Enchantment by Monica Dickens

and really to help Zara, since it was her car and the gearbox would have packed it in anyway. Val stared at Tim over the ironing-board, drew her thin red mouth back into a snarling grimace and said, ‘No.’
    â€˜Just – er, just no?’
    â€˜I have nothing to add.’ She gazed at him through the thick glasses that protected her eyes and thoughts from your knowledge, like portholes protecting passengers from the sea. She thumped the iron about a bit, and then she suddenly put back her head and laughed.
    â€˜Don’t look so glum, poor old Tim.’
    â€˜Were you joking?’
    â€˜I never joke about money. Nor does our Dad Wallace. You’d better go and ask him. You’re his responsibility, not mine.’

    Wallace was in his woodworking shed, feeling it vibrate gently as he turned a paper-knife handle on the lathe. His beloved son appeared in the doorway, looking pale.
    â€˜Hullo, stranger,’ Wallace said, as a way of letting Timothy know that his casual visits at long intervals had been noted.
    â€˜Sorry I didn’t come last weekend, Dad. I had a lot on.’
    â€˜Who said anything about last weekend? We weren’t here anyway. I took m’wife to the coast.’ His son was the champion liar, but Wallace could lie too as necessary. ‘Pass me that gouge would you? No, that’s not a gouge. Up there, look, on the shelf. That’s right, drop it. It only cost ten quid.’
    â€˜Talking of the cost of things, Dad …’
    When the boy cleared his throat in that strangled way, it reminded you of those unwholesome programmes Annie loved – always on the BBC, since no one would pay to advertise on them – where the handicapped tried to walk and speak, and would have been better shut away and not embarrassing people.
    â€˜Is this a money talk, then?’ Wallace asked, his mouth pursed, his skilled craftsman’s fingers a marvel to see. ‘Money talks.’
    His son stayed mum, biting his lip. Wallace, merciful patriarch, put him out of his misery.
    â€˜Since you only ever come here to get a good hot meal or scrounge a bit of cash, I’m assuming, since it is neither lunch nor supper time, that you’re after a loan.’
    â€˜That’s right, Dad.’ The worm squirmed.
    â€˜You know my motto. Never borrow, never loan.’
    â€˜I can pay it back. I get my bonus, end of next month.’
    â€˜Ah.’ Wallace stopped the lathe and held the handle up to thelight for Tim to admire. Tim was looking at the floor, and pushing shavings about with the side of his foot. ‘So it’s not just five pounds or so we’re talking about.’
    â€˜Bit more.’
    â€˜How much more?’
    Tim told him.
    Wallace Kendall could not let his son continue with an explanation of what it was for. He could not trust himself, not with all these sharp tools about.
    â€˜You’d better go,’ he said, with admirable calm, considering his whole blood supply was up in his head and battering to get out.
    â€˜All right, Dad.’
    Why didn’t the wimp stand up to him? Why didn’t he say, ‘Wait a minute, Dad,’ and stand his ground, instead of ducking his head and fumbling his way out of the workshop? Boy couldn’t even shut a door.
    â€˜Shut the bloody door!’
    If Wallace Kendall had been Tim, he would have banged the door hard, and made the little hut shake. Tim closed the door as gently as if he were leaving a sick-room. His father started up the lathe again and the little hut began its gentle tremble under the hands of its master.

    In a wild flight of fancy, Tim imagined casting himself on the kindness of Mr D., and Mr D. would respond like a benevolent employer of olden times, remembering that he too had been young once and in need of a helping hand.
    But the only helping hand Tim would get if he was insane enough to try to touch his boss would be a shove towards the door. Out. Sacked. Plenty