“I think I felt angry…with God. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t help asking, Why me? I didn’t think I deserved it. I suppose I thought that because I’d always been a – it sounds silly, I know, but – well, a…a good Christian, whatever that is, that it shouldn’t be happening.”
“So how did you manage to reconcile yourself to your son’s…condition?”
“With God’s love, and through a lot of prayer and fellowship, I gradually realized that he wasn’t the millstone I’d first thought but a…well, a wonderful gift from our heavenly Father.” It’s a concept I’ve always struggled with, but I do believe the glistening droplets welling up in the corners of her eyes are bona fide tears of joy. “God was showing me just how much he loved me. Sorry, sorry…could you give me a minute?”
“Take as long as you like,” says Nikki, moving in for the close-up.
There’s an exercise in Be Your Own Psychotherapist in One Weekend, which I defy anyone screwed up enough to buy the book to try. It involves getting both of your parents (or anyone you consider to have had an adverse effect on your life), sitting them in armchairs (I’m not sure how important the armchairs are, but the book is fairly specific), and then one by one outlining their crimes against you, before magnanimously forgiving them. There seems to be a basic flaw here: even if I just completed the exercise with SOWINS, it would take at least two years; if you add to that the casting department of The Bill and SOWINS’s entire family, you can begin to see my problem. Observing Michael and his mother together, I have a hunch that my young charge might find the exercise equally time-consuming.
“That was spot on,” says Nikki, “really moving stuff. Now, let me just sort out Michael’s mike, and then we can get on with it.”
“She’s so lovely, isn’t she, Tim?” whispers Mrs Owen. “She really knows how to put you at your ease.”
“Doesn’t she just,” I say, taking a step to the left so that I’m directly behind Michael.
“How was I, Timothy? You must have done lots of filming. I suppose it’s all a bit boring for you.”
“Well, you know,” I shrug, “it is something of a busman’s holiday, but I try not to get too blase about it.” Her mouth forms an ooh shape. “You were fine, by the way.”
“Was I really?”
“Absolutely. I think you’re coming over very well.” Actors don’t do sincerity; it’s something we try to leave behind at the stage door. I’m sure the novelty of seeing real people speaking from the heart will soon wear off, but there’s still a certain fascination in watching a nobody like Mrs Owen emoting so shamelessly. “Did you actually mean all that stuff?”
“What stuff, Timothy?”
“About Michael being a ‘wonderful gift from God’?”
“Yes, of course I did,” she says, slamming the lid of the picnic basket. “Michael’s accident was the best thing that ever happened to us. God is love, Timothy. He doesn’t let his children suffer unnecessarily unless he has a very good reason.” She starts maniacally gathering paper plates and plastic cutlery. “If we don’t see that reason straight away, it’s our lack of faith that’s to blame, not God.”
“Sorry…only asking.”
When I first clapped eyes on her, that fateful afternoon in East Croydon, Valerie Owen looked washed out and at least fifty years old. This bracing weather might be partially responsible for her healthy glow, but, in the cold light of an autumn morning, it’s painfully apparent that there can be no more than a couple of years between us. Perhaps, after a few drinks, she could almost be attractive, in a Blanche Dubois sort of way. “Look, Tim,” she says, “I’m the one who should be apologizing, especially after the wonderful way you’ve been looking after my Michael.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I took your advice.”
What’s she talking about? Ever since Simon Butter-worth’s frosty reception of my well-meant (but possibly ill-judged) meditations on the institution of marriage, I have done my best to keep my own counsel. “What advice?”
“The other night on the phone, you said I ought to get out more.”
“Did I?”
“You know you did,” she says, patting me on the arm. “Well, I’ve only gone and signed up for ballroom-dancing lessons. I’ve always wanted to, but of course, I’ve never had the time before.”
“OK, everyone,” shouts Nikki, “can we have a bit of hush, please? Michael’s all set.”
“Go on, love,” says Mrs Owen. “Don’t be nervous. If I can do it, you can.”
I pick up Be Your Own Psychotherapist in One Weekend and inch slowly towards the boy in the wheelchair.
The Quadriplegic
If this is God’s plan for my life, it’s a really crap plan. It’s bad enough having to live it privately, but who in their right mind wants to see someone like me popping up at the end of the cornflakes adverts? Mum thinks it’s wonderful.
That’s her favourite word, have you noticed? I don’t know what’s worse: that horrible dress she’s wearing or the frightening smile she pulls when she tells the world how being the little cripple boy’s mother is like having all her Christ-mases and birthdays rolled into one.
“OK,” says Nikki, “let’s go for it. So, Michael, how are you finding Oxford?”
“It’s all right.”
“Were you surprised when they offered you a place?”
“Not really.” (She could shake spunk from a stick in those jeans.) “I have got an IQ of 176.”
“And where do you get your brains from, do you think?”
“Not my dad, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s a thick tosser.”
“That’s enough, Michael,” says Mum. I’m not sure if she’s telling me off for bad-mouthing the man she once loved or for my use of the mild expletive. “Go on, Nikki, ask him about his A level results.”
Nikki shows Mum the palm of her hand; the gesture of a concerned social worker anxious to let a difficult ‘client’ have his say. “Hang on a minute, Val. I think we might have touched on something important here. Tell me about your dad, Michael. How do feel about him?”
“I don’t feel anything about him. The bastard walked out on us. How do you expect me to feel?”
I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to realize that Mum is chucking a mental. “I won’t have you talking about your father like that. I’m so sorry, Nikki. I don’t know what’s got into him today.”
“It’s cool,” says Nikki, not even looking up. “We can bleep it if you like. So what you’re saying, Michael, is that you felt abandoned.”
“Too right I did. One minute he’s playing happy spacky families and the next he’s pissed off to Chelmsford and never wants to see us again.”
Mum throws herself in front of the camera, like that suffragette with the horse. “It wasn’t like that. Terry’s a good man. It was…difficult for him.”
Nikki leaps backwards and carries on filming. (It could be my imagination, but, even through her black jumper, I could swear that those are erect nipples.) “What do you say to that, Michael?”
“I say he should have tried harder. I say he’s a pusillanimous cretin for treating us like that.”
I don’t think it’s going quite the way that Mum intended. “How can you say that, Michael, after all that man’s done for you?”
“You are joking, I hope.”
“Who do you think paid for the house so that I could look after you?” says Mum, looking straight into the camera. “Who came up with the money for your first computer?”
“Big deal,” I say. “What’s a couple of grand hush money if it means not having to walk down the street with the Veg?” And suddenly I realize I’ve gone too far again. “Sorry, sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to…”
Nikki looks like the cat that got the cream. “Why don’t we have a quick time out? It’s getting a bit heated, isn’t it?”
“You won’t use any of that, wil
l you, Nikki?” says Mum.
“Of course not, it’s entirely up to you. I’m a serious journalist, Valerie, not some filthy tabloid hack. Now, I’ve just got one more question for Michael – don’t worry, it’s nothing heavy – and then I won’t need you again until this evening.”
De Niro slithers even closer. “Look forward to it,” he says. “Great working with you, by the way.”
“OK,” says Nikki, “this last one’s just a quickie. Tell us about your dreams, Michael. What’s your greatest ambition in life?”
What do you reckon? Win the Nobel Peace Prize? Kill my carer? Improve Mum’s dress sense? Nah, don’t think so. “Oh, that’s easy, Nikki.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I want to have an orgasm.”
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
8
Let the Candied Tongue Lick
The Virgin
“What the hell are you playing at?” says Philip. “You’re keeping everybody waiting.”
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“I haven’t got time for this, Anna. Now for the love of fuck, get your act together.” He stomps over to my CD player and karate chops the pause button.
“I was listening to that.”
“You were supposed to be there twenty minutes ago.” I register his sneer of disapproval as he spots the Snickers wrappers in the wastepaper basket. “I can’t believe how selfish you’re being.”
As usual, Piers isn’t far behind him. “Anna, are you all right? Phil and I were really worried about you.”
“She’s fine,” says Philip, tugging at his burgundy cravat. “She just needs to get her arse into gear.”
Piers has spotted the photograph on my bedside table. “Gosh, how adorable. What are their names, Anna?”
“Maggie and Tom. Gorgeous, aren’t they?”
“We haven’t got time for your fucking family history,” says Philip, throwing my boots at me. “Nikki’s going mental down there.”
“I’m not doing it.”
Philip looks like he’s been slapped in the face with a wet kipper. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
His hand flies up to his mouth; he bites hard on his knuckles. “I thought I’d explained all this. It’s an art-mirroring-life kind of thing. Nikki wants to show how close you and Michael are getting.”
“Yes, but we’re not…not really. I mean, he’s a sweet guy and everything, but I’d hardly call us close.”
“God help us,” says Philip, kicking my Wallace and Gromit slippers across the floor. “Look, the whole idea is that, even though he’s in that bloody wheelchair, he can still have a half-decent social life. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s not true, is it? You know as well as I do he spends virtually 24⁄7 sitting in front of his computer. That tart with the video camera’s just using him.” (I’ve seen the way Phil looks at her. She’s the sort of woman who ices her nipples before every business meeting.)
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” says Philip wearily. “The more this film focuses on my production of Hamlet, the less likely it is to turn into a tedious diatribe about living with quadriplegia and the state of the National Health. I don’t need to tell you how good that could be for my career.”
“Him and his brilliant career!” sniggers Piers.
“Shut up, you old queen, this is important.” Philip takes my hand and strokes it with his index finger. “Come on, Anna. All you’ve got to do is sit with him for a bit. As soon as the filming’s over you can come and join us.”
“There’s free cocktails all round,” says Piers gleefully, “which means the boat club boys will almost certainly be getting their kit off.”
“Do it for me, babe,” says Philip. “There’s a good girl.”
This morning, I watched from the window as they led him away; his mother all over him like a tiresome waiter, the carer guy never more than two inches from his side, and that mini-skirted uber slapper filming their every move. Poor Michael; he looked just like I did when they carted me off to Toby Chamberlain-Webber’s twenty-first. Just because he’s in a wheelchair, doesn’t mean he isn’t entitled to a bit of privacy. “No, sorry, I’m not coming. I don’t feel comfortable with it.”
“Look,” says Philip, staring into my eyes like a stage hypnotist. “If you do this for me, I’ll come down to the Old Rectory.” He’s already made it quite clear what a disgustingly bourgeois prospect that is. “I’ll even be nice to your old lady.”
Given Mummy’s fragile mental state, it’s too good an offer to refuse. “Well, all right then, but I’m only staying half an hour.”
The Quadriplegic
Welcome to the Underground. I’ve not been down here before (too many fucking steps and the smoke’s a real killer) but Nikki wants some footage of me enjoying a ‘typical Oxbridge experience’, so here I am in the student bar surrounded by my closest ‘chums’.
And guess what: suddenly I’m the most popular guy in Oxford. Everyone who’s anyone is here: the admiral of the college punt (aka Piers) is sitting by the jukebox with Philip Sidney, and half the boat club are shuffling about with their trousers around their ankles singing ‘The Cucumber Song’. “It’s green, it’s long, it looks just like my dong, CUCUMBER, CUCUMBER!”
If I wasn’t paralysed, all this backslapping would be getting on my nerves. Last week they melted into the woodwork when they saw me coming, now they’re calling me Mike and telling Mum what an amazing guy I am. Is it because they’ve come to realize that, underneath it all, I’m just the same as they are, or could it be the lure of a fleeting appearance on Channel 4 and Nikki’s kind offer of free Flying Fucks (two shots of vodka, cranberry juice, Bols Blue and a 5mm spoonful of Night Nurse) for the evening?
Mum doesn’t care much for Flying Fucks. She cradles her orange juice, looking as out of place as a quadriplegic donkey in a nativity play. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she says. “I didn’t realize Michael had so many new friends.”
“Yes,” says Anna, glancing over at the jukebox, “he certainly seems to have made his mark.”
“I’m so pleased for you, love,” says Mum. “He’s always found the social side of things a bit tricky.”
“Oh, right,” says Anna. “I would never have guessed.”
Nikki thought it would be rather nice to see Hamlet and Ophelia socializing. Anna looks like she’d rather be anywhere in the world than sharing a table with Mum and me. I don’t know why she bothered.
De Niro hasn’t left my side all evening. He stands guard over my chair, like a puritanical chaperone. “How are you feeling, old chap? Would you like me to wipe your mouth for you?”
“You did that two minutes ago.”
“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” says Mum. “Do you know, Anna, I was really worried about leaving my little boy with a stranger, but I’ve got to admit, Tim here’s a real treasure.”
“One does one’s best.”
Nikki is wearing a T-shirt with ‘Dirty Slag’ on the front. “OK, everyone, I just want to try one last set piece, and then we can all get down to some serious drinking.” (Cheers from the boat club crowd.) “Tim; push Michael over to the pool table, would you? We haven’t got time for all that faffing about. And Anna, could you park yourself on the arm of his wheelchair?” De Niro drags me backwards across the bar. Anna follows reluctantly, but opts not to sit on my spaz-chariot. “Right, the two guys playing pool sink a couple of balls and then the chappie in the cravat…sorry, I forgot your name.”
“It’s Sidney, Philip Sidney, as in…”
“Yeah, whatever. You bring Michael a cocktail, pat him on the back, then he smiles and cracks a joke and, Anna, I want you to piss yourself laughing. All rightee, any questions?”
“What joke do you want me to tell?”
“Don’t worry about it, Mike. No one will hear you anyway. This will all be part of the video montage section. I’m going to use that Ian Dury song – in an ironic way, of course. “Spastic
us Autisticus’, you must know it,”
“Sorry, Nikki,” says De Niro, “just a small thing. Wouldn’t it be better if Philip handed me the cocktail and then, after Mike’s told his joke, I can stick the straw straight in his mouth. I am his carer, after all.”
“Yes, all right, if you must,” says Nikki, biting her bottom lip. “Now, can we get on, please? OK, places everyone, camera rolling…aaand action.”
Anna stares at her Doc Martens. Philip Sidney walks stiffly across the Underworld and hands De Niro my drink. Nikki thought that if everybody sucked their cocktails through stripy straws it would make me look more normal, but after the initial kiddies’ tea party hilarity, everyone except Mum dumped the straws anyway, and the boat club boys are pouring their Flying Fucks into pint glasses.
De Niro coughs loudly, and twitches like a lunatic. “Your joke, Michael, your joke,” he hisses, in a loud stage whisper.
“Oh, yeah. OK, there’s this quadriplegic, right? And it’s his birthday.”
“And cut. Sorry, Mike,” says Nikki, “we’ll have to lose the quadriplegic joke. Don’t want to offend anyone, do we?”
“You said no one would hear me.”
“It’s the lip-readers, I’m afraid. There’s always someone who writes in to complain. The deaf buggers haven’t got anything better to do. OK, people, let’s go again, shall we?”
The Virgin
Thank God that’s over. The moment Nikki Hardbody shouts, “OK, everybody, it’s a wrap,” I slip under the pool table and make my getaway. I thought Michael was joking when he said his mother was like an older, non-singing version of Julie Andrews, but after half an hour of her honey-coated saccharin, I feel like topping myself.
I pick my way through a drunken scrum of rugger buggers, expecting a few words of sympathy from my director⁄boyfriend. Philip greets me with a leery smile and a hand on the arse. “Don’t they make a lovely couple, Piers? The virgin and the quadriplegic, it’s a marriage made in heaven.”
The Opposite Bastard Page 8
