The Aerodynamics of Pork

by Patrick Gale

  ‘There. He’s talking to you. What’ll you call him, love?’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. How about Dennis – short for Dennis the Menace?’

  ‘Oh yes. Suits him.’

  ‘Better stay with you till I can come over in a car to pick him up, mind. He’d be blown to bits on my bike.’

  ‘OK. Sandra’ll be pleased of the company.’

  ‘Delicious cake, Mum,’ said Mo, grateful that Dennis wasn’t a budgie.

  ‘Not bad, is it? Hey, do you remember that time I made one for that nice friend of yours, Molly?’

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘That’s the one. And Dad said you’d said how as her parents never remembered her birthday and so why didn’t we remember it for them, like as if she was one of our own?’

  ‘I remember. You made her very happy.’

  Mo remembered Maggie singing with glee as she danced round the flat in Earls Court afterwards in the shocking pink jersey dress Mumsy had knitted for her on her machine. Mo had bought her a car radio.

  ‘Such a pity about her accident, and that,’ said Mum, ‘she was really nice. I remember Dad saying that he’d felt happier having you living with her for company than if you’d got married to Prince Charles.’

  ‘Did he really say that?’ laughed Mo, wanting Hope to hear.

  ‘Something like. Here. Have some more cake. I can’t eat it all myself.’

  ‘No, honest. I had a big lunch.’

  ‘Oh go on. Just a bit.’

  ‘No. You’ll make me fat.’

  ‘I’d never. You’ve got a lovely figure. I’ve always said so.’

  ‘Oh give over. I’m a barrel!’

  ‘Stuff. You should have seen me at your age. Now that was a sight. Fat as Arbuckle I was and your dad wasn’t slim. Your Nan used to say she worried how the bed could cope with the two of us at once.’ Mum laughed. Then, more serious, she said, ‘You know I wish you’d settle down, though. Find yourself a good upstanding man to take care of you. I don’t want you getting lonely after I’m gone.’

  ‘Mum, please. We’ve been through this before. I’m not lonely. I’ve got friends.’

  ‘Yeah, well, friends aren’t always enough. And you know it.’

  ‘Well, they’re enough for me. Now don’t worry. You’re the one I worry about. How’s that leg? Have you been down the clinic again, like I said?’

  ‘Well,’ the old woman paused, then looked pleading. ‘Well, no. You know I don’t like it down there. It’s so noisy and you have to sit for hours.’ She rubbed the greying bandage under her knee. ‘Besides, he’d only put me on some pills and they cost money.’

  ‘I’ve told you, the Health Service will pay as you’re an OAP.’

  ‘Well I don’t like the doctor.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Well he’s … he’s one of them Asian ones.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Mum …’

  Once again the fond heckling of the one gave way to the tender bullying of the other. The mother was meekly led, but the daughter knew her sway would pass with the visit. In her cage, Sandra had discovered how to swing her mirror without the ugly lady.

  TUESDAY four

  Evelyn sat on a bench eating Dolcelatte and watching the sun go down, while the strains of his Bach solos floated from an open window. He had seemed oddly subdued over supper. Perhaps the sea air. He should have stayed at home to work on the Bevan obscenity; she had noticed his trouble with counting this morning. The sun sank almost out of sight and the garden grew too cool for comfort. Pulling her cardigan around her shoulders, she stacked the debris on to a tray, then remembered her daughter.

  Venetia was sitting up with a mound of pillows behind her, reading Barchester Towers. Her supper tray lay on the carpet. Evelyn picked it up then sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘How’s my girl?’

  She looked up.

  ‘Perfectly healthy and very cross.’ Evelyn smiled sympathetically to let her talk. ‘I know you’re wondering what the Hell’s the matter with me,’ the girl went on. ‘Well, I didn’t think I was the hysterical type either. It certainly isn’t wish-fulfilment.’ She gently punched her abdomen. ‘I didn’t want a ruddy baby. I never have.’

  She looked up at her mother and puckered her lower lip in mock misery, Evelyn gave her a hug then leant back and looked at her, a hand on one of her shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps if we can both learn to relax it’ll go away. Your body’s trying to tell you something.’ Venetia made a scornful snort. ‘Well I’m only trying to help.’ Evelyn, wounded, withdrew her hand.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I have to admit …’ she faltered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was quite surprised at what Robbie told me yesterday. I mean about your still being … being a virgin.’

  ‘Are you glad?’

  Evelyn paused. ‘Bloody hell! Yes. Yes I am. I’m proud of you! I know that sounds dreadful and old-fashioned of me.’

  ‘My God! And here was I all this time, thinking that you’d be worried about me not having a sex-life.’ Venetia laughed, true relief on her face. For a second, Evelyn looked concerned.

  ‘Everything is all right, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not a lezzy, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ Now Evelyn was relieved in turn. ‘It’s just that I’ve never understood this overwhelming urge to go out and get laid,’ Venetia continued. ‘Is it so very great?’

  ‘It’s not bad. But don’t feel you have to rush.’

  A pause of evasive smiles.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Medium to long-wave vile. I’m not awfully good at new things. I think I must be getting old.’

  ‘But you’ve never been “good” at them.’

  ‘Well then, I’ve always had a mature outlook. How about you?’

  ‘Lots and lots of work, and,’ she put on a New England accent, ‘Harry Barnes came to see me.’

  ‘Really? Did he know … er?’

  ‘No he didn’t know that I’d a hysterical bun in my oven – and neither does Seth yet, so he might as well not. No, I managed to hide the little stranger under lots of books and bedding, and by staying firmly where I lay.’

  ‘How was he? I haven’t talked to him yet, not properly.’

  ‘Oh, very well. We talked about Trollope and Cambridge and things. He wants me to show him Penfasser by night. I said I’d see how I felt later in the week.’

  ‘That’s nice. Is it nice?’

  ‘I think so. He’s not horribly American, but at the same time he’s pleasantly un-Etonian. I think he might be about to offer me a job.’

  ‘A job? What kind of job?’

  ‘As a researcher. He needs one for his books and lectures and he doesn’t have much faith in US universities to produce what he wants.’

  ‘Flattering.’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it.’

  Evelyn stood. ‘Don’t read too late.’

  ‘Mother, I’m not really ill.’

  ‘I know. But let me worry.’

  ‘All right. If you’re very good. Night-night.’

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  Evelyn walked down to the kitchen where she yawned profusely. Seth was still practising. She slid the tray on to the worksurface beside the other one. Lady Log could do them in the morning.

  WEDNESDAY one

  This was Jamie’s first job. So as to live a little before starting at Exeter, he had come from his Gloucestershire home to stay with friends in their parents’ spare London flat. The book department had claimed him because he’d done English A-Level. His school suit was too small now, and rather hot, but he preferred it to the polyester jackets of the uniform; it stopped girls from thinking he worked there properly.

  He and Michelle sat back on their stools and watched the shop floor. Michelle had worked there since leaving school at sixteen. She thought Jamie was a laugh.

  ‘Where d’you go in the break, then?’ she ask
ed. ‘Didn’t see you in the staff room.’

  ‘I went out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I went to the library.’

  ‘You’re loopy.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘What d’you want to go there for?’

  ‘They’ve sent me a huge list of books I’ve got to read before starting at … er … college.’

  ‘Christ, how boring!’ she laughed. ‘Whereabouts d’you go to college, then?’

  ‘Exeter.’

  ‘Where’s that? In Dorset or something?’

  ‘Devon.’

  ‘Is it a poly, then?’

  ‘No. University, actually.’

  “‘Actually”,’ she imitated his accent to perfection. ‘Posh git. Only hoorays say actually.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel. I don’t imitate you.’

  ‘Go on then. Do an imitation of me.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘You’re sweet. Oh. Can I help you, Madam?’

  ‘You can but try. I’m looking for a collection of Radio Four religious talks. I think it’s a BBC publication. They talked about it the other day. I think it’s in paperback, too.’

  ‘Oh. Well. I’m not sure. Jamie, do you know?’

  ‘Parson’s Pleasure, Madam?’

  ‘Ah yes. That’s it. Well done.’ She smiled, seeing at once that Jamie didn’t work there properly.

  ‘You’ll find it over there by the stairs on the BBC rack. There’s a paperback version of it, but it may have sold out. If it has, we should be able to get you a copy by Saturday as they deliver before then.’

  ‘Oh. Lovely. Thank you so much. I’ll go and take a look.’ She smiled again and was gone.

  ‘How come you know so much, then?’ asked Michelle.

  ‘I don’t. I just read that pamphlet thing Mrs Jones gets from Head Office each week. It says what all the new books in stock are. No-one ever seems to ask for anything but new books – it’s that kind of shop.’

  ‘Jammy dodger. Here, have you heard about the fire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Course. You wouldn’t of as you weren’t at lunch. Old Dog Jones made an announcement. There was a fire up at the old warehouse in Finchley. Night-porter died.’

  ‘Really? Was that the one they mentioned on Capital this morning?’

  ‘Yeah. I heard that too. But they just said a book warehouse, not ours or anything. Anyway, Jones said it was suspected arson because there were only certain bits burnt – like he’d poured paraffin over just the bits he wanted to get rid of and not the rest.’

  ‘What went, besides the night-porter, that is?’

  ‘Well, lots of magazines – you know, not the good ones, just the useless things they print themselves. Not glossies, things like Prognosticate and Monthly Almanac. I think it’s really spooky.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He only went for things to do with fortune-tellings and that. Weird stuff. Old bags’ stuff.’

  ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘No, but it’s true. It’s that loony that’s been doing all the burglaries on the Gyppos and Greeks and people. Didn’t you read about it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Second victim that’s burned to death, thanks to his machinations. What’s the time?’

  ‘Three-thirty. Why?’

  ‘Thank God! Time for a cup of tea and a couple of fags. Can you hang around till Jones comes to relieve me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Toff. Be seeing you.’

  Three customers later, Mrs Jones arrived at the counter. Since his arrival she had ignored the fact that Jamie obviously knew more about literature than she had gleaned in thirty years of service. She settled down in Michelle’s place and started to tidy the biros and credit card forms there.

  ‘Michelle gone to tea?’ she observed with a question mark.

  ‘Yes. What’s all this about a fire at the warehouse?’

  ‘Oh. Of course, you weren’t at lunch, were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well it’s that madman, the Astro-Burglar, or whatever they call him. He broke in and set fire to all the books and magazines he didn’t like. The sprinklers got to it, of course, but not before hundreds of pounds of damage was done.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘Criminal. Absolutely criminal. That poor night-porter. Mr Pratt was saying in his office – I was up there just now, taking in the order dockets – he was saying it’s a wonder the fire didn’t spread. A lot of people live round there. What a way to go! And you know what else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had O’Leary on the phone this morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know. O’Leary. The O’Leary Column in the Express and things like that. He’s on Breakfast Time sometimes, as well. No?’ She was concerned at Jamie’s ignorance of popular culture. ‘He’s a well-known astrologer, does things on the Royals, too. Well, he was on the phone to Head Office to complain about the security at the warehouse.’

  ‘What had it to do with him?’

  ‘He’d written a big feature on Doomsday Cookery for Prognosticate – you know, our fortunes magazine?’

  ‘I know.’ The boy nodded. Not wholly stupid.

  ‘Head Office got muddled up, or something. It was dreadful. Didn’t catch his name, thought he was trying to order some books and put him through to me!’

  ‘How embarrassing!’ Jamie crushed a yawn and glanced at his watch.

  ‘And the poor man!’ She assumed an intimacy with the famous. ‘You know it’s the second time he’s been got at by that maniac, the horoscope one? No wonder he’s feeling fractious.’ Suddenly she was all masked surveillance. ‘Here. Look at that one there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there, by the swivel stand. He’s the sort you have to watch. Big coat like that at this time of year, buttons open – they’re the sort to keep an eye on.’

  ‘Do you think he’s a shop-lifter?’

  ‘Never give them the benefit of the doubt – that’s the way to lose valuable stock. Yes, sir. Would you like them wrapped?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  While Old Dog Jones busied herself with giving satisfaction, Jamie watched the suspect. He was tall and thin. He needed a shave. Were it not for his shoes, he’d have looked like a tramp. He was staring about him. No self-respecting crook would look so suspicious; he was simply unwell or confused. Knightsbridge women were forever being caught with stolen goods in their pockets; always something futile, though, like a packet of marge, as proof that one only did it for the thrill. Rich woman’s bingo.

  He sat up as an old man approached the counter, and stiffened with surprise to see that the suspect was coming over too, suddenly intent. Beaten to the post, the old man waited behind. The man in good shoes was almost breathless. He had a slight limp.

  ‘You still have some copies of the Almanac, I see.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s all that’s left for this month. The other stock was burnt in the fire at Finchley.’

  The pocket-sized magazines lay in a display box beside the till.

  ‘I’ll take the lot, then.’

  ‘All of them?’ Jamie checked his tone; even batty customers were always right. ‘I’ll put them in a bag for you. Let’s see. Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty, at twenty pence each; that’s four pounds exactly, please, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jamie took the notes and rang up the amount on the till. The old man pushed forward.

  ‘You aren’t taking the whole lot, are you?’ he mewed.

  ‘Why not?’ Batty did not look round.

  ‘But …’

  ‘There you are, sir.’

  Jamie sensed that there was to be a scene and handed over the bagful in the hope that he could thus play no part. Batty took the little magazines and started limping for the stairs. The old man was quite worked up, even angry. He followed closely and eventually dared to try a re
straining hand on his fellow believer’s arm.

  ‘But that’s monstrous! You only need one and there aren’t any left now.’ A few customers’ heads turned as the thin voice rose. Jones lifted her perm.

  ‘What the …?’ She checked herself.

  ‘Just get out of the way. I need them all.’

  ‘But you heard the lad say that there weren’t any left. I really must beg you …’

  ‘Damn you! Leave me alone!’ Batty pushed the old man aside and ran halting to the stairs. The force of the push was ill-judged. The old man tottered backwards into the swivel stand and brought it crashing to the floor. A woman gasped out loud, and another caught him by the shoulders to prevent him falling also.

  ‘I’ll go.’ Jamie took the initiative and left Jones behind. As he reached the top of the stairs, there was a piercing scream from below. He ran forward just in time to see Batty rolling down the last few steps to crack his head against the podium of a huge marble pillar. There was a momentary hush then a surge of noise as customers bore down on him. Jamie wavered helplessly at the top of the stairs. He watched as someone called out,

  ‘No. He’s alive. But look!’ She had pulled back the coat to feel his heart, and now lifted up, triumphant, handfuls of books that he had stuffed into his poacher’s pocket. As the crowd swelled, two policemen cut through it, called in off the street. They searched his pockets while the store medics unfolded a stretcher.

  At Jamie’s elbow the old man peered down to the tableau.

  ‘I say. It was you at the till just now?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well do you think it would be possible for me to buy back one of his copies of the Almanac by some kind of credit exchange system?’

  His smile bordered on the winsome.

  WEDNESDAY two

  Bronwen’s talk had done little good for Seth’s morale. The next move would never be made and so he stood in the lunch queue and made noises about what a scream it had been when Henry had kept missing that da capo. Jemima sailed up, good deeds waving.

  ‘Godson?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘How’s that Brahms sonata?’

  ‘OK. Why?’

  ‘Only OK?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Mother chipped in.