When We Were Rich

by Tim Lott

  Hello?

  Owen? It’s Nodge.

  Oh. Hello there. How are you?

  Never mind that. I’m ringing to tell you that I’m sorry for the way I behaved today.

  It’s alright.

  I don’t know what came over me.

  Well – no, I won’t say it.

  What?

  I’d quite like to come over you.

  Nodge laughs, then checks himself.

  Stop it. Please. Look. Anyway. I just wanted to say that I was sorry. That’s all.

  Okay then.

  Are you angry with me?

  I’m not angry with you.

  Maybe we’ll bump into one another again.

  I hope so.

  It’s probably inevitable anyway.

  Goodbye, Nodge.

  See you soon, I expect.

  They both wait for the other to hang up the phone. It is Nodge who, finally, places the receiver back on the cradle. But even then, he stays by the phone for some time, as if expecting it to ring at any second.

  * * *

  Sunday morning at Colin’s flat. Roxy has made him a breakfast of Wall’s sausages, fried egg, fried bread, unsmoked back bacon and button mushrooms, carefully washed and peeled, cut into two halves and fried in butter. The tea is Typhoo with two and one-third sugars.

  She places the plate in front of Colin, who is working his way through the Sunday Times supplements, clattering a knife and fork down next to the unopened Business section.

  That looks awesome.

  You’ve got about ten minutes to eat it.

  I won’t need that long, he says, carefully cutting the rind from the bacon.

  Don’t give yourself heartburn.

  Colin now has a mouthful of mushrooms.

  Do you really want me to come? says Roxy. As in, really really?

  You might like it more than you think.

  You don’t even believe in it anymore.

  It’s part of our culture, isn’t it? Our heritage.

  I haven’t been to church since I was eight years old. And I was bored fuckless then. Also, I’ve got a rotten hangover.

  You’ve always got a rotten hangover. Look, I’ll never ask you to go again. Just this once. We are meant to be getting married there. Just do it for me.

  Anything for a laugh, I suppose.

  Thanks, doll.

  She goes to their bedroom, throws off her towelling dressing gown and picks out a pink baby-doll dress and a giant black hat with a filigree of lace on it. Minutes later she reappears in the kitchen, applying lipstick the colour of pickled beetroot.

  You’re not really going to wear that, are you? says Colin, finishing the last of his fried bread with a contrived burp.

  I’ve seen some of these black ladies, what they wear to church. The hat’s a big thing.

  Your dress is a bit short.

  You don’t tell me what to wear.

  Colin turns his attention back to the paper. The headline reads: ‘Countdown to War’.

  So that big march we went on did a fat lot of good then, he says.

  Saddam might still bottle it.

  In the next three days?

  Serves him right anyway. Gassing Kurds and that.

  Ten minutes later, they leave the flat and make their way to the church. The bells chime for the start of service as they approach.

  I knew we’d be late, says Colin. Get a move on.

  It was you who wanted a fry-up. Anyway, what does it matter? God will forgive us.

  How do you know?

  That’s his USP, isn’t it? That’s what he does.

  Tottering in high heels, Roxy makes her way along the street, past the ancient graveyard and into the church ten minutes late. Colin is dressed in a sober grey suit. The church is around one half full. To Roxy’s surprise, a good number of the congregants are young, well-dressed white couples with children. The remainder are largely older black men and women.

  How come all the yuppies?

  Good church school at the end of the road, mutters Colin. Pay or pray.

  A few heads turn and nod at Colin, then eyes switch to Roxy. Roxy grins back cheerfully.

  Ello. Morning. Ello, she mouths.

  They find a pew and sit on it.

  Christ, this is uncomfortable, she whispers to Colin.

  It’s not a boutique cinema.

  Why have they got to make your arse hurt to be a Christian?

  Yours is well enough insulated.

  A loud ‘shhhh’ comes from a ferocious-looking black woman standing behind them in a cerise hat with elaborate folds of lace, bows and crimps, topped with a riot of grey feathers.

  Sorry love, says Roxy, adjusting her own hat, which keeps bumping against Colin’s head.

  The service starts with a hymn which Roxy does not know the tune of, but groans along with anyway. The sermon is something about living forever if you just put yourself into the arms of Jesus.

  The vicar leads a prayer for peace in the Middle East. He is a tall scrawny man with thinning hair and stooped shoulders. He wears rectangular glasses behind which he is blinking furiously, giving the impression of two tiny, faulty televisions. The congregation dutifully mumbles along, reading from the hymn-and-prayer pamphlets that they have been handed at the entrance. Colin steals a glance at Roxy, who is signalling her boredom with shifts on the pew and frequent yawns. She has her mobile phone out and is checking it.

  Put it away, will you, Rocks?

  You’re never going to make me do this again, right?

  I’m never going to make you do this again. Now put it away. Please.

  Sulkily, she puts her phone back in her bag and focuses on the vicar. The prayer finishes and the offertory is passed round, a dirty velvet plum-coloured bag with an elasticated collar. Inexorably, it makes its way towards them. Roxy fumbles in her purse.

  Do they take plastic?

  Don’t be stupid.

  I got no change. All I got is a Pavarotti.

  When, a few seconds later, the collection bag arrives full of coins and a few buttons, she cheerfully drops the ten-pound note in. Colin is shocked.

  Ten quid! What are you doing?

  All for a good cause.

  And now would you please share the peace, says the vicar.

  A piece of what?

  The peace. The peace, says Colin.

  What’s the piece? says Roxy

  She sees everyone on the pews standing and beginning to break ranks and wander and start shaking hands with other members of the congregation.

  You never told me nothing about this. It’s a bit bloody weird.

  A huge black man stuffed into a small powder-blue suit manifests behind Roxy. She turns and he holds out his hand.

  Peace be with you, he says, in a small piping voice that surprises her.

  Thanks, says Roxy, staring at the proffered hand.

  No, like this, hisses Colin at Roxy. He turns to the man and takes his hand.

  And peace be with you.

  They shake hands. Now the man holds his hand out to Roxy. Roxy, awkwardly, takes it.

  Peace be with you, pipes the man, smiling broadly.

  Yeh, and with you then.

  The man turns away and starts shaking the hands of a well-dressed, fashionable young couple who greet him slightly overenthusiastically.

  That was easy, wasn’t it? says Colin.

  He tickled my palm with his finger when he was shaking my hand, the dirty old bastard.

  But Colin has turned away, offering the peace to an elderly woman with starched hair. Roxy stubbornly sits back down on the pew.

  Some minutes later, it is time for the Anglican Communion. Neither Colin nor Roxy choose to take it, instead watching the snaking queue of the well-dressed and overdressed. One man holds a mobile phone to his ear as he takes the communion wafer into his mouth. The vicar says nothing, blesses him, and merely passes on to the next congregant.

  The body of Christ. The body of Christ. The body
of Christ.

  * * *

  When they leave the church they shake hands with the vicar at the door, who greets them with enthusiasm and rhapsodizes over their forthcoming ‘nuptials’. Then, instead of heading out directly through the gate and back to the car, Colin leads Roxy along the side of the church.

  Where we going?

  To say hello to Olive.

  Who’s Olive?

  My old mum.

  No. I’ve done my bit. I need to lie down now and think sinful thoughts for a while.

  She takes a packet of sweets out of her pocket, then unwraps and starts to chew on a Black Jack. But Colin carries on walking and she follows. She accidentally drops the Black Jack wrapper and bends for a moment at a grass verge to pick it up while Colin pushes ahead.

  He reaches a small grave in the corner of the churchyard, untended, with a black shiny marble headstone, an engraved gold crucifix and the inscription in gold lettering.

  OLIVE BURDEN, BELOVED WIFE OF WILLIAM.

  10 FEB, 1931 – 16 MARCH, 1999.

  THE SUN SHINED BRIGHTER BECAUSE

  SHE WAS HERE.

  Hello, Mum, says Colin.

  Colin stands rigid in front of the headstone, nodding slowly.

  I’m getting married, he whispers to the ground.

  He stands there still.

  I think you’d like her.

  Not that you ever liked anyone much.

  You never thought I’d find anyone, did you?

  Yes, Mum. But not like I did you.

  She’s pretty, yeh. Bit on the heavy side.

  Who cares what Frankie thinks?

  She’s going to be my wife, not his.

  He straightens up. He stares at the green carpet of grass with its hopeful, thrusting punctuation of stone. An exhausted leaf falls from a tree and lands on his shoe. He reaches down and wipes it off with his hand, leaving a smear of decay.

  Out of nowhere, he remembers going to another graveyard, one day twenty years ago with Nodge, Frankie and Tony. They were kids. It was the closest he’d come, really, to being happy, as a teenager. He even remembers the date. The twenty-eighth of August. For years, the four of them would celebrate that day together in honour of their indestructible friendship. So-called. Now Frankie was married and Nodge was gay and Tony had disappeared and he had been crazed with grief and Jesus fever and only half recovered his senses.

  It wasn’t until Roxy said yes to him that he’d felt that happy again.

  Now Roxy totters through the grass after him, cursing. She comes to a halt, steadies herself and silently examines the inscription on the gravestone.

  Did it? says Roxy.

  Did what?

  Did the sun shine brighter?

  Not really.

  So why put it on there?

  Don’t be stupid. Everything’s lies. What do you think this . . . he gestures at the church . . . is all about. Might as well join in.

  Roxy tries to take Colin’s hand but sees that it is bunched into a fist.

  Shouldn’t it be ‘the sun shone brighter’?

  What?

  Not ‘shined’.

  Colin ignores her and simply stares at the grave. There is a cheap glass vase there with the remains of a few empty flower stalks. Roxy studies the gravestone again, this time considering the dates.

  Sixty-eight. Young, really. Oh. And she died on this day. This very day.

  She stops chewing the Black Jack and swallows it.

  That’s why you wanted me to come today.

  Colin still doesn’t move.

  Did you love her very much?

  He says nothing.

  I picked these flowers.

  She holds out some wildflowers she has found on the verges.

  Shall I put them in the vase? Freshen it up?

  Colin looks at her. He shakes his head.

  Look – I know they’re fairly shit flowers, Col, but . . .

  He looks at them again. He takes them from her, and casts them at the stone. The wind snatches at them and scatters them.

  Let’s go, he says, turning briskly on his heel, leaving a small, sharp indentation at the foot of the grave, a loamy full stop.

  Back on the pavement Colin leaves a trail of mud behind him. He still has earth from the grave buried in the deep tread of his shoe. He stops and tries to scrape it off with a stick. It proves sticky and glutinous. He cannot get it all out, however hard he tries.

  * * *

  So, Veronica. What would your life look like if you did get what you want?

  Veronica has not imagined that undergoing therapy would be so hard. She has never done it in the past, before her training started. She never thought that she needed it.

  Elizabeth Pember, her supervisor, has eyes that are soft, hazy even, and yet which seem to be able to take her measure at a glance. She is not what Veronica expected a therapist to look like. She is too young, for a start, perhaps the same age as Veronica, and her clothes are colourful and flamboyant rather than the expected neutral. She is wearing a gipsy headscarf and a loud red print dress with huge purple flowers on it, and kitten heels. Above her is a clock that is making a loud ticking noise which annoys and distracts Veronica.

  Do you mind if we turn the clock off? It has a very loud tick.

  You get used to it. I can’t switch it off actually. It’s wired into the mains. So. As to what you want?

  Veronica laughs awkwardly.

  Is that a trick question?

  Let me put it more concretely. If Frankie did cut back on his job hours. If he did come home and do the chores instead. Look after China alongside you.

  That would be great.

  Why would it be great?

  It would make me feel loved.

  And if the estate agency suffered as a result. Perhaps even failed. What would that make you feel?

  I suppose it would make me feel even more loved. That he had made a sacrifice.

  Don’t you feel loved now?

  Veronica takes a long draught from the glass of water on the table and checks the clock. Only ten minutes left. She’ll be glad when it’s over.

  I don’t think he knows how to love in that way. To that degree. It’s all about him. The only reason he loves me is because it’s a nice feeling for him.

  Do you know that for a fact?

  Veronica doesn’t answer.

  What about sexually? Doesn’t he try to satisfy you?

  It excites him to make a woman satisfied. It makes him feel like a man.

  Some might see your attitude as cynical.

  Frankie always says I’m a romantic.

  Why does he say that?

  Sometimes I believe in impossible things because I want to believe in them. Or so he says.

  Meaning?

  I used to be into crystals and feng shui and healing and horoscopes and all that new age stuff.

  That surprises me. You don’t seem the type.

  Because I’m medically trained? Yes, I know. I suppose I just think there are different ways of knowing. Things science can’t understand.

  Do you still believe in the power of crystals?

  Not so much. Not at all really.

  But?

  I don’t know. I can’t quite escape the idea that there’s some . . . hidden order. Purpose. Pattern. I don’t know what to call it.

  Some secret you can’t quite uncover.

  I suppose.

  Do these beliefs have any impact on your relationship with your husband?

  I don’t know.

  Are you sure?

  Perhaps.

  It seems to me there’s something you’re not saying.

  Well – it’s embarrassing.

  This is a safe space. Where—

  Where no one will judge me. I get it.

  So?

  Okay. Here goes. I remember . . . I remember, just after Frankie and I got married, I went to see a . . . this is silly, I know . . . a clairvoyant. A friend of mine, a very good friend, said this man
was amazing. So I was tempted. Even though I had promised I’d leave all that stuff behind. And I gave in. On a dare almost. And she was right. He was good. Very good. He gave me all the usual cushion filler. That I was special, loving, creative, all that sort of thing. But he also seemed to know things he couldn’t know. Like the fact that my husband was ‘marked’. Frankie has a birthmark on his forehead, see? And he knew that I had undergone a big change in my life and another big change was coming. I’d just got married. And soon after that, I got pregnant. Anyway, I don’t know if this was me imagining it, but when I told him I had got married and was pregnant, instead of looking happy for me, his face went dark. Just for a moment. Then he tried to move the subject on. But I pressed him. I asked him if the marriage was going to last. Eventually he told me that he saw me with a dark man with a tattoo somewhere on his body. He was quite clear. A tattoo, not a birthmark. Or possibly it was a charm. On a necklace. He couldn’t see it clearly. Said it might be an animal of some kind. Or a part of the body. Or a part of an animal. Or both. Anyway, whoever it was it didn’t sound like Frankie.

  Veronica stops and takes a drink from the glass of water in front of her.

  So you think that you and your husband might not be ‘destined’ for one another.

  Something like that.

  Isn’t it possible that your husband could get a tattoo?

  He hates tattoos. Mainly because, like I say, he is already marked.

  There is a long pause. Veronica is aware that Pember is waiting for her to talk, but she decides to sit it out. It becomes like a game in her mind that she is determined to win. Eventually, her supervisor breaks the silence.

  What else did this clairvoyant tell you?

  Not much. That I had a difficult relationship with another, older woman. A wealthy older woman.

  Who might that be?

  My mother, I expect.

  Not that difficult to guess at, really.

  No. I suppose it’s silly that I took it at all seriously.

  None of this would be difficult to guess. You were either wearing a brand-new wedding ring or the ring left a mark. If you had just got married, and you were the age you were, pregnancy was likely not going to be far off. And problems with their mother aren’t unusual after people get married. Or before, for that matter.

  All the same.

  All the same, what?

  I don’t know why he came out with the stuff about that tattoo or charm or whatever it is. The tall dark man, etcetera. He was so . . . specific.