by David Carter
At nine he picked up the telephone and began ringing round. He told work he would be away for at least a week and that was that. If they didn’t like it they could go hang. He had the 20K reserve sleeping soundly in his bank account, he could afford to take a year off if need be, come to think of it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.
Melanie sounded genuinely upset, though she had never met his mother. Julian sympathised and took details of all of Gringo’s work that could not be left undone. He rang his dad who sounded as if he had pulled himself together.
‘I’ll be there before tea,’ said Gringo.
‘Just drive carefully, son, don’t go speeding.’
He rang Glenda. She had just come out of the shower.
‘Oh no!’ she said, ‘I am really shocked!’
‘We all are. The thing is; I was wondering if you would like to come with me to Shropshire.’
‘Oh, Gringo, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m going to Amsterdam for a week with Archie.’
‘Who the hell is Archie?’
‘I told you, the guy from the record shop. He’s a crazy man.’
‘I don’t think you did.’
‘I did! Sometimes you just don’t listen. Between you and me he’s a big fan of some very weird substances, I mean really weird. You just never know what he’s going to do next. He’s such a hoot.’
‘I hope you are not getting involved in anything like that.’
‘Don’t be such an old woman, Gringo, you can’t get addicted, not from an occasional trial.’
‘Isn’t that what they all say?’
‘I know what I’m talking about. I can handle it.’
Again he wanted to say: Isn’t that what they all say? But didn’t for fear of sounding like his mother, his now dead mother. Instead he said: ‘And what are the sleeping arrangements going to be?’
‘Gringo! That is none of your damn business!’
‘It seems to me you sleep with just about everyone, except me.’
‘If you’re going to be like that I’m hanging up, and in case you forgot, or hadn’t noticed, I recently slept with you for two whole weeks!’
He wondered if anyone else in the Martin household overheard that gem of information.
‘But nothing happened!’ he said.
‘And whose fault is that?’ she yelled back, and then she seemed to backtrack and added, ‘I didn’t want to, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘A week today.’
‘Try and behave yourself, and keep off the drugs for God’s sake.’
‘Yes sir! Three bags full, sir!’ she shouted, and then more softly, ‘Ring me when I’m back.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Well suit yourself, Gringo. Look, I’m really sorry about your mum and everything, I really liked her, she was great, but it doesn’t change anything between you and me.’
He didn’t know what to say to that, and then she said: ‘Look, I’ll have to go, Archie is picking me up in half an hour and I’m nowhere near ready. Bye Gringo. Hope everything goes okay,’ and the next thing he heard was her putting the phone down.
His final call was to Linda. He couldn’t remember if she was on duty or not, but an answerphone interrupted. She’d recorded the greetings message herself, a silly giggling response that he found intensely irritating. His turn to speak.
Hi Linda, date’s off, mother’s dead, away a week, I’ll call you.
He probably said more than that, but already he had forgotten what it was. He’d just been desperate to get off the phone. He’d considered for all of five seconds asking her to accompany him, but that would only have confused dad for they had never met, and at the root of it all was the tiny fact that he didn’t want her there at all. He wanted Glen beside him, and if she couldn’t or wouldn’t attend, he didn’t want anyone.
He bundled a few things into an overnight bag, checked that everything was off, drew the curtains, isn’t that what you are supposed to do when someone in the family dies? Or has that tradition bitten the dust too, like curtseying at Wimbledon and standing up for old ladies on buses, and not farting in public, and keeping clean, and polishing your shoes, and wearing smart clothes. ’Tis true what they say, the times they are a-changing, but didn’t they always, and is it for the better? He shook his head and coughed roughly and ten minutes after that he was on the motorway, speeding.
Fifty-Two
The Battle of Shrewsbury took place in 1403 on a pea field just north of the town. It was one of the few dates that Gringo could remember because for as long as he could recall, a framed etching of the conflict hung on the wall to the right of the fireplace, in whatever house they happened to be living in at the time.
As a boy, the picture inspired him, staring up at the black and white likeness of knights and kings lined up, preparing to give battle. Such stories and pictures always do that for the young. It was as if in his dreams he could dive into the picture and join the action. There was an inscription too, though he could no longer remember exactly what it said, something about 10,000 brave men on either side, many of whom would not see the sun going down that night.
There was another fact he remembered about the battle. The losers’ heads were set up on spikes on Shrewsbury town gates as a welcome and a warning to day-trippers to the town. No one would forget that. They don’t do that any more, more’s the pity, but that’s progress.
There were a few heads he’d like to see up there on display, Soloman and Streeter from HQ for a start, and that sweaty prick, Willetts, from the VAT office, and Paul the boiled shite boyfriend, and Harry the basher, and this drug soaked Archie character who had somehow inveigled his way into Glen’s good books. Aye, that would make a promising start.
Rumour had it that metal fragments and bones still work their way to the surface of the battlefield, and peculiarly, some say more appear in a leap year. Strange things occur in leap years.
The funeral service took place in the smudgy grey stoned church at Battlefield, a house of worship long reputed to be built on the site of a mass grave of the fallen. That day, the fallen was his mother, and everyone had gathered there to celebrate her life. Fifty-two people in all, the majority being ladies of a certain age, and other than his father, Gringo didn’t know a single soul there.
He’d been shocked at the sight of his dad, not so much the frailness and ricketyness of his aging body, that was something he’d grown used to, but at the colour of him. His whole body had seemingly turned grey, his hair, his skin, even his eyes appeared to have greyed, and his choice of clothing, the best grey lounge suit that Gayle always so lovingly pressed and ironed, served only to confirm the picture. Ray Greene looked like a ghost.
Afterwards, everyone adjourned to a local hostelry, where Ray had hurriedly hired a back room, replete with sandwiches and drinks where a couple of dozen strict teetotallers made an exception and downed the drink, for Gayle you understand, for Gayle, in her memory. She’ll be sitting up there now thinking of us. Yeah, right. Gringo almost burst into laughter when he heard that, and he was glad when the whole sorry business was over. Isn’t he like his mother, was a popular refrain, and if anyone else said that, he’d slap them.
His father was glad too, to accept their kisses and firm handshakes and kind words as he waved them on their way, just as all families are on occasions such as these. Days to be endured, days to be forgotten, days you’d like to strike from the calendar; and from life itself. If only.
That night, sitting before the log fire, the television firmly switched off, Gringo and his father talked as they hadn’t in years.
‘So what are you going to do with yourself?’ asked Gringo, sipping the large glass of port his father had slipped into his hand without a word.
‘What do you mean, what am I going to do?’
‘Well you know, without mother.’
‘What do you think I’m going to do?’
‘I don’t know; that’s why I’m asking.’
His father harrumphed and poked the fire.
‘You could sell up and come and live with me.’
Ray snarled and grimaced. ‘Don’t be so absurd!’
‘Why not? There’s plenty of room.’
He fixed his son with that stare of his, the same stare that Gringo had inherited, and often used to ward off trouble, and said: ‘The only time I will leave this cottage is when I’m horizontal, horizontal as in horizon, as in flat on my back, do you get me?’
‘I understand you, dad. I was just asking.’
‘I know where everything is here. I know where every plant is growing in the garden, I know where every item of clothing has been placed by your mother, I know how many steps there are on the stairs, I know where every window is, and how to open and close them, I know where the garden shed stands and where every tool lays, I know how to turn the heating on and off, I know where every goddamn knife and fork sits in that kitchen, fact is I know how to operate every appliance in this property in the pitch dark, I know where every switch and plug is located when I need lectricity, (as he always called it), and if I ever went blind I could live here absolutely as normal.’
‘You’re not, are you, going blind?’
‘Course not! Just an expression of speech.’
‘I understand you, dad, but you might need some help, cleaning and whatnot.’
‘Bah! We’ll see about that.’
‘I’m worried about you, dad.’
‘Well don’t be, and that’s enough about me. Why didn’t you bring that corker, Glenda, with you? I was so looking forward to seeing her again.’
‘I tried to, dad; she’s gone to Amsterdam with some crazy junkie called Archie.’
‘What did I tell you? Did you ask her to marry you?’
‘No dad, I didn’t. The right moment never materialised.’
‘The right moment! The right bloody moment! Don’t you know the right moment never materialises! You have to make it happen yourself,’ and he banged his hollow chest for effect, not that there was much there. ‘Here!’ he shouted. ‘In here! It must come from inside!’
‘It isn’t as simple as that, dad.’
‘It is! It damned well is! You either possess the gumption, or you don’t!’
‘I’m trying, dad.’
‘So you keep saying! You are trying all right. Not damned hard enough, if you ask me, and now your mother will never set her bright eyes on her blessed grandchildren, and whose fault is that, eh? You tell me that! And the thing is, Kevin, will I, do you think? Will I?’
‘I don’t know, dad. She isn’t the only fish in the sea.’
‘But that’s the whole bloody point, son! She IS the only fish in the sea if that’s the way you feel about her. Can’t you understand that much?’
Gringo’s problem was that he understood that much perfectly well. He looked across at his dad who was already speaking again.
‘You’re losing that girl! You mark my words, losing her; she’s slipping away in front of your very eyes, dribbling through your fingers, and you don’t seem to give a damn!’
‘I never had her to lose,’ said Gringo, softly, and Ray looked up and across at his only son, and saw for the first time how crushed he looked, how downcast, and he knew that he’d been right all along. Glenda Martin was the one for the Greene family, the only one, and the entire family name depended on her.
Felix the cat woke up and ran across and began brushing against Gringo’s ankle, purring and wanting to play, seemingly oblivious to the family in mourning. Why is it that dogs understand death and mourn any loss on a par with humans? Yet cats either don’t understand death at all, or if they do, they don’t give a damn. Little wonder some people think cats are icy cold. They’re either incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid, and it’s difficult to tell which.
The following morning Gringo set out for home at half past ten, both of them agreeing that he was serving no useful purpose staying any longer. They had ceremonially made scrambled eggs between them, just as she had for them for the previous thirty-five years, the toast cooked beneath the grill, most essential, not in some bad tempered hiccupping machine that could never do the job properly, the grilled bread displaying a uniformed light coffee colour on both sides, the eggs buttered and peppered to perfection, real butter oozing down the side of the crusts.
It was the best scrambled eggs either of them had ever prepared, yet it was as nothing compared to the dish that the late Gayle Greene, nee Edwards, served up seemingly without one iota of effort. Life would go on as before, just as they wanted it to, and more importantly, just as Gayle Greene would have wanted.
On the car journey home through the hills Gringo reflected on his offer to his father.
You could sell up and come and live with me.
The offer had been a genuine one. If his dad had agreed, Gringo would have motored home and made the second bedroom ready for him, but could you imagine the difficulties it would bring? He grimaced at the thought of it, of bringing a girl back to the house in the evening with his unshaven father hanging about muttering and belching, as he was sometimes wont to do, or banging about the house in the middle of night. It didn’t bear thinking about. Gringo would never have had a moment’s peace; and any thoughts of naked writhing bodies with one of his stand-in concubines before the sitting room fire would have to be cancelled indefinitely.
No, his dad had done the right thing, hard though it was, and Gringo promised to visit him again soon, and he meant it this time too, and more than that, he had promised next time to return with Glenda Martin at his side. That would be the hard part of the bargain. Nothing ever changed. Not really, and yet, everything had changed.
Fifty-Three
Four In Sympathy cards greeted him on his return. One from the office, another from Melanie personally, one from Paul and Kay, he must have rung the office to discover the news, and one from Linda, with a note that said that she couldn’t wait to see him again. There was nothing from Glen, no sympathy card or postcard, as she smoked and drank the hours away with Archie in Holland.
The following day he lounged about the house unshaven, completing a few little jobs he had been promising to do for weeks. He sat and paid some bills and examined three share prospectuses. He’d recently been tempted into dabbling in stocks and shares and that 20K was still festering in his bank account, though he’d never previously made any money from his speculations. Does anyone?
Reading the small print brought him a headache, and he went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a box of paracetamol. The silver strips inside were empty and useless, like spent oyster shells after the feast. He cursed aloud. He knew he hadn’t used them, it must have been Glen, and she’d forgotten to tell him to order in fresh supplies. He thought of putting up with it, but it was still early and his head was thumping, so he threw on a jacket and jumped in the car and headed for the local superstore, the red and blue numpties with the highfaluting opinion of themselves.
He grabbed a basket but changed it for a trolley. He hadn’t done a shop for a while, and there might be one or two items on offer. He headed for the drugs lane and threw four packs of para into the trolley. Alcohol next, he needed to refresh his wine store. The white wine had taken a hit recently, he had never met a woman yet who couldn’t put away a decent dollop of white. He placed six bottles in the trolley, and four reds too, brazenly displaying themselves, Beaujolais Nouveau, that had recently arrived, a wine that had been well reviewed in the superstore’s own paper, though he doubted they would ever give their own stock a hard time.
That was it, but his eye caught the spirits, and he remembered that Glenda liked vodka and whisky, so he bought a litre bottle of each, on special offer, and not much dearer than the usual size. He considered Linda too, who he hadn’t spoken to since the catastrophe, and remembered that she liked brandy and gin, might as well, he thought, while I am here, and he picked those up too, and tha
t really was the end of it.
He rolled his chinking cargo toward the till and set it down on the black production line where a bored looking woman gave him a tired smile.
Beep! Beep!
Two packs of para flashed through the EPOS.
‘You can’t buy more than two,’ she rattled off, seizing the other two as if he were a shoplifter, and secreting them beneath the counter out of sight.
‘What!’
‘I said you can’t buy more than two packs,’ and she rattled on with beeping the bottles.
‘Why not?’
‘Against the rules.’
‘Whose rules?’
‘Just rules.’
‘I want four packs.’
‘Sorry, no can do.’
‘So if I go round again in ten minutes and buy another two packs then will I be served?’
‘I wouldn’t advise that, sir.’
‘But answer the question, will I be served?’
‘Not by me, sir,’ and by then she had stopped her beeping, though there were still the reds to process.
The conversation was becoming heated and people behind him in the queue began muttering. Gringo glanced their way as they loaded up the conveyor. A pair of ageing hippies in Kaffe Fassett look-a-like jumpers and Jesus boots, the balding guy with swept back grey hair in a ponytail tied up with a red rubber ring that looked as if it belonged on a failed ram’s todger, while the short woman boasted a ridiculous apache style headband, and John Lennon specs that hid beady eyes that she used to stare at Gringo, and his unhealthy swag.
Their shopping consisted of organic peppers, wholemeal bread and soya milk and God knows what else, but definitely no meat; and certainly no toxin-riddled alcohol. Gringo wanted to ask them what they hell they were staring at, but they saw him looking and glanced nervously away, and pretended to be talking about their children’s homework.
