The Opposite Bastard

by Simon Packham

  “It’s cool,” says Nikki, “won’t take two minutes.”

  “Well, if you’re sure then,” says Mum.

  Nikki gives the DJ the thumbs-up and his hopeless hiphop lite thuds to an abrupt halt. “I don’t want to choreograph anything,” says Nikki. “It’s just a bit of fun, that’s all. But I think it would be really nice if we could get the two women in your life on the dance floor with you.”

  Just for a moment, I have the crazy idea that the whole thing has been one of those take-the-piss-out-of-the-public programmes. Then I realize, to my disappointment, that they’d never dare do it to a crip. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “It’s a bit tacky, yeah,” says Nikki, “but everyone loves Grease, and your mother’s always telling me how much she enjoys her dancing lessons.” Camera primed, she focuses on my horror-struck face. “OK, you guys, go for it!”

  Nikki hands Mum a lighted cigarette; she takes a couple of non-smoker’s puffs before grinding it into the JCR floor with the toe of her Mary-Janes.

  “Mum?” I say, trying to disappear up my own arse.

  “Well, hello there, stud,” she says in a crap American accent.

  Before I can shout, “NO FUCKING WAY,” the first bar of ‘You’re The One That I Want’ spews out of the sound system, and Anna pushes me onto the dance floor.

  Mum warbles the verse and everyone joins in with the chorus. Surely only a complete moron could fail to realize that this is the last thing that I want.

  “Stop it, stop it,” I scream, but the whole pack of them are too busy singing along, and whooping every time Anna spins me around, to take any notice.

  Mum hitches up her skirt and skips towards me, finger wagging, like a geriatric Olivia Newton-John. If I didn’t feel like puking before, I certainly do now. Nikki’s nipples can’t conceal their excitement as Piers and the rest of the cast break into a frenzied hand-jive.

  I close my eyes and pray for the big finish. “Please, please, just leave me alone…”

  ♦

  They cluster around me, whispering. I feel like I’m back in intensive care.

  “Michael, what’s the matter with you, babe? You OK?”

  “Oh, cripes,” says Piers, gesturing to his DJ chum to get the music going again, “I think the poor fellow’s crying.”

  “I knew we should have asked him first,” says Mum. “Whatever was I thinking of?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” says Nikki, not looking up from her viewfinder, “this kind of thing happens all the time. Some people find it very hard to say goodbye to the cameras.”

  “Oh, look,” drawls a familiar voice, “it’s John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John.”

  “Shut up, Philip,” says Anna. “Why don’t you piss off back to the gutter where you came from?”

  Philip grins, and gropes the giggling Guildenstern. “Yes, I think I might just do that. At least it’s not full of tight-arsed virgins.”

  “Now, now,” says Mum, still trying to get her breath back, “there’s no need for that kind of language.”

  “Just listen to the proud mother,” says Philip. “Don’t you think you’ve embarrassed the poor bugger enough?”

  Mum bristles menopausally. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And anyway, it was only a bit of fun. Tell him, Nikki.”

  Nikki is too busy finding the right camera angle.

  “Grotesque, I’d call it,” says Philip. “Isn’t it bad enough being a dur brain without your own mother drawing attention to it?”

  Mum pulls a tissue from her bosom. “I’m sorry, Michael, I didn’t mean to…I was so happy for you tonight. I don’t think I’ve felt like that since…since…All I wanted was to…” She stumbles out of the JCR like a geriatric Cinderella. Nikki captures her exit before panning back to Anna.

  “You bastard, Philip,” says Anna. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Just telling it like it is, babe,” says Philip. “You should try it some time.” He turns to Guildenstern. “You won’t believe this, Georgia, but Little Miss Metal Knickers and Superman here are in love.”

  “It’s true,” says Anna. “Michael’s twice the man you’ll ever be. All you can think about is your pathetic little cock.”

  “Well, at least it’s in perfect working order,” says Philip, “unlike your boyfriend’s. Oh, but I forget, that’s the way you like them, isn’t it, babe?”

  Anna tries to look dignified, but it’s not easy in full school uniform. “God, you make me sick.”

  “Shall I tell you what makes me sick?” says Philip. “The way you smother him. Just seeing you together makes my flesh crawl. It’s gross. And as for you, Michael, I thought you had more self-respect. She’s using you, can’t you see that? With my help, you could have been one of the best Shylocks of your generation, and you’re going to throw it all away because that old swamp-donkey is too witless to get herself a decent psychiatrist.”

  “Come on, Michael,” says Anna, grabbing my wheelchair and doing an abrupt U-turn. “We’re leaving.”

  We’re halfway to the door before Nikki calls out, “OK, everybody, it’s a wrap,” and only halfway to my rooms before I realize with painful clarity exactly what has to be done.

  The Actor

  “Wait until you see that after the edit,” says Nikki Hard-body, “TV heaven.”

  I’m still recovering from the bizarre floor show. If it wasn’t all there in high-definition video, I’d be ditching this Rioja and swearing a vow of abstinence. “Surely you can’t make it look any worse?”

  “That’s what they said about Father Keith’s funeral.”

  “But poor old Valerie will look ridiculous. Couldn’t you just edit her out?”

  “No can do, I’m afraid,” she sighs. “It’s a public-interest thing, simple as that.” After a hard night’s filming, Nikki looks like a contestant in a wet T-shirt competition. I can’t help daydreaming of what might have been. “Right, I’m off to pick up a few GVs of the college, and then my work here is done.”

  “Will you contact my agent about the voice-over, or do you want to call me direct?”

  “What? Oh, yes, right. Maybe I’d better go through your agent. What was her name again?”

  And suddenly I think of Valerie Owen’s face; that look of abject misery as she fled the dance floor. “Oh, look it up in Spotlight, why don’t you? There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  ♦

  Outside the JCR, it’s like an episode of Casualty: eager young medical students perform detailed gynaecological examinations, and goose-pimpled girls in cocktail dresses throw up onto the grass. I tread softly; grateful that I have the moon to guide me through a minefield of writhing flesh and vomit. Taking another swig of Rioja, I try to conceal my jealousy in a fug of Daily Mail-reader indignation.

  Valerie Owen is sitting on a bench by the lake. She doesn’t see me at first. It gives me time to dredge up a suitably banal opening gambit from one of the plays I’ve been in. “Mind if I join you?”

  “You can if you like, Timothy, but I won’t be much company, I’m afraid.”

  Just as I’m about to sit down, I spot a blob of bird poo. But now is not the time for squeamishness. “Are you all right, Valerie?”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “Here, take my jacket, you must be freezing.”

  “Thank you,” she says, “it’ll hide this silly dress. What on earth was I thinking of?”

  “It suits you,” I say, not sure whether I mean it or whether it’s just a reflex action from when I was married.

  “Did you see the way Michael looked at me? I made a complete fool of myself.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I say, this time quoting directly from The Married Man’s Survival Manual. “I don’t suppose it’ll even make it onto the screen.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Speaking as someone who would probably try and squeeze into a Japanese tourist’s holiday videos, I find this hard to believe. “W
e’ll cross that bridge if we come to it—what do you think?”

  “I wish I’d never agreed to her stupid documentary in the first place. I knew Michael would hate it. I just wanted everyone to see what a wonderful person he is, how someone so terribly…disabled could lead such a…normal life.”

  “And I’m sure they will.” (Perhaps I’m a better actor than I thought.)

  “No,” she says, “your young director fellow was absolutely right. I’d been praying so hard about it that I only saw what I wanted to see. I thought Oxford would be the making of him. He was fitting in so well.”

  I nod, a little too enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

  She smiles and pats my knee. “You’re very kind, Timothy, but I think we both know that’s not true. How on earth could someone like Michael ever really fit in? Let’s be honest,” she giggles nervously, “he’s never going to be Fred Astaire.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. And anyway, why would he want to be when he’s just given one of the finest performances I’ve ever seen?”

  “You really think so?”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, forcing the bottle of Rioja between my gritted teeth, “he was…magnificent, far better than I could ever have been.”

  “I’m sure you’re a lovely actor.”

  “You should be my agent.”

  “You’re a good man, Timothy. You’ve done so much for Michael.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “You’ve only known him for five minutes, and you’ve been a tower of strength. How could his own mother be so selfish?”

  “That is not true, Valerie. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more generous person than you, I mean that.”

  She pulls my jacket tighter round her shoulders and stares out into the middle of the lake. “And what if I told you that these last few months have been the happiest times I’ve known since…since…?”

  A tear the size of a small marble trickles past her nose. I reach for my handkerchief and then remember that I stopped carrying one after She of Whom I Never Speak told me they were a ‘dirty old man thing’. “Here, try some of this.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Go on,” I say, pressing the bottle into her hand. “It’ll put hairs on your chest.”

  “Oh, all right then, just a drop.” She drinks like an amateur; sipping cautiously, recoiling the moment the liquid reaches her lips. “Well, Timothy, aren’t you going to tell me what a terrible person I am?”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  This time she takes a proper gulp. “It was really difficult at first, far worse than when my Terry left. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to not having him around. The house seemed so empty without him. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

  “That’s understandable. Looking after Michael’s a full-time job.”

  “I started noticing that I wasn’t exhausted the whole time. It was amazing really. All the little things I’d always wanted to do – sit down in front of the telly for five minutes, have a nice long bath instead of a quick shower, get my hair done – suddenly I could do them.”

  An idee fixe from Be Your Own Psychotherapist in One Weekend pops into my head. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of ‘me’ time.”

  “There is when it turns you into a selfish old woman. I swore to myself that Michael would always come first.” She hands me back my bottle of Rioja. “It’s the dancing, you see. Before I started, there was never a moment when I wasn’t thinking about him – even in my sleep. I mean, I’m not very good or anything, but when I get up on that dance floor, the music just takes over, and nothing else seems to matter. That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  I can hardly speak. It’s exactly how I felt when I started acting. Shine a few lights on me, throw in a couple of lines of iffy dialogue, and I was as happy as Larry. “No, no, I don’t think it’s terrible at all. It’s good that you have something you feel passionately about. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  The moonlight filters through the treetops, catching the ripples on the water like a cinematographer’s wet dream. “Lovely, isn’t it, Timothy?”

  “That’s the trouble with this place. It’s so ridiculously beautiful, it makes everything one does seem so squalid.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Even I have to laugh at that one. “I’ve got precious little to be proud about – except if you count wasting my life in the most spectacular way imaginable.”

  And now Valerie is laughing too. “Oh, Timothy, listen to yourself. Wasted your life? What a lot of nonsense. Your life is just beginning. It’s never too late, you know. Look at me. Why don’t you get yourself an interesting hobby?”

  “I can’t dance, if that’s what you mean. My agent—Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management—used to send me up for musicals until she saw me in Beauty and the Beast.”

  “Come here,” she says, taking my hand and leading me onto the grass in front of the lake. “And you can put that bottle down, you won’t be needing it.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of this.”

  “Anyone can dance, Timothy. That’s what Mr Horn-brook says.”

  “My ex-wife has her own little theory about that.”

  “Now, put your right hand on my shoulder blade, fingers straight – yes, that’s right – and I’ll just rest my hand on your upper arm like so. How’s that?”

  All those excruciating dance auditions have left me somewhat traumatized. “Fine, I think.”

  She encloses my other hand in a sort of freemason’s handshake, curling her thumb around mine and linking wrists. “You’re not frightened of me, are you, Timothy?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then what are you doing over there? Come on, don’t be shy. We’re supposed to be dancing, not taking Holy Communion.” She presses her hips into mine. Blood hurtles towards my face and groin. “There, that’s nice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s very…” It’s been so long since I felt the warmth of a woman’s body that I’m at a bit of a loss.

  “The important thing is that the gentleman always leads, you mustn’t forget that, Tim.”

  “Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong.”

  “It’s quite simple. You step forward…then to the side…aaand together. Let’s try that, shall we?”

  She pulls me gently towards her. I lurch forward like a learner driver. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s fine,” she says, withdrawing her foot. “All it takes is a bit of practice. Come on, you can do this, I know you can.”

  ♦

  I’m not sure how long it takes, because I lose all track of time, but X minutes later, we’re captivating the ducks with a rudimentary waltz. We don’t look much like that couple in The Sound of Music – more like a physiotherapist and her plucky amputee – but all the same I feel really chuffed with myself.

  “By Jove, I think he’s got it,” she says. “Well done, Timothy, that’s really good.”

  Do you ever look at the shape of someone’s lips and think about what they’d be like to kiss? The dizzier I get, the more I want to find out. “Where are you staying tonight, Valerie?”

  “The Randolph Hotel, very swish. Nikki’s paying, isn’t that nice of her?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s good like that.” Although we’ve ground to a halt, Valerie and I are still joined at the hip. Convention demands that I pull away; the moonlight commands me not to. “I could…I could walk you back if you like.”

  “That would be lovely,” she says, her cheeks colouring slightly. “Maybe you could come up for that drink I promised you.”

  Now the ducks are cheering us on. “So what are we waiting for?”

  It’s Valerie who breaks the hold. “Don’t you think I ought to say goodnight to Michael first?”

  Sometimes everything falls into place. It’s a combination of homespun wisdom and a couple of things I
picked up from Be Your Own Psychotherapist in One Weekend, and it comes so spontaneously that I think I actually believe it. “No, Valerie, I don’t think you should say goodbye to Michael. I think what Michael needs right now is his own space. You are a very good mother, the best. But the thing is, Valerie, whether you’re disabled or not, there comes a time when you have to break away from your parents. I think the most sensible thing you can do right now is to show Mike that – although you’ll always be there for him – you have got a life of your own.”

  I seem to have touched a nerve. “Do you know, Timothy, you’re absolutely right. Thank you. That’s made a little dilemma of mine so much clearer.” She takes my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

  ♦

  It’s a sure-fire sign that my life has taken a turn for the better: as we pass the Oxford Playhouse, I notice that a chap I worked with in a profit-share in Clapham is halfway up the billing of a TV names revival of an early Ayckbourn; despite the fact that he was a terrible actor – and a crashing bore to boot – I hardly bother to spit.

  I don’t suppose even a computer-dating service would have identified me and Valerie as the perfect match, but there are fewer years between us than I would care to admit, and she has a quality quite unique amongst the women of my acquaintance: she makes me feel good about myself.

  “You know, Timothy,” she says, squeezing my arm, “I’m so glad you said what you did. There’s something I’ve been praying about, and I think you might just have shown me the answer.”

  I try not to sound like the cat that got the cream: “Pleased to be of service.”

  We come to a halt outside the hotel. I have the most glorious intimation that she’s going to kiss me. “You see, Bill – that’s Mr Hornbrook, my dancing teacher – he’s asked me to have dinner with him.” She smiles coyly. “Like a sort of date, I suppose. Anyway, I keep putting him off because I’m afraid of what Michael might say. But maybe you’re right, maybe I need to show him I have a life of my own. What do you think, Timothy? What should I do?”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I think that…”

  Oh, come on, you didn’t think I was serious, did you? I mean, I’m not denying that she’s fairly attractive, for an older woman, but do you really think I’m that desperate? And anyway, look at her little face; if I don’t tell her what she wants to hear, it would break her heart. “I think Mr Hornbrook is a very lucky man.”