Brooke Ames said goodbye to her parents and set off for the evening. She was carrying a rather unflattering shopping bag that didn’t suggest she was heading for a night on the town.
"Hang about," said a voice. She turned. It was Maxwell Fairhurst.
"Huh," she said. "What do you want?"
"I was wondering whether you fancied going for a drink."
"What if I did? You wouldn’t be coming."
"Why not?
"Because you’re under-age."
"Only just. And I’m big for my age." Realising the double entendre in what he had just said, he added, "if you know what I mean."
"And where would we be going for this supposed drink? Down The Petrel? Nearly everybody there knows who you are."
"They don’t know when my birthday is. I could be turned eighteen already. You turned eighteen in your final year at Hope."
"But you’re not even in your final year yet."
"Oh, come on – you could go to the bar – I’d give you the money. Nobody’d bat an eyelid."
"I can’t," she insisted. "I’m going to my mate, Sasha’s, to do some revising together." She raised the bag, as if to suggest it was full of study texts.
"Oh, yeah? Revising what?" He grabbed the bag from her before she could react and pulled out a piece of clothing. Some kind of spangly top. "Revising going clubbing and how to pull on the dance floor?"
She snatched the bag back from him. "Just a bit of fun first. Then we come home and do some work."
"You mean before her parents get back from wherever, I’m guessing."
"All work and no play…"
"Exactly," Maxwell pounced. "You don’t want me becoming a dull boy. Come on – just the one drink."
"Get lost."
"What if I told your parents where you were going? What you were studying?"
This impasse in negotiations was interrupted by the arrival of Douglas Gormley. "What are you two arguing about?"
Brooke was unable to speak. "School work," said Maxwell, attempting to be helpful.
"Hey! – we can help each other out," said Douglas.
"In what way?" said Brooke.
"Well, if the two of you were looking for somewhere peaceful to do your swatting, how about at my house? Plenty of quiet there."
Brooke gave Douglas a look that would have withered a cactus. "You mean except for your baby daughter, Bethany."
Maxwell liked the idea of an empty house. "That would be very nice, Mr Gormley. No distractions."
"He means," Brooke turned to Maxwell, her tone matching her expression, "that he wants me to baby-sit."
"Just for a while," said Douglas, as lightly as he could. "Max, is your Dad going to be down The Petrel tonight?"
"‘Spect so. He’s there most evenings."
"Great! Well, we could do each other a favour. I want to do some work for your Dad, and I could pay you, Brooke, for keeping an eye on little Bethany. And it would be good for your experience for your college course."
"In what way?" Brooke’s voice dripped with derision.
"What is it your going to be doing again? Nursery care, isn’t it?"
"Media studies and sociology."
"Well. There you are then." Douglas hadn’t the faintest idea what media studies were, nor did he care. "And remember, Max, you owe me a favour already."
"I do?" Max tried to recollect.
"So we all scratch each other’s back," Douglas concluded. Max was still slightly tangled in trying to recall what favour he owed Douglas Gormley. However, he was alert to the opportunity presented by an empty house shared with Brooke Ames and a hopefully-sleeping infant.
"Just one thing," said Max. "I don’t suppose you’ve any beers in the house have you? Pay me in kind instead of the money."
Douglas was desperately trying to work out the cheaper option between cans of supermarket beer and hard cash, when Max added, with a nod towards Brooke, "baby-sitters get, what, a fiver an hour these days?"
"A fiver?" Douglas was still struggling with the sums. "What do you need beer for if you’re studying?"
"It’s brain-food," said Max.
Douglas caved. He had bigger fish to fry and he had to get to The Petrel to do it. "There’s some cans in the fridge I was saving for a special occasion." There was a note of wistful hurt in his voice. "You can have them."
Max led Brooke away towards number 25 as Douglas hurried off to The Stormy Petrel. Looking round, he murmured, "How can you be saving a can of beer for a special occasion? Tell you what – if I give you a fiver, you can pop in The Petrel and get a couple of take-outs.""
Brooke was less than impressed herself, but for different reasons. "‘Brain-food’? You should have told me you’ve been on a starvation diet."
Maddy had arrived at The Stormy Petrel and installed herself behind the bar for the evening. She didn’t dislike bar work – it meant you got to meet people and have a bit of a chat sometimes, which in her book put above being stuck in an office, but it wasn’t the sort of work she would have picked if she’d had a choice. For one thing, it didn’t pay that well. For another, despite knowing there was nothing wrong with it – it was honest work – she still felt it slightly demeaning to be at people’s beck and call like a servant. Also, there was being on your feet all evening after perhaps a long day and above all, she got to see other people having a good time and spending money when she couldn’t. But a job was a job and it wasn’t all bad. Occasionally she got bought a drink and the landlord didn’t mind. Her first customer of the evening was Benson Fairhurst and she wouldn’t bet on him having the money to spare for a tip. Times seemed hard for nearly everyone.
"Pint of bitter, Maddy, when you’re ready."
She placed the glass under the tap and flicked the leaver. "Douglas Gormley stuck his head around the door just a moment ago looking for you. Have you seen him?"
"Looking for me? And he didn’t even stop for a drink?"
"No, he said he would try again later. Seemed really keen to find you."
"I wonder what he wants. Nothing useful, I’ll bet."
"Nas?"
"Yes?"
"You haven’t seen my camera while you’ve been unpacking, have you?"
"No, Rob – I haven’t been doing your things."
"Well it wasn’t actually packed – I had it out earlier to take some pictures of our new home. Moving-in day. I can’t find now."
"Why don’t we knock this on the head for the day? We’ve done enough."
"Good idea. I tell you what – let’s go and check out this Stormy Petrel place. I’ll by you a scotch and some pork scratchings."
"I may be about to marry you, Robert Farrah, but I’m still a good Muslim."
"Glass of coke then. And we can get to see some more inhabitants of Magnolia Close."
"You’re on."
End of Episode 8.
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