Tuned Out
Page 26
“True. So, what about your intervention last night? Did you make any progress?”
“A bit.”
I don’t expand on my answer. I’d rather keep life in Nelson Close separate from Project Kirby; not least because my motives could easily be misconstrued.
“How’s your colleague, Sheila?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Heartbroken. Men can be such pigs.”
“Hey, men don’t hold the monopoly on cheating, you know.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“Anyway, skirting over my failed relationships; what about you, Jan? I recall your mum thinks you’re in danger of being left on the shelf.”
“She was born a worrier, my mother.”
“So, no Mr Right on the horizon?”
“Not really. I’ve had offers but I’m picky.”
“As you should be. What are you looking for in a man?”
“I don’t know, really. Someone different, someone interesting.”
“And there’s no one like that where you work?”
“Good Lord, no — they’re all insufferably dull.”
“Ahh, so you’re looking for a bad boy?”
“Not quite, but … as much as I love my mother and respect what she does, I want to be more than just a suburban housewife. I want to find someone who can take me on adventures. Maybe see a bit of the world and try new things.”
“Okay.”
“You know, I’ve never been abroad.”
“Ever? Not even Europe?”
“Does the Isle of Wight count?”
“Probably not.”
“I know travelling is expensive but there’s a big world out there, and it makes me a little sad I might never experience it.”
“Yes, but you’re still young.”
I still don’t know how young, although I’d hazard younger than me but older than Gwen.
“You’ve got plenty of time for travel,” I continue. “And I think you’ll find it’ll get cheaper in the coming years.”
“We all think we’ve got time,” she replies wistfully. “But none of us know how much.”
Knowing her sentiment is likely a reference to Thomas, I decide against offering the usual platitudes.
“I’m sure he’s out there, you know.”
“Who?”
“Mr Right. And I’m sure he’ll take you on all manner of wild adventures.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, we all have our twin flame somewhere.”
“What’s a twin flame?”
“Like a soul mate. Someone you're connected to on every level.”
“I’ve never heard that term before. Is it American?”
“Probably, but my point is this: you never know when that person will walk into your life. Could be tomorrow, next week, or next year. You just need to keep the faith.”
Her smile returns.
We reach the outskirts of the town centre but, unlike a typical Friday night in my time, there are no groups of feral pissheads roaming the streets. In fact, there’s barely a soul around.
Swapping small talk, we take a shortcut through the back streets and the cinema comes into view.
“Oh, my God,” I splutter.
“What’s the matter?”
I’ve been inside the Art Deco inspired building recently but for as long as I’ve known it, it’s been a nightclub and bar with the rather wanky name: Tru. I didn’t even know it used to be a cinema.
“Err, nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Thank heavens for that. I thought you didn’t like The Palace. Personally, I prefer The Odeon but it’s more expensive, and don’t get me started on The ABC — that place is such a dump.”
“What? There are three cinemas in town?”
“Until last year we had four but there was a fire at The Roxy and it’s still shut.”
Thinking about it, I suppose there must be a demand as how else does anyone watch a movie? No Sky, no cable, no Netflix, no Amazon, no Blu-Rays … they don’t even have Blockbusters yet.
With my curiosity piqued, I’m keen to see inside. I’m guessing the clientele will be different and I’m unlikely to stumble across a young couple going at it in the gents’ toilet.
We head in.
The foyer in the modern multiplex cinema I frequent is always a hive of fervent activity. It's a huge open space housing banks of self-service ticket machines, and an array of food and drink concessions offering a range of snacking options from noodles to doughnuts, plus a gaming area and even a crèche. The poky foyer in The Palace comprises a solitary ticket desk and a kiosk offering an underwhelming range of drinks and confectionery.
“Wow,” I comment, as we join the short queue for tickets. “This is … different.”
“Not like cinemas in America, huh?”
“Nope.”
We reach the ticket desk.
“Two adults for The Italian Job, please.”
“Smoking or non-smoking?”
“Non-smoking, definitely.”
“That’ll be ten and six, sir.”
Unsure of the payment etiquette, I glance across at Jan but she’s already eyeing up the confectionery. This isn’t a date so should I be paying for her ticket? Will she be offended if I do? Do I pay and then ask for her half?
The attendant coughs and I hand over one of my precious five-pound notes. Our tickets and a handful of coins are duly returned. I note Jan hasn’t made a move towards her handbag which suggests she’s happy for me to fund our evening.
“Do you want anything?” I ask, as Jan edges towards the display of sweets.
“Yes, please. Are we sharing?”
“Err, sure.”
She snatches two bright yellow bags from the display: Treets and Opal Fruits.
“And shall we have something to drink?”
“Okay. You choose.”
Jan turns to the woman behind the counter.
“Two Suncrush, please.”
The woman hands over two plastic cartons with straws, and I return a handful of change with no idea what I’ve just paid for.
Refreshments acquired, we head up the stairs to a lobby area with doors leading to the single screen; a bored-looking ticket attendant stationed outside.
“There’s just one screen?” I comment.
“Why would there be more than one?”
“Don’t know, but the cinema I used to visit had ten screens.”
“That’s ridiculous. There aren’t enough films, surely?”
“Quantity over quality.”
I hand our tickets to the attendant and, after being informed the movie starts in five minutes, we’re waved in.
The audience is larger than I expected and, with the lights still up, most are chatting away to a backdrop of obscure organ music. The seating is split across two blocks, separated with a central aisle. From our vantage point by the door I can’t see the non-smoking section.
I ask Jan.
“On the right,” she replies.
“Eh?”
“The non-smoking section is on the right.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, why?”
“How can it be a non-smoking section when there are dozens of people puffing away just across the aisle? Does the management understand how smoke works?”
“Stop being such a Moaning Minnie. Come on.”
She grabs my arm and drags me to the nearest empty seats; ten rows from the screen and barely fifteen feet from the puffing masses.
“I’m really looking forward to this,” Jan coos, once we’re settled in our cramped seats. “I love Michael Caine.”
On cue, the organ music ends and the velvet curtains separate to reveal a screen — small by modern standards. Already underwhelmed, I try to get comfortable as Jan delves into her handbag. She thrusts one of the yellow bags in my direction.
“Treets?”
“Err, what are they?”
“You’v
e never tried Treets before?”
“Nope.”
“They’re peanuts in a chocolate shell.”
I pluck a couple from the bag and pop them in my mouth. Peanut M&Ms, basically.
The screen flickers into life and I soon discover one annoying feature has stood the test of time: cinema adverts. We sit through a dozen different ads with questionable production values before the main feature finally begins.
After a while I manage to ignore the cigarette smoke and the uncomfortable seat; losing myself in the movie. I’ve seen both the original and the remake of The Italian Job and true to form, the original is far superior.
And then, halfway through, the action abruptly stops and the lights come on.
“What’s going on?” I ask Jan.
“The interval.”
“You have a break halfway through a movie?”
“How else would you buy your ice cream?”
She points towards a woman carrying a tray laden with tubs of ice cream.
“Oh, how … random.”
I make a token offer to buy Jan a tub but she declines and hands me a plastic carton of Suncrush. It turns out to be an insipid orange squash.
With arse cheeks numbing by the minute, the second half finally draws to an end. It’s a relief to see that coach hanging over the cliff in the legendary final scene.
The lights come on but Jan remains frozen in her seat.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not,” she huffs. “What a swizz of an ending.”
“I think it’s what they call a cliff-hanger; literally in this case.”
“They can’t leave the story like that. I hope they’re already filming a follow-up.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Disappointed, Jan gets to her feet and we head towards the exit.
Outside, the skies are dark and the mugginess eased by a cooling breeze. Jan takes my arm once more, and we set off back towards Nelson Close.
“Thank you for tonight, Toby.”
We stop to cross the road and Jan plants an impromptu kiss on my cheek.
“I had a lovely evening,” she adds. “Well, apart from that ending.”
Despite the breeze, a warm glow develops.
“You know what, Jan … I actually enjoyed the evening too.”
“Gosh, don’t sound so surprised.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I chuckle. “I meant I haven’t enjoyed much about being here … until tonight.”
“Oh, okay. So, my company was bearable?”
“More than bearable.”
“Good. I hope we can do this again.”
I reply with a smile and a nod. If all goes to plan, it's unlikely we'll ever have the chance to do this again.
As we wander on, I can’t say for sure how I feel about that.
30.
I do love a Saturday morning lie-in. Today’s is particularly well-earned.
The alarm clock ticks away towards nine-thirty but the caravan is otherwise silent. Still in my pit, I yawn and stretch out the worst of the stiffness from my limbs.
When Jan and I returned home last night, she insisted on making me a traditional bedtime drink. Ovaltine, I think. She couldn’t believe I’d never heard of it, let alone tried it before. Not wishing to appear unadventurous, I gave it a go. It tasted like a cocktail of warm Guinness and soy milk. In fairness, I slept well, although I can’t be sure the Ovaltine helped.
I rub my chin; the stubble now evolved into proper beardy hair. With nothing else to do today, my plan is to wander into town and purchase some basic toiletries, including a razor. And assuming I’m here for at least a couple of weeks, I also need to acquire a few basic provisions such as coffee, sugar, and squash. I don’t know if there's a Primark equivalent but while I’m wandering the shops, a couple of cheap additions to my wardrobe wouldn’t go amiss either; socks and underwear in particular.
This morning at least, I’ve no option but to don one of my jumble sale outfits.
I go through my ablutions at the sink and get dressed. While buttoning up my shirt there’s a knock at the door. I open it to find Jan with a cup of tea.
“Good morning. I thought you deserved a cuppa.”
“That’s very kind of you. Come in.”
Thankful I left a window open last night, I wave her in. She hands me the cup.
“I would have made you some breakfast, but I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
“I’m not a fussy man but there’s no need to wait on me.”
“Don’t be silly. Would you like a bacon sandwich?”
“I'd sell a kidney for a bacon sandwich.”
“Thought so,” she giggles. “Give me ten minutes.”
There’s much about this era I’m not keen on but the hospitality is exceptional.
Jan skips away to prepare my breakfast while I wait at the table with my cup of tea. It then strikes me I’ve just slipped into the role of a typical sixties man — sitting on my arse while a woman runs around after me. It might be the norm but that doesn’t make it right, or fair. I get up — intent on heading into the house to make my own bacon sandwich — when George sticks his head around the still open door.
“Fancy giving me a hand in the garden?”
“Err, is it optional? I’m not what you’d call a keen gardener.”
“I’ve never met a bloke who doesn’t enjoy a spot of gardening. It’s good for the soul.”
“I’m sure it is, but I was just about to help Jan with breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“The wife does her baking on a Saturday morning. I’d stay well away until she’s finished.”
“Noted. Maybe I’ll get some breakfast in town. I’ll go tell Jan to forget making breakfast.”
“You’ll offend her if you do.”
“Do you think?”
“You’ve never been married, have you?”
“Err, no.”
“It shows. Women like fussing, lad, and if Jan is anything like her mother, she’ll be a champion fusser.”
“Point taken.”
“Just don’t take the mickey, or you’ll have me to answer to. Understood?”
Before I can launch a defence, Jan returns — minus one bacon sandwich.
“Toby, there’s a man at the front door to see you.”
“Is there? Who?”
“I didn’t catch his name, but he’s from the Post Office.”
“Maybe you’ve won The Pools, lad,” George ventures with a chuckle.
I've no idea what he’s on about but chuckle along anyway. Whatever my mystery caller wants, there’s only one way to find out.
“Thanks, Jan. I’ll be back for that sandwich in a tick.”
Rather than risk Alice’s wrath by heading in through the kitchen, I edge down the driveway and open the front gates. The rusty hinges announce my arrival and the caller is waiting for me by the time I’m on the other side.
It turns out to be someone I do know, but didn’t want or expect to see. His job in Milton Keynes must only be Monday to Friday
“Oh, err, good morning, Vernon.”
“Ello there, Mr Grant. Sorry for dropping by unannounced.”
“That’s okay. What can I do for you?”
He takes a couple of steps towards me. Unlike the last time I saw him, he at least appears affable.
“I wanted to apologise for the way I behaved the other day when you popped round. I never thanked you for saving my Gwen.”
“That’s … kind of you.”
“Least I could do, under the circumstances. We had some good news yesterday.”
“Good news?”
“Yeah, the council have found us a new house and we’re moving next week. That means my Gwen should be in the club pretty soon, if you know what I mean.”
He winks and I get the picture. This might be good news for Vernon, but not for Gwen and certainly not for me.
He doesn’t reply, but takes another step forward and offers a handshake.
“And it’s all thanks to you,” he adds; ignoring my question. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I might now be planning Gwen’s funeral. So, I had to come round and make sure you knew exactly how grateful I am.”
I take his hand and we shake. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him.
“I’m just glad Gwen is okay,” I smile.
“Yeah, me too. Oh, one other thing.”
“Yes?”
It happens so quickly I have no chance of reacting. Vernon swings his left arm and a fierce punch hammers into my rib cage. The pain is instant and intense.
“You weaselly little cunt,” he spits, as I bend double. “Putting stupid ideas in my wife’s head. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Before I can open my mouth to reason with him, a second punch strikes my jaw. The pain receptors switch like points on a railway track and, to an accompaniment of mashing molars, I totter backwards.
Not content, Vernon throws yet another punch which glances my temple. It’s the least painful of the three but it’s potent enough to send me sprawling backwards. I land hard on my arse.
Vernon looms over me.
“Your plan is scuppered, sunshine,” he growls. “And this is my way of lettin’ you know no one messes with Vernon Kirby’s missus.”
He wheels his left leg back. With no idea which part of my anatomy he intends to kick, all I can do is raise my arm towards my face and hope for the best.
“Oi!” a voice yells.
I dare to look up. George has come to investigate the commotion.
“Fuck off, old man,” Vernon barks. “This ain’t none of your concern.”
“You’re on my property, lad, so you’ve made it my concern.”
“I’m warning you. Keep your fucking nose out.”
Undeterred by the younger man’s threats, George edges forward.
“Leave! Now!” he orders. “Or so help me God, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
With remarkable speed, Vernon spins around and throws a haymaker in George’s direction. As I watch his fist zip through the air, I see my impending eviction and unemployment follow in its wake. It’s no less than I deserve for the beating George is about to receive.
Vernon’s fist reaches peak velocity as it closes in on its target — the kind of ferocious punch capable of killing a man if it lands in the wrong place; for the victim, at least. I fear the worst but at the last second, George ducks. As Vernon’s momentum twists his torso, fifteen stone of pissed-off Yorkshireman reacts. Two explosive punches are delivered: the first to Vernon’s gut, and the second a precise uppercut which knocks the younger man to the floor.