I arrived at number sixteen with Father O’Connor’s advice still rattling around in my head. The priest had a valid point in that George and Alice are missing a son, and I’m a young man with no parents; as far as they know. Notwithstanding their feelings, it would be like cheating on my actual parents if I fell into the role of surrogate son, no matter how temporarily.
A different version of Jan answered the door — a version dressed in denim shorts and tie-dyed orange t-shirt. She remarked I was no longer a guest and therefore she no longer had to dress like a Sunday school teacher. There were no complaints from me.
I was ushered into the dining room where George and Alice were waiting to eat; the former impatiently.
The evening meal was liver and onions. I couldn’t get my head around eating an actual liver but, not wishing to cause offence, I cleared my plate. Despite the odd texture, it wasn’t too bad. I never got around to asking what specific creature the butcher purloined it from. Perhaps some things are best left unknown.
After dinner, I had a bath with fifteen whole inches of water and then joined the family to watch television for an hour or so. Their set is colour, but it didn’t make the programmes any less dull. At least there was conversation. At nine-thirty, I called it a night and retired to the caravan. George had rigged-up an electricity supply so, whilst I had absolutely no form of entertainment, at least I had light.
Now, still cocooned in my comfy bed, I have quite a day ahead of me. Unfortunately, much of it involves hard labour but at seven o’clock this evening I get to enact the next stage of Project Kirby.
First things first though.
I get up and slip on a pair of trousers and a shirt. It comes to something when you have to get dressed to take a piss.
The outside loo proves as grim as I expected. Even on a warm summer morning, the damp walls and tiled floor ensure a chilly experience; at least a dozen spiders watching on.
Back in the caravan, I brush my teeth and wash my face in the sink before slipping my overalls on. With no provisions in, I need to cadge a cup of tea and hopefully, some breakfast. I head back outside and make for the kitchen door. Through the window, I can see Alice busy making sandwiches. I knock on the glass.
“Morning,” I mouth.
She bustles over and unlocks the door.
“Morning, Toby. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a dream, thanks.”
“George is just having his breakfast. Have you eaten?”
“I haven’t had a chance to shop yet.”
“Well, we can’t have you going to work on an empty stomach. Head into the dining room and I’ll rustle you up some scrambled egg on toast. If that’s okay?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
“And tea?”
“You read my mind.”
“Go sit down. I’ll bring it through.”
I could hug Alice for being so lovely but decide against it. Instead, I flash her a smile.
As I enter the hallway, footsteps pad down the stairs and Jan appears at the bottom.
“Oh, morning,” she says, while stifling a yawn. “Don’t talk to me yet. I need tea.”
What she really needs is clothes — her skimpy dressing gown barely fit for purpose. With so much flesh on display I don’t know where to look, so settle on the skirting board.
“Um, morning,” I gulp.
Cheeks flushing, I make a dart for the dining room and close the door. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard Jan chuckling to herself as she passed.
I turn to find George with his head buried in a newspaper. He grunts a good morning and continues his breakfast.
Half-an-hour and a delicious breakfast later, we’re back on the front doorstep for the departure ritual. The carrier bags are handed over and I offer a silent prayer there was no left-over liver after last night’s meal.
“Luncheon meat and piccalilli today,” Alice confirms.
Another day, another mysterious meat product, which will no doubt contain little actual meat. As for piccalilli, it sounds like a title-winning word from a spelling bee but beyond that, I’m clueless.
“Thanks, Alice.”
We set off for another day at the Morland Court Hotel.
Now George and I have settled into a rhythm and I’ve a vague idea what I’m supposed to do, the morning passes quickly enough. The work itself is just as back breaking but I find if I treat it like a gym workout, it’s bearable. Even after just three and a half days, I can already feel my fitness levels improving.
We break for lunch and I get my first taste of piccalilli. Ignoring the lurid yellow colour and chunks of raw cauliflower, I don’t mind the tangy, mustard-like taste. Luncheon meat, however, has a flavour and texture suspiciously close to spam. Bless Alice for varying our daily diet but I would kill for a crayfish and rocket panini.
By the end of the day we’ve fitted our third suite. George seems pleased with our progress, as do the hotel management. I don’t know what they’re paying him but from what I’ve seen of George’s comfortable lifestyle, plumbing appears to be as lucrative for him as it was for my dad. Come to think of it, I’ve never met a poor plumber.
We arrive back at Nelson Close at five fifteen and, after seeking permission, I make a beeline for the bathroom. Alice warned dinner wouldn’t be long so I’ve only got time to scrub the dirt and dry sweat away before I’m expected in the dining room. That suits me as I need to be away by half-six.
I get dressed and scrape my hair into something approaching a style. The stubble is now approaching beard status but I’ll have to put up with it until I can buy a razor at the weekend. I give the bathtub a quick rinse and hurry out the door to find Jan coming out of her bedroom. Still dressed in her work clothes, I’d like to say it’s nice to see her in less revealing attire, but that might be a lie.
“Ah, just the man,” she chirps.
“Me?”
“Yep. A friend and I were heading to the cinema tonight, but she’s cancelled. I don’t suppose you fancy it?”
“Would your parents mind?”
“It’s the cinema, Toby. I’m not asking you to elope.”
“Right, of course. I’d love to but I’ve got somewhere to be at seven.”
“Oh, I see,” she frowns. “A date by any chance?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’ve just had a bath, and you had one last night.”
“Err, do you have laws against cleanliness here?”
“No, but it’s unusual for a guy to spend so much time in the bathroom, unless he thinks his luck might be in.”
“Well, it’s not unusual for this guy, and I’m not going on a date. It’s a kind of intervention.”
“And what’s that when it’s at home?”
“It’s complicated but if you don’t mind postponing for twenty-four hours, I’m up for the cinema tomorrow? I’ll have been paid by then.”
“Will you have another bath before we go?”
“Yes, of course I … wait … err, not because I think my luck will be in.”
“I’m playing with you,” she giggles. “I think it’s nice you look after your appearance. Tomorrow it is.”
“Great.”
“But I call first dibs on the bathroom.”
“Deal.”
With my first sixties social engagement ratified, I follow Jan down to the dining room and make short work of a rather delicious serving of homemade cottage pie. Unfortunately, I don’t have time for dessert but I’m not overly disappointed when Alice reveals what I’m missing out on. Tinned peaches sound okay — condensed milk, less so.
Before I leave, I get George on his own and ask for an advance on my wages. I can’t really turn up at the pub with just three pence in my pocket. With a warning it won’t be a regular occurrence, he asks how much I need.
“I don’t know. How much is a pint?”
“Two shillings, give or take.”
“Okay, can I have ten shillings?”
“What are they?”
“You’ve never seen a crown before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Well, spend them wisely, lad. I don’t want you pitching up for work with a hangover tomorrow.”
“Not likely, unless the pub sells Jägerbombs at a shilling a go.”
Only after he returns a stern glare, do I realise my mistake. With the wounds still raw, it’s unlikely any pub in the country would serve a German beverage with the word ‘bomb’ in the name.
“It’s a Dutch drink,” I blurt. “Popular in America.”
“Aye, I’m sure it is. Can’t see it catching on over here though.”
“Not for a while.”
I thank him for the advance and, after confirming where the Wellington Arms is, I depart.
The walk into town affords me a little extra time to conclude my plan for Gwen. As I wander through the streets, it isn’t the plan which bothers me; it’s whether Gwen will even turn up. I did my best to allay her concerns, but she’s still a married woman and these are different times. I’ve had an insight into domestic living here and although that insight is limited to just three women, they all err on the side of subservient with the respective men in their lives.
It’s just a drink, but if I were in Gwen’s shoes I might think twice; particularly as this incarnation of Vernon is every bit as intimidating and obnoxious as his later self. I wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side.
Even less convinced Gwen will show, I arrive at the Wellington Arms and scan the street. There’s no sign of her. As a matter of habit, I glance at my left wrist. The inability to determine the time is becoming a royal pain in the arse, and it’s not as though I can even order a cheap digital watch from Amazon.
With little else to do while I wait, I turn my attention to the pub itself. Unlike every town centre pub in my day, there are no posters advertising five shots for a fiver or free soft drinks for the designated driver. There’s no promise of Sky Sports, no reference to a heated smoking area, no gastropub-style menu, no chalkboard advertising a weekly quiz night or karaoke. A glance through the window confirms my initial appraisal of the Wellington Arms — a miserable establishment designed for the sole purpose of consuming alcohol.
“Hi.”
Startled by the sudden voice, I spin around.
“You made it!”
Dressed in a pale pink smock dress and matching jacket, Gwen looks quite the picture.
“I almost turned back twice, but here I am.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Dunno if I am. I need a drink.”
“Shall we?”
I open the door and wave her in. As soon as she passes through the doorway, I allow myself a satisfied smile.
Gwen is here. Project Kirby is a go.
28.
I was only sixteen when the Government banned smoking in all British pubs. Therefore, The Wellington Arms is a new experience.
“Good grief,” I cough, as we approach the bar. “Is there anyone in here not smoking?”
To validate my point, a trashy-looking barmaid saunters over, cigarette in hand.
“Yes, love. What can I get ya?”
Gwen orders a gin and tonic as I eye the pumps. The only two brands I recognise are Guinness and Carlsberg.
“And a pint of Carlsberg, please.”
“We’re doing a special on Watney’s Red Barrel. It’s a tanner less than Carlsberg.”
I can’t remember what a tanner is and I’ve never heard of Watney’s Red Barrel. Still, alcohol is alcohol, and a saving is a saving.
“Great. I’ll take a pint of that, please.”
The barmaid pours the drinks and confirms the bill as four and two. I hand over one of my silver crowns and receive a handful of coppers in return.
The chance of a hangover tomorrow is looking slim.
I grab our drinks and follow Gwen as she seeks out a table in the quietest corner of the bar. We sit, and I propose a toast.
“Here’s to a better future.”
Hesitantly, she chinks her glass against mine and takes a sip. I follow suit and gulp down my first alcoholic beverage in over a week. Although the amber liquid has the appearance of lager, the first taste suggests it isn’t.
“That is shocking,” I remark. “No wonder it’s on offer.”
Gwen finds a thin smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You seem a little uncomfortable.”
“Not uncomfortable. Bleedin’ scared more like.”
“Of?”
“Someone seeing us and telling my Vernon.”
“Don't take this the wrong way, but why did you come then?”
Another sip of gin and tonic.
“Cos’ of what you said.”
“You’ll have to remind me.”
“You said somethin’ about following my dreams. I’ve been thinking about that ever since.”
“You think I’m right?”
“I ain’t sure but I do know my poor mum was married to my dad for twenty years and she weren’t ever happy. Then she got ill, and within two weeks she … we lost her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I loved my mum but I don’t want her life. My old man treated her like muck.”
“From what I saw, Vernon doesn’t treat you any better.”
“He’s not that bad but we ain’t been married a year. Maybe my old man was a decent bloke when he first married Mum.”
“People change, and in marriages the change isn’t always for the better.”
“Yeah, but I’ve made my bed now, ain’t I?”
“Sometimes marriages end in divorce, Gwen. If you’re not happy, why stay?”
“I ain’t smart like you. Where would I go, and what would I do for money?”
“Well, you said you always wanted to be a model, right?”
“Yeah,” she snorts. “But that’s just a silly dream.”
“Why is it silly? You’re … stunning.”
Her cheeks flush a shade pinker than her dress.
“No one’s ever called me that before.”
“I’m just being honest, and if I owned a modelling agency, I’d sign you up without hesitation.”
“Would you?”
“Definitely.”
I sit back and take a slow sip of my God-awful drink. Now I’ve planted the seed, I want it to grow organically. Time to move the conversation along.
“Tell me about yourself, Gwen.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“Everything,” I smile. “How did you get here? And please don’t say on the number fourteen bus.”
Gwen relaxes a little and begins her story.
One of six kids, she grew up in a three-bedroom terraced house not much better than a squat. After leaving school at fifteen with no qualifications, she got a job working ten-hour shifts in a biscuit factory; six days a week. Most of her wages went straight to her parents with her father gambling or drinking most of it away. At seventeen her father kicked her out after Gwen tried to intervene as he beat his wife with a poker. She then moved into a rented room and at eighteen left the biscuit factory to start her new job as a barmaid. Six months later she met Vernon. They dated for just five months before she fell pregnant, and they married a month later in a registry office with just four guests in attendance.
“And I think you know the rest,” she concludes.
I don’t know what to say, or even where to start. Nineteen years of age and all Gwen has known is poverty, misery, and more domestic violence than anyone should have to endure.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Gwen, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve enjoyed a happy life.”
“Not really,” she shrugs. “But it ain’t much different from other girls I know. You leave school, maybe work for a while, get married, and have kids. That’s life.”
“Doesn�
��t love come into it?”
“I love my Vernon.”
“Do you?”
If there’s an answer, it appears to be at the bottom of her glass.
“What’s the most romantic thing he’s ever done?”
“He, err, bought me a bunch of red roses once.”
“Once?”
“Yeah, and now and then he’ll come home with a fish supper from the chippy, so I don’t have to cook.”
“You deserve more.”
“Do I? It’s better than Mum’s lot.”
There's a defensive, bitter tone to her voice; I've pushed too hard. If this plan is to succeed, it isn’t likely to happen tonight.
“Anyway,” she adds. “Why are you so interested?”
“No particular reason. I just don’t like seeing someone your age waste their life.”
“How old are you?”
“Nearly thirty. Why?”
“Just wondered, that’s all. Why aren’t you married?”
“Lots of reasons, but I guess it’s because I haven’t found the right woman.”
“You’ve left it late.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m twenty-nine.”
“Linda, who lives on our street, has just become a gran and she’s thirty-three.”
I almost choke on my drink.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t you want a wife and kids?”
“I suppose so but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to get hitched to just anyone.”
“Like I did, you mean?”
“Perhaps. All I’m saying is there’s more to life than just marriage and kids.”
“Like what?”
“A career for starters.”
“And do you have a career?”
Now, there’s a question. I don’t think telling Gwen I’m a plumber’s mate will bolster my argument.
“I’m in marketing.”
“That sounds like a proper posh job.”
“Not really.”
Tuned Out Page 24
