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could be nerves. Or it could
be an insult, Shaw pointedly pretending that Young Frank was not there.
    Whichever, Ernie decided he ought to break this up
before it started to spoil the atmosphere. But somebody better equipped than him got there first.
                'Where's your dad, Frank?' Milly Gill demanded, putting
herself firmly between him and Shaw, like a thick, flowery bush sprouting
between two trees.
                'Be around somewhere.' Frank staring over the
postmistress's head at Shaw, who was staring back now. Frank's knuckles
whitening around the handle of his beer mug.
                'I think you'd better find him, Frank,' Milly said
briskly. 'See he doesn't drink too much with that diabetes.'
                Frank ignored her, too tanked-up to know his place.
'Fancy new car.   I see ...   Mr
Horridge . Porsche, int it? Andy Hodgson just got 'isself a new car, day
before he fell. Well,   I'm saying
"new" - Austin Maestro, don't even make um no more. He were chuffed
wi' it. Easily pleased, Andy, weren't he, Milly?'
                'It was an accident,' Milly said tightly. 'As you well
know.'
                'Aye, sure it were, I'm not accusing Mr Horridge of murder .
            Only, why don't you ask him
why Andy were suddenly ordered to reconnect a bloody old clapped-out pulley
system for winching malt-sacks up to a storeroom right at top of t'building as
isn't even used no more except by owls. You ask this bastard that, Milly.'
                'We've had the inquest,' Milly said. 'Go and see to your
dad.'
                'Inquest? Fucking whitewash. I'll tell you why Andy were
sent up. On account of place were being tarted up to look all quaint and old-fashioned for a visit from t'Gannons
directors. Right, Mr Horridge ?'
                'Wasn't c ... Not quite like that,' said Shaw quietly.
            'Oh aye. How were it
different? Lad dies for a bit of fucking cosmetic .
You're all shit, you. Shit.'
                The air between them fizzed. Shaw was silent. He'd been
an expert at being silent during the three years Ernie had taught him before
the lad was sent to prep school. And still an expert when he came back from
University, poor bugger.
                'And this Porsche.' Young Frank popped out the word with
a few beery bubbles. 'How many jobs Gannons gonna axe to buy you that, eh?'
                'Frank,' Milly Gill told him very firmly, big floral
bosom swelling, 'I'll not tell you again!'
                Careful, lass, Ernie thought. Don't do owt.
            'You're a jammy little twat,'
Frank spat. 'Don't give a shit. You never was a proper Horridge.'
                A widening circle around them, conversations trailing
off.
            'Right.' Milly's eyes went
still. 'That's enough. I'll not have this occasion spoiled. Am I getting
through?'
                'Now, Millicent,' Ernie said, knowing from experience
what might happen if she got riled. But Shaw Horridge startled them all. 'It's
quite all right, Miss Gill.'
                He smiled icily at Young Frank. 'Yes, it is a
per-Porsche.' Held up his glass. 'Yes, it is vodka. Yes, it's mer-made in
Sheffield by a s-subsidiary of Gannons Ales.'
                He straightened up, taller than Frank now, his voice
gaining in strength. 'Gannons Ales. Without whom, yes, I wouldn't have a
Porsche."
                And, stepping around Millie, he poked Young Frank in the
chest with a thin but rigid forefinger. 'And without whom you wouldn't have a job ... Mr
Manifold .'
                Ernie saw several men tense, ready to hold Young Frank
back, but Frank didn't move. His eyes widened and his grip on the tankard
slackened. Lad's as astonished as me, Ernie thought, at Shaw Horridge coming
out with half a dozen almost fully coherent sentences one