My Nasty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  The Medal

  There was no bathroom in the house. The loo was built on to the outside of the scullery. The cistern was still filling noisily and I was heading back to the scullery, when I heard a voice.

  ‘You’ll be Fred.’ An artful, wizened face was showing over the back fence. ‘You’ll be Fred,’ its voice said again. Was this an identification or a prediction?

  ‘Sorry, no,’ I answered.

  ‘Not Maud’s youngest?’

  Thanks to the way Great Uncle Albert had confused our family, I was ready for this. ‘No, I’m Albert’s sister’s daughter’s youngest.’

  ‘Albert didn’t have a daughter.’

  ‘No, Albert’s sister’s daughter’s …’ I gave up. The old fellow was either eight feet tall or he was having to stand on something to look over the fence. ‘I’m David,’ I said.

  The head disappeared, and, three feet shorter, its owner arrived at the beach gate. ‘I’m Cyril Bently. I’ve been Albert’s neighbour for fifty years.’

  He opened the gate and edged me towards the back door.

  Mum and Dad weren’t keen on visitors, but Cyril Bently sat down at the table in the back parlour and seemed set to stay.

  That was enough to get Dad moving. He took me out to a nearby café for breakfast, but when we returned old Cyril was still seated at the table, newly piled high with Great Uncle Albert’s possessions.

  ‘Mr Bently’s been telling me how he won a medal,’ said Mum, ‘and I’ve given him a few little things to remember Uncle Albert by.’ Four cushions, a big clock, a copy of Constable’s ‘Haywain’ and three pairs of boots.

  ‘We often had tea together,’ said the old man, eyeing the huge brown teapot.

  ‘Would you like the teapot, as a memento?’ said Mum, reverently.

  ‘What medal?’ I asked.

  ‘I will take the teapot. Those cups match it, I think.’ Mr Bently nodded and pointed.

  ‘What medal did you win?’ I asked again.

  ‘Would you like the cups too?’ Mum asked. ‘David, don’t delay Mr Bently any longer,’ she said, fixing me with a look.

  ‘No,’ Dad agreed. He tried to pile the cushions, clock and boots into the old man’s outstretched hands, but it was obvious he couldn’t handle the lot.

  I grabbed them. ‘I’ll help Mr Bently with these,’ I said as he shuffled reluctantly towards the door.

  ‘Make sure you come back immediately,’ Dad said loudly, then, more softly, he added, ‘alone.’

  Mr Bently and I moved at a snail’s pace along the road.

  ‘What medal did you win, Mr Bently?’ I asked.

  But his only answer was: ‘He probably had teaspoons to go with those cups.’

  I couldn’t get another word out of him until I dumped the things in his hallway. Then he said, ‘Silver ones, I’ll be bound,’ and shut the door in my face.

  When I arrived back, Dad was hurrying away to the estate agents. His haste was explained as soon as I got inside. Another elderly neighbour was sitting at the oak table.

  ‘This is Mrs Ridgewell,’ Mum said. It was scarcely an introduction as Mrs Ridgewell was in full flow.

  ‘So, Cyril Bently’s managed it after all those years,’ she was saying bitterly, but with a hint of admiration. ‘Albert wouldn’t have him under his roof while he was alive and now he’s got his hands on half his belongings.’

  ‘So they weren’t lifelong friends?’ Mum asked weakly.

  ‘Lifelong enemies more like.’

  ‘Did Mr Bently really win a medal?’ I asked.

  ‘Spent most of the war down an air-raid shelter,’ answered Mrs Ridgewell contemptuously. ‘And not always alone, if you take my meaning,’ she said, nodding at Mum.

  ‘Yes, well, it would be wonderful to listen to you all day,’ said Mum hastily, ‘but we must get on.’ She almost took the chair from under Mrs Ridgewell.

  The old lady kept up her commentary as she walked down the hall. ‘Not a decent bone in his body,’ she said. Then, turning at the door, she added, ‘No, it was Albert who won the medal.’

  The door closed on her. Mum said fiercely. ‘David, not another word about medals! I want you working now.’

  I decided on my strategy. I would grab a load of something bulky, like clothes, throw them into the skip, then I would have time to take a look round. I headed first for Great Uncle Albert’s bedroom. I scooped out the contents of the rickety old wardrobe and staggered out to the skip with them.

  Then I opened a drawer in a heavy mahogany chest. A muddle of socks, none of them in pairs, faced me. None of them even matched. I tried to imagine Great Uncle Albert wearing unmatching socks, hidden beneath his dark suit. Yes, more than possible.

  I heaped the socks into a black plastic sack and opened the next drawer. Underwear. I emptied the contents without looking at them, then opened a third drawer. There was a tangle of unironed shirts with their arms locked together as if they were fighting. I pulled two apart. They were made of some thick, warm material. They had no collars, just little white buttons where collars could be attached. Before his Oily Rag days, Ian would have liked them. But not now, so I stuffed them into the sack, dragged them all to the skip and emptied them out. As I came back into the house, I found Mum with her head deep inside a sideboard.

  ‘Found anything?’ I asked.

  Her voice came out muffled from the sideboard. ‘Anything!’ she gasped, emerging. ‘What have you in mind? Twenty-year-old bars of soap? Pre-war digestive biscuits? I’ve found them all.’

  ‘Anything interesting,’ I emphasised. I liked the sound of the biscuits, but I knew Mum well enough to know they’d be in the skip by now.

  She was getting exasperated by the heaps of stuff. ‘I’m not going to sort through it anymore,’ she told me. ‘I’m just going to scoop it into bags.’

  I nodded. If I could just watch as she shovelled things in, like on a conveyor belt, then I could pick out anything of interest, like a medal.

  ‘Did you know Great Uncle Albert had won a medal?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Mr Bently’s story did sound familiar,’ she said in a distracted sort of way.

  ‘What medal was it?’

  ‘The George Cross.’

  ‘When did he win it?’ I asked her.

  She frowned. ‘In World War Two.’

  ‘Well, I know that!’ This was hopeless. ‘I didn’t think they handed them out at the Co-op Bakery,’ I answered, hoping to prod Mum into remembering something. ‘But what did he win it for?’ I persisted.

  This time her voice came from deep inside a cupboard. ‘Er, bravery, I think.’ And this was the person who disapproved when my Maths report said I should pay more attention to detail.

  ‘Poor Great Uncle Albert!’ I said. ‘Fancy winning a medal and your family just ignoring it. I bet he died of a broken heart.’

  ‘Well, he took long enough about it. He lived another fifty years,’ came the cupboard voice.

  ‘Fifty years after what?’ I asked. ‘Where was he fighting? Was he an officer? Surely you must remember something.’

  Mum reappeared from the cupboard. ‘David, I’m up to my ears in the accumulated dirt and grime of half a century here. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the one who deserves a medal. Now go and get on with something useful.’

  ‘Just one more question,’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘Did Great Uncle Albert mention the medal in his will? Did he leave it to anyone in particular?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she added, ‘But you can have it if you find it, so long as you get on with some work.’

  I was delighted. I would shift every item in the house if it meant I could have Great Uncle Albert’s medal.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Search

  I started immediately. I searched every drawer and cupboard in Great Uncle Albert’s house, including the pantry cupboards. The medal was in none of them.

  ‘Perhaps he lost it,’ Mum suggested. ‘Or gave it
away.’

  But I knew he wouldn’t have done either.

  Mum grew more irritated. ‘David, we’ve just one day to clear this whole house. You’re making it more untidy, if that’s possible. I insist you clear out the rubbish instead of chucking it from one place to another.’

  Dutifully, I spent the next couple of hours loading stuff on the skip. By the time I was finished, it was nearly full.

  That evening Mum stood in the empty sitting-room. Its emptiness pleased her, but to me it meant there was little chance of finding the medal.

  ‘If I called round to visit Mrs Ridgewell, I could ask her about the medal,’ I suggested.

  ‘No more elderly neighbours!’ cried Mum. ‘Come on, give me a hand with this old chair,’ she instructed, taking hold of the last piece of furniture in the room.

  Reluctantly I grabbed hold. ‘It weighs a ton,’ I complained, as we lugged it towards the front door.

  ‘Uncle Albert probably stuffed it full of five-pound notes,’ joked Mum.

  I dropped my side of the chair. ‘Of course.’

  ‘David, I was only joking,’ Mum protested.

  ‘I know, but that’s exactly the sort of thing he would do,’ I jabbered. ‘Put something valuable in a good hiding place!’

  I was too excited to speak clearly. Suddenly I was sure I knew where the medal was.

  I raced out to the skip, delighted with my idea. Then I saw the state of the skip. A mountain of furniture, old rugs and junk of all sorts sat there. And I knew the socks were right at the bottom.

  I clambered onto the pile.

  ‘None of that rubbish is coming in here again!’ yelled a voice from an open upstairs window.

  ‘I only need one sock,’ I called back. One after another I threw objects off the skip.

  It took twenty minutes before I glimpsed the dark mess of socks nestling at the bottom. I dragged an old burnt pot and grey mattress off the pile, desperate to reach them.

  The upstairs window opened again and Mum poked her head out. She looked as if she was about to be guillotined, and she had an expression to match. ‘Every item is going back in that skip, David, even if you don’t find what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Promise,’ I called out recklessly. I had reached the socks. I grabbed one and plunged my hand in. Nothing. I tried another.

  Mum’s curiosity got the better of her. ‘Found anything?’ she asked, still from the upstairs window.

  But I was silent, amazed at what I had discovered wedged into the toe of one sock.

  ‘David! What’s the matter? Are you okay?’

  I gulped. A ten-pound note. Another sock rustled as I felt it. ‘The socks are filled with money!’ I cried.

  Within seconds Mum was downstairs and clambering on to the skip, using the chairs that I had chucked out. Together we searched for socks. Each contained a single ten-pound note.

  ‘Twelve, thirteen,’ Mum was counting excitedly. ‘That’s one hundred and thirty pounds.’

  I pointed to a tangle of shirts. ‘We might have missed some. Let’s look in that lot.’

  ‘Aha!’ cried Mum, after plunging her hand amongst the shirts. ‘What’s this?’ She unearthed a small pile of socks. I never thought the sight of Great Uncle Albert’s old socks would fill me with such excitement. Each rustling sock delivered another ten-pound note.

  ‘One hundred and sixty,’ I whistled. ‘Wonderful socks.’

  ‘How did you guess?’ asked Mum.

  ‘I didn’t,’ I confessed. ‘I wasn’t looking for money.’

  ‘What were you looking for then?’

  ‘For his medal.’ I tried to explain what it meant to me. It was connected to my disappointment about the glass ship. ‘I wanted something of Great Uncle Albert’s …’

  Mum nodded as if she understood. ‘Well, how about this?’ she asked brightly, pointing to a plaster statue lying on the lawn. It was a shepherd boy about three feet high. Age had faded all the colours to a murky green and the nose was broken off.

  ‘I threw it away when I was cleaning out the sitting-room. I didn’t know you wanted to keep something,’ said Mum apologetically.

  ‘Well, not just anything …’ The tall boy was no great work of art.

  ‘Remember how Uncle Albert used to keep his trilby hat on it?’ Mum reminded me. ‘It always stood on the sideboard.’

  Great Uncle Albert was an incredible shot. He would take off his hat and spin it at the tall boy from the sitting-room door. He never missed.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mum. ‘So now you have two things to remember your great uncle by. The tall boy and the money.’

  I was puzzled. ‘The money?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘You found it, David. It’s yours.’

  As we drove away the next morning, my final view was of Cyril Bently clambering onto the skip in search of more mementos of his non-existent friendship with my great uncle Albert.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Party’s Over

  The first sign of trouble back at Elm Close was the net curtains billowing out of open windows.

  ‘It’s far too cold to have all those windows open,’ said Mum. ‘So much for our nice warm house.’

  Dad was silent. He pulled into the drive, leapt out and headed towards the front door.

  Mum stood on the front lawn pointing. ‘What’s that?’ she asked indignantly. A sprinkling of cans littered the grass.

  ‘Some passer-by must’ve …’ I began, although I already recognised the brand that Ian had been sneaking into the house before we left.

  Dad’s shout from inside interrupted, ‘Come and look at this.’

  I charged in ahead of Mum. Compared to this the ferry from Holyhead looked neat and tidy. Cans and crisp packets clung to every surface except the ceiling. Most of the furniture was shoved back in one corner. Mum rushed towards the television set. ‘Blood!’ she shrieked.

  I scratched the dry red stain on the screen. ‘Lipstick,’ I corrected. ‘Someone’s written …’ I traced the letters and shut up.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Mum, as I tried to rub out the words with the sleeve of my jumper. At least I managed to smear them so that they were illegible.

  ‘Exam pressure,’ shouted Dad. ‘I’ll give Ian exam pressure. This is what they had in mind.’ He was pacing back and forth in the sitting-room. ‘A party, the mother of all parties! Where are they?’

  Mum suddenly looked worried. ‘Perhaps it was intruders who did this, and they’ve harmed Helen and Ian.’

  ‘Nonsense. Helen and Ian perpetrated this deed,’ shouted Dad, looking as if he was ready to harm them himself.

  ‘Then where are they?’ wailed Mum.

  ‘Not up yet, probably,’ I said. I could see what the next few hours would be like. Any hope of a decent meal was gone. The sooner we started, the sooner the arguments would be over and I’d get fed.

  I leapt up the stairs and into Helen’s room, but it was empty and so was Ian’s.

  ‘They’re not in their beds!’ I shouted down. Downstairs I could hear windows being shut and Mum giving a commentary on the further damage she was finding.

  I sat on the top stair and called down, ‘They’re not here!’ If I managed to get Mum and Dad worried about Helen and Ian, they’d be easier on them when they did come face to face. Then this little crisis might be over in a decade or two …

  But Helen spoiled it all by coming out of the bathroom.

  ‘David,’ she said in a feeble voice, ‘I have a headache.’ She was wearing a long silky dressing-gown and gliding about like Greta Garbo in one of those old black-and-white films, while I had just endured a lousy ferry journey and was close to death by starvation. As usual there was no gratitude for my help.

  ‘No kidding!’ I said more loudly. I resented her manner. ‘Helen’s up here,’ I called down the stairs, ‘And she’s got a headache.’

  The noises downstairs had changed pitch. I heard Ian’s voice lo
w and sulky, answering a battery of questions. I slid down a few stairs so I could observe what was happening. Ian was standing in the hall, looking decidedly rough. He was unshaven and beneath the stubble his skin was pale and blotchy. He clearly didn’t like the questions, but one followed another so quickly he couldn’t have answered even if he’d wanted to.

  Eventually he exploded. ‘Look!’ he said so loudly that Mum and Dad stopped. Actually he meant ‘listen’ not ‘look’ but I didn’t point that out – the atmosphere was tense.

  In a monotone, as if he was explaining something of great simplicity to idiots, he said, ‘I thought I’d have a few friends round. More than I expected turned up. Things got a bit … out of hand. I was airing the place and would have finished tidying up if Helen had helped.’

  I admired the way he put it: ‘finished’, as if he had done hours of work and just needed a few more minutes to make the place perfect.

  Helen heard her name and shot on to the landing. ‘If I’d helped!’ she shrieked. ‘Why should I help clear up after your friends? They are some of the rudest, ugliest, most disgusting … They completely ruined the gourmet dinner I cooked for Harry.’

  ‘That was ruined the minute you turned on the oven,’ said Ian wearily.

  ‘So, in other words,’ shouted Dad, ‘you abused our trust. You …’ he jabbed a finger at Ian, ‘did no work. And you …’ he turned to Helen, ‘you devoted your time to trying to impress that pompous–’

  ‘Harry is not pompous,’ contradicted Helen. ‘He’s sophisticated. None of you know what that means.’ She sank down on the stairs, sounding close to tears. ‘You’ve never given Harry a chance …’

  ‘A chance to do what?’ demanded Dad, but more gently. He couldn’t bear to see Helen cry, as she knew.

  ‘I think I’ll have hysterics,’ complained Ian. ‘She only has to sob into her hankie and Mum and Dad’ll forgive anything.’

  But Mum and Dad had neither forgiven nor forgotten. We had to wait a few days to discover their plans, but the conspiratorial mutterings told us something was going on.