Trouble Brewing

by Jane Tara

  “I see that artist friend of yours is in town, Simon.”

  “Taran? Yes, he’s staying with me.”

  “You two were always rather cozy.”

  “I don’t know why you let these people take advantage of you,” Penelope snapped. “He’s not really the type of person you should associate with.”

  Simon chewed his roast slowly, uncertain how he’d ever swallow it … or one more thing any member of his family said.

  “All that occult hoo-ha.” Penelope sniffed. “Witches and the dark arts. It chills me to the bone, Simon.”

  “I’ve known Taran for years and he’s never discussed that part of his life with me. It’s simply his faith. Unlike a lot of Christians, he doesn’t push it on people … Mother.”

  “There are subtle ways to brainwash those around you.”

  Simon sighed and pushed his plate away. His mother should know. She’d been practicing her subtle brainwashing methods for years.

  Penelope turned to Megan. “Do you go to church, Megan?”

  “Oh yes.” Megan nodded and smiled sweetly. “I went once.” She squeezed Simon’s hand under the table.

  Penelope waited until dessert arrived to ask Megan what she did for work.

  “I do stand-up.”

  “What’s that dear?”

  “I’m a comedian.”

  Penelope actually chuckled. “No, really, what do you do?”

  “I really am a stand-up comedian … and I also work part time at a pub. We have Apsley on tap.” Blank stares all round. “But for some reason it doesn’t sell well.”

  “You get paid to … tell jokes?” Penelope looked as though she was asking if Megan got paid to strip for lepers.

  “Paid? Hardly. I’m trying to crack it.”

  Simon knew if looks could kill, Megan would be dead. He jumped in. “That’s how we met. I saw Meg do a routine at a club, and honestly thought I’d die laughing.”

  Penelope looked at Simon as though she wished he had.

  “Tell us a joke then,” said Richard.

  “Oh no … now’s not the time …”

  “Oh, please do,” Penelope insisted. “Especially if Simon thinks you’re so funny. Tell us a joke.”

  Simon felt like a cricket ball gliding through the air toward Brian Lara’s bat. He sighed, the calm before the storm ...

  *

  Megan glanced at the deer head mounted on the wall in front of her and felt nothing but sympathy. Probably an old girlfriend of Simon’s. How he’d emerged from this family so unscathed was beyond her and made her admire him all the more. They were vile, every single one of them, but the vilest by far was GeeGee. All through dinner he raged on about the Jews and blacks and that fucker Mr Pataki from the Indian place up the road. He bitched about women, and children and everyone who supported homosexuality, especially Simon, who he obviously thought was gay. Megan quickly surmised that he’d always been a right bastard, and that no one had ever had the courage to stand up to him, even now when he was obviously quite feeble and in a wheelchair. While her initial reaction had been a sympathetic one, she now realized why the family had a tendency to push him into a far corner and leave him there. Over the entrée alone, she fantasized about pushing him down a long flight of stairs… into a vat of acid.

  “Come on, boy, tell us a joke,” growled GeeGee.

  Megan’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the old man. She wasn’t stupid. She knew it was a trap. She knew she had no choice, but that any joke she told would be the height of distaste. So she decided then and there to choose one that was.

  “If you insist.” A steely look settled in her eyes. It was the same determined stare that allowed her to cope with hecklers and drunks and appalling work conditions. “There’s this man at a bar …” She shifted in her seat, more confident than she’d been all night. “He’s so drunk that he’s sprawled out across the floor. Some of the other clientele, three guys, decide to be good Samaritans and get him home. They help him up, but he falls down again. They figure he must be really drunk, so pick him up off the floor again, and drag him out to the car. On the way he falls down again and again. They toss him into the car, slam the door shut and drive him home. They get to his house and help him out of the car but he falls into the gutter. They pick him up and carry him to the door and ring the bell. A woman answers and one of the guys says, ‘Here’s your husband!’ Megan glanced at GeeGee, preparing for the kill. “The man’s wife looks at her husband, looks at the guys and says, ‘Where the fuck is his wheelchair?’”

  Complete silence.

  And then Simon doubled over with laughter. His family snapped their attention away from Megan and stared at him in total disbelief.

  “Are you on drugs?” Charles had barely said a word to his son all night, but enough was enough.

  Simon was still laughing. “No! But if you’re offering.”

  “Why would you laugh at such a distasteful joke, when poor Grandpa George is in a wheelchair.”

  Simon laughed even more. “GeeGee doesn’t know what day it is, so the joke means nothing to him.”

  “It’s Thursday,” said GeeGee.

  It was Sunday.

  “Nineteen Forty-three.”

  “And the joke was funny,” Simon continued.

  Megan squeezed his hand under the table.

  Penelope looked apoplectic. “It was offensive.”

  “Most jokes are, Mother, and you insisted she give you one. If you weren’t so bloody uptight, you would have enjoyed it too.”

  “You owe mother an apology,” said Richard. “I think—”

  Simon cut his brother off. “Save your breath, Dick. You’ll need it to blow up your girlfriend later.”

  “I have no idea what’s come over you.” Penelope’s icy tone sliced through everyone except Simon, who was immune now. “Although I have a fair idea.”

  “You know what’s come over me, mother? Love! And it’s wonderful. You should give it a go.” Simon stood and looked down at Megan with love shining in his eyes. “Let’s go home, Meg.”

  Megan stood. “Thank you for dinner. It was … enlightening.”

  Penelope rose before her. “You won’t get a cent. We’ll cut him off.”

  Megan shrugged. “If that means I don’t have to suffer through dinner here again, then I’m all for it.”

  Charles turned to his son. “For God’s sake, don’t blow everything over the first piece of pussy you get.”

  Simon shook his head in amazement. “Blow everything? By loving Megan I gain everything.”

  And with that, they walked hand in hand from the house.

  “He’s obviously on drugs,” said Penelope.

  “I thought it was quite romantic,” sighed Annabelle, but then quickly added, “And I agree, Penelope, definitely drugs.”

  “At least he’s not gay,” Charles said, then thought for a moment. “But I think she might be.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Alcohol’s medicinal properties are mentioned 191 times in the Old and New Testaments

  Batty was dealing with the final few stragglers. It had been an easy night – not too busy, and much more enjoyable than she’d expected. As much as she’d wanted to run upstairs constantly and check on Alf, she didn’t. He needed some space. He’d started fasting for his operation in the morning, so couldn’t go near the pub. He was already climbing the walls, annoyed at both the hunger pangs and the confinement. So escaping that to work her bar had lifted Batty’s spirits – slightly. Only Alf’s full recovery would lift them back to normal.

  The front door opened and she called out: “Sorry, we’re closing up.”

  “Just me, Batty.”

  A teary Megan entered with a young man. Batty knew straight away that this was the boy Megan had fallen in love with – and that his family hadn’t fallen for her.

  “Oh dear, pull up a stool.” Batty poured them both a beer. “They didn’t warm to you, Meg?”

  Megan looked completely mournf
ul. “Colder than the farm house in Dr Zhivago by the time we left.”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally, darling,” Simon said. “My mother has been known to wake with icicles hanging from her face.”

  Megan blew her nose, but did manage to smile slightly.

  “Don’t take it to heart, love. It doesn’t matter,” Batty assured her. Although deep down she knew that it did, very much, to Megan. Batty wanted to march over to Simon’s parents’ house and beat them with a broom. A big one. Megan was family and it pained Batty to see her hurting.

  “That’s what I keep telling Meg. I’m Simon, by the way.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Simon.” Batty shook his outstretched hand. “So are they cutting you out of the will?”

  Simon looked surprised.

  Batty laughed. “I’m not reading that in your future. I lived it in my past. Eleanor did the same to Alf.”

  Megan’s eyes widened. “But she still hates you.”

  “I know.” Batty sighed. “Although hate is probably the wrong word. I’m different, which upsets her. But here’s the thing: I don’t care what she thinks. I only care what Alf thinks. I’ve had my moments over the years, but none of her negativity has ever come between us.”

  Simon turned to Megan. “That’s exactly how I feel. I don’t care what that family thinks. I want to build a new family with you.”

  Tears rolled down Megan’s cheeks. “Family is important.”

  “True,” Batty said. “But family is not always bound by blood. You should know that, Megan. What you mean to me – to all of us – that’s family.”

  Megan nodded. “I know. I just feel so bad about tonight.”

  “They’re the ones who should feel bad.” A steely resolve settled in Simon’s eyes.

  “What about your job? They’ll fire you, Simon.”

  “God, I hope so. I hate the job anyway.” Simon grinned. “Now I can follow my dreams.”

  “And what are your dreams?” Batty asked.

  “No idea … I’ve never been allowed to have any. I’ll find out now.”

  “But you’ve lost your—”

  “I’ve lost nothing and gained everything!” Simon insisted, turning to Megan. “I don’t give a toss about the money. I’ve invested. I own my home. I’m fine. I’m excited. I’ve always been aware that this day might come, but I never had the balls to break free myself. I should be thanking you, Meg. I’m glad to be rid of the bunch of them.”

  “Good for you,” Batty said.

  “All those years of tip-toeing around their psycho mood swings and manipulative behavior … I feel rather daft really. But no more.” Simon held his glass high. “Fudge me, I’m free! Here’s to a new start. A new life – with you Meg.”

  Megan held her own glass out. “Okay, I’ll drink to that. Even though you said ‘fudge’ which freaks me out a bit.”

  “I’m in the company of ladies.”

  Batty pretended to search the room. “Where are they? I’ve said the pub is closed.”

  They laughed, then Batty added, “Speaking of the pub, Simon, perhaps you can help Megan run it for the next couple of weeks. If you want a job.”

  Simon nodded. “I’d like that, Batty. We’ll look after it.”

  Batty patted his arm affectionately. She already liked him immensely and wanted to get to know him better, but right now she needed to get back to Alf. She glanced toward the stairs that led up to their rooms.

  “I’ll finish locking up,” Megan offered.

  “Thanks, love.” She stared at Simon and Megan for a moment. “You’ll never regret this … either of you. Make no mistake, you were born to be together, and nothing else matters. And that is me reading your future.”

  *

  Two floors above the bar, Batty slid into bed beside Alf. He was awake, but sleepy as he rolled toward her and enveloped her in his huge arms. She breathed in his scent. Thirty years and still his smell made her dizzy. A wave of fear washed over her. She didn’t see how she could continue breathing if Alf’s scent wasn’t a daily part of that.

  He slipped her nightgown over her head and kissed her. His flesh was as familiar as her own, and three decades after she’d first touched it, she still couldn’t get enough.

  Alf was no psychic but he could read his wife. “It’ll be alright, Red.”

  She smiled. “Yes, Alf, it has to be.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Apply whiskey directly to varicose ulcers

  The hospital waiting room had recently been renovated in soft blue and beige hues. The chairs and sofa were comfortable, there were piles of well-read magazines, and the painting that adorned the wall was of a sunny, foreign landscape.

  Batty refused to look at the painting. It just reminded her of Spain.

  Alf had been in surgery for three hours and counting. A nurse occasionally emerged from the operating theater to provide a vague update, but mostly the women paced, flicked restlessly through magazines, or stared at the wall. Batty felt physically ill. From the moment the anesthetic took hold of Alf she could sense each incision and stitch. She was going through the whole procedure herself, without the relief of drugs.

  “Do you realize this will be the first night your father and I have spent apart in thirty-five years?”

  The girls both nodded.

  Batty continued. “We’ve never needed a break. Or space. We’ve never argued much. He still makes me laugh every day. After all these years, he still surprises me. Like yesterday, when I packed his yellow pajamas. He said, ‘Love, not the yellow ones. I’m not fond of yellow and if I cark it in hospital I don’t want to be dressed in it.’ I never knew he didn’t like yellow.”

  “He has lots of yellow clothes,” Calypso said.

  Batty nodded. “I like yellow and I buy them. He wears them because he loves me.” Batty shook her head, as though shaking off a million memories. “I put them back in the drawer and asked which pajamas he wanted, and he said, ‘The red ones – now that’s a color I love.”

  A woman in a hospital gown walked into the waiting room and stared at the Shakespeares.

  Batty wiped a stray tear from her cheek, and waved the woman away. “Not now, dear … This is family time.” She wanted the hospital ghosts to leave them alone. This woman was the third today.

  “You’ve passed over, sorry to say,” Nell said.

  “Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill her.” Calypso sighed.

  “Callie!” Nell looked at her sister in frustration and turned back to the ghost. “Look for the light. You’ll see people you know there.”

  The woman nodded and drifted out of the room. Her bare bottom could be seen through the gap in the gown.

  Batty gave a stifled sob. “That’s why I packed pajamas for your father.”

  *

  It was another two hours before Alf was wheeled out of theatre. Alf’s doctor assured them that the resection was a success and the liver was rejuvenating.

  “Can we see him?” Nell asked.

  “Yes, but he might take a while to respond. The anesthetist had some trouble putting him under.” The doctor cleared his throat a little before continuing, almost apologetically. “Redheads always need more anesthetic.”

  “We’re used to rolling with more punches, doctor, so it takes more to knock us out.” Batty sniffed.

  Finally, they crowded around Alf’s bed. Seeing her larger-than-life father hooked up to a drip and oxygen mask was almost more than Calypso could bear, but she held it together, just, for her mother’s sake.

  “I’ve read that people in comas can hear the conversations around them,” Nell said.

  “He’s not in a coma,” Calypso said.

  “We should talk to him.”

  “Fine.” Calypso perched herself on the edge of a chair. “Then this would be the perfect time to tell you, Dad – I did put that dent in the car. I was perving on one of the builders when we were doing renovations. I started the car, and accidentally put it in r
everse. Ran into an empty keg.”

  Batty put her hands on her hips. “Your father almost fired that young apprentice over that. Swore it was him.”

  Calypso gave her an innocent smile. “Any guilt I felt over that dissolved when I caught him with his hand in the till.”

  “True,” Batty said. “Well, I should ’fess up too then. Alf, darling … your cat didn’t run off – I gave him away.”

  Calypso and Nell looked at their mother in horror.

  “He loved that cat,” Calypso said.

  Batty shrugged. “The cat didn’t like me. I tried to get your father to see it but he’d just say, ‘Rubbish, Red, all witches need a cat.’ Well, I didn’t need one who ate everything in sight and liked peeing on my shoes. So I gave him to Saffron Didding.”

  “The Highgate cat lady?”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Callie. Admittedly she’s a little odd, but you can’t deny her love of cats.” Batty turned to Nell. “Your turn. What have you been hiding from your father?”

  Nell blushed. “There is one thing …” She shuffled closer to her father.

  Batty leant in slightly, while Calypso braced herself for whatever Nell thought was a worthy confession. Knowing Nell, she was about to confess to breaking a glass in the kitchen, or failing to order some supplies.

  “Remember that teenage boy you caught robbing the pub?”

  “The one who swore he hadn’t taken anything so Dad agreed to not call the police?” Calypso asked.

  “He wasn’t a burgler,” Nell admitted. “He was my boyfriend.”

  Batty and Calypso stared at Nell, dumbfounded.

  She gave them a naughty wink. “Wouldn’t life be dull if you knew everything about me?”

  *

  During her father’s time in hospital, Calypso watched her mother carefully: her original hysteria had been replaced by an unsettling listlessness. When Alf opened his eyes, Batty would smile and whisper loving words, but the minute his eyes closed, the black cloak would descend. And there wasn’t anything Calypso could do about it. Not when she felt the same way.