Smoking Poppy by Graham Joyce (the read aloud family .txt) 📕

of it. I just wanted to hold her in my arms again, and for her to be my little girl.

3

Thursday night was snooker night, with Mick Williams, old pimento-face. Snooker is another of those games like darts or poker, designed by men to permit just enough chat to give the impression of sociability without anyone having to say anything. In fact if anyone starts talking with any degree of engagement or gravity, even if it’s just about football, then the game has to stop. And well, what’s the point in stopping the game to do something you could easily do if you hadn’t hired a table for a few hours? You don’t play snooker to talk.

So the only discourse in the melancholy cavern of Osborne’s snooker house, with its lozenges of lime baize receding in tight formation into the gloom, was the convivial crack and chatter of crystallite balls. Until, that is, deep into the third frame and typically with myself in boss position, Mick Williams, with extraordinary delicacy, laid his cue on the immaculate green baize. ‘A moment, Danny.’

‘Go on then.’ I motioned affably, cue butt resting by my feet, blue chalky tip held out at a soldierly angle.

‘It’s been eating away at me, like.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Can’t sit on it any longer.’

Mick Williams is always at his most infuriating in a snooker hall. In fact I don’t know why I play with the bloke, because sometimes I hate him. Passionately hate him. Something riles about the way he has to hoist his lardy gut on to the baulk when stretching for a shot; or about the way when, presented with an easy pot, he’ll rocket the pot-ball into the pocket with a totally unnecessary clatter and violence. Totally unnecessary that. And, after having done that very thing he’ll turn with a wry smile as if to say: there you are, that’s punished you.

But to lay down your cue on the illuminated green while your opponent is twenty-three points ahead with only five colours left on the table, that is unforgivable. It’s cheating, no question.

‘Spit it out then.’

He pirouetted round the baulk and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘In the Black Dog Saturday night. Me and a few of the lads. Having a few jars, like. Few pints. Not bad in there; not bad at all. Black Dog. It’s all right.’

‘Go on.’ I knew exactly what was coming.

‘Saturday night, type of thing. Beers going down well. Lot of laughs. Look Dan, I don’t know how to put this.’ He plucked a tiny piece of lint off the baize, regarding it between his thumb and forefinger with an expression of horror. ‘No,’ he said suddenly. ‘Forget it.’

And then he picked up his cue, took a reckless shot, and unaccountably potted the yellow. Then he sank the brown. The blue was sitting over the pocket, but he seemed to miss that one deliberately. Turning from the table, he wagged a finger, almost as if it was me he was angry with. ‘I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. Forget it.’

‘I would. If I knew what I had to forget.’

He danced round the baulk again, wiping a fat finger under his nose like it was an expensive cigar before positioning himself sideways-on to me. Squeezing his cue by the neck in his big pink fist, he hissed, ‘Look. Don’t kill the messenger, like. I saw Sheila in the Black Dog. And she …’ Here he lowered his voice. ‘Well, she were with another bloke.’

I picked up my cue and calmly turned to deal with the blue ball. If I could sink it, that would put the game beyond Mick’s reach.

‘You’d want a mate to tell you, Danny, wouldn’t you?’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you want him to?’

I rolled an agonisingly slow shot the length of the table and the blue dropped into the corner pocket with a cosy cluck. I like to stay down for a second or two after the ball goes in. It’s a style thing. ‘I know all that,’ I said. Even though he was positioned behind me I felt his jaw drop. Lining up for the pink I added, ‘Sheila and I have been separated for some time.’

‘For some …’ A volley of spittle shot from between his teeth. His face, normally flame, turned a shade of puce in the low lighting. Activity stopped at the other tables. Other players were looking at us now. ‘How long?’

‘About twelve weeks.’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘Well no,’ I said, lining up again for the easy pink. But I didn’t get a chance to sink it because Mick was buttoning on his coat. ‘Where are you going? We always play the five frames.’

He’d holstered his cue and clattered it into the members’ rack before I could stop him. Breaching club etiquette and leaving the balls on the table, I followed him outside. He was so angry he hadn’t even stopped to pay for the frame. ‘Mick!’ I tried, striding out behind him. ‘Mick!’

Mick wasn’t having any of it. He stormed into the Lamplighter, some vinegary, sticky-floored boozer I’d never been in before, and shouted himself a pint of Jubilee Ale, pointedly failing to order one for me. His face was on fire. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Made a donkey out of me.’ He picked up his foaming beer and took it to a table, where he sat, arms folded in a rib-cracking self-hug, his angry face averted. I shouted myself a beer and joined him at the table.

‘I was about to win that frame,’ I said.

‘You’ve been split up from Sheila for three months and I didn’t know anything about it. And I’m your pal. I’m supposed to be your best mate.’

His best mate? This was complicated. I didn’t realise I was his best mate, nor he mine. We’d known each other for some years, true, but then only as snooker partners and quiz makeweights. I didn’t much go in for this ‘best mates’ thing; I didn’t see the point. Your best