Page 13 of The Pieces of Us

They’re arguing about the telly when the doorbell goes. Sandra wants to watch Little House on the Prairie ; Patrick wants to use the top of the television set as Action Man’s launch pad.

‘Wheesht!’ I hiss at them. ‘There’s somebody here.’

I don’t recognize him at first, until the smart suit and intense eyes give it away. It’s the man from the greengrocer’s, the one in the black suit, the one I met when I was trying not to drop apples and pears.

‘Hello, Miss Muir,’ he says.

‘Hello.’ I’m shy suddenly, wishing I wasn’t wearing an apron with tomato soup stains down the front.

Joe kicked off when I was feeding him his lunch, sending an arc of orange high into the air.

I quickly run my palms over my hairline, where the annoying springy strands have always bounced to attention by lunchtime, no matter how much of Mam’s Elnett I spray on them in the morning.

Then I smile at Mr Dunlop, inwardly cursing my parents for leaving me in charge of five children while they visit Peggy, my dad’s cousin, who’s in Ailsa Hospital for her nerves.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting. I was visiting a friend who lives round the corner and thought I’d drop in and see your father.’

‘Oh. He’s not here. But he should be back soon.’

‘Ah, well.’ He smiles, and in the brief pause that follows, I blurt out, ‘Would you like to come in and wait for him?’

‘I don’t want to be a bother.’

‘No bother at all,’ I say, because I’ve heard my mother say it even when she’s harassed to death and really not in the mood to do whatever it is that’s being asked of her.

I don’t feel like that, though. There’s something about Mr Dunlop that makes me think he’d be interesting to talk to.

It’s rare for anyone interesting to come to our door; our regular visitors are a rotation of neighbours and relatives who talk about the same old things all the time – what’s happening on Coronation Street , rising petrol prices, how Mrs Russell from across the road is getting above her station now that she has a telephone.

‘You’d think she has a direct line to the Queen,’ my mother muttered under her breath after the last time they chatted at the bus stop.

‘She’ll be getting central heating next, inviting us all over for the grand unveiling of her radiators.

’ Mam is cheeky about Mrs Russell behind her back, but as sweet as pie when she bumps into her on the street.

As the Irish Catholic wife of a Scottish Protestant man, Mam knows to keep the local gossips on side.

‘Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile,’ she says, patting the small silver cross on the chain round her neck.

Protection from evil – and also Mrs Russell and her muckraking.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask Mr Dunlop, because he’s still standing on the doorstep.

‘Well, that would be lovely,’ he says, and then he’s inside the house, smart and slim and so tall my nose would barely reach his shoulder if I was to lean forward.

We sit at the kitchen table, which still bears the lunchtime crumbs and spillages. ‘Oh. I’ll make tea,’ I say, remembering.

His lips curl into a half-smile, like he has a secret he’s not quite ready to share.

I work methodically: water in the kettle first, then cups and saucers, sugar pot and milk in a jug arranged on Mam’s nicest tray.

With my back to him, I wonder what he’s looking at, what he’s thinking and pray that he doesn’t have tomato soup on his sleeve from resting his arms on the scummy tablecloth.

After what feels like an eternity, I place the tray down carefully.

‘How do you like your tea?’ I ask, knowing from the neighbours and relatives that this is a very important question.

My father likes his strong, with a tea bag all to himself steeping in the cup until the water is as black as tar.

My mother takes it weaker, with lots of milk and two heaped spoonfuls of sugar, as does Sandra, when she’s trying to be a grown-up.

‘With a spoon.’ Mr Dunlop laughs but not unkindly.

‘I knew I’d forget something,’ I admit, fetching two teaspoons from the drawer with the shoogly front. I’m glad I did – his easy laugh has broken the ice.

‘So … you’re in charge of your younger sisters and brothers today? What are their names?’

‘Sandra … she’s fourteen. Then Patrick, he’s twelve. Joe’s three, he’s the baby. And Aoife and Reenie – Maureen – are in between the boys.’

He asks me more questions – what I want to do when I leave school, whether I have any hobbies. It’s a little unsettling but enormously flattering. Nobody ever asks me anything about what I like to do, or what I dream of doing.

‘I’d like to work in a library,’ I tell him.

‘Ah, so you’re a reader?’

‘Yes. But I also love the idea of being somewhere quiet. It’s never quiet here.’ As if on cue, something clatters down the stairs, followed by laughter and footsteps.

‘That must be difficult,’ he says. ‘You’re growing up – you need your space. What are you reading at the moment … if you ever get a moment of peace?’

I tell him that officially it’s One Hundred Years of Solitude , but that I borrowed Forever from my classmate Julie Baker – who got it from her older cousin who was visiting from America – and that’s what I read when everybody else is asleep.

‘What’s Forever about?’ he asks.

I fidget with my teaspoon, regretting my honesty. ‘I’ve only just started it,’ I say, hoping he’ll take the hint and I won’t have to say any words that will make my cheeks burn even hotter.

‘Well, I hope you enjoy it,’ he says. ‘But I do highly recommend One Hundred Years of Solitude if you can persevere with it. Magical realism, I believe people call it. It really is rather special.’

I’m not sure if magical realism is my thing, but I nod my head.

‘OK.’ I’d like to know what other books he thinks I should be reading, but the front door opens and closes and footsteps clatter down the stairs again and then, all of a sudden, my entire family is standing in the kitchen, staring at us.

‘John. Niamh.’ Mr Dunlop stands up. ‘I had business with Mr Ferguson and thought I’d pop in to say hello. Your lovely daughter made me a very nice cup of tea.’

‘Good girl.’ Mam’s face beams with pride as she squeezes my shoulder. ‘Stick the kettle on again, would you? I’m parched. Cousin Peggy’s room was like an oven. They’re not allowed to open the windows.’

‘That’s in case somebody jumps out,’ Sandra says.

Embarrassed, I glance at Mr Dunlop. Sandra doesn’t always remember to watch what she says in front of people, the way Mam and I do. But Mr Dunlop gives me that funny little half-smile again, and this time it’s reassuring. Like I’m in on the secret.

After I’m sent upstairs with the others, after I hear the front door close behind Mr Dunlop, after mince and potatoes, after the usual evening routine of washing-up and helping Mam with bathtime, Father knocks on the door of the room I share with Sandra.

He looks strange at the edge of my space, like he’s arrived here by mistake.

He clears his throat. ‘You’re growing up, Bethie,’ he says.

I slide Forever under my pillow. ‘Yes. I’ll be sixteen soon.’

‘How do you feel about working a few hours a week? I had an interesting chat with Mr Dunlop before he left. He’s looking for someone to help with his affairs. Writing letters, filing, that sort of thing. An hour or two after school, maybe some Saturday afternoons. He’d pay you fifty pence an hour.’

‘What about Mam and the kids?’

‘They’ll manage. Sandra is old enough to take on more responsibility here. I think it’ll be good for you, Bethie. Mr Dunlop is a well-connected man. Play your cards right and it could lead to bigger opportunities.’

‘OK.’ I shrug, wanting to get back to my book, to learn about things nobody talks about at home.

‘That’s my girl.’ Father smiles. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Dunlop next week and we’ll work it all out.’

I don’t know why my father seems so keen to impress Mr Dunlop, but I figure it’s something to do with those connections. And I can think of worse things than working for a man with smart clothes and a refined voice, who pays close attention to everything I have to say.