Free Humber Boy B by Ruth Dugdall Page A

to be strict, but when he notices me he smiles, and his face changes. I see that to the side of the reception is a small room and the door is open so I can hear the sound of voices, chatter and laughter. I start to step away, but then I hear the jingle and realise it’s not a group of people, it’s only the TV.
    “Hello, lad. You must be Ben?”
    I jolt, eyes open and nod. To the side of reception is a tank, and inside are orange and black clown fish, prettily darting between lime green plant tentacles.
    “So, Ben, the lady from, y’know, probation, she told me you like fish?” he asks, conversationally.
    “Yes. I especially like the… ” I want to say atmosphere or peace but something tells me this is the wrong answer. “Carp.” I haven’t thought about carp in eight years, yet the word just popped out.
    “Hmm. Sullen buggers they are. Never ones to break a smile or a sweat, just bob around in their own sweet time. We’ve got a tankful of big ’uns just like them, through there.” He points with his rolled up newspaper to the lower part of the aquarium. “Moody buggers, they are.”
    This makes me smile and he grins back. I imagine he doesn’t have many people here to appreciate his humour, the place seems empty. He unrolls his paper and I look back at the clown fish, feeling more awkward now that the silence has been broken.
    “Okay, so my name’s Leon. I’ll show you round, but first do you want a cuppa?”
    “Please.” The truth is, I’m gasping for a drink. I still haven’t bought a kettle, so all I’ve had for breakfast is tap water and a chocolate bar.
    “The staff room is in there,” he jerks a thumb to the small room. “Make me one too. Milk, two sugars.”
    I realise that this means something, that he’s giving me my first job. It may mean he accepts my presence, or that he can’t be arsed to make his own tea, but either way I’m glad to once again have someone telling me what to do.
    The staff room is a cupboard with no windows. There are posters taped up, a football league table and a picture of a cat hanging from a branch by its claws. The officers in prison used to put posters in their office, the prisoners had pictures of women on their walls, but I never did. I couldn’t think about girls, not properly. Not when the last time I spoke to one was eight years ago, just moments before my life was about to change forever. That girl was with her dad, and she was doing gymnastics in the Humber. She was wearing a vest top and cut-off shorts and was every bit as pretty as the girls in the wall posters. But her face became mixed up with what came after, so I can’t stand to think of it. I fill the kettle with water, and while it boils I watch the TV.
    It’s an American show, loud voices, tanned skin, big hair. An older woman with a plunging neckline is giving three other woman, also with plunging necklines, advice on finding a man. “Don’t give it away!” the busty woman orders. “Make him wait for it.”
    I can hear the water in the kettle bubbling so I pour it into mugs, not sure whether to use one teabag or two. I opt for one, dipping it between the cups, then agonise over how much milk to add. This simple thing, another lesson I have yet to master.
    I return to reception, where Leon is reading the creased paper, and hand him his mug. He sips, then smacks his lips. “Perfect,” he says, and I feel unreasonably delighted with myself. Because I don’t want the moment to end, and I have nothing better to say, it tumbles out of me.
    “That show on the telly is weird.”
    “Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. It’s just background noise to him, and he probably doesn’t even know what’s on right now.
    “It’s dating advice. But like a quiz game too. These three women, they all want to date this man who’s a millionaire.”
    The man whistles. “I wouldn’t mind advice on that, meself. Then I wouldn’t have to work in this crap-hole.”
    My mouth sags. The aquarium seems so