I’m about to return my focus to the Kirby question when a tatty leather football comes bouncing across the street and rolls to a stop on the pavement in front of me. A young boy then comes scampering across the road to retrieve it.
“Sorry, mister,” he calls out.
I wave away his apology and look down at the ball at my feet. Until I discovered gaming I played a lot of football and even won a few trophies as a tricky winger with the local team. My career ended a long time ago, but the undeniable fact remains: if you drop a football in front of any man of any age, he can’t help himself.
I scoop the ball onto my foot and begin a series of rusty but passable keepie-uppies. I manage a dozen before my body decides it’s had enough exertion for one day.
“Here you go,” I say, tossing the ball to the kid.
“You’re really good, mister. Do you wanna join our kickabout?”
“Err, thanks, but I need to be somewhere. And besides, you really shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what their intentions are. Oh, and if you ever get invited on to a TV show called Jim’ll Fix It, decline.”
I continue on my way, leaving behind a confused-looking kid.
By the time I turn into Cumberland Street I’m still uncertain what to say to the Kirbys. The sudden bout of nerves isn’t helping so I guess all I can do is wing it and see where that leads me. However, I first need to establish where they live. I knock on the first door I come to.
After a few seconds a thirty-something woman, in an inappropriately short dress, answers.
“Sorry to trouble you. I’m looking for Gwen and Vernon Kirby. Do you know which number they live at?”
“Depends.”
“Err, on?”
“You from the Provi?”
“The what?”
“They’ve got enough problems without you hassling her for money.”
“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re not from the Provi?”
“No. I’m just … an old acquaintance.”
“Number nineteen,” she grumbles, before slamming the door in my face.
“Thanks,” I huff.
Notwithstanding her rudeness, the woman’s claim is interesting — I wonder what problems the Kirbys are experiencing. Only one way to find out.
I cross the street and pass several tatty doors until I reach number nineteen. The first impression is more a conclusion: Vernon isn’t big on home improvements, with the window frames and rendered front wall in desperate need of repainting.
I rap the door knocker and take a step back. From inside, I can hear raised voices and seconds pass before footsteps thump towards the door.
It swings open.
In the doorway stands a man whose face I don’t recognise. However, the angst-ridden scowl is familiar.
I’m almost certain it’s Vernon Kirby.
25.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man who could be Vernon Kirby glares at me. I scan his face for similarities: the same narrow eyes and angular jawline but the straggling grey hair is short, dark, and parted at the side. My mind struggles to compute — how can this youthful stranger possibly be the same pensioner I saw only days ago?
“I’m, um …”
“Vernon!” a female voice shrieks from inside the house. “Don’t you dare walk out that door!”
His identity confirmed, Vernon glances over his shoulder and then back at me. I open my mouth to speak but before I can force out the words, he barges straight past and strides off down the street.
As I watch him leave, I’m joined on the doorstep by a clearly irate Gwen.
“Vernon Kirby,” she yells after him. “Come back here this minute.”
He ignores her and turns the corner. Folding her arms, Gwen stands motionless, seething.
I’ve patently walked straight into the middle of a domestic. Maybe I should have had that kickabout.
“Have I come at a bad time?” I ask.
Gwen turns and eyes me with a blank stare. For a second it’s obvious she doesn’t recognise me, until she does.
“It’s you,” she gasps. “From the Post Office.”
“Yes, I thought I’d drop by and see if you’re okay, after what happened.”
“Oh, my. What must you think of us … I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologise. I can come back if it’s a bad time?”
“No, not at all. I never got a chance to thank you properly.”
“Well, here I am.”
“Please, come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.”
This has worked out better than I expected. It appears the Kirby’s marriage is not as idyllic as Vernon suggested, and now I have the chance to dig a little deeper without the miserable bastard present.
“That’d be lovely. Thanks.”
I follow her into a squalid hallway which reeks of damp.
“Excuse the state of the place,” Gwen calls over her shoulder. “The house is falling apart and the landlord couldn’t care less.”
“You should complain to the council.”
“They are the landlord.”
“Oh.”
The second I step into the kitchen, I no longer want a cup of tea. Beyond the bare floorboards, the grey plaster walls have more cracks than Father O’Connor’s ceiling and are decorated with a patchwork pattern of mould.
“Bleedin’ horrid, isn’t it?” Gwen remarks, sensing my shock.
“Um, it’s got character … I guess.”
“We were put in here six months ago after they condemned our flat. It were meant to be a fresh start when they gave us one of those new places in Marston Towers out by the ring road, but it was worse than this place, if you believe it.”
I only know Marston Towers by reputation; a sixties-built council estate centred around two gloomy tower blocks. It’s not the kind of place you visit after dark, unless you’re in the market for narcotics or firearms.
“And this is the best the council could do?”
“They offered us five different houses, and this place is the pick of a bad bunch.”
“Christ,” I mumble.
“That’s more or less what my husband said. I think you met Vernon on his way out.”
“Um, yes, although he didn’t stop to introduce himself.”
“No, sorry about that. We were in the middle of … a minor disagreement when you arrived. He’s probably in the pub now; wasting money we don’t have.”
Not knowing what to say, I return an embarrassed smile.
“Ignore me,” she sighs. “You didn’t come round to hear about our problems. I’ll get that kettle on.”
Gwen grabs a metal kettle and fills it at the sink. Like the day I first met her, she’s wearing another short, sleeveless dress; polka-dot blue on this occasion. I watch on as she plucks cups and saucers from a cupboard and prepares the tea. Vernon’s wife is as attractive as I remember from our brief encounter last week, and out of place in such a depressing hovel of a kitchen.
“How did you know where I lived?” she casually asks.
“I asked one of the neighbours. A charming woman.”
“No, I mean: how did you know which street?”
“Oh, I googled your name.”
“You did what?”
Shit.
“Oh … um … it’s a new system they have in the library for checking the electoral roll.”
“But I never told you my name.”
“No … the police told me … after I gave my statement.”
“Oh, okay.”
Content with my spontaneous bullshit, she returns to the tea making.
“Was your friend okay?” I ask. “The chap at the Post Office?”
“Mr Cooper? Yes, he’s made of stern stuff.”
“Good to hear. And you?”
“A bit of delayed shock but nothing serious, thanks to you. You were very br
ave.”
“It was nothing.”
“Don’t be so modest, Mr …”
She stops what she’s doing and scratches her head.
“It’s Grant,” I chuckle. “But call me Toby.”
“I’ve got such a terrible memory. Forgive me.”
She steps across the kitchen and holds out her hand.
“I never got the chance to introduce myself. I’m Gwen. Gwen Kirby.”
“Well, it’s lovely to meet you in less stressful circumstances, Gwen.”
“And you,” she coos, fixing me with her large brown eyes.
Our handshake continues just a second longer than would usually be acceptable.
The kettle whistles and Gwen releases my hand.
“Right, tea.”
Once she’s loaded a tray with a teapot, cups, saucers, and a sugar bowl, I’m invited through to what Gwen calls the front room. It’s no less dismal than the kitchen but the mould isn’t quite so rampant.
“Please, take a seat.”
I plonk myself down on a threadbare sofa. As Gwen pours the tea, I get to soak up the ambiance of a room almost as pleasant as your average crack den. There’s an armchair which doesn’t match the sofa, a coffee table, a cheap-looking sideboard, and not a lot else; not even a television set.
“How long have you been married?” I ask, purely to break the silence.
“Not long.”
“Enjoying married life?”
Gwen hands me a cup and saucer.
“Sugar?”
“Just one, please.”
She tongs two cubes into my cup; my question still unanswered.
“Are you married, Toby?”
“Nope.”
“Courting?”
It’s not a word I recognise so I shake my head.
“Lucky you,” she replies. “If you want my advice, don’t bother.”
I try not to let the glee show on my face. Whatever Vernon may have thought, clearly there’s trouble in paradise and with it, hope.
Gwen sits down next to me on the sofa; her already short dress riding dangerously high. It takes a superhuman effort not to gawp at her bare thighs.
“I fell pregnant,” she suddenly declares. “We had a shotgun wedding, but I lost the baby a few weeks later.”
I’m taken aback by her candour. Why she feels it appropriate to tell a virtual stranger such personal information is beyond me, but it's an invitation to dig a little deeper into their woes.
“That’s awful, Gwen. How did Vernon take it?”
“You’re proper polite,” she replies; again choosing to ignore my question. “I like the way you speak. It’s nice.”
“Err, is it?”
“Vernon is always effing and jeffing. He blames his job.”
“What does he do?”
“Groundworks. You know, digging roads, pavements, that kind of thing. Some nights he brings a few of his workmates home to play cards and they turn the air blue with their language.”
“Do you work?”
“Not now. I used to be a barmaid at the Duke of York; that’s how I met Vernon. After we married he told me to quit — didn’t want other men ogling me.”
“How chivalrous.”
“He wants us to try for another baby and reckons there’s no point me looking for a job.”
“Groundworks must pay well if you can afford to live on one salary.”
“We can’t, but Vernon’s firm are due to start a new contract Thursday and the pay is pretty good. Have you heard of that new town they’re building?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Oh, what’s it called? Milton … something or other.”
“Keynes?”
“That’s it. He’ll be working up there for a month or two.”
“So, what do you to keep yourself busy, apart from getting involved in Post Office hold-ups?”
“You’re funny,” she splutters.
“I have my moments.”
“I don’t do much, really. Just cooking, cleaning, and housework. Of course, that’ll change if there’s a baby. Vernon wants five or six kids but I can’t imagine coping with so many.”
Her use of the word if is interesting. I get the impression she isn’t so convinced.
“Um, tell me to mind my own business, Gwen, but what do you want?”
“Me?”
“You’ve told me what Vernon wants, but surely you have your own aspirations?”
“My own what?”
“Aspirations. You know, hopes for the future.”
“I, err, I’ve never really thought about it.”
This is almost too good to be true. If I can demonstrate to an already sceptical Gwen there’s a life beyond these squalid walls without Vernon, maybe she’ll walk out and he can resume his path to misery.
“What did you dream of doing when you were at school?”
“I wanted to be a model, or maybe a singer.”
Some things never change.
“Right, and what’s stopping you following those dreams?”
I can almost hear the cogs whirring as Gwen considers her answer.
“Vernon would never have it,” she finally concedes. “He’s very traditional in his views and wouldn’t want me parading myself in public.”
I’m about to push her further when the sound of the front door slamming echoes from the hallway. Gwen’s demeanour changes in a heartbeat.
The lounge door opens and Vernon strides in. He doesn’t look happy.
“Uh, Vernon,” Gwen splutters. “This is Mr Grant … the man who came to my rescue at the Post Office. Remember, I told you?”
I get to my feet and offer a handshake. Rather than reciprocate, he looks me up and down.
“What you doing here?” he growls.
His appearance could not be more different but Vernon’s spiky tone of voice has changed little.
“I just popped by to see if your wife is okay, after the incident at the Post Office.”
He turns to Gwen.
“You got any money? Jimmy ain’t in the pub and I’m potless.”
“Only a couple of bob but I need it for the electric meter.”
“What about your housekeeping?”
“It’s all gone.”
He then turns to the tea tray on the table.
“You’ve got enough to waste on entertaining strangers, I see.”
“It’s just tea. It’s the least we can offer after Mr Grant saved my life, don’t you reckon?”
Vernon turns his attention my way.
“As you can see, my missus is just fine so best be on your way.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll see you out,” Gwen pipes up.
Shooting a final glare in my direction, Vernon flops down in the armchair and buries his head in a copy of The Sun.
I make for the front door.
It’s a relief to be outside on the pavement; the atmosphere inside the house toxic on many levels. Stood on the front step, Gwen pulls the door as close to shut as possible.
“Sorry about Vernon,” she says in a hushed voice. “He’s not always so rude.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks for coming by though, and for listening. Vernon don’t like my friends and I ain’t got any family so, you know, it’s nice to have a natter.”
“Well, whenever you fancy a chat …”
I realise there is no way for Gwen to contact me. I don’t even have a permanent address.
“Yes?”
“Maybe you’d like to meet up one evening, seeing as Vernon won’t be around for a while?”
“Oh it’s very kind of you, but I dunno.”
“How about Thursday? We could go for a drink?”
Rather than answer, Gwen nibbles her bottom lip as she considers the invite. It’s cute, but I fear it’s a sign I may have been too forward.
“Just a drink,” I stress. “I’m new to the area and don’t have any real friends here. There�
��s no ulterior motive.”
“Alright. Do you know the Wellington Arms in town?”
“No, but I can find it.”
I’ll also need to find some cash but hopefully George will give me an advance on my wages.
“Meet me outside at seven.”
Vernon yells something from his armchair. I don’t catch what, but the tone is far from cordial.
“I’d better go.”
“No worries. See you Thursday.”
She closes the door and within seconds the yelling begins again. I don’t hang around to listen.
After a ponderous walk back, I arrive at St Joseph’s in better spirits than when I left — any doubts I had about interfering in the Kirby’s marriage now quashed. In fact, I reckon I’d be doing Gwen a huge favour if the brief glimpse into their marriage is anything to go by. Vernon is an arsehole now, and he’ll be an arsehole in fifty years’ time.
All I need to do is show Gwen she has options and encourage her to take one of them. Her life will be immeasurably better for it, and Vernon’s will be immeasurably worse. Mine will be back where it’s supposed to be.
26.
Sharing a home with a priest has its advantages.
“I beg you, Father,” I plead. “Ask God to take me now.”
“What are you wittering on about?”
I lower myself onto a chair at the kitchen table.
“I’m in agony and suffering from sleep deprivation.”
“Ah, stop your moaning. A cup of tea and a bite to eat is all you need.”
What is it with people of this generation? Apparently, every problem can be resolved by either shutting up about it or drinking tea. I dread to think how businesses operate their customer service departments.
Hi, I’ve got a real problem.
Just deal with it. Milk and sugar?
I cadge more aspirin and take them with Father O’Connor’s prescription of tea and toast.
Physically, I feel like death but I leave the flat feeling better mentally. That isn’t down to tea, toast, or aspirin, but hope. After I returned from Cumberland Street last night, I managed to break the Hoovermatic washing machine before turning my attention to a plan. It still needs a polish but when I meet Gwen on Thursday evening, I’m hoping to enact the first stage. By the time I’ve finished, she'll be as good as dead to Vernon and I can go home.
In the interim, I face another day of graft with an increasingly wide range of aches and pains. I swear, even my bollocks ache but that could be because I’ve not yet had the opportunity, or the motivation, to knock out a pre-decimal wank yet. Five days abstinence for a man who usually indulges daily can’t be good.
Tuned Out Page 22
