'Excuse me, Miss Glenda,' said Nutt meekly.
'Yes, what?'
'Which of us were you addressing?'
'I have let you down,' said Nutt, as they strolled through the post-match crowds. At least, Trev ambled; Nutt moved with a strange gait that suggested there was something wrong with his pelvis.
'Nah, it's fixable,' said Trev. 'Everything is fixable. I'm a fixer, me. What did anybody really see? Just a bloke in Dimmer kit. There's thousands of us. Don't worry. Er, how come you're so tough, Gobbo? You spent your life lifting weights, or what?'
'You are correct in your surmise, Mister Trev. Before I was born I did indeed use to lift weights. I was only a child then, of course.'
They strolled on and after a while Trev said, 'Could you say that again? It's got stuck in my head. Actually, I think part of it's stickin' out of my ear.'
'Ah, yes. Perhaps I have confused you. There was a time when my mind was full of darkness. Then Brother Oats helped me to the light, and I was born.'
'Oh, religion stuff.'
'But here I am. You asked why I am strong? When I lived in the dark of the forge, I used to lift weights. The tongs at first, and then the little hammer and then the biggest hammer, and then one day I could lift the anvil. That was a good day. It was a little freedom.'
'Why was it so important to lift the anvil?'
'I was chained to the anvil.'
They walked on in silence again until Trev, picking each word with care, said, 'I guess things must be sort of tough in the high country?'
'It is not so bad now, I think.'
'Makes you count your blessin's, that sort of thing.'
'The presence of a certain lady, Mister Trev?'
'Yes, since you ask. I think about 'er all the time! I really like 'er! But she's a Dolly!' A small group of supporters turned to glance at them, and he lowered his voice to a hiss. 'She's got brothers with fists the size of a bull's arse!'
'I have read, Mister Trev, that love laughs at locksmiths.'
'Really? And what does it do when it's been smacked in the face by a bull's arse?'
'The poets are not forthcoming in that respect, Mister Trev.'
'Besides,' said Trev, 'locksmiths tend to be quiet blokes, you know? Careful and patient and that. Like you. I reckon you could get away with a bit of a joke. You must 'ave met girls. I mean, you're no oil painting, that's a fact, but they like a posh voice. I bet you 'ad them eatin' out of your 'and... well, after you'd washed it, obviously.'
Nutt hesitated. There had been Ladyship, of course, and Miss Healstether, neither of whom fitted easily into the category of 'girl'. Of course, there were the Little Sisters, who were certainly young and apparently female but it had to be said looked rather like intelligent chickens, and certainly weren't seen at their best when you watched them feeding¨Cbut once again, 'girls' did not seem the right word.
'I have not met many girls,' he volunteered.
'There's Glenda. She's taken a real shine to you. Watch out, though, she'll run your life for you if you let her. It's what she does. She does it to everyone.'
'You two have a history, I think,' said Nutt.
'You are a sharp one, aren't you? Quiet and sharp. Like a knife. Yeah, I suppose it was a history. I wanted it to be more of a geography, but she kept slappin' my hand.' Trev paused to search for any flicker in Nutt's face. 'That was a joke,' he added, without much hope.
'Thank you for telling me, Mister Trev. I will decipher it later.'
Trev sighed. 'But I ain't like that any more, and Juliet... well, I'd crawl a mile over broken glass just to hold 'er 'and, no funny business.'
'Writing a poem is often the way to the intended's heart,' said Nutt.
Trev brightened. 'Ah, I'm good with words. If I wrote 'er a letter, you could give it to 'er, right? If I write it on posh paper, something like, let's see... "I think you are really fit. How about a date? No hanky panky, promise. Luv, Trev." How does that sound?'