden, George, is all. I dunt know what mother’ll make of it.”
“It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Of course that is, George. She’re lived here all her life.”
He smiled hugely. His mustache stretched itself toward his ears.
“Well,” he said, “she can live here the rest of it an’ all, as far as I’m concerned. If you take another look at that letter, you might see that 11 Lovelace Road is down for Mr. George Ackroyd and his dependents. Who are, if I remember correctly, Mrs. Ruth Ackroyd and Master Clement Ackroyd. No mention of a Mrs. Win Little.”
“George, you can’t mean . . .”
He finished his tea and stood up.
“George, we can’t leave mother here all on her own.”
“Why the hell not? Listen, it’ll be the happiest day of her life when I walk out of that door for good. She’ll hang flags out. Mind you, she’ll miss having me to bitch about.”
“George!”
Clem had turned to watch them, licking his spoon. Ruth saw and rolled her eyes at George, who understood. He took the letter from her, folded it, and put it in his overall pocket. He went and sat on the step next to his son, ruffling the boy’s hair. He laced up his work boots and then, whistling, walked down the garden path. At the decrepit shed he stopped and studied it as if it were a man improperly dressed on parade. Smiling, he stepped forward and kicked the door until it was reduced to kindling.