Once Upon a Time in England

by Helen Walsh

  Robbie dug his chin into his chest and pretended he hadn’t seen him. That was all he needed – word getting round that his kids grazed from the same pastures as management’s. He slipped an arm around Sheila’s hip and rotated her 180 degrees but, just as they got their backs to Vernon, something caught Sheila’s eye and she spun back round again, eyes sparkling, face lit up with an almighty grin. ‘Liza!’

  She was waving over to someone. Robbie’s pulse was hammering like a road drill. Even before he tracked her eyeline he knew who his wife was waving to. He hissed in her ear. ‘She! I’ve got to get off.’

  Sheila didn’t hear him. She only had eyes for the lady bearing down on her now, smiling gaily, her balding husband in tow. ‘Helleeew,’ said Sheila, in an accent that was nothing less than extraordinary. ‘How are yi?’

  Gobsmacked, Robbie turned away and picked out a distant poplar tree, anything to focus on while this nightmare unfolded around him. His wife was talking to the boss, and there was nothing he could do about it. Up close, Cohen’s shiny bald head looked like it had been Pledged. He looked as stunned as Robbie, but pleasantly so.

  ‘Hello, Robbie mate,’ he said, his face opening up into a beam every bit as dazzling as his beautiful wife’s.

  Robbie turned slowly, raking the woman of whom Sheila spoke so gushingly. In truth she was more pretty than beautiful – pert and slender, and, no denying it, sexy in the way fine women always are when they no longer have sex. Sheila followed Vernon’s smile back to Robbie’s shifty grimace, stepped back, shrank her head into her shoulders and put her hand to her mouth. ‘What? Yi ti know each other?’

  Robbie felt his neck burning up as it all clicked horribly into place. This was Liza Cohen. Sheila had been boasting about her new pal all summer long – her Range Rover, their timeshare in Spain, the boat they kept at their weekend house on Anglesey. She reeled this stuff off to Robbie as though they were her own spoils. Yet still the penny had never dropped with him. Liza Cohen. Lady Lever. Sheila was positively swooning as Vernon clapped Robbie on the back.

  ‘Old comrades, me and your husband. Isn’t that right, Robbie?’

  Robbie smiled without parting his lips.

  ‘Com-rades. Yi ti work together? Yi and my Robbie? Golly, that is am-aaazing.’

  Robbie’s eyes fixed on his wife’s lips as they produced more and more of this hideous meld of Mrs Elton and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. He felt dizzy.

  ‘Isn’t it though, Sheila? Isn’t that too extraordinary?’ Liza spoke for the first time. Even her voice was beautiful.

  Robbie turned, realising he was keen for another, longer look at the lissom Mrs Cohen. She was tall and svelte, her slim calves just visible below her knee-length trench coat. She had bright blue eyes, a hue so sharp you could nick yourself on them, and a lovely, clever smile. These were the qualities she exuded – intelligence, wit, compassion, niceness – and Robbie was getting a boner for her. He hadn’t expected the boss’s wife to look like that, hadn’t expected such a young, attractive woman. A trophy wife, he sneered to himself, trying to square it all up. She was lovely, and she had finesse but Robbie knew well that that was an expensive act to run. No way would she be with Vernon Cohen if he was from the shop floor rather than going through the motions of presiding over it. He waited for her to look back at him and held her gaze, trying to pull back the balance of power. She blushed, and a flicker of something skittered across her eyes. Instinctively, her hand shot up to her neck, concealing a brief but hot flush of colour.

  ‘God! I just can’t get my head around it though! What a coin-cid-ence, Liza? All this time and we never ni our husbands worked together.’

  ‘I should’ve guessed when you said chemicals.’

  Sheila flashed a guilty look at Robbie and, aware of the spiky rash bristling across his face, bustled the conversation in a different direction. ‘So, how was Marlborough?’

  This baffled the Cohens. They mugged up to each other for clues. Sheila sensed she’d made a faux pas, but drove on regardless.

  ‘Spain? Were you not going to your place in Spain?’

  ‘Oh! Mar …’ Liza stopped herself, and the faintest glimmer of a smile passed over Vernon. But if he felt any sense of impropriety at all it was towards himself, and he quickly self-censured for even thinking of correcting the innocent, smiling Malaysian woman Liza had become so fond of. Liza’s elegant hand delved from her neck to Sheila’s shoulder, affectionately guiding her out of the school gates. ‘Yes – yes, it was lovely, thank you, She.’

  Robbie and Vernon brought up the rear, scuffing their soles as they went.

  ‘What about you, Rob? How was France?’

  ‘Eh?’ He stopped dead in his tracks. Sheila turned, eyes haunted as her husband’s furious, twitching face glowered at her, betrayed. She leapt in, fighting the fire, fanning the flames.

  ‘Well, we had talked about France! But with the weather being so lovely here and with, you know, having a brand new sal-oon car we thought we should exploit the joys of the English countryside more.’

  ‘Oh my fucking God!’ Robbie nearly said it. He could hear his bewildered tone, hear the hurt and the shock and the dread in his voice – but somehow he strangled it. He needed to sit down.

  ‘Well …’ said Vernon, stretching ostentatiously, and glancing at his watch. ‘Better make tracks.’ He held his hand out to Robbie and, as he reluctantly, sullenly shook, winked conspirationally at his beet-red charge. ‘She’s lovely, Rob. You’re a lucky man.’

  That Cohen had tuned into his agony was bad. That he was seeking to neutralise it was worse. ‘Yeah. Ta-ra then.’

  Robbie turned and walked away, not even glancing in Liza’s direction. She shot Sheila a compassionate smile and mouthed the words ‘go on’, eyes twinkling sadly at her hapless friend. Sheila smiled back, turned and ran after Robbie, knowing she’d killed him, totally ignorant as to how or why. She caught him, briefly, but struggled to match his angry stride.

  They got to the car. He wrestled with the door in bitter silence, his violent twists of the key only making the lock resist yet more. Sheila stood back as Robbie wiggled and jabbed with the key. She knew the form, by now. She’d wait for Robbie to go first. He got his breath back, made a conspicuous effort to breathe deeply and evenly, then let her have it. ‘Are you determined to make a fucking twat of me?’

  His voice was beyond anger. He was wounded, horribly, mortally. The lock gave way. He got in and slammed the door. He stared directly ahead for a moment, then leant over and began struggling with the passenger door’s window. Sheila dipped her head down, eyes puzzled. Robbie could barely look at her.

  ‘I’ve no time to run you home. You’ll have to walk.’

  Her throat started to pound. He fired the engine. She scurried round to Robbie’s side and rapped on his window. He wound it down a couple of strokes. He wouldn’t look at her, stared wildly and blankly ahead. His face was dead still, but his eyes burnt with rage and hurt.

  ‘Robbie! For goodness’ sake – what did I do?’

  Still he wouldn’t look at her. It was a long while before he spoke, voice laden with grief. ‘What have you been saying, She?’

  She started to speak but he steam-rollered right over her, eyes shining on the brink of tears.

  ‘Christ’s sake! It’s gonna be all over fucking Metso by now.’

  ‘What will? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  He cut her dead again. ‘Just for the record, you dumb fucking mare, it’s Marbella.’

  She’d never heard him swear like this. He was barely in control. She tried to lean closer. ‘Robbie?’

  ‘Marfuckingbella. See, even a daft twat like me who’s never been further than fucking Blackpool knows that.’

  Her face crumpled. A rare tear dribbled down her cheeks and Robbie knew then that he’d gone too far. They had an understanding, he and Sheila, one that had never been spoken of, and didn’t need explaining. He’d just crashed right through the perimeter fence and had a horrible m
isgiving he’d never find his way back again. Heart set like a cold metal in his guts, he peeled out of the car park and away from here, out of this bloody mess. Through his rear-view mirror he watched his forlorn wife traipse off into the distance, utterly uncomprehending what had just taken place. But he couldn’t go back to her. He swung onto the main road, and sped away from the wreckage.

  The new arrivals began streaming through the school doors. The headmaster and his secretary stood in the foyer, smiling, waving them in. The sun smashed down on Ellie’s crown picking out wisps of claret red. Her unruly boy’s crop glowed like a bauble spot-lit to start the show. She bounded through the doors, beamed back a big fearless hello to the headmaster and threaded herself into the heart of the scrimmage massing in the corridor. Two fifth-formers were swooping around the nervous herd, worrying them into an orderly queue.

  Vincent made his way to his classroom. As always, he was first in. Automatically, he began lifting chairs down from the tables but checked himself. How would that look to the other kids? He put them back up and snagged himself a window seat at the very far corner of the classroom. He arranged his bag so that it jutted out from under his desk with the cock motif on display, then patted the left breast of his blazer and felt for his trump cards.

  When he’d first found them in the undergrowth of the old building site, the pack was warped from the rain and sunshine but you could still make out the curve of a sharp, bronzed breast. Some of the cards were soaked through and tore as he eased them out of the packet. But the images – those mysterious, airbrushed curves and peaks – were there by the dozen. It was nothing a hairdryer and a lick of Pritt Stick couldn’t fix. Later that night, Vincent lined up the refurbished goodies, some of them still sticky from glue. One by one, he studied them under the weak beam of his torchlight. Nothing happened. There were breasts of all shapes and sizes, dark, fat nipples and pale, almost invisible pink ones; pouts and poses and alluring, limpid eyes; bottoms, and thighs, and taut, narrow tummies. None of these images stirred the kind of response he’d been expecting – the pulsating heart, the quickening groin, the anxious, voracious gnawing in his solar plexus he’d read so much about. None of this happened. But he was glad he’d found the cards. They’d serve another, higher purpose further down the line. These cards would buy Vincent some time, maybe even some credibility. They might even help him stave off the boots and fists.

  He heard the whistle outside bring the school day to its start. There was a brief suspension of noise as the playground emptied, the distant stampede of feet building to a deafening crescendo as they piled down the corridor towards him. Vincent felt his bowels loosen, his heart start to thrash. For six weeks he’d lived like the heroes in his books. He’d slain bad men – he’d travelled and conquered. He’d been lionised by whole nations, but now he was small and pathetic once again. He stiffened himself and drew back his shoulders in preparation for the looming moment of reckoning.

  They rioted into the classroom, bumping each other along, fighting for tables, pulling down chairs and dragging them along the floor, scratching and shredding the new shell of varnish. The noise fizzed away for a moment as they stumbled upon Vincent and there was that excruciating wait for whoever was going to say something first. The suspense snagged his heart, making him gag. He could feel them, raking him over, sussing his new bag. Reflexively, he felt for the cards in his breast pocket, rehearsed what he was going to say. But more faces, more raggedy bodies spilled in through the door and saved him, for now.

  Loud and raw, they swept across the room, fighting over desks and chairs, tugging friends or rivals away from favoured spots. Vincent barely dared make eye contact, watching the scene unfold through the window’s reflection. There was something especially menacing about the way the unruliest of them rode the legs of their chairs right back, reclining at such precipitous angles. The sun ventured out from behind a cloud and cast a blinding shield across the window, obscuring his vision. But he knew what was coming and steeled himself, a thin lip of ear poking through the feathered slant of his hair listening out for the first signs, those conversational threads that, sooner or later, would find their mark. Him. He flexed himself, awaiting the buzzwords. Market. Curry. Mini bus. Corner shop. Any of these, even innocently muttered, could quickly flare up into an onslaught. Just as bad were the silences – the pauses between sentences, the semicolons, that deadly hitch of breath, each inducing a jolt in his tummy. But so far fate seemed to be scheming in his favour. They were all too wrapped up in the boastings and toastings of their holidays to notice him, just yet. Simon Hewitt had got to second base with Kevin Lawson’s sister. Louis Taylor had been signed up by Stockport County’s youth team. Paula Dee was going on Jim’ll Fix It. Kerry Young had started her periods, and was gleefully passing around a blood-specked towel to prove it, revelling in the horrified reactions of the boys. If things continued like this, their teacher might arrive before the jousting started. Maybe it wouldn’t, this year. Maybe they had better things to do. Maybe they’d all grown up.

  Vincent allowed himself a sidelong gaze at their bags. His heart stopped dead. No! Not one black bag, and not a cock motif to be seen! A quick gander around the room revealed an overwhelming plurality of these slightly crinkled, leatherette bags with a fat sort of tick on the side. One or two bore the name Patrick, but most of these new, compact sports bags displayed the tick on their side and one beguiling word on the frontispiece: Nike. Crushed, Vincent slid his foot out, hooked his bag and dragged it back under his desk. It was not yet nine o’clock and already he’d made another duff choice.

  Their voices grew more and more obstreperous. From the corner of his eye, he could see the Cohen twins sat on the edge of their desks, nudging each other. He knew who they were talking about. The fatter of the two – and they were both bursting out of their horribly shortened school skirts – spied a blonde girl sashaying through the door. Isobel Cohen flashed a look at Vincent and called across to her, ‘Hey, Lucy? Where d’you get your tan?’

  The pause. The deadly hitch of breath, the stifled sniggering – and then the kill.

  ‘Been knocking round with Gaylord?’

  Storms of nasty, raucous laughter erupted, punctuated by disgusted ‘eughs’ from the girls and horrified ‘as ifs’ from Lucy herself. Vincent fixed his concentration on the slow chug of the lawnmower on the field outside. But in the reflection he saw more arrivals, and these two spelt danger. It was his arch-tormentors, Simon Blake and his weasly sidekick, Anthony Young – and how they’d grown. They were men, almost! How could they have grown so much in six weeks? His heart whammed faster and faster. He looked up at the clock. It was already past nine. Where the hell was the teacher? He didn’t even know who they’d be getting this year. He hoped it was someone hard. Someone who would stamp their authority from day one.

  ‘Oi!’ He didn’t even need to look up. He shot a quick desperate glance over to the door. ‘Gaylord! I’m talking to you.’

  Vincent turned round and slipped right back into his traditional mask – a shit-eating, self-mocking grin. His antagoniser was a stout lad with an angry face. His reconstructed harelip had once made Blake a target for playground jibes himself, but that had all been forgotten when his dad had picked him up in a Porsche. Isobel Cohen sidled next to him and leant back, arms folded across her fat breasts. Simon winked at her – two uglies in league together.

  ‘Where d’you go on hols?’

  Vincent shrugged, his deflective shield already up. What could he say? What would cause least offence? France? Too flash for a spaz like him. Lake District? Too boring. Blackpool? Too povvo. ‘Cornwall,’ Vincent replied, as casually as he could.

  ‘Cornwall, Simon,’ he said, coming closer, eyes wide and menacing.

  Vincent’s thorax tightened. Discreetly, he pulled out his inhaler from his trouser pocket and held it between his thumb and forefinger, primed for action.

  ‘Wha-is-wrong-with-Bleck-pull?’ Blake taunted, rolling his eyeballs and mimick
ing an Indian accent.

  Laughter ricocheted around the classroom. Vincent set his face in a jovial, sporting grin. He was grateful for the brief diversion. He took a quick, sharp draught on his inhaler. Simon waited for the laughter to subside.

  ‘So, Gaylord. Cornwall. You go on the A1?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, Simon! Jeez, you’re fucking slow learners, you curry-guzzlers …’ He came closer, turned briefly back to Isobel, put an arm around Vincent’s shoulders then theatrically jerked it away, brushing it self-consciously as though he’d caught a rash. ‘Abdul. I mean Gaylord …’

  Vincent tensed himself. He didn’t reply.

  ‘Know who built the A1?’

  He chanced the most bored, deadpan answer he could muster. He knew, now, there was no hope. Best get it over with. This year was going to be like any other year. It was going to be hell. ‘The Romans built the A1, Simon.’

  ‘So they did, Gaylord. So they did.’ He turned again to face his audience, winked once more and returned to his quarry. ‘Know why they built it so straight?’

  A hiccup of giggling from those who’d heard it before, from their brothers, from uncles, from parents. Vincent knew the punchline, too. He weighed up the pros and cons of stealing Simon’s thunder, but elected to bow down and take his medicine instead. ‘Erm, no – not sure. To get there quicker?’

  ‘No, Gaylord. Wrong. The Romans built straight roads so the Pakis couldn’t build corner shops.’

  The room exploded with lusty guffawing. And as with last year and the year before, it was Vincent who laughed hardest.

  Seven

  Robbie rolled back his head and let the putter-putter-putter of the factory line claim him. He was numb with misery from the events of the morning. Shattered by the hurt he’d caused his own wife, he still could not get Liza Cohen off his mind. She enraged him, and he took himself off to the cubicles to fix it. But he could barely sustain a hard-on, let alone the fantasy. A woman like Liza Cohen was intangible to a man like him. Her flawlessness only made him more aware of his own bad design. No matter how tight he screwed his eyes and tried to abandon himself, the fantasy was so unattainable he couldn’t even get into the first act. So he tucked himself away feeling bad about it all. Bad about Liza, bad about Sheila but above all else feeling intensely sorry for himself. What was so wrong about wanting the simple things in life? A drink. A sing-song. A shag. And by God, how he wanted a shag!