Free Perfectly Pure and Good by Frances Fyfield Page B

very kind of you.' This time his grin managed to emerge, splitting the face into dimples and making her remember what a star he had looked, in his tight-fitting jeans and brilliant white shirt, among the lights of the arcade with bingo going on in the corner, how politely he had listened to her above the din. A contrast to his dull-haired misery of the morning, no longer a king but a servant.

    `That's all right then,' he said. 'My name's Rick.'
    `What did you do to your face?' The question would be asked two dozen times during the day and for others he would invent a story, make them laugh, but the hour was too early for concoction.
    `Nothing. Had a fight with my dad for taking the van out.' There didn't seem much she could say about that, except what she did say.
    Ì'm sorry. I'd rather have stayed lost than got you into trouble.'
    `What makes you think you're that important?' he flashed back, jeering. 'Doesn't take a reason for Dad to hit me. Fact is, he thought it was funny, me taking you out there. Didn't like me leaving this place, though. Might have missed taking money or something.' Rick was suddenly uncomfortable, talking so much, but she didn't waste his time being shocked or anything. She looked fresh out of bed and besides he hurt all over and wanted someone to know.
    `Do you look after all those machines?' she asked, pointing to the arcade.
    `Yeah,' he muttered. 'All those crappy machines, all that row. And I do the ice-cream-van round.
    Smashing.'
    `Do you? What a marvellous place to live.' She knew as she spoke that the question and the observation were fatuous. He spat into the gutter.
    `You've got to be joking,' Then he spat in the road, to emphasize the point again. She was mildly irritated, not much.
    ÒK. OK,' she said. 'But you're far too good-looking to let anyone cover it in bruises. Why don't you dump your dad on a boat and tell him to sail? You're big enough, unless he's bigger.'
    He let out a great shout of laughter, then clutched his waist because laughter hurt.
    `For Christ's sake,' she said. 'Give me the damn brush and sit down.'
    Ì can't. My dad—'
    `Give it me.' He did, slowly crossed to the wall opposite and lit a cigarette, then sat there watching, waiting to be amused. Sarah swept the pavement in front of the arcade like a furious housewife with only moments to spare, picking up fish paper, hamburger remnants, shoving everything into the plastic sack with which he had come equipped.
    Then seized a wash leather out of his bucket and cleaned the windows with the deft movements of a person who hated housework, endeavoured to complete it in the shortest possible time with all the refinements of sheer impatience. She scoured door knobs and scuffed panels of paint, covered every inch in ten, hyperactive minutes. The emotions of the last few days had driven her to scour her flat from end to end with the same relentless energy in a practice made so perfect her swipe of the last windowpane called for a slow hand clap. Rick ambled back across the road.
    Àre we quits?' she asked.
    `How much do you charge an hour?' he asked, still trying to jeer, the smile less painful, strength coming back into his limbs. She was a looker all right, a lovely bum when she bent.
    Òh, I couldn't possibly tell you. It depends what for.'
    `You really a lawyer, like you said? I knew the Pardoes were expecting one. Mrs P. told me. Said it would be some old cow.'
    `That was a perfectly accurate expectation. Here I am.' They were both grinning broadly now.
    Ì don't know anything about them,' she added cunningly. `Why would people say, for instance, that Edward was a shit? Someone said so, in the hairdresser's.'
    `Because he is. Because when he goes fishing up yonder,' he gestured beyond the far distance,
    'he won't even stop if he sees a seal. Leaves hooks and line for other things to swallow. He likes nasty practical jokes, Edward.
    And that ain't all.'
    Yes, she was a looker. Not old at all, with her jeans and the smut on