Divorced and Deadly

by Josephine Cox

  ‘Too damned right! He deserved a telling off!’

  ‘No he didn’t. The poor sod had broken down. He couldn’t move even if he wanted to.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Dickie was a genius at arguing. ‘There’s a code on the roads, and we all have to follow it.’

  ‘What code?’ Sometimes, he’s a mystery unto himself.

  ‘Like I told him…the lights go red, and you stop! The lights go green, and you go!’

  ‘But he couldn’t go!’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. He couldn’t go when he should have done. So he held everybody up and no doubt they all arrived at work stressed out.’

  When Dickie Manse gets some silly idea in his head, there is just no reasoning with him. So I gave up while the going was good.

  Ten minutes later, we were circling the roundabout outside the B&Q store, when the car gave a loud snort and shuddered to a halt. ‘Oh no!’ It was the last thing we needed. ‘The damned engine’s conked out!’ Now it was my turn to panic.

  ‘We don’t know that yet,’ Dickie said. ‘Let’s not panic until we know what the problem is.’ Dickie got out of the car and peeped under the bonnet. ‘It’s well heated up,’ he said, climbing back inside, ‘have you got your mobile with you?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘Because I haven’t got one now. You know very well I sold it, so we could get new door locks.’ Dickie was getting sulky.

  ‘If you hadn’t made that agreement with the landlord he’d have bought the door locks! Never mind that. What do we do now?’

  Dickie thrust a card under my nose, ‘Ring these people,’ he instructed, ‘they’re sure to come out and help us.’

  I was duly impressed, ‘Aha! So you got that emergency cover after all. About time too!’ I’d been nagging him to cover himself and the car in case of a breakdown.

  ‘Ben! Will you please stop nattering and get on with it, while I see what I can do.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a look?’ I needed to feel useful.

  He gave me one of those shrinking looks. ‘Not one of your best ideas,’ he quipped, ‘seeing as how you’re like a light gone out where engines are concerned!’

  While he scrambled out of the car, I read the card. It said:

  Archie’s Little Helpers

  If you have any unforeseen problems, give us a ring.

  Don’t let your garden turn into a wilderness.

  We’ll tend your plants any time, anyhere.

  No job too big or small, all you have to do is call.

  If it hadn’t been so tragic, it might have been funny. ‘DICKIE BLOODYMANSE…GET BACK HERE, DAMMIT!’

  He looked up, ‘Are they on their way?’ he asked, all covered in muck and oil. ‘Did you tell them it was urgent? How long will they be?’

  ‘They’re not coming.’ I was seething.

  ‘And why’s that?’ Dickie looked puzzled.

  ‘Because they’re not car people, and they don’t do emergency breakdowns.’

  ‘Rubbish! They gave me their card…any problem they said…just give us a call.’

  ‘You’re a prat, and you always will be!’

  ‘Oh, just give it here! I can’t even trust you to make a simple call.’ Grabbing the card from my hands he glanced at it and flung it back, ‘You’re the prat!’ he said righteously. ‘Look! It says right there, NO JOB TOO BIG OR SMALL ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS CALL.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ I had to agree, ‘the only thing is…they’re gardeners, not mechanics. That means they tend to plants, not cars or lorries, or even pushbikes…but plants, as in tulips, or forget-me-nots.’

  ‘So are you saying they lied?’ He’s either thick or away with the fairies!

  ‘No. I am not saying they lied. What I’m saying is you must have leapt to the wrong conclusion. Now we’re stuck at the roundabout, with cars jammed up behind us and a thousand hooters playing a tune. So, to my mind, there is only one thing to do.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘We’ll have to push this heap of junk off the road. I’ll ring Poppy and ask if she knows any mechanics. Failing that, we’ll have to find one ourselves.’

  Dickie was adamant, ‘You won’t catch me pushing this thing. I’ve got my back to think of…never mind my reputation.’

  The queue of irritated, red-faced drivers watched as we pushed that sorry heap of metal to the side of the road, and as they went by it was fingers in the air and looks that could kill…and that was just Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants.

  ‘Behave yourself.’ I told him, but as always he took no notice.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Leaning over the bonnet, panting and puffing, he did look a poor and sorry thing.

  Someone had to keep it together, so I squared my shoulders and made a plan. ‘Look, I’ll ring Poppy like I said. For now we’ll just go inside and buy the paint and ceiling plaster, and all the other stuff we came for.’

  ‘How can I?’ he wailed. ‘We’ve no way of getting the stuff back to the flat.’

  ‘We’ll arrange for delivery.’ How cunning is that?

  ‘And who’s gonna pay the fifteen quid delivery charge?’

  I gave him a helping hand towards the main doors, ‘I’ll pay the charge.’ Magnanimous to the end, that’s me.

  With hunched shoulders and a pug-face, he made straight for the paint racks, ‘Look! They’ve got a selection of orange,’ he grinned, pointing to the top shelf.

  Panic set in, ‘Are you sure it’s orange you want?’ I asked hopefully. ‘If I were you, I’d go for a quieter colour.’

  ‘Well, you’re not me. You choose the colour you want for your room, and I’ll choose the colour I want. Orange is a bright, happy colour.’

  There was no changing his mind.

  Thankfully, I was far enough away when it happened. Dickie climbed on to the bottom shelf to reach up and grab the particular shade of orange he wanted, then the whole thing unfolded like some creeping nightmare. Firstly the bottom shelf he was standing on collapsed, then all four shelves came down like a crumbling pack of cards, while underneath it all was Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants making a run for it, screaming and yelling like a banshee. The top shelf fell from the farthest end and got him good, with pots of paint spewing out in all directions.

  When it was over, the ensuing silence was broken only by the shouts of assistants trying to bring order through chaos.

  Wide-eyed and groaning, Dickie was lying on the ground, well and truly tangoed from top to bottom. ‘Help me,’ he groaned, winking at me through one splattered eye and looking like some deranged monster from Star Trek. ‘Don’t stand there gawping at me…get me up!’

  After a telling off, a hefty bill and a quick hose down by two burly security guards, Dickie was marched off the premises and me with him.

  On the way back to the flat, he talked of nothing but the two security guards, ‘I might go back and have a word with them tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It’s only right that I go and apologise.’

  While he chatted, he kept his thumb permanently in the air begging a lift, but no one stopped. Instead they laughed and jeered and probably hurried home to tell their folks about this lunatic on the roads.

  I did feel sorry for him though.

  I felt sorry for myself too. What have I let myself in for?

  We’ve only really started getting the flat together. The landlord, Antonio, is a big, wobbly shape of a man but harmless enough. His wife, Maria, is another story…she’s a big, bosomy woman with all the fire and anger of an Italian momma. Once we’d stupidly agreed to do the work on the flat, she told us we had to get it looking beautiful, or we’d be out on our ear. That’s fine by me, because I have no wish to live in a pigsty. The plumber is coming next week to fit a new loo, and that’s only the start.

  After what’s happened today though, I can’t help but wonder what new disasters await us.

  My dad’s been to see us once, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair
of my mother.

  You know when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you’re filled with a feeling of dread? Well, that’s how I’m beginning to feel.

  It’s back to work on Monday, and no one will be more pleased than me.

  BEDFORD

  NOVEMBER, SATURDAY

  SETTLING IN…

  ‘Ben! Did you hear what I said?’ Eager to leave, Dickie Manse was leaning against the open door with his hand on the door knob. ‘Ben! Have you gone deaf or what?’

  ‘No, but I will if you don’t stop yelling!’ I ought to be giving him a piece of my mind, not the other way round; but would he even take the slightest notice? No, he would not! The thing is…wouldn’t we all like to have a night out on the town? Wouldn’t we all like to leave our dirty dishes in the sink for somebody else to wash up? And what about the flat, and the painting, and the cleaning up? Who’s left to do all that? Why muggins here, who else!

  ‘Are you in a mood with me?’ There he goes again, playing the victim.

  ‘Why? D’you think I have reason to be in a mood with you?’

  ‘None so far as I can see. No.’

  ‘Then you can’t see very far then, can you?’

  ‘Aw, look, Ben. I know I said I’d stay in and help with the painting an’ all. But I’ve changed my mind. I mean…I can change my mind if I want to, can’t I?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely!’ How could he be so damned insensitive? How could he live in a pigsty like this and not want to do something about it?

  I let him have it, ‘You get off and enjoy yourself,’ I told him. ‘Never mind if the place reeks of booze and ciggies, and the coffee spills all over the floor and bits of rotting food under the rug.’

  I was really getting going now, ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the rats that will soon find their way in, thinking it’s free nosh and boarding; and who incidentally could well find their way into your bed and bite your no-good arse! Just get off and have a good time. Don’t give me a second thought. Well? Go on then, what are you hanging about for?’

  ‘Aw, come on, Ben…I really want you to come with me.’ Has he even heard a single word I’ve said?

  ‘Why don’t you leave it all till next week, Ben,’ he wailed. ‘It’s Saturday night for pity’s sake! We’re a couple of single blokes. We’ve been working all week, and we have a right to enjoy ourselves…find some stunning-looking girls…have a bit of a flirt and that. We might even play a game of pool and afterwards we can bring the girls back here. Oh, come on, Ben! What do you say?’

  God! Is he thick or what? Why ever did I let myself be talked into sharing a flat with him? My mother said it would end in disaster and I’m beginning to think she was right. Mind you, it was a good idea and it might still work out okay, if only Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants could be persuaded to do his fair share.

  Instead, he was still going on about leaving the place looking like a tip, to go out and enjoy ourselves, and even after we talked it all over (for the umpteenth time) and agreed to stay in and spend the whole weekend painting the flat right through.

  I should have known he’d change his mind…again! It didn’t take me long to discover that he’s a lazy, good for nothing, useless git!

  Well okay! If that’s what he wants, he might as well clear off. I’ll just carry on sorting out my paint pots and brushes, like I planned.

  To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have minded a night out; in fact I had an earlier offer, but I turned her down, because me and lazy bones had said this was the weekend when we would tidy up and paint the flat.

  Okay, so the offer of going out with a girl wasn’t such a big deal, as it came from Poppy, and I’m not altogether destroyed by not taking her to the cinema. Though I must say, I felt like a louse telling her I couldn’t go after all.

  When she started crying, alarm bells rang. I mean, it’s a well known fact that she’s always had a crush on me, but it’s never been more than that and I can live with it if I have to. Just lately though, she’s started following me everywhere. She peeks at me round corners and rushes to get me a cuppa when I arrive in the morning, and the other day when she brought that puppy in for me to examine, she kept touching me with the tip of her fingers. I’m not shy, but it was nerve wracking!

  Oh yes, I can see I’m gonna have to watch Poppy, or she’ll get the idea that I fancy her. Come to think of it, choosing to decorate the flat instead of taking her to the cinema might be a blessing in disguise. Good grief! She’s just a kid. I’ve no idea why she thinks I fancy her. I haven’t given her any encouragement; well, I mean, if I have, I never meant to. All the same, I probably would have taken her to the cinema because there’s no harm in that, but Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants put a stop to that, and now the miserable git has gone against his word.

  ‘Right then, if you’re not coming, I’ll be off. See you later, eh?’

  ‘Fine. Cheerio. Enjoy yourself!’

  ‘Right then, I will!’

  ‘Go on then!’ I had to get the last dig in, ‘Don’t waste precious time talking to me. I’ve got work to do…or have you forgotten?’

  ‘Leave it out, Ben!’

  ‘Well, go on then. Let me get on. If I don’t get stuck into the painting now, it’ll never get done.’

  ‘It will, I promise!’ He took a step into the room, a forlorn look on his face. ‘I’ve already told you, I’ll help you, but not tonight. I’m due a night out, and so are you. Let the painting wait. There’s only the kitchen and the bathroom left to do. It won’t take long if we both get stuck in.’ He looked like a kid who’d had his ice cream snatched away.

  ‘You’re right!’ And he was. ‘We are due a night out. Like we said last week and the week before, and the week before that…let the painting wait, and the dirt and the dust and the stink…let it all fester while we go out and enjoy ourselves. Oh, and let’s not take any notice of Antonio from the chip shop downstairs, who incidentally threatened to call out the health and safety officer. Why should we worry about the fact that the beer from an overturned bottle dripped through the floorboards, straight into his chip pan and ruined all his fishcakes? Who is he anyway…only the bloody landlord, that’s who!’

  There was a long moment of complete silence. ‘I know why you’re in a mood, Ben. It’s because Poppy’s got the hots for you, and you really like her but you don’t know how to handle it. Yes! That’s the truth, and now you’re taking it out on me.’

  I shook my head in disgust. ‘Instead of talking rubbish, take a look around you! Just look at this place…it’s a dung heap!’ There were two empty wine bottles on the window-sill, cigarette butts ground into the floorboards, a mangled pile of dirty jeans in one corner, a cup of coffee from the previous night spilled near the chair where Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants had been stretched out snoring like a rhino, and most of our belongings were still in boxes, which were littered in every room, right round the flat. There was even a pair of his manky shorts hanging on the door knob!

  ‘This place is disgusting!’ I told him. ‘It’s not much better than when we first moved in. In fact, in some ways it’s worse!’

  ‘All right, so it’s not good,’ Dickie Manse had to agree, ‘but there’s no rule to say we can’t still enjoy ourselves. We can spend all day tomorrow clearing it up, and then make a start on the painting afterwards. I’ll help you. I really will.’

  I was not falling for his lies again. ‘Look…I’ll stay in and set to work,’ I ended the argument. ‘When the flat is painted from top to bottom, and we’ve sorted out all our things…then we can think about a social life.’

  ‘Party pooper!’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d rather do tonight than have a good time. But it’s not going to happen, because tonight I’m doing what I said I would do. So let that be an end to it!’

  ‘Okay!’ Sulking like a ten year old, Dickie Manse was well and truly miffed. ‘That’s fine by me, but don’t ask me to give up my Saturday night, because I mean to go out, find me a girl, and ha
ve the time of my life.’

  Suddenly I had this awful, familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, which told me that disaster was only minutes away.

  Lolling against the door, Dickie gave a parting wink. ‘I’m a free soul,’ he declared. ‘Free as the wind! I can do what I like! Oh yes!’

  Leaping up he gave a little kick of the heels, lost his balance, fell through the open door and went skidding on his rear, all the way down the stairs, screaming like a madman at every bump and tumble.

  Then there was an eerie, deafening silence.

  ‘Dickie! Are you all right?’ Peering over the bannister, I was shocked to see him all crumpled and twisted.

  ‘Help me!’ he groaned.

  Thinking he’d busted every bone in his body, I ran down the stairs two at a time.

  ‘I’ve broken my back…ooh…help me, Ben. I’m done for, I know it! No, don’t lie to me,’ his sorry eyes looked up, ‘this is it, Ben. I’m finished.’

  I assured him he wasn’t finished and with a strength I didn’t even know I had, I managed to half lift, half drag him up the stairs and into his bedroom, where I threw him on the bed and flopped down beside him. ‘It’s me that’s finished,’ I gasped. ‘I reckon I’m about to have a heart attack.’

  Realising his ankle was beginning to swell like a balloon, I managed to lay Dickie out flat on the bed. ‘Don’t move!’ I told him. ‘I’m ringing the doctor.’

  It was like a military operation, with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, threatening me with all kinds of retribution. ‘I’m not having no doctor touch me!’ he yelled. ‘I mean it! Don’t you dare call a doctor!’

  Being Saturday, I called the hospital. When I got through to a doctor I explained the situation. ‘I don’t think there’s anything broken…but he’s in a lot of pain, and his ankle is swelling up fast.’

  There was a pause while I listened to the doctor’s instructions, and all the time Dickie Manse was in my ear. ‘What’s he saying? Tell him there’s been a mistake and I don’t need him.’ He tried to get off the bed and ended up draped over the radiator.