by Timothy Lea
‘It’s meant to be like that,’ says Sid, handing Mum a glass.
‘That’s not very generous, Sidney,’ says Dad. ‘You might give your mother-in-law a decent tumblerful. It’s not often we’re invited here.’
‘That’s a special sherry glass,’ I say. ‘You have to have it in that.’
‘That’s right,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t you know nothing, Walter? I can always have another one.’ She hands Sid back her now empty glass. ‘Try to develop a little couth, dear.’
‘I’m thinking of you, that’s what I’m doing,’ grumbles Dad. ‘You’re my wife and I’m standing up for you.’
‘You’ve left it a bit late for that,’ sniffs Mum. I am not quite certain what she means by that remark and less than eager to find out.
‘What are you having, Dad? Scotch?’ says Sid.
‘Just a large one,’ says Dad, looking round the room, eager to see everyone laughing at his joke.
‘Why do you always have to say that, Walter?’ says Mum. ‘Why can’t you think of something original?’
‘Being offered a scotch by this geezer is original enough for one evening,’ says Dad.
‘I’ll have a scotch, too,’ I say.
‘I’ve got some light ale in for you.’ Sid nods towards a crate in the corner.
‘No thanks, I’ll still have the scotch.’ I would rather have the light ale but I don’t like the thought of having such unsociable tastes that they have to be specially catered for. I remember how Dad used to grumble about getting a bottle of peppermint cordial in for Gran when she used to spend Christmas with us. I expect she misses it where she has gone.
Sid catches my eye. ‘It’s a disaster, isn’t it?’ I think he is talking about this evening and nod. ‘At least she got out alive, that’s the main thing.’
‘You could look at it like that,’ I say – reckoning that he is talking about my ordeal in the snow. Frankly, his words puzzle me. Having first-hand experience of Shirl’s insatiable appetites I would say that it was I and the other bloke who were lucky to get out alive. Shirl’s survival potential was never in doubt.
‘I mean, what’s a lorry compared to a human life?’
What is Sid on about? There is nothing wrong with Enid. It occurs to me that he may be talking about something else. That would account for him not having thumped me round the earhole the minute I came through the door. Perhaps he doesn’t know anything about the broken glasses. ‘Sid –’ I begin.
‘I must have nudged it out of gear with my backside,’ he says. ‘I’d put the hand brake on I’ll swear to it. I got my head up for a second and there it was, slipping backwards.’
‘Your head?’ I say.
‘No, you berk. The lorry. Thank goodness she could swim.’ Sid shakes his bonce. ‘Oh, I shudder every time I think about it.’
‘Sid,’ I say. ‘I think you imagine I know more than I do. Are you telling me that you were farting about with some bird in the cab of your lorry and managed to shunt the whole bleeding issue into the drink?’
‘Drink?’ says Dad. ‘Your mother and I wouldn’t say no. What are you two talking about?’
‘Where’s Rosie?’ says Mum. ‘She is expecting us, isn’t she? I want to see the children.’
‘Go up if you like,’ says Sid. ‘She won’t mind. She’s just putting on her cheongsam.’
‘Caught her at the awkward time of the month, have we?’ says Mum. ‘Never mind. ‘I’ll pop up and say goodnight to the children. How is Jerome’s bite?’
‘Very painful,’ says Sid. ‘Make sure he doesn’t get the chance to give you one.’ He pours Dad another scotch and turns back to me. ‘I thought you knew,’ he says. ‘It was in the papers.’
‘I didn’t see any papers where I was,’ I tell him. ‘Sid, this is terrible. Is the lorry all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Sid. ‘Since it sunk to the bottom of the Thames I haven’t seen it.’
‘Gordon Bennett!’ I say. ‘How did the bird take it?’
‘In the normal way,’ says Sid. ‘As I recall it her feet were wedged against the dashboard and I was –’
‘I didn’t mean that!’ I say. Honestly, Sid is about as sensitive as a cast-iron sheath. ‘How did she react to such an awful experience?’
Sid closes his eyes and winces. ‘The whole thing was horrible. Screaming, fighting, struggling! I can hardly bear to think about it.’
‘But she came round in the end, did she?’
‘That wasn’t her, that was me!’ says Sid. ‘If it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t be here now. She dragged me ashore with her teeth – my teeth as well, we didn’t lose anything.’
‘Except the lorry,’ I say, grimly. ‘At least it makes it easier to tell you my bad news.’
I tell Sid about the glasses and he buries his face in his hands. ‘That’s it!’ he says. ‘We’re ruined. Not to put too fine a point on it, we’re up shit creek without a paddle – in fact, we don’t even have a bleeding canoe!’
It is perhaps fortunate that at that moment Mum and Rosie start to come downstairs.
Dad takes one look at Rosie and puts down his glass. ‘Blimey, girl!’ he says. ‘Have you seen that dress you’re wearing?’
‘Of course I have,’ says Rosie. ‘I didn’t put it on in the dark.’
‘It’s new, is it?’ says Dad.
‘It is actually,’ says Rosie. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘You want to take it back!’ says Dad. ‘It’s got a bleeding great slit up the side. Anyone can see straight up to your fundaments!’
‘Oh Dad!’ Rosie bites her lip in exasperation. ‘You never change, do you? It’s supposed to have a slit up the side. That’s the way the Chinese wear them. It goes with the evening, don’t you see?’
‘That’s right, dear,’ says Mum. ‘You’ve seen it on the telly. You remember that film with William Holden, The World of Suzie Wong?’
‘He didn’t wear one, did he?’ says Dad. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen much of him lately. That explains it.’
Before there can be any more explanations, the front doorbell rings. ‘That’ll probably be the food,’ says Rosie. ‘Show them in, Sidney, will you? I’ll help myself to a drink. It’s the only way I’ll get one.’
‘I wouldn’t mind another little drop,’ says Mum, putting down her sherry glass and picking up a tumbler.
‘Me neither,’ says Dad.
I can’t help noticing that Mum and Dad are knocking back the booze like there is a prize for it. I do hope that this is not going to lead to any unpleasantness later in the evening.
As Rosie deals with the drinks, the door opens and a really knock-out bird sails in. She is wearing a long black dress that hangs down from just beneath her knockers and touches the floor, and her blonde barnet flops beguilingly over one eye. Dad registers the newcomer and it is easy to see that he is impressed.
‘Blimey very muchee,’ he says. ‘You no lookee likee Chinese lady.’
Rosie looks embarrassed. ‘This is Imogen Fletcher, father,’ she says.
‘No soundee like Chinese lady,’ says Dad.
‘I no am Chinese lady, that’s why,’ says the bird in a very upper class drawl. ‘My husband and I have lived at Stockwell for three and a half years now. We’re practically natives.’
‘You’re not like most of the natives you see round here,’ says Dad. ‘Do you want a hand with the grub? I hope you don’t expect me to eat with those joss sticks. I have enough trouble with a spoon. I find the bean shoots get stuck between my dentures. Do you have –?’
Listening to Dad is like wanting to cry out when you are having a nightmare. You can see all the terrible things that are happening but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Fortunately, Rosie does not have my problems when it comes to basic communication.
‘Really, father!’ she says. ‘How can you be so stupid? Surely it’s obvious that Imogen and Crispin have nothing to do with the meal. They’re guests, like you.’
It occu
rs to me that Imogen is not a guest like Dad, and Crispin, when he comes into the room bears even less resemblance to my father – or anyone else’s father for that matter. He is wearing a kind of silk tank top with puff shoulders and sleeves and a chiffon scarf that comes down to his knee breeches. These are fastened by a diamanté buckle as are his black shiny shoes. It is a dead cert that he is not a New Zealand rugby player.
He stops in front of Dad and claps his hands together.
‘How quaint!’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen it done better.’
‘Your friends may be able to say the same about you,’ says Dad menacingly. ‘What are you on about?’
‘Look at those clothes, darling,’ pipes Crispin. ‘They’re so authentic, aren’t they? I wonder if his trousers are held up with string?’
‘Crispin’s terribly well known as an interior decorator,’ explains Rosie.
This news does not surprise me. I have no difficulty at all in imagining the creep decorating interiors. What does surprise me is that Rosie should fancy someone like that. It is because he is artistic, I suppose. She always reckons that she is a bit starved in that direction having Sid as a husband.
Crispin is still staring at Dad’s suit. ‘Where did you get it from?’ he croons. ‘Do you have pull at the Salvation Army?’
Actually, I think Crispin is being a bit unkind. Dad’s best suit is no worse than any other old geezer’s clobber. The stains round the front of the trousers aren’t very nice but the half inch of grey woollen underpant protruding above the belt and giving way to the frayed ends of the waistcoat dangling temptingly above it seems to have been with me since childhood. Maybe that is it. I am too used to Dad. Either that, or his cap is creating the wrong impression. I saw Mum trying to take it off him when they came through the front door but he wasn’t having any.
‘And that lovely dress,’ says Mrs Fletcher, turning to Mum. ‘Did you knit it yourself?’
‘No,’ says Mum with a funny half curtsey – I can understand why she does it. Imogen Fletcher does make you think that you are in the presence of royalty – ‘I got it at Marks and Spencers. I get all my stuff there. All my clothes, that is.’
‘They are marvellous, aren’t they?’ says Mrs F brightly. ‘I noticed they had avocados there the other day.’
‘Oh really?’ says Mum. ‘That is nice.’
‘What would you fancy to drink?’ says Sid.
Mrs Fletcher orders and turns to me. ‘You must be young Timothy,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Nothing too terrible, I hope,’ I simper. Mrs Fletcher is the kind of poised upper-class bird who reduces me to a shapeless, mumbling twit. There are tiny little valleys at the corners of her lovely soft cakehole and when she twitches her lips it is as if somebody has pulled a bit of string tied round my Willy Wonker. I nearly ice my birthday cake.
‘Quite the reverse,’ says the lady. ‘I believe you’ve been a tower of support to Sidders in his many business ventures.’
For a moment, I wonder what she is talking about. Then I get it. She means Sid. The upper classes are always messing about with names, aren’t they? Ronny is acceptable but with Ron you have practically kicked the bucket – or gone beyond the pail, as the nobs say.
‘I’ve done what I can,’ I say. ‘Tell me, how do you know Sid and Rosie?’
Mrs F accepts a drink and gestures me towards the settee. ‘It’s all to do with Crispin,’ she says, draping herself gracefully across the scuffed leather. ‘He had a hand in your sister’s venture.’
I am surprised at her coming out with it just like that but some of these posh bints don’t care what they say. That’s what makes them so exciting. On the surface all pure and untouchable, underneath raring to cop a snatchful of steaming hampton straight between the thighs. What does come as a bit of a shock is that Crispin is a furburger fan. I had reckoned him as being a bit of a ginger on the noisy. Just shows how you can’t make sweeping judgements about people.
‘Yes,’ continues Mrs F. ‘He was in at the start of the boutiques and did all the decor for the wine bars.’
‘Oh,’ I say as it occurs to me that I may have misunderstood the lady. ‘You mean the sawdust and that?’
‘Inspirational, wasn’t it?’ says Mrs Fletcher proudly.
‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘I know that Sid uses a lot of it for the kiddies’ ferrets.’ I see a look of doubt coming into Imogen’s eyes. ‘The sawdust, I mean,’ I say hurriedly.
‘Of yes,’ Mrs Fletcher looks round and then places one of her elegant, beautifully manicured Germans on top of mine. ‘Do you think you could coax a teensy weensy bit more gin into my glass? I’m a rather greedy girl, I’m afraid.’ The way she looks at me when she speaks, I would walk barefoot across a sea of white hot coals to fetch her a Kleenex. I stand up and she touches my jacket. ‘Some ice would be fantastic too.’ She winks at me and I have fallen in love. To think I was really not looking forward to this evening. The best things always happen when you least expect them.
I have just wrenched the stupid bird-motif measuring device off the top of the gin bottle and poured Imogen Fletcher a generous slug when Sid moves to my side.
‘Where’s the ice, Sid?’ I ask.
‘It’s in the – fuck!’ Everybody stops talking and Sid examines the front of his jacket. He had tipped up the gin bottle without looking at it and copped the rebound from the bottom of the glass he was filling. ‘Uxbridge!’ shouts Sid, ‘Just beyond the traffic lights. You can’t miss it.’ The threads of conversation are picked up again and Sid turns to me. ‘Did you do that, you stupid berk?’ he hisses.
‘Sorry, Sid,’ I say. ‘It pours so slow with that thing in it.’
‘That’s the idea, you prat! Just leave things alone.’
‘Just tell me where the ice is,’ I plead.
‘I didn’t get any out – I didn’t have time with you arriving an hour early!’
‘I’ll try the fridge,’ I say.
Mrs Fletcher gives me a melting look that would see off any lump of ice I had in my hand and I sear towards the kitchen. Crispin Fletcher tries to catch my eye as I speed past and, rejected, turns back to Dad. ‘That really is very interesting,’ I hear him say.
‘That’s just some of the stuff we get in,’ says Dad. ‘Then there’s walking sticks and shooting sticks and umbrellas – oh yes, we get a lot of umbrellas. The last time we counted we had –’
I whip into the kitchen and close the door behind me. It does not half have a lot of gadgets. When you look around, you can see that Rosie is doing all right. I don’t reckon that Sid bought too much of this lot. I have just opened the fridge and knocked a tub of cream over three storeys of food when Rosie rushes in.
‘It hasn’t come!’ she storms. ‘Little perishers. They promised it by eight.’
‘Oh, the food,’ I say, cottoning on to what she is rabbiting about. ‘Can’t you give them a ring?’
‘I don’t have the number. I called in on the way home.’
‘They must be in the book,’ I say.
‘I can’t remember the name. You know what they’re like: Hing Pong, Flung Dung – it could be anything.’
‘If you had a classified you could find out from the address.’
‘But I don’t!’ Rosie faces me angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you an undercover agent for the GPO or something?’
‘Calm yourself,’ I say. ‘We all have our problems. Where’s the ice?’
‘In the top. Oh no!’ Rosie looks inside the fridge. ‘Did you spill that?’
‘No, it was like that when I opened it.’
‘It must have been Sid,’ snarls Rosie. ‘I’ll kill him one of these days!’
‘You mustn’t be too hard on him,’ I say, holding the ice tray under the hot tap. ‘He’s had a lot on his mind, lately.’
‘A lot on it and nothing in it,’ spits Rosie. ‘I’ll have to give them something to tide them over. Don’t let Dad have another drink what ever you
do. He’s pissed already.’ She puts a jar marked ‘cheese’ on the table as I look around for something to put the ice in. ‘I’ll give them a quick fondue.’
‘You’ll what?!’ I say.
‘Give them a fondue – a cheese dip.’
‘I thought you said you’d give them a quick fondle!’
I think the misunderstanding is quite funny but Rosie seems to have lost whatever sense of humour she once had. She accuses me of getting in her way and pushes me to one side while she puts on a saucepan. It is all I can do to tip the ice into a jar before she drives me out of the kitchen. When I get back to the lounge, Imogen is sitting where she was but her lovely mince pies shelter a look of reproach.
‘I thought you’d forgotten about me,’ she says.
‘I don’t think I could ever forget about you,’ I say.
‘How nice.’ Her lips twitch again like they did last summer and I feel percy preparing for a game of ‘Launch My Zeppelin’. ‘You got the ice, did you? I’m sorry to be such a terrible nuisance.’
I make a few mumbling noises and hand over her glass. When she looks at me like that it is difficult to think of things to say. I take the top off the jar and hold it out to her. It seems better mannered to let her help herself rather than cop a mittful of my germs. If I had thought about it I could have brought a pair of tongs but it is too late now. She is still holding my glance and I wonder if she knows what is passing through my mind – I hope her husband doesn’t. Possibly, she is feeling something of what I feel. Beautiful, mature women of the world do fall passionately in love with simple working class lads like me. Half the plays you turn over to on BBC2 for the juicy bits are about it.
Mrs Fletcher sticks her mitt in the jar and – ‘Oh!’ We both look down to see that her delicate digits are grasping what looks like a cube of parmesan cheese. Oh my gawd! In my confusion I must have tipped the ice cubes into the cheese jar. ‘How frightfully original,’ says Mrs F.
Rosie appears at my side. ‘You didn’t touch the –’ She takes a butcher’s at the object between Imogen’s fingers and squeaks.
