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from Banjo Riley’s Pullover by Geoff Tomlinson
As everybody knows, grief wears holes in your pullover.
Banjo Riley’s missus hadn’t been dead more than five or six weeks when holes began to appear in his fair-isle cardigan, and also in his memory.
Some days he couldn’t remember whether he’d just had a cigarette or not. Nobody cared about that, but when he missed turning up for the musical evenings at Old Ma Blackett’s bar people began to realise Banjo was in difficulties.
People had been known to travel six or seven miles on the train to hear the Hawksworth harmonisers, and walk the six miles back, way after midnight.
Eventually Ma Blackett herself felt obliged to have a word with him.
“Who’s doin’ your washin’ these days, Banjo?” she asked obliquely.
“Washin’?” says Banjo, as though raking through his memory for an old and complicated concept.
“Yea, you know, washin’. Who’s washing your shirts since Liza died?”
“Well, nobody in particular,” says Banjo “I washes some of ‘em misself. Our Ada sometimes washes one or two. Mrs Hardacre has offered, but I don’t need help that bad.”
“And who gets you up in the morning then?”
“Why, Nobbie, o’ course, like everybody else.”
“I heard rumours you’ve been late for work three mornings this week.”
“Who told you that?”
“Never mind who told me. It’s not like you, Arthur, to be late for work.”
Banjo pushed down a crumpled grey woollen sock and scratched his ankle.
“I must be getting old, Ma. Can’t make the effort like I could as a young un.”
“Old! You’re only just turned forty,” said Ma Blackett with the indignation of a woman of fifty-four whose youth has been called in question.
“It’s a pity you didn’t have children, Banjo,” she continued, her tone noticeably softening. With six children of her own, Ma Blackett was in a strong position to lecture on the value of family benefits.
“What’re you getting at exactly?” asked Banjo, irritably, beginning to sense some ulterior motive in all this concern.
“You’ve missed two Saturdays out of four,” said Mrs. B, wiping the same pint glass that she’d been drying when she opened the conversation, “I hope you’re not going to miss tonight.”
“If I don’t come, you don’t have to pay me,” said Banjo, attempting to sound belligerent, but only succeeding in convincing Ma that all was not well with his heart or head.
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