“Amen.”
Finally, we can eat. I plough straight into the mash mountain.
It’s good. So, so good.
“This is delicious,” I comment.
“Thank you. I’m no chef but I get by on what my dear old mother taught me.”
“She taught you well, for sure.”
“What about your parents, Toby? Tell me about them.”
I provide a brief overview of my family set-up.
“Do you get on well with your parents?”
“Kind of. Mum is just mum, and Dad … well, we have a strained relationship.”
“How so?”
I explain the generational issues we seem unable to resolve, or likely ever will.
“Come on then — let’s hear it.”
“Sorry?”
“Tell me all about this life you lead in the future.”
“The one you think I’m making up?”
“I said I didn’t believe you but I'm willing to indulge you.”
I take a bite of sausage and consider where to start.
“Okay. Let’s begin with what I do for a living.”
“You said you were in advertising, didn’t you?”
“I am; specifically Internet marketing.”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
Now the question has been asked, I’m not sure I can answer it. How do you explain the Internet to someone who lives in an era where they don’t even have home computers, let alone smartphones?
“In my day, we have this thing called the Internet, and it connects computers together to share information and digital media.”
“Computers? Like those great hulking machines they have at NASA?”
“Not quite. Technology has advanced dramatically and almost everyone now has a computer-like device connected to the Internet but they’re small, like the size of a chocolate bar.”
“And do these devices have a name?”
“Generically, they’re called smartphones.”
“And what do people do with these smartphones?”
“They use them for communication and entertainment. Say you’re on a train; you can use it to call someone, or send them a message, or you can listen to music, watch a movie, read a book, or …”
“Wait. How in God’s name does that work?”
“Everything is digitised and can therefore be sent over the internet as a file. That file might be a book, or an album, or even a movie. You simply open it up on your smartphone using what we call an app, and you can then read, listen to, or watch whatever media file you downloaded.”
He forks a mouthful of mash into his mouth and shakes his head.
“That sounds quite something,” he remarks, not altogether sincerely.
“And the Internet is also used for sharing information,” I continue.
“What kind of information?”
“Literally anything. The Internet gives you access to almost every piece of information mankind has ever created. Think of it like the world’s biggest library but rather than scouring the shelves for a book on a specific subject, you can search the Internet and find the information within a second or two.”
“You’re blessed to have such a resource.”
“I guess we are.”
“Although it sounds suspiciously like a technology you might have seen on television.”
“Wait … what?”
“Star Trek, Thunderbirds, and what’s the name of that film which came out last year … 2001: A Space Odyssey, wasn’t it?”
“No, it’s nothing like anything anyone in this era could imagine — fictional or otherwise.”
“Isn’t it?” he replies, with a wry smile.
Even to my ears, what I’ve just told Father O’Connor sounds so fanciful I can’t blame him for dismissing my claims.
“Can we change the subject?”
“Yes, lets. Perhaps we can discuss your plans?”
“My plans?”
“What you intend to do about your current situation. I’m assuming you do have a plan?”
“Well, today went pretty well with George so I’m hoping he’ll keep me on for the next few weeks.”
“And then?”
“Would you like to hear my real plan, or the one I think you’d prefer to hear?”
He drops his fork to the plate.
“Whatever plan you’re cooking up I hope it doesn’t involve that Mrs Kirby woman.”
“Err …”
"Good grief, boy,” he groans. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning anything stupid?”
“Define stupid.”
“Like instigating her demise.”
“Oh, definitely not that. You have my word.”
He picks his fork up again but maintains a frosty expression.
“Just promise me something, will you?”
“Name it.”
“Before you make any further moves in this game of yours, talk to me first.”
“It’s not a game, but yes, I will.”
“Promise, so help ye God?”
“Absolutely.”
I make an attempt at replicating his forehead and chest tapping routine but it doesn’t quite come off.
“You’re not a practising Catholic, are you?”
“Is it obvious?”
“A tad.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. There’s still time for you to see the light.”
I hope so, and it better be red.
24.
I know it’s a memory rather than a bad dream.
My current suffering suggests I did spend yesterday labouring as a plumber’s mate, and I’m now paying the price.
I roll over on the sofa and instantly regret it.
With every muscle screaming in objection, and knowing there’s zero chance of getting back to sleep, I attempt to sit up. What comes out of my mouth in response isn’t English; it’s barely words.
Through bleary eyes I look up at the clock on the mantelpiece: six o’clock in the morning.
“Kill me now,” I groan.
Yesterday, I had the benefit of ignorance. Yesterday, I didn’t start the day feeling like I’d been kicked shitless by a hoard of Wetherspoon’s bouncers.
If this is what hard graft feels like, they can keep it.
I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling. I could stay here all day and count the cracks, but it still wouldn’t be as boring as my evening with Father O’Connor yesterday.
After dinner we retired to the lounge and watched television for two long hours. We were both dumbstruck by the set but for very different reasons. I was dumbstruck because of the tiny screen, the grainy black and white picture, and limit of just three channels. Father O’Connor watched dumbstruck because he only acquired the set three weeks ago and still considers it a technological marvel.
Apparently, the reason he now owns a crappy television is to watch Apollo Eleven landing on the moon in five weeks’ time. This event, according to Father O’Connor, has gripped the nation, if not the world. For me, it’ll be a well-worn repeat if I haven’t destroyed Vernon’s marriage by then.
“Cup of tea, young man?”
Trying not to move too much, I glance towards the doorway.
“Morning, Father. That would be great, thanks, and I don’t suppose you’ve got any painkillers, have you?”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m suffering the after-effects of working with George.”
“There’s a packet of aspirin in the kitchen. I’ll dig them out.”
“Cheers.”
He disappears and I prepare to move. It’s shameful — I’m twenty-nine, not seventy-nine.
Getting dressed proves to be a slow, tortuous experience but once I’ve consumed the promised aspirin, together with tea and toast, the pain has settled to a dull ache. It’s just after seven o’clock when I leave the flat for the walk to Nelson Close.
I hobble along as if I’ve shat myself but th
e early departure provides a little extra time to consider what I have titled, Project Kirby. Just like any other project, effective planning will have a bearing on the eventual success, or failure, so I need to set a realistic target date with key milestones along the timeline.
After mulling it over for half the journey I’m already struggling with the target date, and I know why — lack of data. How can I construct a plan to break-up the Kirbys when I know so little about them? I need to conduct research and that means paying them a visit. I’d hope they might appreciate the opportunity to thank me for saving Gwen’s life, and maybe even invite me in. If I’m able to integrate myself into their lives to some degree, I should be able to identify any chinks in their relationship.
I have to confess it all feels a bit tawdry but then again, surely the death of a marriage has to be preferable to Gwen’s actual death? Whichever way I look at it, it’s a dilemma with no real winner. Either Vernon spends the rest of his life rueing the end of his marriage or I spent the rest of mine eating spam sandwiches.
By the time I turn into Nelson Close the moral pendulum has swung in my favour. After I’ve finished work I’ll have a quick bath, a bite to eat, and then head over to Cumberland Street. I don’t even know if they’ll be home but it’s not as though I can ping them a message on Facebook before setting off. Shit, I don’t even know if they’ve got a telephone; let alone their number.
As I wander down the front path of number sixteen, a voice calls out from above.
“Good morning.”
I look up. Jan is at the bedroom window.
“Morning.”
“Another beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Yep. Just the kind of day to be humping bathroom suites up and down stairs.”
“Or stuck in a sweltering office,” she giggles.
“Care to swap?”
“I’m okay, thank you. You have a great day now.”
“Yeah, you too.”
A parting wave and the window is closed.
I wonder if Jan would be so friendly if she knew the kind of man I’ve become — a man plotting to end a marriage by any means, fair or foul.
The front door swings open. George checks his watch and mumbles a greeting before Alice appears with another carrier bag.
“Morning, Toby. Here’s your lunch.”
“You really don’t have to go to so much trouble, Alice.”
“Nonsense. You need to keep your strength up — I know what a taskmaster my husband is.”
“Don’t encourage the lad,” George huffs. “I heard enough complaining yesterday.”
He then turns his cheek for Alice to plant a kiss. Token kiss delivered, she waves me goodbye and I’m struck by a sudden sense of déjà vu; having experienced the same scene yesterday. I’d bet it’ll probably be the same scene tomorrow, and the day after that. For the foreseeable future, this is my life.
“Ready, lad?”
“Yep.”
And so it begins again.
For nine long hours I work like a dog — an arthritic, poorly paid dog. The only difference from yesterday, bar the filling in my sandwich, is the order of the work. Whoever said change is as good as a rest was taking the piss because it’s every bit as gruelling.
When five o’clock finally arrives, I’m a wreck.
“You’ll get used to it,” George comments, as I gingerly ease myself into the van. “The first week is always the worst.”
“You’re saying I’ve got to endure another three days of this? My back is already killing me.”
“Quit your whining. It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“Easy for you to say when you’ve a nice comfy bed to sleep in.”
“Yes, and I’ve worked my backside off for that bed.”
“I don’t doubt that. I’m just saying: some of us don’t have our own bed.”
“For crying out loud,” he groans. “Do you ever stop whining? You sound like a right woman.”
“And with comments like that, you sound a lot like a misogynist.”
Judging by his scowl, I may have overstepped the mark; probably because it feels like a typical conversation I’d have with Dad.
“What?” he snaps.
“You’re suggesting all women whine, and some might consider that a sexist statement.”
“Who? Bloody women’s libbers and lesbians?”
“Err, perhaps, and some men.”
“This isn’t America, lad. I guarantee there isn’t a bloke in the land who wouldn’t agree with me.”
“What about Alice, and Jan? Would they agree? You’re entitled to your opinion but I don’t think it’s particularly respectful stereotyping all women that way.”
“I tell you what, sunshine, you’d do well to show me some respect. Don’t forget who pays your wages.”
It’s clear from his body language I’ve not so much overstepped the mark but taken several strides beyond it. George is my boss and there’s no human resources manager I can complain to.
“I do respect you, George, and I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. Perhaps we should change the subject.”
“Aye, maybe we should.”
He starts the engine, and the noise puts paid to any alternative topic of conversation.
We arrive back at Nelson Close and George disappears inside after the briefest of goodbyes. In hindsight, I wish I’d kept my opinion to myself. I can’t afford to lose this job as principles won’t pay the rent. It’s a regret which follows me all the way back to St Joseph’s.
On Father O’Connor’s instructions, I don’t bother knocking the door and head straight up the stairs. I meet him on the landing.
“I thought I’d wait before heading out seeing as you don’t have a key,” he says. “I’m off to see a parishioner.”
“Oh, okay. I’m off out myself once I’ve had a quick bath.”
He plucks a key from a hook on the wall and hands it over. I’m taken aback by the level of trust the priest is prepared to place in a man he’s only known four days. I sure as hell wouldn’t be so trusting.
“There’s ham and a bit of salad in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
“Thank you. I’ll give you some money on Friday to pay for the food.”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
“As you wish.”
“Oh, before you go, Father, can I use the washing machine? I’m running low on clean clothes.”
“Of course. Do you know where it is?”
“Err, the kitchen?”
“It’s in the scullery. Here, I’ll show you.”
“Honestly, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure I can find it.”
“A minute or two won’t hurt. It’s best I show you how it works.”
I follow him through to the kitchen. He opens a door to reveal a contraption which looks nothing like a washing machine.
“Here she is,” he remarks. “My trusty old Hoovermatic.”
“That’s a washing machine?”
“Of course it is.”
The only similarity with any washing machine I’ve ever seen is the height. It’s much wider, and rather than a glass door at the front, there are two hinged lids on the top. Father O’Connor opens the left-hand lid.
“First, you turn this dial to fill the drum with water but keep an eye on it otherwise it has a tendency to overfill. When it’s full, add a cupful of washing powder, and then your clothes.”
“Right.”
“Then, close the lid and turn the dial to wash mode. It takes about an hour, and then you need to turn the dial to drain mode.”
“And that’s it?”
“It is if you want wringing wet clothes. Otherwise they’ll need a spin.”
He then opens the second lid.
“You transfer your clothes into this drum, place the rubber guard on top, shut the lid, and turn the dial to spin mode.”
“It’s um, quite labour intensive, isn’t it?”
&n
bsp; “What are you talking about? My dear old mother would have killed for a twin tub. The poor woman had to wash all our clothes by hand — and there were nine of us — and then put the whole lot through a mangle. Took her an entire day, it did.”
“Different times, eh?”
“Indeed, they were. If you’ve no questions, I’ll be off now.”
I shake my head and he leaves me staring at the preposterous appliance. I decide to leave the washing until later and run a ten-inch bath instead.
Once I’ve made myself presentable, I hack away at the bread and dump two wedges on a plate with the ham. Much like the cafe last week, the salad is disappointing. No rocket, no kale, no avocado, no croutons; just lettuce, tomato, and celery. A quick check through the cupboards and the dressing options are equally poor. I settle on Salad Cream over Branston Pickle.
By seven o’clock I’m ready to go. I assume either Vernon or Gwen should be home from work by the time I arrive in Cumberland Street, but if not, I’ve wasted an hour of my evening walking there and back. Considering there is fuck all else to do apart from watch black and white television, a wasted journey isn’t a grave concern. My actual concern is two-fold: establishing which exact house they live in as I didn’t note the house number I saw Gwen leaving, and what I'll say to them.
I leave the flat hoping a stroll in the evening sunshine brings inspiration.
It doesn’t take long to deal with my first concern. Dad is always wittering on about how folk used to be more neighbourly and community spirited, and if he’s right, I simply need to knock on a few doors and hopefully one of the neighbours knows which number the Kirbys live at. I do know if someone banged on my door looking for one of my neighbours, I couldn’t help, as I don’t have a clue who any of them are. Maybe Dad has a point — I’ll find out soon enough.
As I meander through the streets trying to decide on my opening line to Vernon or Gwen, I’m distracted by the sheer number of kids playing football, or riding bikes, or generally larking around. Noisy, boisterous kids, with enviable levels of energy and few cares. It’s almost as if there’s been some kind of apocalyptic event with every parent wiped from the face of the planet and the kids left to their own devices. It seems reckless, considering most of the nonces reported in the news were at their most active in the sixties and seventies. I can’t understand why there appears to be little or no parental supervision.
Tuned Out Page 21
