Spade by Andy Larter

There’s a right clattering in the yard. Hold my breath and stand stock still. Then I turn round, put my eye to a crack in the door and I see a black van. One of them with sliding doors. And there’s that gold lettering. Swinford’s Tea and Coffee: Pure and Robust. My mouth’s sticky with thirst. Haven’t even thought of a drink of water, let alone tea. And there’s some bloke in a grey coat clambering out of it. Same colour as them clouds. Could be camouflage on a day like this. He’s a a tall bloke. One of them that stoops his neck when he walks. Takes his cap off. Looks like he’s lost. He has shiny, rusty coloured hair. Brylcreemed. Wipes his nose with back of his hand. I step out the door.

“Hello.” I say it bright and breezy as though nowt’s happened but I can still feel the weight of the spade in my hand. He fiddles with his cap as though he’s saluting me.

“Ah,” he says, “morning Eddie. Didn’t know if I had the right place.”

He takes a packet of Capstan from his coat pocket and walks towards me. Waves the orange carton at me. I tell him he’s got it wrong, that I don’t know where our Edward is. The fella chuckles.

“OK,” he says. “Joke’s over.”

And he steps nearer. I swing the spade to my shoulder and he stops in his tracks, waves his hands.

“I told you. Our Edward’s not here just now.I’m his brother, Tommy.”

“Really?” he says.

And he stares at me. Pushes his lips forward as though he’s whistling.

“Really,” I says. “Edward must be over there somewhere.”

I wave the spade towards Back Shaw Rise. Away from the yard.

“He’ll be dealing with tups.”

He wipes his chin, shakes his head and actually does whistle.

“Christ,” he says, “you look just like him.”

And he offers me a cig again.

“No thanks.” I don’t want owt from this fella.

“Voice is different I suppose,” he says.

Well he lights up and blows smoke at the sky. Then picks a shred of tobacco off his tongue and looks at his fingertip. Flicks it off. I notice he has one of them thin moustaches like it’s been crayoned on his top lip. I remember I haven’t had a shave this morning. Haven’t had time with all the fetching and carrying and doings all night.

“Well,” says this fella, “I’m Pat. Patrick McGill.”

He moves towards me, hand held forward. I don’t want him anywhere

near the barn. So I wave the spade to the other shoulder and he stops dead in his tracks. Widens his eyes and draws on his cig again.

“He has mentioned a brother,” he says. “But he didn’t say you were twins.”

He runs a hand over his hair, licks his teeth and takes a big draw on the

cig. He takes it on the right side of his mouth and blows out of the left.

“Suppose you could get away wi’ owt and nobody’d know who to blame.” He chuckles. “Get away wi’ murder.”

Then he raises a hand. Nods at the spade.

“Not that you’d want to o’ course.”

Laughs again. There’s stuff about this bloke I don’t like. It’s that talking as if he’s known me for years. The smarmy ‘tache. Laughing at his own joke. Oh, and he’s wearing a neat triangle of a tie. Navy blue with gold stripes. Like a club or regimental tie. A tight little knot just under the sharp Adam’s apple.

“I can see now,” he says, “Eddie’s a bit heavier than you.”

He stares at me, a finger on his lips. As if he’s at market and I’m a beast he’s studying.

“Look,” he says, “I think Eddie could be avoiding me. We have some … er … business to sort out. He owes me a bit of money.”

Well, I know Our Edward’s not been avoiding anybody because he’s under the flags and straw in the barn behind me. I can feel my heart race against my ribs. But I just rub my jaw and nod.

“How much does he owe you?”

He turns his thin face to look past me and strokes his nose.

“Oh. Now,” he says. “I reckon that’s between me and him.”

I can’t stop myself smiling because I know this Patrick McGill won’t be dealing with Our Edward ever again.

“Fair enough,” I say. “Nothing to do with me.”

And we stand there staring at one another. Until this Patrick says he was just passing. He pats his van.

“I have places to be, people to see.”

Well fuck off then, I think. And make it sharp. Then I can get on. He draws on the cig and blinks one eye behind the smoke as it drifts in his face. He drops the tab to the ground, grinds it into the muck then points a finger. Now that really gets my back up.

“I’ll try again tomorrow shall I,” he says. “About three, four o’clock?”

I scrape the spade along the ground, lean on the handle.

“You can do that by all means,” I say and take a pace towards him. He steps into the van and puts a hand on the door handle. I hadn’t thought it’d be that easy to put a scare into this Patrick twat. I enjoy it though. I really do.

Just before he climbs in behind the wheel he says, “When you see your brother you tell him I called. It’s important I see him.”

He wags that finger again. “Very important. Think on.”

Think on? Who does he think he is this Patrick? Then he grins.

“You look identical,” he says, “but you don’t say much do you? Not like Eddie.”

Dead right, I think. Our Edward’s saying nowt. Ever again. As he drives out of the yard I stand and have a think. I have his bank book. And if one of his mates sees me as Edward Siddall, well I’m sure the manager of Yorkshire Bank won’t tell the difference.

Andy Larter

Image: A red spade in a pile of pebbly soil from Pixabay.com