Denis

The men are playing cards on top of a wooden crate. One of them says, “What can we do for you, son? You look a bit lost, mate,” without taking his cigarette out of his mouth, and one of the others laughs a funny gurgly laugh that sounded like spit and stones being stirred in a bucket.

I said, “Have you seen my pappi, please? I can’t find him.”

They look at each other and snigger. One of them says, “Now then, now then, where can he be?” and the others laugh again. The man who makes the others laugh is fat, and his overalls are too tight. His hair is combed up from above his ear and over onto the top of his head, which is shiny and greasy, like it needs a wash, like mine does on Sunday evening before I get my clothes ready for school. Looking at his hair makes me feel a little bit sick.

{Mummy washes my hair in the kitchen sink while I lie on the china draining board on my back. The [china/porcelain] is cold against my neck, and there are [raised lines/ribs/embossings] that dig into my back. Mummy uses green shampoo that stings my eyes, and pours water out of a white jug that sounds like metal whenever it knocks against the tap [ie enamel – anachronistic?] Cold water always trickles down around my neck.}

The funny man picks up the cards and looks underneath them. “Nope, not there. Maybe he’s…” and he stands up and looks around the back of the crate. “Nope, not there either. Where can he be, lads?”

I start crying. They look at me, their eyes all crinkly with laughter. I shout. “Where is my pappi? I want my pappi!” and I cry harder while they pull their mouths back in tight little smiles, like they’re trying not to laugh. The fat man, in his horrible overalls, says, “All right, son, all right, all right,” and he comes over to me and sort of squats down and puts his hand on my shoulder. I can feel through his hand that he’s rocking backwards and forwards a bit, and holding on to my shoulder so that he doesn’t overbalance.

“Now then, son, stop crying and answer some questions for me.”
I nod, pushing my bottom lip out.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Denis.”
“Denis what, Denis?”
“Denis…[surname]. From [district].”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. What’s your pappi’s name, son?”
“I don’t…I don’t know,” I say. They laugh.
“Don’t know your own dad’s name?”

I shake my head. And it’s true, I don’t; I’ve never heard anyone call him anything but Mr [surname], and mummy never uses his name at all – she just speaks in a certain way, so that the spaces in her words or the way she says things lets pappi and me know that it’s him she’s talking to.

They ask me some more questions about pappi: what he looks like, what job he does – and at last one of the men says, “Oh, of course, it’s [nickname] – old, er, [first name].”

The others nod, and funny fat man says, “I know where he’ll be. [the different crews/groups all have their favoured bars, just like the shifts etc used to back at NatWest] Come with me, son; I’ll take you there.”