by Nick Louth
“Hmm. It might be worth that if we could choose how others would die. I’d like the Harmsworth brothers to end their days in a skip lorry reversing accident,” I said.
“Health Secretary Alan Johnson didn’t make any mention of skips. It’s hospice or home. Still, it says you do get an emergency 24-hour team of nurses that can come round to look after you.”
“Team of nurses, eh? Well, that would be a good way to go.”
Eunice caught me with a basilisk glare. “Bernard, grow up. You can’t cope with one woman, yet alone a team.”
“It’d probably kill me. That’s the point.” I said cheerfully.
The stony silence that ensued reminded me to change the subject to something closer to Eunice’s heart.
“I’m going to buy you a Dyson this weekend,” I said.
“My goodness. That’s a policy U-turn worth of Alastair Darling. Are you unwell?” she asked.
“Well, I thought it was about time to back British-owned talent and industry. James Dyson’s a great entrepreneur, and even though he’s moved manufacturing to Malaysia, I think we should give him a try. As you say, the quality is better than its rivals.”
Eunice paused. “What a fibber. You’ve got a cheap one, haven’t you?”
“Now why do you always think...?”
“Bernard, I know you of old.”
“There’s no trust in this marriage, is there?” I said.
“Alright. I’ll ask no questions, but you’ve got to do the vacuuming for the first week. If the machine survives a week of your mishandling then I’ll know it’s alright.”
Saturday 19th July: Fairtrade Fight
Picked up the Dyson from Russell on the way to the supermarket. Eunice has given me a list that’s longer than War and Peace but I plan to do a little editing. I’m switching to Lidl for the basics, and cutting out Waitrose altogether. There’ll be hell to pay, no doubt, but if I’m doing the shopping, it’ll be my way and at half the price.
On my return, my prediction is borne out.
“Bernard, this isn’t Fairtrade coffee. I stipulated Fairtrade.”
“This is the same stuff, grown in the same benighted country by the same down-trodden peasants. And it’s half the price.”
“Bernard, you’re become a jack-booted coffee fascist, oppressing the Latin American masses,” Eunice said.
“What nonsense,” I retorted. “Fairtrade is the just the latest fad in market segmentation. It’s a way of gulling emotional housewives into buying off guilt with their food consumption.”
“But Fairtrade means the farmers get the extra money.”
“In which case, farmers will see the money to be made, you’ll get more coffee produced, a greater glut and underlying prices will fall further. You can’t repeal the laws of the market, which has always been that farmers are price takers not price makers.”
“So you believe in free markets, right or wrong?”
“Of course. There’s Milton Friedman and whatsisname Hayek coursing through these veins you know.” I looked at the groceries spread around on the kitchen table. “So what’s for dinner then?”
“Well, I thought I’d make a steak and kidney pie with roast potatoes and cauliflower, with raspberries and meringue after.”
“Marvellous. That’s what I call fighting food. None of this vegan rubbish. Just good solid British steak and kidney.”
“Of course, there’s a £10 fee for cooking services.”
“What!”
“Free market, Bernard. It’s barely minimum wage for the time it will take. Of course, you can always try making it yourself.”
Monday 21st July: Vindicated On Domino’s
Domino’s Pizza has done me proud in its annual results. My best performing share has proved what I always thought, that when you feel like eating out but can’t afford it, the next best thing is to order in for a fraction of the price. With the number of new outlets being opened, and the limited competition from nationally-known names, I think we can call this the deep-profit Bernard recipe, lots of topping but a good financial base too. The shares topped 200p for the first time in months.
Tuesday 22nd July: Community Service
I have a great idea for teaching young thugs and drunks a lesson. You make them repeatedly vacuum a house under Eunice’s nagging supervision. This tortuous form of community service is almost as unbearable as waterboarding. After an hour and a half being told “No, not like that” or “No, no, you’re missing great lumps” or “You certainly need more practice with the crevice tool” I was quite ready to admit being Osama Bin Laden’s bodyguard, his driver or even his chiropodist.
Worse still is that the ‘new’ Dyson from Russell Traugh is utterly gutless, having been unable to get moggy fluff off the hall carpet. Its perspex bin was already half full of builder’s dust and bits of wood shavings, which Russell said was where he had tested it, but I’m not so sure. First day I almost fell down the stairs when I got the flex caught around my leg, smashed it into my shins trying to get it up the loft ladder to the railway layout room, and covered myself with dust when I opened the bin-thing the wrong way. The whole process so amused Eunice that she invited Daphne Hanson-Hart in to watch. They trailed after me with mugs of coffee and ginger nuts, commenting on my progress.
Wednesday 23rd July: Dodgy Mortgage
Martin Gale is jubilant. He borrowed from his sister to buy shares in Persimmon a fortnight ago at 217p, and now they’re 350p.
“Time to sell, definitely,” said Mike Delaney.
“Get out while you’re ahead,” said Chantelle. “Especially seeing as you’ve borrowed the cash.”
“Double-up,” says Harry. “Sell the shares, put the cash into a long spread-bet on Persimmon and ride ‘em to recovery.”
“What an incredibly irresponsible piece of advice,” said K.P. Sharma. “I can’t think of anything worse...”
“Northern Rock?” retorted Harry.
While K.P and Harry descended into their usual bickering I said to Martin. “Why don’t you sell half and run the rest? That’s a decent way to hedge your bets.”
“I like that,” said Martin. “The ones I sell, I’ll put the proceeds into Bradford & Bingley. They look worth a punt.”
Russell Traugh, leaning at the bar, said. “You lot are crazy. You’re digging around in the rubbish that’s going to fall again.”
“I bet you’ve lost money in the last year,” said Harry.
“No, I’m up,” he said. “Look at ASOS and Dignity.”
“Didn’t you have shares in Corin?” said K.P. Sharma. “They got killed didn’t they?” He tapped away at his PC. “That’s right. It’s down from 500p to 150p after Stryker stopped ordering from it.”
“Yeah, but I only had a few,” Russell said.
“But you had lots of that Ukrainian farmer didn’t you? I don’t think they’re doing well,” K.P. said.
“I’m in profit from my buy price, but not this year,” Russell said. “But I still think I’m way ahead of you lot.”
Thursday 24th July: Massage In A Bottle
A whole day to myself. Eunice is going off to Tunbridge Wells all morning and by the time she gets back, I’ll be off to share club.
“What was it you said you were doing?” I asked as she was about to leave.
“I’m having an Ayurvedic massage and some ear candling.”
“What on earth are you on about?”
“Well I got a bit tired of the same old aromatherapy fragrances with Helen, and when I saw Irmgard last week she said that my chakras still seem a little unbalanced. She goes to Tom, who’s apparently divine at rebalancing your energy centres. So it’s my first session with him today.”
“What a lot of New Age codswallop. You’ll spend a fortune, come back smelling like a Botswanan brothel and be in too much of a trance to feel like cooking my dinner for the next three days.”
“With any luck,” she said brightly.
“Well,” I murmured to myself a
fter the door had slammed shut. “You’d just better check that this Tom fellow isn’t a bearded Yugoslav war criminal in disguise. If it’s Radovan Karadzic you’ll get colonically and ethnically cleansed.”
Friday 25th July: Blue-Blooded Broker Shock
Can hardly believe the Telegraph this morning. Malcolm Calvert, 63, of Cobham Surrey, a very distinguished looking retired director of blue-blooded brokers Cazenove has been accused of insider trading. This isn’t some greasy barrow boy cum derivatives trader from the East End of which one could believe such things. There he is, looking like a retired wing commander with his four-button blazer and cuff links, fending off cameras as he leaves the court. What kind of world do we live in now? ‘My word is my bond’ seems long forgotten. Or perhaps I am just a little envious that in my entire career at the MoD, aiding the procurement of ordnance and equipment for our armed forces, no one ever offered me an insider tidbit with which I could feather my nest. I shall follow this case with the same energy and focus that Eunice did for the Max Mosley sadomasochistic orgy trial.
Back in Lemon Curdistan I log on to the PC and see something very irritating. Rentokil has issued another profit warning. I was forced to close out my short position on the shares several weeks ago when they stubbornly refused to fall after the last profit warning, and here they are down at 71p with a new one. Why is my timing so abysmal? I think the God of Mammon has it in for me.
Elevenses: I notice that the Hornby drawer has again been ransacked by intruders. The last two lemon curd tarts have disappeared, and instead there is a small slice of cake. Now this is very suspicious. Eunice never leaves me cake. This object, in clingfilm on a paper plate, appears to be a little more orange than ordinary cake and there are numerous dark brown nutty bits in it. There is a kind of icing too, which appears to be good news, unless it’s merely some cunningly disguised plastic explosive. I think I’ll have to send a sample off to Defra first before I let it into the food chain. I hold up a small sample to Prescott, the suede covered pig. “What do you think, eh? Is it poison or not?”
Eunice walks in just as I’m having this conference.
“Aha. Talking to stuffed animals! I could have you sectioned for less.”
“What is this stuff?” I say, holding up the paper plate.
“It’s a present from Irmgard.”
I drop the plate like it was scalding. I clearly recall how last year Eunice’s left-leaning friend fell 90 degrees further than usual after eating a Tesco tahini roulade that I had bought.
“It’s alright, Bernard, she has forgiven you.”
I inspected the cake again. I had not realised that Irmgard’s life-threatening allergy to sesame seeds would have any relevance to tahini. I still suspected the vegan harridan would be seeking revenge, in a time and a manner of her choosing. This could be it.
“It’s carrot cake with fennel and jute seeds and tofu icing.”
“Well, you have to hand it to her,” I said. “You’d never guess. It almost looks edible.”
“It IS edible. Bernard, you are so suspicious. Irmgard has cooked for some very big names you know.”
“Ah yes, Alexander Litvinenko, Viktor Yuschenko, Rasputin, Snow White...”
“Bernard, it’s extremely good for you. It’s got a week’s supply of every essential mineral...”
“Ah yes, I’m sure each slice contains 100% of the recommended daily allowance of arsenic, cadmium and dioxin.”
At which point, Eunice grabbed the now rather battered cake, whipped off the cling film and ate it herself.
Saturday 26th July: Debenhams Card Missing
Eunice returns flustered from a truncated shopping trip.
“Bernard, you wouldn’t have seen the Debenhams store card would you? I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Why would I know where it is? I never use it,” I reply. My secret, of course, is that the said item lies in twenty pieces on council landfill somewhere as part of clandestine Jones family budget control. However, if I thought that this would curtail Eunice’s retail activities I was wrong. She heaved four full carrier bags onto the kitchen table and shook her head.
“It was very embarrassing. I had to pay cash, so I confined myself to the essentials,” she says.
I look through just one bag and find a new definition of essential: A cut glass olive oil drizzler (£16.99), a shape-sorter thing for measuring spaghetti portions (£6 from Le Vrai Gourmet), a granite mortar and pestle for £20, a plastic spear thing for disembowelling lemons (£2.50, and called a ‘lemon reamer’.)
“Can I ask what it was you discarded as inessential?” I said.
“I didn’t get a new toaster,” she said.
Typical. It was the one thing we actually needed.
Chapter Twenty: Dot Goes Missing
Thursday 7th August: Dreams Of Yesteryear
Got a call from Dot late this evening. She was very confused and tearful and sounded like she’d been having hallucinations about my late father.
“I saw Geoffrey at the foot of the bed last night, Bernard. He said he was waiting for me.”
“You probably dreamed it, Mum,” I said.
“No, I’d been sitting up in bed, listening to the radio, and suddenly it went all crackly. Then I saw him, and he asked how we all were. Then he said that he was waiting for me to come to him. He asked why I’d been such a long time.”
“Well, he did die in 1988, Mum. But you’ve been living your life, having a whale of a time, haven’t you?”
“No Bernard, I haven’t. I’ve been on my own for years and years. All there is to do is watch telly. When I go out on the street there’s fewer and fewer people I know. The area’s all changed, and all the old shops are gone and boarded up. Back in the old days people used to knock on your door to see how you were doing, but now there’s no milkman any more and there’s a different postman every day. Even Mr Khan’s Post Office has closed now.”
“There’s the lady from Social Services, isn’t there? And we come round to see you quite a lot.”
“You never seem to be here when I need you.”
“Well, Mum, to be fair you did refuse to move nearer us, and you repeatedly made it clear you don’t want to go into a home. I don’t know what more we can do for you,” I said gently.
“I want to go to Geoffrey,” she said. “I’m old and I’m not well.”
Friday 8th August: Feeling Better
Full of foreboding, I drove round to Frobisher Road to see my mother. She seemed in much better spirits, and I took her out to the local Baker’s Oven where we shared a family-size sausage roll, two chocolate éclairs and a pot of tea. While we were sitting there she told me that she wanted to draft a new will. I tried not to let my jaw fall open, something helped by the gluey consistency of the sausage roll. However, I couldn’t avoid a gasp of flaky pastry crumbs which showered into my cup of tea.
“You see, Bernard, I have got a bit of money as you know. Mary Asterby of the WI says that I should probably not have all this money in shares at this stage in my life, especially with prices going down. She thinks I should do some estate planning to avoid inheritance taxes.”
“That’s good advice, if a bit late. It’s advice I tried to give you for many years you know,” I said, barely able to believe my luck.
She then said she had arranged to see her solicitor next Monday. I look forward to getting my own back on the smug and pompous Herbert Ridley of Ridley, Gryp and Poultice, who last time we spoke refused to even disclose what the current state of my mother’s will was.
Saturday 9th August: Bad Omens
I woke up today in a good humour, highly encouraged by my mother’s recent burst of good sense and lucidity. However, matters quickly took a decided turn for the worse. At noon I tried to ring her, my normal time to do so, hoping to finalise arrangements for next week. There was no reply. She’s never been able to work the answer machine that I gave her, so I kept trying to ring on and off for the next three hours. A little bit concern
ed, I rang Mrs Harrison, one of her near neighbours who went to investigate for me. I waited for a few minutes until her breathless return. Mrs Harrison had with her a note which had been taped to Dot’s door. It simply said: ‘Gone to meet Geoffrey. Shan’t be coming back.’
I almost fainted at that shock, but retained enough composure to ask Mrs Harrison if she could see any sign of Maurice the mobility vehicle in the vestibule. No, it wasn’t there. She knocked for several minutes, without getting a reply, and then under my instruction used the spare back door key which Dot always kept under the cast-iron Andrew Lloyd-Webber boot scraper. A few minutes later she rang me on Dot’s phone to say there was no sign of her, but that the house looked unusually tidy. She also noticed that Dot’s best overcoat and headscarf were not in their normal place on the coat rack. As soon as I got off the phone, I heard Eunice’s keys at the door. She took one look at my face and knew something was wrong.
“My mother’s run away to meet my father!”
“But he died in the 1980s,” Eunice said. “Silly old thing.”
“No, Eunice, she’s really gone. I had Mrs Harrison look around the house. Maurice isn’t there, so she’s off somewhere. She’s got her best clothes.”
“Well, start with the police,” Eunice said.
However, after dialling 999 and getting through to the incident room I was lectured in no uncertain terms by the female duty officer that this was not an emergency.
“But she’s 92 years old!”
“Yes, but you say she’s only been missing for two hours. If she’s capable of using a mobility scooter she must have some common sense,” the WPC said. “We can’t file a missing person’s report yet, but we’ll see if we have a Community Support Officer in the area to keep an eye out for her.”
