Painting Houses
Painting Houses
“Stuart Pearce? A left back? You mad, boy!” Steve said dismissively, splashing paint onto his overalls as he did so.
“It’s what my dad told me, he was the best,” Martin, the younger man, said in justification.
“Never use someone else’s opinion, youthe,”
“I agree with him, like,”
“Cos he’s your dad or cos you agree?”
“I…” Martin trailed off as they continued to paint, turning the wall from a dull grey into a slightly less dull yellow.
“Exactly.” Martin said without turning his head, continuing the up, down motion of his brushstrokes.
Steve listened to the bland chatter of Trent FM, before interjecting, “So, who do you think was the best, like?”
“John Robertson, no contest lad.”
“The jock?”
“Is that important?”
“Nah, nah, I just…”
“Just what, eh? He won us two European cups. Count em’. Two,” Steve waved two fingers in a gesture that could be considered as both victory and rudeness.
“Before I was born, so I…”
“You what, boy? Important to know the history. Thought your called your sen’ a fan?” Steve continued with the up, down brushstrokes.
A long pause. More bland commercial radio. Continued methodical brushstrokes.
“Who do you reckon shot Phil Mitchell then?” Martin asked, wiping the sweat off his floppy fringe.
“Is that on Coronation Street? The wife always rabbiting about that, lad. Let’s get on with some work, eh? I wanna be down the boozer by four thirty the latest.”
“You don’t know about it? It’s big news…”
Steve waved his hand in dismissal, another gesture close to obscene from a certain angle. Martin ran his fingers through his fringe and stopped talking.
Moments passed. More generic radio music blared in the background. They continued painting, largely in sync. There was now more yellow than grey.
“You mashing?” Steve said between brush strokes.
“Huh?” Martin continued his own painting.
“Mashing?”
“What?”
“Huh,” Steve poked the wall with his paintbrush, “put the sodding kettle on, youthe.”
“Oh… right…” Martin scuttled into the kitchen, as Steve shook his head whilst continuing.
“And no bloody sugar in first bullshit this time, youthe!”
“Good morning Steve!”
“As my uncle Phil used to say, what’s bloody good about it?”
“Want me to continue over here?”
“No, I want you to stand there like a wally, youthe,” Steve rolled his eyes.
Martin, taking the hint, carefully poured enough paint from a tin into a tray, pushed his fringe aside and dipped his brush in it. He began carefully stroking from side to side.
“Up and down.”
“What?”
“Up. And Down-n. Not… side to bloody side!”
Martin pushed his fringe aside and changed his strokes.
“And get mashing if you remember what it is, eh?”
Martin rolled his eyes, then exhaled involuntarily. Relieved Steve didn’t see.
Steve sipped loudly at his tea, “Yeah… That’s tickety boo… Can save a day here… Whole afternoon in the Pot Black…”
“Sounds nice…”
“Weren’t asking you, eh? Get on wi’ it..”
Martin pushed his fringe aside. It was wet now. “Why are you so keen on John Roberston? Did your dad used to take you to the City Ground?”
“We don’t talk about that…”
“About what?”
“Just shut up and work, youthe? Right? This needs finishing today or no bloody wages, you got it?”
Martin, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him, “… got it…”
______________________________________________________________________
There was now little grey left on the walls. The radio continued to play in the background. It had got splattered by yellow paint. The translucent plastic cover under their feet had received similar treatment.
“I’m going to the match on Saturday vs Crystal Palace, with my dad…”
If Steve was listening, he did not acknowledge it.
“I’d rather go with my mates, but you know, but of a family tradition like…”
Again, no reaction. Just careful paint strokes.
“When you used to go every week, did you go with…”
“Just stop bloody rabbiting, yeah? We’ve gotta finish today, lad…”
“But we’ve…”
“I said sodding leave it? Steve turned round to face him, his forehead red.
“Okay, okay, got it… Tea?”
“Yeah.. go on.”
Martin busied himself in the adjacent kitchenette. Steve’s brushstrokes on the wall in front of him became more rapid.
“There you go.”
“Ta.”
“When’s the last time you last went to a match then?”
His question was met only by the slurping of tea.
“I try to go every week if I can…” Martin pushed his fringe away from his eyes, “but sometimes my dad has to work…”
Steve scratched at his right leg. He didn’t reply, before returning to rapid brushstrokes.
“I tried to get Sarah to come, but she’s only interested in shopping. So I still go with my dad when…”
“Good work on this wall, youthe. Start on that one and we can be get down the pub, eh?”
The compliment threw Martin. He nodded and begun mixing more paint in his tray, before beginning with strokes from up to down. Steve stood behind him, scratching his right leg. He turned up the radio.
“Who’s Sarah?”
Martin, surprised by the question, was silent for a moment, “She’s a girl…”
“I didn’t think she was your brother, eh youthe? The girlfriend?”
“No, she’s…”
“Not a poof are we?” Steve scratched at his leg again.
It was Martin’s turn to stay silent.
“Touched a nerve, eh?”
Martin focused on the up and down brushstrokes, maintaining a steady pace as he did so. Steve turned up the radio still further, scratched his leg and turned back to the wall.
“You mashing?”
“Alright.”
______________________________________________________________________
“If they want the rest of the house done, we must be doing somethink right, eh?”
Steve scratched his leg, then continued to paint with the roller methodically.
“Might be in for a bit of a bonus. Can spend it at the football…”
Steve turned partially, turning up the radio.
“The cup game will be cheaper…”
Reaching down, he turned up the radio again.
Martin returned to painting. Steve scratched his right leg, his forehead reddening.
Martin subsequently began to talk again, “Might even be able to treat my dad…”
“Look youthe, can you stop going on and on about your d..,” Steve poked his paintbrush into the wall, “… just forget it, right? You mashing?”
“But why do you never let me talk ab…”
“Just bloody leave it, yeah?” Steve whirled around, paintbrush in hand. Martin raised his hands and headed towards the kitchenette.
Steve scratched his right leg, before continuing to paint at a rapid speed, “… bloody kids…”
“Here you go.” Martin handed him a cup, Steve nodded in acknowledgement.
“So, the cup game is gonna be great if you ask me…”
Steve turned the radio up still further.
“People under eighteen and over 60 are only two quid…”
Steve cranked the radio up to close to max.
“It’s a great opportunity to attract new fans and bring people back…”
“Trent FM News, at one o’clock, leading with a story about historical cases at the Robin of Loxley Children’s Home in Sherwood…”
Steve had stopped painting. He did not turn up the radio again. He did not scratch his leg. He did not tell Martin to stop talking. After a long pause, he picked up a pot of paint and flung in at an already painted wall.
Martin, his face partially covered by paint, turned and walked out the door.
Steve scratched his leg, the trouser leg raising with the up, down motion. The metal tag continued to irritate his skin.