by Daniel Stone
I went into the boardroom and didn’t sit down. If I was going to be bollocked I wanted to know what for before I sat down and accepted it. Chris huffed in.
‘Shut the door,’ he half shouted. ‘What the fuck did I ask you?’ he continued.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I replied, which was the truth, I really didn’t. This was how I was when confronted with a question: if I hadn’t already thought of an answer or got one planned, I wasn’t likely to magic one out of thin air unless prompted.
‘I’ll tell you, shall I?’
Chris’s voice was getting higher and all Balkan on me, which he is as well.
That would be nice, I thought. ‘Okay,’ I said instead.
‘Don’t say a fucking thing to Stan. Didn’t I, didn’t I?’
I now understood what the matter was. I’d had the pleasure of working with a bloke pretty much hated by everyone who worked with him, including most of the customers as well; most importantly, I supposed. His colleagues wanted him out, the management wanted an excuse, certain people were looking for a reason to stitch him up, and being a bunch of two-faced, lying, back-stabbing jobsworths counting the days until they retired they were all acting as slippery as snakes covered in Vaseline and decided to choose one of my clients to blame for a complaint made about the bloke everyone wanted rid of. I suppose it was the same office politics that happen everywhere, but right now it was happening to me and I didn’t want any part of it.
Unfortunately when Chris told me he had heard from X that Y had said that Z wasn’t giving us work any more because of ‘the-bloke-that-everyone-hated-but-were-too-spineless-to-sack’, I phoned my client and asked him directly for the truth. Two things struck me as odd. Firstly he was on holiday when the accusation was made, and secondly he wasn’t the type of person to say that sort of thing, and when I asked him he said the same thing. He had no issues with the-lanky-bastard-that-everyone-hates.
On the morning when it all kicked off the-lanky-bastard-that-no-one-liked said to me, ‘What’s all this I’m hearing about Kevin not liking me and not giving us business any more because of me?’
‘No idea, he’s not said anything to me,’ I said, which was all true. Following that discussion the-lanky-bastard-that-no-one-liked spoke to the other skinny bastard, the director (the guy now shouting at me), saying, ‘I’ve spoken to Pilot Light and he said Kevin hasn’t got a problem with me.’ This wasn’t what I said either, but the skinny bastard director had called the meeting and the gloves were now off.
‘Why couldn’t you just say, yes, Kevin complained or... or... or you didn’t want to speak about it?’
I could see the blood pressure rising in the director’s face. The veins in his neck looked like they were ready to burst, and his blinking eyes flicked between a rabbit in the headlights and a complete mentalist as he loomed over me.
‘Because that’s a lie,’ I said.
‘You made me look like a right fucking cunt,’ said the director.
You did a fine job of that yourself, I thought. ‘That’s fucking bollocks, Chris,’ I said. ‘You’re asking me to lie, and as much as I hate the lanky-bastard-that-everyone-hates my client didn’t say what he’s accused of saying – all this is bollocks. You’re using me and my client as scapegoats. This has come round because other senior members of staff have got their knickers in a fucking twist and have been pulling your poxy chain. If you want to blame someone, blame one of those spineless fucks that actually did forward you customers’ complaints, but don’t have a go at me for not lying for you!’
I went back to my desk. I could feel my eye twitching and had that feeling when your heart is pounding and your head aches. I’d had a stupid row in the morning with Chloe, God knows what about, I think it might have been because I mentioned I wasn’t keen on her fur coat and that somehow had sparked an almighty row. She was particularly prickly at the moment and I felt like every time I opened my mouth I was saying the wrong thing. I checked my mobile phone and saw I had a missed call from Dad and a snotty text message from Chloe. I deleted the message from Chloe accusing me of being nasty and evil and phoned my dad. Something was wrong with Grandad.
15 – Rat Race
It’s probably fair to say I was a little bit goofy as a kid, and not just mentally. My mum always denied it, saying, ‘You have big teeth. Sooner or later you’ll grow into them, sweetheart.’
I didn’t have a clue what she meant. I guess it was nicer than pointing out I could easily eat an apple through a tennis racket.
Like most kids I was forced into having several teeth removed so I could be fitted with a brace: the joys of puking up blood and going into school with a sausage tongue and amazing my mates with my jaws’ newfound resilience which after a few punches gave way to a dull constant ache. No wonder babies cry when they’re teething. I had a sharp, scaffolding train track fixed on the bottom and a removable, squashed-prawn plate on the top. I hated it, although I did manage to learn it was possible to turn the plate completely around in my mouth, which must have been pleasant viewing for the school teachers and my parents who would witness such mouth dexterity – still, it was the best way to get through the boredom of double geography lessons.
I also discovered problems, eating bacon for starters. Mum was keen on streaky bacon, but unfortunately, due to the long, fatty nature of its composition, unless it was crispy or cut into little nibbly bits, it could, if you were unlucky like me, get stuck to your brace.
Mum noticed me gagging and swallowing with eyes watering.
‘What’s wrong sweetheart, are you choking?’ she said, hitting my back. I continued desperately chewing, trying to make a bite count, looking for a cutting edge on the meat, still with my eyes watering, gagging; I must have looked like a cat with a fur ball in its mouth.
‘Brace!’ I said like an evil alien. ‘Can’t swallow!’
Mum dived in fingers first, fishing around in my metal-filled mouth. She found the rasher stuck at the back of my gullet and then started tugging. Now my eyes were streaming, still gulping and gagging as I regurgitated. My sisters sat staring, mouths wide open, transfixed as the rasher went on and on, it was at least a foot long! I decided to lay off the bacon for about three years.
I was also lucky enough to be given a head brace that was supposed to be worn from the moment I got in from school till just before I left again in the morning. I tried to oblige, even though I could tell I was being laughed at, even by my mum and dad and my sisters, even the cat. But the final straw came when friends turned up to see if I was hanging out. Yeah, let’s all laugh at the freak. I think neighbours even came round asking to borrow some sugar just to see if they could catch a glimpse of me.
It was like an old-fashion rugby hat, blue straps with silver latches or buttons on the side that connected via elastic bands that attached to a whisker-like piece of metal that went into my mouth and fitted neatly into a special connection on the brace.
I reckoned if I wasn’t prepared to do the recommended hours I could cheat by upping the amount of elastic bands and only wear the damn thing when I went to bed. The elastic bands were the force that moved the teeth: no pain, no gain. You were supposed to have two on each side, but I became addicted to pain and elastic and soon was on four on each whisker. The next day I’d have to put up with self-induced headaches and a sore jaw, but it had to be better than looking like a mentalist or someone who’d had their head run over.
One night I decided to go for five bands on each side. I woke up in the middle of the night; I could hear a strange creaking in my head. I sat up in bed, looking around my room, my sleep-crusty eyes scanning, checking the dark: nothing to be seen. Still the strange creaking continued in my head, then I heard a crack and my brace came alive, attacking me like an angry crab, turning my head into a catapult and firing one of the buckles on the side of my head across the room like a bullet. The metal whiskers also came to life and one side pulled my brace out of the roof of my mouth and
back towards my throat, gagging me. The buckle latch that was shot from the side of my head whistled through the air, hitting the furthest bedroom wall, and then rebounded, flying back to hit the wall behind me like a bullet in an old Yosemite Sam cartoon, ricocheting in front and behind me and then finally coming to a rest on my lap. I stuck my fingers in my mouth to stop myself getting an accidental Chelsea smile, then I sat in my bed, flummoxed. My goofy plans would perhaps take a little longer than anticipated.
16 – It happened
Next stop was Basildon. I hadn’t been there much since I was a kid. I was going to see my Grandad in hospital. I didn’t know how long he’d be in there; I wasn’t really sure what was wrong with him – he was never ill. I looked out of the window as the countryside raced by in a green and yellow blur, unsure what I could tell Grandad.
It had happened: the love of my life was pregnant. It was completely unexpected, unplanned and accidental. Although I had always harboured the desire for a child, I didn’t think it would really seriously happen. I was as shocked as Chloe. How the hell had it happened? I knew how it happened physically, but we had always been careful. Chloe was horrified and I felt guilty for a crime I hadn’t committed. I’d had my chances in the past and they were taken away. My new life, which was devoted to my wife, was totally built on the understanding that children weren’t part of the plan. I understood and accepted it. Mostly because she didn’t think she was the maternal type but also because she had never really wanted children. I knew the thought scared her. She knew she was different; she had been brought up to think they weren’t important.
Selfishly, I guess part of me had hoped that once married, settled and happy she might change her mind, and this to some extent had happened as she had made some positive noises, saying that in the right circumstances she might actually consider children. Every positive murmur caused a little hope in my heart, although I was happy as we were.
But unfortunately we weren’t settled: we were living in rented accommodation whilst trying to find a home. We both had properties that were being rented, although my wife had been unfortunate with her tenant and had to go to court to get her house back. This delay put paid to us finding a home of our own when we most needed it.
We were also deep in the recession and job prospects weren’t great. Holding on to our jobs was proving tough in itself, let alone seeking new challenges.
I found my Grandad in a side room with my mum and dad sitting silently by his bedside. They both looked utterly knackered; he had only just fallen asleep. He was my last remaining grandparent and was in the same hospital I never saw my Nan leave. My Grandad, and my hero.
Two years after my Nan had died and having learnt to be self-sufficient again, something in his brain had given way and he’d suffered some sort of blood clot. Being made of strong stuff and although suffering stroke-like symptoms, he was still busy trying to rip out his drip and catheter as soon as he woke up. He didn’t care that he couldn’t speak or swallow, he just didn’t want to be in bed any more. It was the worst day of my life having to help restrain him in hospital; I just wanted to take him home. I didn’t have a chance to tell him my news.
My buttons were being pushed.
Grandad normally would have wanted to know all about my work. I could have told him about Chloe and the baby and all about my troubles, no matter how trivial. Even if he couldn’t do much about them, he always seemed to know how to make them go away.
I tried to tell him. In my head on the train back to London I told him over and over again. In between thoughts of him struggling to get out of bed and his utter confusion and Chloe’s look of pure terror as she said ‘I’m pregnant’, the countryside gave way to London town.
17 – Polo’s and Donuts
I’d decided stud earrings looked rubbish on lads. If I got myself a hoop I could save myself the hassle and just sort it out myself. Apparently high street jewellers insisted on you wearing a stud first before you were able to be promoted to the hoop-wearing brigade. I was sure that this was simply a con.
Getting the earring was the easy part of my plan; getting it through my ear lobe was going to be the tricky part.
First off, I put ice in the freezer. I was going to utilise the tried and tested technique that all old ladies like my Nan said their mums had used before the war. It shouldn’t be too hard, I thought: a bit of ice on the lobe, pin at the ready. I had already watched the pin glow as I heated it on the gas hob; I knew this was the best way to sterilise it but hadn’t anticipated the burnt fingers. I put the ice cube on my ear and looked at myself in the mirror. Here we go. I took the ice cube away from my ear; water was dripping from my wrist. I thought my ear would feel number than it did. Okay, here we go, I thought…
Fuck that feels weird! A sort of stinging and crunching sensation as the pin gradually pierced the flesh. I could feel the tip of the pin on my thumb and knew I just needed to push it through the last little bit. The pin was completely through. When I pulled it out I got the hoop ready. I decided I’d put it straight through and the job was done, easy, or so I thought. As I pulled the pin out of my already bright red, burning ear, I grabbed the hoop and tried to put it through the hole… no good. It started stinging like hell and bleeding. Great, I proper fucked that up.
I thought I’d best have a re-think sharpish.
I decided the best thing to do was increase the size of the pin to a needle and this time properly freeze my ear. My plan this time was to freeze some wet tissue paper. That way I could hold more freezing material on my ear for longer. Sweet, it was working fine: my ear had stopped bleeding and my lobe was feeling absolutely numb and I was ready again with the needle. I was sure I could definitely have found something not quite as drastic size wise between the pin and the needle, but in the end opted for Henry the VIII’s old lance. The needle went in fairly painlessly, but again I felt odd as I heard the stretching and cracking ear tissue and flesh being slowly torn, but the needle was through nevertheless. I kept pulling until the needle was literally at the halfway point. The sharp point touched my neck and the eye end stuck out nicely like an antenna.
I thought I looked the nuts, so I left it for a while as I admired my handiwork in several mirrors from every conceivable angle, in every room in our house. I was trying to determine just how good it really looked… more punk than casual, I decided, although I still felt it was highly unlikely that the hoop would look much better.
But when I finally went to remove the needle I realised my ear was no longer frozen and the internal fibres and blood had congealed and bonded to the metal needle. It had well and truly set. As I tugged on the needle my ear started bleeding again, then throbbing and then I felt quite sick as the pain kicked in. When the needle was completely free I could see I had created a perfect hole and put the hoop through very tentatively but successfully.
My problem now was hiding the earring from my family. I reckoned my sisters would be impressed, but knew my parents would think I looked like an idiot and school would also not approve. I felt this was best overcome with a disguise. I decided to wear a cap and brush my hair over my ears. Problem solved: no one need ever know I had an earring.
18 – Is It Wrong?
I was sitting with Grandad in the hospital. The lights were on but no one was in. I held his hand and stroked his head, looking into his eyes for a glimmer of recognition.
‘I want to take you home, Grandad, have a nice cup of tea.’
I could almost hear him reply in my head. He didn’t move, he just nattered away to himself, more incomprehensible nonsense.
‘It’s hot in here, isn’t it, Grandad? Why’s it so flippin’ hot? Your cucumbers would grow in here alright, wouldn’t they, mate? It’s like your greenhouse!’ I tried to say the sort of thing that would have made him laugh. He always laughed at my jokes.
It was so hot I couldn’t breathe. Why was there no air? Should I open a window? Would he get cold? I didn’t know what to do or say any more. I kn
ew what I wanted to ask. Was it wrong to expect your other half to be there for you when you felt like you were falling apart? Was it something you were supposed to understand and look for before you got married? Potential weaknesses and all that… should you already know that if you’re emotional or struggling then the reassuring hands and shoulders to cry on might not be those of the person you’re relying on? Was this how affairs started? Was it fair to say that no one knows anything and you’re lucky to find someone who’s always there? A better person than you who somehow telepathically understands what you’re feeling?
I felt like I was there for everyone. A natural empathy, like a noose around my neck, always burdened with others’ problems. I always offered my services; my two penn’th worth came free. Was that the deal breaker? Was I chosen as the husband for that reason? Because I’d be there when needed and easily ignored when the tables were turned? Was I wrong to think this? Was I being selfish now?
My Grandad was hurting, confused and alone in hospital. I wasn’t sure what he could feel any more. It hurt me to see him like that. I’d comfort him, like I’d want someone to comfort me. Should I feel bad for wanting him to either live or die at the same moment? Would she understand me thinking this? Did she know I was thinking this? Why didn’t she have the answers?
What am I supposed to do, Grandad? Will she terminate our baby? My job’s shit, Grandad. I can’t give her what she wants. Talk to me, Grandad. Give me the answers, please. What should I do?
