‘Ever the charmer, you. Who’s this you’ve brought me then, eh?’ He gestures to Arthur who lurks in the doorway meek as a mouse. ‘New fella? Some mop he’s got on him.’ Bruce’s accent is so Lincolnshire that none of his h’s ever seem to get verbalised. The cadence of his sentences is almost identical to that of my grandad. It’s comforting, like home in a glottal stop.
‘This is Arthur,’ I begin, ‘Cavendish.’
‘You’re never old Eddie’s boy?’ Arthur nods reluctantly. ‘My God, look at you, spit of your old man. Eh Steve?’ He nudges the client in his chair. ‘This boy’s dad is a famous actor. Local lad too.’
‘Oh nice, he been in anything I’d have seen?’ Steve replies, and I see Arthur shift uncomfortably from the attention.
‘He’s been in all sorts,’ I reply for him. ‘You know thatnew one about all the gangs in Yorkshire? Period drama.’ Steve nods. ‘Yeah, he just won a BAFTA for that.’
‘Nice one, I should be asking for your autograph.’ The man with half his hair chuckles.
‘What can we do for you then?’ Bruce asks, setting down his scissors and picking up his clippers.
‘Arthur here needs a haircut.’ I smile at the victim, who stares back wide-eyed. ‘He’s helping me out on the farm but all that Hollywood hair keeps getting in the way.’
Besides the odd raunchy calendar, the walls are littered with photos of hairstyles. Some fashionable now, the others just remind me of the nicotine-stained photos my nan used to have of my dad in the Seventies. No matter which one you desperately beg to have, the only cut you will ever get is a ‘number five’ on the list. Short back and sides. Although, as it’s Bruce, it’s never quite number five, more like bald sides and a few tufts on the top. He learnt that style, and only that style, as an apprentice forty-five years ago. You can hide a multitude of sins with an Air Force blue-grey beret. Although, Arthur won’t have that privilege.
‘Have a seat, kids, and I’ll be with you after I’ve finished with Steve here.’ Doing as we’re told, we sit down on one of Bruce’s peeling pleather benches and Arthur watches the Butcher at work with his leg bouncing so erratically the whole building seems to shake with him.
‘Have you never had a haircut before?’ I lean over, placing my hand on the offending thigh and resting my weight against it in hopes he will stop.
‘I have,’ he whispers between gritted teeth, ‘just not by someone nicknamed the Bloody Butcher.’
‘It’s justthe Butcher, actually.’ I smile and he narrows his eyes. ‘You know I’m not actually going to force you to get your hair cut if you don’t want to. I’m not that much of a cow.’
‘Could’ve fooled me,’ he shoots back and my black stare is enough to shake him out of his bitchiness. ‘So whyarewe here?’
I eye Bruce across the room and he’s absorbed in conversation enough to allow me to go on. ‘No one comes to Bruce for a good haircut, we come for the stories.’
‘Stories?’ Arthur picks up one of the magazines from the coffee table absent-mindedly and after flicking through a couple of pages, he quickly realises they’re not your average waiting room gossip mags and he chucks it back down with wide eyes.
‘I’ve got issue one of that out the back if you want me to fetch it? It’s an antique now, I reckon.’ Bruce watches us from the mirror.
‘Erm, I’m…all right, thanks,’ Arthur replies, the redness of his cheeks leaking down his neck until he’s almost the same shade as Bruce’s décor.
‘Okay,somepeople come to Bruce because he has the biggest retro erotica collection in Lincolnshire.’ I chuckle quietly, as Arthur’s colour continues to darken. ‘But if you want to know anything about this place and the people in it, this is the man you need.’
Bruce is also no stranger to the military police. His hairdresser gossip goes a little beyond revealing who’s cheating on who. NATO secrets are no longer NATO secrets after they’ve sat in Bruce’s chair. Yet the Chief ofAir Staff makes a special visit every few months or so to get his ‘number five’.
Picking up the magazine that Arthur had thrown down, I skim through the pages. Scantily clad women are scrawled with biro, donning monocles and moustaches. I used to do the same in Mum’sTake a Break– make all of the victims of sordid affairs look like they’re fresh out of a Sherlock Holmes adaptation.
‘This newspaper is from 1997.’ Arthur holds up the paper with the headlineScientists Clone Adult Sheep. Then shuffles through the stack to find another from ’95 that reads,OJ Simpson Verdict: Not GuiltyandDiana Admits Adultery. ‘Does Bruce only do stories from thirty years ago? Because I think I may already know the outcome of all of these ones.’
With that, Bruce dramatically whips the cape from around Steve’s neck, flicking the discarded ends of his hair across the room. There are still some uneven patches at the back of his head but despite Bruce taking pains to show him every angle in the mirror, Steve doesn’t seem to notice or mind. The two shake hands, a very slight amount of money is exchanged, and Steve heads to the door.
‘Send my love to the missus,’ Steve says, his voice almost drowned out by the bell above the door that seems to be programmed to ring on for far longer than anyone could think is necessary. ‘And you…’ he points to Arthur ‘… you tell your dad if he needs any proper hard blokes to play a peaky blinder or something then he knows where I am. I’ve already got me own costume and everything.’
Arthur nods his head politely and grimaces into his smile.
‘Right then, Master Cavendish, what can I do you for?’ Bruce stands before him with another cape held out and Arthur eyes me nervously.
‘I suppose I could use a trim…’ He runs a hand through his hair as it drapes over his face and flicks out at his collar.
‘Well come on down!’ Bruce announces like an Eighties game show host and Arthur reluctantly dons the cape and takes his seat in Bruce’s chair.
‘I was thinking maybe a little bit off here then a little—’ Arthur begins to outline his own plans for his style, but Bruce takes no notice.
‘How are you liking Lincolnshire then, lad?’ The Butcher grabs the electric razor from his shelf and it buzzes menacingly in his hand. Arthur stares at me in the reflection, regret and fear etched into every pore of his face. Guilt begins to tip the scale against my desire for revenge and I go to protest, but then I remind myself of all of the times he’s made me want to punch him in the last few days and I realise that this is a good enough compromise. I justreallyhope he isn’t one of those ‘sue the arse off of anyone who does me wrong’ kind of rich kids, for my and Bruce’s sakes.
