Page 6 of Crazy Spooky Love
He shakes his head. “The wife called me ‘Big Art’ and him ‘Little Art.’ Worked fine until he grew to six foot two.” He smiles sadly. “No need now, I don’t suppose. He’ll probably be just Art.”
I nod, sympathetic, still unsure where I fit into the Big Art, Little Art story.
“And you’ve come to see me about Little Art because…?” I prompt, since Big Art has gone misty-eyed and I know what’s likely to happen next if I don’t keep him on track. He’s freshly dead, which means he’s probably still getting used to the idea and prone to emotional outbursts.
“Just Art,” he reminds me morosely, wiping a hand across his eyes even though he’s incapable of crying.
I nod and mutter quickly, “Art.” Call me uncharitable but there’s a slim chance that if I can hurry Big Art along, I might be able to close my eyes and catch hold of the coattails of my RDJ fantasy. Iron Man could still be on one knee waiting for my answersomewhere in my dreams, but he’s not the kind of superhero to hang around for long.
“He needs a job, like.”
I narrow my eyes, starting to see where this is headed. I’m going to kill my gran.
“Art needs a job?”
Big Art nods. “He knows nothing about ghosts, ’course, but he’s a good lad and his mother worries about him. We both do, matter of fact. Think that’s why I got stuck here instead of going over. Bit of a shame really, it’s my dear old mum’s birthday today and I thought I’d surprise her, seeing as I’ve not laid eyes on her for fifteen years or more. Do they have birthday parties up there?”
I try to keep the conversation on track. “I’m not taking on staff, I’m afraid.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Your gran said you would be. Just someone to carry your bags and make tea, that kind of thing.” Big Art looks at me as beseechingly as a dead man in hi-vis can. “You won’t have to pay him much, his mother keeps him well-fed. Just enough to cover his bus fare and pay for mice for his snake and he’ll be a happy lad. You won’t find anyone more willing.”
“Look, Big Art.” I’m practicing my diplomacy skills. “If I was in the market for a trainee, Art would be first in the queue, but I’m not. I’ll keep him in mind for the future, okay?”
Big Art’s face falls. “I’ve failed him. My only son, and I’ve gone and left him on his own, haven’t I?”
“Try not to blame yourself,” I reason. “It’s sheer bad luck to have a barrel fall on your head. You can’t predict these things.”
He puts both his hands over his bald head. “Bloody hurt, it did.”
“I imagine it would, yes.”
“Write his name down in case you get a vacancy?”
“I’ll remember it. Little Arthur Elliott.”
“You don’t know where he lives.”
Resigned, I get up from the comfort of the armchair and cross to sit behind my desk, where I open up the wide drawer. Marina haslaid out all of my new stationery as if it’s the first day of term. Fresh A4 writing pad, pristine and lined, ready to go. Sharpened pencils. Unused eraser. A neat line of blue, black, and red pens. God, I love that woman.
I pick up the pad and a pencil and write “Arthur Elliott” across the top of the paper. I transcribe the address Big Art relays to me and then smile, my pencil poised. I’m quite enjoying the feeling of writing things down at the desk, it feels like an actual job.
“Anything else I should know? Qualifications, that sort of thing?”
I chew the end of the pencil and glance at Big Art, who once more looks on the verge of unshedable tears.
“None,” he whispers.
“None?” I say, far louder. “Not even an F in Woodwork or something?”
“Bloody bullies!” the words burst from Big Art’s chest. “Gentle giant, my Artie is, and they just wouldn’t leave him alone. Always on the outside, he was, never included. Me and his mother didn’t even know anything about it until we were called in to see why his attendance was so awful.”
“He was bullied at school?”
Big Art nods. “Summat rotten. ’Bout his acne, his snake, his height. You know how it is with that sort, like a pack of dogs with a bone. He’d have been all right if he’d had a mate or two, but he never really seemed to find anyone.”
No one understands the loneliness of being an outsider more than I do. If I hadn’t had Marina, my own school life could very easily have mirrored Little Art’s. I look at the mournful, ruddy-cheeked man in front of me and withdraw some proper writing paper from the drawer.
“Come and sit down, Art.”
