It still fits him, somehow. ‘They don’t make quality like this anymore,’ he says. The same line he uses every time he fetches it from the back of the cupboard. ‘It’s not that cold,’ I say. ‘Maybe I just felt like wearing it.’ ‘You felt like smelling of mothballs and itching?’ ‘You came out here just to critique my fashion sense? What time is it?’ ‘Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d visit a weird guy in a shed.’ Dad smiles. He points his thumb behind him. ‘Come on, then.’ Inside, everything looks different. All the paperwork is gone from the workbench, and there’s a bunch of cardboard boxes stacked against one wall. ‘Spring cleaning?’ I say. ‘Something like that.’ I hear the familiar grumble of the radio. ‘We still in the match?’ Dad tips his hand from side to side, like not really. ‘They’ve only got to get a hundred and forty-odd. They’re none for twenty already.’ ‘Bugger.’ I settle into the bucket seat. I don’t even fall out of it straight away now.
What do You think about Clancy Of The Undertow (2015)?
