A sudden cold shiver runs down my spine — my prodigious library of Internet pornography is no longer just a few clicks away.
Of all the problems I’ve faced of late this one feels particularly urgent and overwhelming. Without the Internet I’ve lost one of my favourite pastimes, and I’ve no idea if they even have alternative pornography here, or what form it would take. I only know two men and asking either would be inappropriate; highly inappropriate in Father O’Connor’s case.
For the rest of my walk I’m haunted by visions of illustrated vaginae in anatomical encyclopaedias — possibly the closest thing to porn currently available.
Arriving at Nelson Close, I hobble down the path to the front door. No sign of Jan and, unlike the last two days, I’m not greeted by either George or Alice. I rap the door knocker and George answers.
“Morning, Boss.”
He’s not exactly a ray of sunshine in the mornings but he looks particularly stony faced today.
“Come in for a minute. We need to talk.”
He turns and makes for the dining room. I don’t think we’ll be sipping Scotch but I do fear this is the hangover from our conversation in the van yesterday. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
Closing the front door behind me, I follow.
“Sit down,” he orders, as I enter the dining room.
I do as I’m told; taking a seat at the table. A flashback arrives — being summoned to Graham’s office at Red Rocket and given the boot. I couldn’t afford to lose that job but I absolutely cannot afford to lose this one.
“Look, George, if this is about yesterday …”
“Yes, it is.”
“I know I was out of line, but I didn’t mean …”
“Will you shut your cakehole for a moment and let me speak?”
“Sorry.”
“What you said, about respect. You were right.”
I didn’t see that coming.
“Was I?”
He shifts uneasily in his chair. Whatever he’s about to say, I think George is about to stray beyond his stoic comfort zone.
“I was watching the television with my girls last night, and I thought about our conversation. Now, I’m not one of your wishy-washy bleeding heart types, but it did make me realise something.”
I wait for him to continue; not daring to open my mouth again.
“It made me realise I’m a lucky man. Not many folk have the kind of marriage me and my Alice have, and Jan is a fine young woman.”
“Okaaay.”
“The point I’m trying to make is: I’m a man of principle and on reflection, you only stood up and defended your principles. And, as it happens, you were right — my girls do deserve respect.”
“So, you’re not going to sack me?”
“No, I’m not, but I did have a long hard think about your sleeping arrangements.”
“What about them?”
He gets to his feet.
“Come with me.”
He leads me from the dining room into the kitchen and out through the back door.
Outside, George makes for a set of tall wooden gates which match those at the front of the house. Those gates are then tugged open; allowing access to the rear end of the driveway.
“What do you reckon?” he asks. “She’s still a work in progress, mind.”
It’s difficult to determine how much progress has been made as I can only see the rear end of the tatty, blue and cream caravan. Not much, I’d venture.
“It’s, um, a caravan.”
“Ten out of ten for observation. Come and have a look inside.”
Grateful for any delay in the working day, I follow George as he edges along the narrow space between the side of the caravan and the flank wall of the house. We squeeze in through the door.
In fairness, the cosy interior is in much better shape than the outside.
“I’ve been working on her for months,” George remarks. “I had hoped to finish the work this summer but as you can see, the outside is still in a state and the mechanics need a complete overhaul.”
“It’s … nice.”
“Guess how much I paid for her.”
“Oh, um, five hundred quid?”
“Don’t be daft. You can buy a new car for five hundred quid.”
“Right. I don’t know then.”
“Twenty quid.”
“Gosh, that’s … cheap.”
“Exactly. I bought her from a bloke in the pub. He was desperate to sell.”
“I bet he was.”
George proceeds to the official tour, outlining all the work he’s done as we go. As tours go, it’s fairly brief on account there’s not much to see. At one end there’s a small double bed, and at the other a table with upholstered bench seats either side.
“Alice and Jan made the seat covers themselves. They did a smashing job, don’t you think?”
Blue tartan wouldn’t have been my choice of fabric, but hey.
“They look great.”
“Aye, and I fitted the new kitchenette. There’s running water and a cooker which uses bottled gas.”
“Very impressive. I’m sure it’ll look great when it’s finished.”
“That won’t be until the autumn so she won’t see the road until next year.”
I nod; unsure what else to do or say.
“Anyway, I discussed it with Alice and we agreed you can stay here until you get yourself back on your feet.”
“What? I mean … really?”
“If I’m to get a decent day’s work out of you, I can’t have you kipping in that refuge.”
“I … I don’t know what to say.”
Not strictly true. I want to say no thanks but I’ve complained about the refuge so much, what possible reason would I have for staying there as opposed to George’s tin box? And telling him I’m not staying at the refuge isn’t an option either if I want to avoid Father O’Connor’s wrath.
“You’ll pay rent, mind,” George adds. “We’re not a charity.”
It gets worse.
“Right. And how much would that be?”
“Four quid a week.”
I do the maths. One fifth of my weekly pay at least sounds reasonable. The rent on my flat in Stratfield House is roughly a third of my monthly pay, and I still have all the utility bills on top.
“That’s about doable, George.”
“Well? What do you think?”
“It’s a really kind offer …”
I hastily compile a list of pros and cons. Father O’Connor stipulated I could only stay in his flat until my first pay packet so I’d need to find somewhere else to stay within the next few days, and at least this is convenient for work. Short term, I could stay in the caravan until I find a decent room somewhere. Either way, with the first stage of Project Kirby now underway, I’m hopeful my accommodation dilemma will soon prove academic.
“Oh, and another thing,” George interrupts. “Your evening meals are included.”
Game changer.
“When can I move in?”
“Whenever you like.”
“This evening?”
“As I said: whenever you like.”
I turn and take another look at what is to be my temporary home. Opposite the kitchenette there’s a door to what I presume is the bathroom.
“Can I?”
“Help yourself.”
I open the door to a storage cupboard. Confused, I turn to George.
“Um, where’s the bathroom?”
“There isn’t one.”
“So where do I … you know?”
He points out of the rear window towards the garden.
“In there.”
My eyes follow his finger towards a small brick structure abutting the rear of a garden shed.
“The toilet is in the garden?”
“Yes, and?”
“Um, why?”
“You never had an outside loo in America?”
“God, no.”
�
��Plenty of homes still have them here,” he shrugs. “It’s no great hardship, although you might need to break the ice in the bowl when winter comes … you know … before you do your business. There’s a stick on top of the cistern.”
“Nice. And where do I take a bath?”
“You can use the bathroom in the house. Just make sure you ask first and clean the tub thoroughly afterwards or Alice will have your guts for garters.”
I’ve stayed in some fuck-awful hotels in my time, but I’ve never had to head outside for a shit or seek permission before taking a bath. I wish I’d known the bathroom arrangements before accepting the tenancy.
“Anyway,” George says, checking his watch. “We’re already behind schedule so let’s get a shift on.”
We head back into the house via the kitchen where Alice is busy washing up.
“The lad will be staying,” George announces.
“Oh, I’m so relieved,” Alice smiles. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you staying in that dreadful refuge.”
“Not as relieved as I am. I’m so grateful, Alice.”
“Well, it’ll be nice for George to have another man around the house. I think he feels a little outnumbered at times.”
“We’re running late, love,” George remarks, rolling his eyes. “Lunch?”
“Oh, yes.”
We’re handed our carrier bags.
“Fish paste and cucumber today.”
There are many appealing ways to serve fish but a paste doesn’t sound like one of them. I didn’t even know such an abomination existed.
“Lovely.” I chirp. “Thank you.”
We head to the front door and go through the now-familiar motions. The only difference is Jan appearing at the bedroom window and waving us off.
Five minutes into our journey, I realise Jan’s appearance wasn’t the only difference this morning. Quite how we’ve got here so quickly, I don’t know, but within a matter of days these people have welcomed me into their family. They’ve given me work, food, and now shelter; but perhaps more significantly, they’ve given me their trust.
Would I have been as fortunate in my day?
By the closing minutes of another tough day at work, I’m no closer to answering that question. Telling, perhaps.
We deposit the third cast iron bath tub next to the skip and take a moment to swig the tepid dregs from our water bottles.
“That’ll do us for today, lad. Good job.”
“Cheers. Does that count as an official appraisal?”
“No, but you’ll know when I’m not happy.”
“How so?”
“Simple,” he says, with a wry smile. “I’ll drop you off at the dole office.”
We clamber into the van; one of us more weary than the other.
“Do you want me to swing by the refuge?” George asks. “So you can collect your gear.”
“Um, no thanks but if you don’t mind, can you drop me at St Joseph’s?”
“Can do. Why there?”
“I, err, just wanted to have a chat with Father O’Connor. I’d like to thank him for helping me out, and for introducing me to your family. Christ knows where I’d be now if it wasn’t for him, and you of course.”
“We all deserve a break, lad. Just don’t mess it up.”
“I’m trying, George. I really am.”
He slaps a meaty hand on my shoulder.
“I know.”
We set off, and with the driver’s door open a breeze drifts through the cabin. It might be laced with carbon monoxide from vehicles burning leaded fuel but it’s still welcome.
George pulls up outside St Joseph’s.
“I shouldn’t be too long so I’ll see you back at the house.”
“Alice has probably made you dinner so quick as you can.”
“Oh, great but tell her not to worry. I don’t mind throwing it in the microwave later.”
“The what?”
“You don’t have a microwave?”
“What’s that when it’s at home?”
“Probably best I explain later. I won’t be long.”
George shakes his head and drives away. As if I wasn’t filthy enough, he leaves me in a sooty cloud of diesel fumes. I hope Father O’Connor doesn't mind if I have a quick bath before moving out.
I head up to the flat to ask and find him in the kitchen.
“Good evening, young Toby. Feeling better?”
“I am, thank you, Father. And I have news.”
“Oh?”
“George and Alice have invited me to stay at their place.”
“Have they indeed?”
“Well, kind of. They’ve got a caravan on the driveway and they’ve said I can stay there until I get myself sorted.”
“This is all a bit sudden, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, but I get on well with them, and work is going okay’ish. I guess they must trust me.”
He rubs his chin for a few seconds and then invites me to take a seat at the table.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“Not as such, but there is something you should know.”
His sombre tone warrants concern. I sit down.
“Listen,” he begins. “I don't doubt their charitable intentions, but you need to tread carefully.”
“Why?”
“George and Alice had a son, Thomas.”
He lets his statement hang in the air until I pick up on one specific word.
“Had?”
“A fine lad, and a decent soldier by all accounts. He died in the Borneo conflict, back in ‘64; barely a month after his eighteenth birthday.”
“That’s … just awful. I had no idea.”
“No, and I’m not sure they’d thank me for telling you.”
“So, why are you telling me?”
“Do you not see it, young Toby?”
“See what?”
“Thomas would have been twenty-three this year — you’re still in your twenties, correct?”
“Just.”
“When they lost Thomas, it left a gaping hole in their family. I worry in some way you might be filling that hole.”
“That’s a stretch, don’t you think? They’ve been good to me, granted, but there's no evidence they think of me as a replacement for their dead son.”
“Yet.”
“Yet?”
“Grief is a complicated emotion, Toby. To lose a son in such tragic circumstances, and at such a young age, well, that kind of grief never goes away. My concern is they’ll grow attached to you, and in a way it’ll help them deal with their loss.”
“Surely that’s a good thing?”
“Maybe, if you didn’t have your own hole to fill.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whatever is going on with you, and I still have no idea, I don’t want to see that family suffer any more pain. Do you understand?”
“Kind of, but I swear: I have no intention of hurting them.”
“But you also told me you have no intention of staying … here.”
“That’s not a decision I have direct control over.”
“Still, this is not where you want to be?”
“It’s not where I’m supposed to be. There’s a difference.”
“Which brings us back to my point — you need to tread carefully. If you intend to stay here, fine, but if not I’d suggest you don’t make yourself too comfortable at Nelson Close. They’ve already suffered more than their fair share of loss.”
“Okay,” I sigh. “All understood and duly noted.”
“Are you sure? You sound a little dismissive, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Sorry, but I said I understood. You sound just like my dad when you bang on after the point has been made.”
“Perhaps if you’d listened to your father now and again you might not be in your current pickle.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I groan. “Whatever.”
The priest shakes his head.
“Job 12:12 — Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?”
Sermon complete, Father O’Connor gets to his feet.
“Do you need a hand packing?” he asks.
“Err, I think I’ll manage but if you’ve got a carrier bag going spare?”
“A what?”
“A bag to pack all my clothes in.”
“There are some empty boxes in the hall. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“So, I suppose the next time I’ll see you will be on Sunday.”
“Err, why Sunday?”
“For the morning service.”
“Ah, I hadn’t planned …”
“If it wasn’t for this church and God’s will, where would you be now?”
I’ve already pissed him off once. Twice would be an insult.
“Sunday, yes.”
“That’s assuming you’re still around. Are you planning to hang around until Sunday?”
Even if my drink with Gwen on Thursday evening goes well, that one meeting alone is unlikely to re-set Vernon’s timeline. However, I do concede Father O’Connor’s point about George and Alice, and it now feels like I’ve an added time pressure to complete Project Kirby.
“I’ll still be here Sunday.”
“Hopefully, or definitely?”
“Probably.”
27.
I enjoyed nine solid hours of sleep; broken only by the ringing of an alarm clock Jan lent me. My temporary home might be a tin box on wheels but God, the bed is comfy.
The muscles are still stiff but I don’t ache as much as yesterday.
After my conversation with Father O’Connor, I could sense an atmosphere and decided not to ask if I could take a bath. I’m sure he wouldn’t have declined but I think we both needed a cooling-off period. In hindsight, I could have chosen my words more carefully.
The walk to Nelson Close offered an opportunity to conduct a post-mortem.
My life, or the life I had, was particularly insular. I suppose I’m no different from most people my age in that I had a tendency to hang around with people of a similar mindset and avoided those whose views conflicted with mine — all too easy when the basis of most relationships is social media. I can filter all of humanity to the point I only see what I want to see and read what I want to read. Consequently, I’ve never really got to know someone like Father O’Connor and the only person I know of a similar age is my dad. I responded to his advice with a one-size-fits-all reaction. In hindsight, my behaviour erred too close to petulant.
Tuned Out Page 23
