by Louise Dean
Matt’s eyes focused on the keyhole of the can as if willing it to take him in.
‘Frankie Valli! What’s wrong with you? He was American an’ ugly as sin.’
Seeing the two women at the range in chat, Dave asked Nick to come and have a look at the carport he’d built. The brothers went out, Dave’s hand patting Ken’s shoulder as he went.
Ken was giving June one of his funny looks, down the length of his nose. June sat there impervious, bag on lap.
‘He keeps asking me if I know Jesus,’ Marina murmured out of the side of her mouth to Astrid.
‘Who? Ken?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you say?’
‘No, but I’ve heard good things.’
‘Oh, shit!’
‘Well, what can you say?’
‘I hope he doesn’t ask me any trick questions. Nick said he was a bit nutty.’
Matt slunk around the perimeter of the kitchen – his target the door – and, coming up alongside them, ventured a lacklustre enquiry in the old couple’s direction. ‘All right then, are you, Granddad? Nana June?’
‘You’re the future, aren’t you, sunbeam? Chip off the block. Be running the business in a couple of years.’
‘Don’t look at me, man,’ the thirteen-year-old boy said. His lower lip was a half-sulk. He blew his fringe up for a second to reveal kohl-rimmed eyes.
‘What’s he say, June?’ said Ken, with a sharp grin, leaning in to her to hear.
‘I don’t know!’
Matt was, according to Marina, an ‘emo-boy’. They didn’t know what it was, she told Astrid. She lifted a saucepan lid and dragged a tiny piece of broccoli to her mouth. ‘I’ve no idea what he gets up to on his computer day and night. I wish he’d get into girls; you know, real ones.’
‘What did he say I’m asking you? What did my grandson say?’
Pining for the silent bliss of the virtual world where he was
Master and Lord, Matt made a break for the door.
‘You want to clean your ears out, Kenneth.’ June lifted her brow in supplication and whistled. ‘Lord, give me strength.’
It was the women’s laughter that did it. Ken folded his arms over his chest and ground his teeth.
‘Sounds like you’re having fun,’ said Dave as they came back in. He shrugged off the cold from outside and clapped his hands.
Ken narrowed his eyes at June. ‘You and me, we’re going to be parting ways, woman!’
‘So you say!’
Astrid looked over the rim of her wine glass at Nick.
‘She don’t tell me where she keeps the money, you know.’
‘And you don’t tell me where you keep yours, Kenneth, so we’re even.’
‘Mine’s the business money, though, innit?’
‘And mine’s my own money, the money that came to me when Brian died. And I’m holding it for the next generation.’
‘The next generation! No point in talking to someone who’s pig-headed.’
‘That’s right!’ she chimed.
‘Who has to get the last word in.’
‘True enough!’
David and Marina worked together to get the lunch out of pots and pans and on to plates, with little scraps of meat off the carving board going into his mouth and hers. Dave threw Nick a pleading look over his shoulder, and nodded at the old man.
Nick was, wine glass in hand, to the side of his father’s chair.
‘Bearing up, are you then?’
‘Still alive, in’ I?’
Both of them held level gazes into the mid-distance, as if they were at a match.
‘Doin’ all right on the lettin’s front, are you then?’
Astrid was startled by Nick’s voice. The words dropped out of the slack mouth, flat and tinny, the ‘t’s had simply disappeared, and there was a belligerence about his lower face which resembled the old man’s. He sounded working class!
‘Who cares? Lettin’s! Who gives a sod about lettin’s? It’s small beans. A penny ’ere, a penny there. I sold most of them houses at the top of the market. Naargh.’ He gave a sneer, pulled at his lapels, ‘Naaargh. I’m more or less retired now. Retired! That’s a laugh. More like dead. There’s nothing to retire for, is there, any more? People used to ’ave ’obbies. People used to go bowling, din’ they? Now they go shoppin’. In and out of that poxy shop, what’s its name?’
‘Lidls,’ said June, dimpling.
‘What?’
‘Lidls. You can get your Heinz soups three for two pound and your Jolly Good Fellows pizzas three for four pounds fifty-nine. You only need to pop them in the oven. You can’t eat a whole one!’
‘See, that’s that I mean. That’s what I’m saying. This is not the world I was born into. It’s gone. Nothing’s the same. They keep chopping down the war memorials. No one stands for anything, no one believes in nothing. Pier’s closed. Most of the boozers are rough. Full of people drinking.’
‘At The Bo Peep they have Stella Artois, Carlsberg, Tennent’s, Spitfire, Harveys, and Strongbow on tap,’ said June, counting them off on her fingers. ‘They have six different white wines by the glass. They spent two hundred and fifty thousand pound doing it up. It’s five pence a pint more than The Swan, which is just ten yards from it, and that’s how they pay for it.’
‘Can’t you let me finish without you getting your oar in? I was saying how people used to go out together, dressed nice. With hats on. People knew their place. Didn’t need to push and shove. You took your turn. You had a family life, and the kids helped out.’ Astrid crossed the room to stand next to Nick. She slipped
an arm around his middle briefly, but felt him tense at her touch.
‘They still do in the Mediterranean countries,’ Nick said. Dave came across to the table to set the plates down. Shorter
than Nick, he was more muscular and, where he wasn’t bald, his head was shaved. He had his tongue out while he wiped off each plate with a cloth before laying it. He was as clean as a whistle, in a smart shirt, cuffs rolled back loosely; he smelt of aftershave. On his forearm, underneath the golden curly hair, was a bodged tattoo.
He spotted Nick’s glass.
‘Top up, Nick? Astrid?’ he asked, and went to the fridge to bring the bottle to them. ‘All right there, Dad?’
‘No, thank you. I’m not a boozer.’
Matt and his younger sister, Emily, slid into seats opposite the old couple, the girl closing her Nintendo DS with a jaded expression, putting it next to her plate. They sat there, listless and beleaguered, arms hanging, present in body only.
Riding on the balls of his feet, the level of Nick’s wine was bobbing. ‘You’ll see families out together in their Sunday best in those countries, and they don’t drink to get drunk like we do over here; they might just have an ice cream and a glass of wine.’
‘We never drank to get drunk in my day.’ Ken rolled his teeth under his upper lip.
‘And they thought it would catch on here – café society!’ Nick shook his head. ‘What a joke. We’re off to Sicily on Saturday, as it happens.’
Dave went at the roast joint with the electric carving knife, making a high-pitched sawing noise, which died a little as each slice of meat fell.
‘Are you? Wonderful. Whereabouts?’ said Marina, sucking the juice off her thumb as she put some meat down on to Matt’s plate. Not that she knew anything about Sicily – in fact, when they went, she told Dave how she’d always fancied the sound of the Scilly Isles. She was under a lot of pressure that day.
‘Syracuse. It’s in the south-east.’ His voice was back to its normal articulate elocution, every consonant in play. Astrid held his arm and squeezed it. ‘Well, properly, Ortygia, that’s the Old Town. An ancient site of mythological importance.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Marina, giving the salt cellar a tap with her fingernail. ‘Is it a nice hotel you’re staying in? I always like the way they fold an arrow into the toilet paper. Emily did it for a while, bless her; it use
d to make me smile when I sat down on the lavatory and saw it.’
‘No, I didn’t!’ Emily’s mouth fell open and her eyes reddened.
‘I did not!’
Matt smiled with honest pleasure.
The carving knife met some tough meat and its pitch rose to near-hysteria. Nick was obliged to raise his voice to answer Marina.
‘Well, it’s five star – though I’m not sure what that means – but it’s a nice one overlooking the harbour. “Des Etrangers” it’s called. It’s French for “foreigners”, funnily enough.’
‘What d’you say?’ The old man turned his face now towards his son.
‘I said, It’s French for . . .’
‘Oh, we know all about you. Big’ead. Five star.’
‘Dad!’ Dave intervened, stayed the carving knife and turned round. The kitchen fell quiet, the only note was the clink of Matt’s knife and fork; he’d started eating. He stopped, feeling eyes upon him, and slouched in pique; one foot kicked the leg of the table.
Marina served the old couple with full plates.
‘Well . . .’ Ken used the word to expand his disapproval.
‘What’s he want to be sloping off over there for? What’s good about it over there? Spending money! Who wants to go abroad and be at the mercy of a bunch of strangers? Unless you’re dodging something. All that showing off, walking about in posh clothes. You ask yourself why anybody would waste their time doing that. Pardon me,’ he said to Astrid, as she took her place next to Matt opposite him, ‘but we always thought he was a nancy boy, me an’ ’is mother.’
Matt and Emily looked at each other with naked glee.
‘Boys didn’t oughta care about fashion and clothes and coffee cups and using the right spoon and all that – eh, Matt?’
‘Do you like fashion, Emily?’ Astrid asked brightly.
Emily, with the premature breasts of the overweight child, was sitting in a tight top, her belly protruding. Her hair was cut into an orange helmet.
‘No.’
‘Are you into music?’
‘A bit. Not much.’
‘What do you like then?’
‘She used to like pick ’n’ mix,’ piped up June. ‘We used to give her Woolworth’s vouchers for her birthday and Christmas and Easter; now it’s closed, we’re blowed if we know what to give her.’
Nick took his seat.
‘There’s a new taxi firm opened on London Road,’ June said.
‘They want four pound fifty to take you from Bulverhythe to Warrior Square! It’s daylight robbery.’
‘Eh, June.’ Ken used his elbow on his wife. ‘Old Shifty here, surprised he could tear himself away from his caff society to come and get us today . . . No thanks, dear, not ’ungry,’ he said to Marina when she offered him gravy from the jug. He pushed the plate off its place mat, causing it to slop. He turned, drew in his chin, and looked over his glasses at his elder son. ‘Anyway, since you are a lawyer of some sort, you can give your old man some advice.’
‘There’s a bit more crackling left, if anyone wants it,’ said
Dave, rising.
‘If I go by bus to the bingo, I have to change at Warrior
Square . . .’
‘Will you give it a rest, June? Like a dripping tap, she is. Just if everyone could stop interrupting and listen a second, they might ’ear something.’ Ken gave a tremendous sigh and the table fell quiet. ‘Right. My will needs to be sorted. I want to leave everything I got to Dave, in trust for that boy there, young Matthew, to run the family business, but what I don’t want is for her lot, June’s family, to get their hands on a penny of it, see?’
June issued a gay laugh. She forked a piece of meat and put it into her mouth, then closed her knife and fork over the vegetables and roast potatoes. She sat chewing with her hands folded over the handbag on her lap.
‘Now, you tell me how to go about it.’ He leant back in his chair to squint at his elder son.
‘What about Nick?’ Astrid asked suddenly. She crossed her legs.
‘Nick? Who is this Nick fella anyway? Thank you, young lady, but you’re new to this family. You’re not even in this family, matter of fact, so I’ll ask you to keep your nose out.’
‘She’s called Astrid,’ said Nick. ‘I don’t care about the money, let Dave have it. He’s earned it. However, the fact is – because you are married – your estate will pass to June here. Even if you make a will leaving it to Dave, June could contest it under the Inheritance Act of 1975.’
‘Could she?’ Ken changed tack and recoiled from June now, and gave her a look down the length of his nose as if there were a viper in the nest. ‘Could she?’
‘Oh-hoh!’ June issued poultry noises. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, please!’
Dave caught his brother’s eyes across the table, ‘I’m sorry, mate.’
‘Do they ask you what you do for a living when you’re abroad, the people you meet?’ June addressed Nick, her head on one side. ‘Do you get people bothering you for advice all the time?’ Nick finished his drink, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and laid it gently on his plate, as if covering a dead body. ‘Time to go.’ But Dave wouldn’t have it. ‘Oh no! Don’t go, you’ve just got here, mate. I tell you what, if either of us had thought for a minute – back me up on this, love – if we’d thought he was going to come out with this load of shit . . .’ He put two hands up to his bald pate, as if the ceiling were falling on him. ‘I mean, Christ O’Reilly, this is really unbelievable, isn’t it? First time we sit down in donkey’s years and, I mean, you couldn’t make it up, could you . . .? I mean, Dad, you could have waited until pudding at least. Sorry, dessert, Marina, whatever, pudding, dessert, sweet, I don’t care, Marina – it’s not important, is it? I mean, the point is, he has to . . . I mean, like, Dad . . . Dad, why did you have to . . .? I’ll be sharing whatever I get with you anyway, Nick mate.’
‘Absolutely not, Dave. You’re a good man, and thanks, but no way. Like I say, you earned it.’ Nick shook his head.
With his plate still untouched, Ken was devouring Matt with his eyes, grinding his teeth. The boy was picking crackling from a back tooth.
Dave was red-faced and upset. Nick was pale and apparently composed, but Astrid could feel his embarrassment. She felt badly to think that she’d pushed for this lunch; in truth she’d known it would expose him, but she’d not guessed how much. When he gave his elongated fake yawn, paired with a back stretch, she knew he was in real trouble.
‘Right then – ready, Astrid?’ He stood up. ‘I came for your sake, Dave, but when it comes to Ken, well, it’s a waste of time pretending.’
The children looked up.
‘No. No! Nick . . . mate! Astrid, sweetheart! Sit down a minute!’ Dave was oiling his head with his hands, working pig fat into his crown, bobbing in his seat. ‘Oh, this is awful, I mean, this is just terrible. I mean, what about a simple sodding Sund’y lunch like other families have? Why can’t we do that once in twenty years, eh?’
‘I don’t like playing games.’
‘No, don’t you do that, my old son, you speak plainly . . .’
said the old man, with a crafty smile.
‘Ready, Astrid?’
‘Yes.’ She stood beside him now, hands crossed like a president’s wife.
With careful diction, hitting the notes rather like a pianist, Nick said, ‘Well, it was a really good lunch, Marina, and I’m sorry not to have done it justice.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Emily, turning in her seat to face Astrid.
‘You’ve both grown up so much, you two. Nice kids, Dave,’ Nick said to his brother. He turned to Astrid with his hand out, indicating the door. She noticed the slight wagging tendency of his finger; it reminded her of Ken earlier. She mouthed a hasty ‘bye’ at Marina.
‘Before you go,’ Ken’s chair scraped as he shoved it backwards, ‘I’ll need you to do something for me in your professional capacity. You won’t refuse a customer, I hope. I shall pay you your usual
rate. I don’t ask no favours.’ He put his hands on the table. ‘I’ll need you to do me a divorce, Gary.’
Chapter 8
‘He can fucking forget it,’ Nick said, slamming the car into reverse while Astrid waved limply at the kids, who were standing outside in the cold to see them off. When Matt put his forearm around her neck from behind, Emily stuck her tongue out, making an expression of horror as if she were being pole-axed. Gravel flew.
‘Who does he think he is? Henry the Eighth? He can just forget it.’ Then, under his breath, ‘Calling me Gary. Stupid old shit.’
She had to press her lips together to stop the smile.
‘Gary,’ she said with genteel effect, breathing life into it, making it sound fragrant. ‘It could be worse,’ she lied. ‘Shane?’
‘Thanks,’ he said sourly. ‘You sound really sincere.’
He’d gone pompous on her. When he was pompous, he had no sense of humour. Still, she allowed him that occasional transgression. Most men of his age were shabby and tight. They wore the same underpants days running until you caught them out. The same jacket did them twenty years. They spent their money only if they were with you – and only on eating and drinking – and they cut corners in all the wrong places, such as holidays and jewellery. They didn’t seem to care what people thought, when that was all that mattered at all. But Nick had bought her a cocktail ring from Boucheron for Christmas. When she opened the gorgeous solemn box, she knew he loved her. She could see it right there.
It was best to be silent. She should sit and look amenable.
But, a few miles further down the road, she broke her own embargo.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ, Nick! For God’s sake. I’m sorry about saying you should go. I don’t blame you for not wanting to see him ever again. He’s a horrible old man, isn’t he? Look. You tried. And he just wanted to knock you back. Silly old sod. He’s jealous of you. Obviously.’
But he didn’t look comforted by any of that at all. In fact, he looked all the more rancourous. He looked like his old man. He was running through other lines of attack in his head, things he could have said to his father – rebuttals, matters of fact – and working through some cruel jibes.
