by Timothy Lea
‘I think, if you don’t mind –’ says the love of my life.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean –’
Rosie snatches the jar out of my hand. ‘Are you mad?!’ she says. ‘Are you stark raving mad?’
Before I can say any more, the front door bell rings. ‘It must be the nosh – I mean, food,’ I say. ‘I’ll let them in.’
As I head for the door, I hear Rosie explaining that both Sid and I have been under a lot of strain lately. It is noticeable that when she talks to the Fletchers her voice is a lot more refined than it is when she is parleying to the family.
‘– a hundred and forty-five with broken spokes. Of course, with them it’s touch and go as to whether they were lost or abandoned. That’s something only experience will tell you –’ Dad’s voice is still droning on as I open the front door.
‘Solly about delay. Go to wong address. Very tlying.’ The little bloke with the pile of containers is behind me before he has finished his sentence. I look out into the street in case there is any one else but there is only a large black cat running as fast as its legs will carry it. ‘Where you want?’
‘Well, I think everybody’s quite hungry now,’ says Rosie looking at Dad anxiously. ‘Can you lay it out on the table, please?’
‘Chinese food? How lovely!’ Imogen Fletcher drops the cheese-covered ice cube into an ashtray and rises to her feet.
‘Those cats were Kung Fu fighting,’ croons Dad. ‘I don’t reckon it myself, you know. I mean, look at him. He doesn’t come up to my chest.’
‘Neither does anyone else if they got any sense,’ says Mum. ‘Come on, Walter. Get a grip on yourself.’
The Chinese bloke is laying out lots of little cardboard boxes full of grub and taking no notice of Dad.
‘You hear what I say, Chinky Chops?’ goads Dad. ‘Show us a bit of the old martial arts. Bamboo stalk that bend in wind no support mighty pagoda. You savvy words of Oriental wisdom?’
‘You savvy punch up throat?’ says the small Chinese gentleman.
‘Stop it, Dad!’ says Mum. ‘Can’t you see you’re embarrassing everybody?’
Dad starts swaying and bobbing – he has been swaying for most of the evening. ‘Those cats were Kung Fu fighting,’ he chants. ‘Oh, it was most exciting – Come on, Ping Ling. Show us your muscles!’
The Chinaman places both hands together and bows towards Sid. ‘Food laid out,’ he says.
‘You know what you are?’ says Dad. ‘You’re yellow! All you Chinks are the same. You can’t even get a proper Chinaman to play one of you. That bloke in Kung Fu, he’s not Chinese. They pull his eyes back with sellotape.’ WHAM! CRASH! BANG! Dad turns a couple of somersaults – it may have been three, it happens so fast – and lands in an untidy heap on the settee.
The Chinaman gives Sid another bow. ‘Honourable gentleman laid out,’ he says.
‘Do something!’ screams Dad, scrambling to his feet and trying to hide behind Mum. ‘Don’t let him get away with it. Coming in here and assaulting innocent people. Ring for the police!’
‘Do shut up, Walter,’ says Mum. ‘You had it coming to you.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ says Sid. ‘Belt up!’
The Chinaman goes out and Dad immediately advances to the drinks tray and empties the remains of a bottle of brandy into a tumbler. ‘Soon saw him off, didn’t I?’ he says. ‘Didn’t take him long to see which way the wind was blowing. He could see what was going to happen – one carrotty chop on a vital nerve point and – pouf!’ – Crispin looks up sharply. ‘All the way back to Gerrard Street in a wheelbarrow.’
‘Talking of carrotty chops,’ says Sid, indicating the nosh. ‘We’d better get stuck into this lot before it gets cold.’
In fact, it is cold. And there is not much worse than cold Chinese food – though this stuff would probably run it close when it was hot. Crispin and Imogen send out a series of polite squeaks but Dad is blunt in his attitude to the fare provided. ‘I don’t mind the vinegar,’ he says. ‘That’s got more taste than the rest of it put together. I reckon it’s why they’re so small, these Chinks. You can’t build a man up on this, can you? It’s not like the roast beef of old England.’
‘The Roast Beef of Old England doesn’t seem to have got us very far at the moment, does it?’ says Crispin, carefully picking a bean shoot off his blouse.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ says Dad. ‘Don’t you fancy this country, then? Are you one of those knockers who’s always saying we’re not the greatest nation living on Earth?’
‘We will be living on earth if we go on at this rate,’ says Crispin.
‘Oh yes, darling. Very good,’ says the lovely Imogen.
‘What do you mean, very good?!’ says Dad ferociously. ‘That’s not very good, that’s bleeding awful! Are you a foreigner? Come over here to load yourself up with free specs and dentures on the National Health?!’
Oh dear. I can see that the demon liquor has once again unhinged Dad’s feeble mind. He always becomes unpleasant when he has had a few.
‘Dad –!’ says Sid.
‘Not so much of the Dad, sonny! Your relationship to me is one of marriage, not blood. You never sprung from my loins.’
‘He would if he had to get anywhere near them,’ sniffs Mum.
‘You shut your face!’ says Dad.
‘Really!’ bristles Imogen. ‘I think you’re the most unpleasant old man I’ve ever met!’
‘That’s because I’m a patriot!’ rants Dad. ‘Because I won’t stand to see my country run down by shameless hussies who want to show off their tits and inflame men’s natural appetites! If you’re so proud of them, let’s all see them!’ So saying, he lunges for the front of Imogen’s dress, loses his footing, and collapses on the imitation sheepskin rug.
‘That’s it!’ snaps Rosie. ‘I want him out of my house! I don’t care if he is my father. I never want to see him again!’
Mum stops hitting Dad over the bonce with her shoe. ‘What do you mean if? Of course he’s your father! You mind what you’re saying, my girl!’
‘Out!’ screams Rosie. ‘Out!’
Imogen Fletcher rises to her feet, her hand draped elegantly against her forehead. ‘Please don’t disturb your father,’ she says. ‘I think it’s better if I leave. I’m not feeling very well. Crispin –’
‘But you can’t leave yet,’ says Sid. ‘You’ve hardly touched your sweet and sour pork. Anyway, there’s something I want to talk to you both about. It’s been at the back of my mind for a long time.’
‘Well, I think if – er, Imogen isn’t feeling herself –’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ says Dad from the floor. ‘Feeling herself, I mean.’
‘Shut up!’ Sid kicks Dad in the stomach and it is obvious that the evening is on the verge of boiling over into unpleasantness. ‘You stay, Crispin,’ begs Sid. ‘If Imogen doesn’t feel up to it, Timmy can drive her home. It won’t take a minute. I’ve got an idea I want to talk to you about.’
‘Er – well?’ Crispin looks at Imogen and I can see that he is about as keen to stay as he would be to substitute his cock for a piece of cheese in a rat trap. To my surprise, Imogen seems prepared to look upon the idea with less than total disfavour.
‘I’m certain Timothy doesn’t want to take me home,’ she says – is it my imagination or is that a pout at the corner of that delectable mouth?
‘It would be a pleasure,’ I say. ‘I mean – I wouldn’t mind at all.’ I tone my response down when I see the way Crispin is looking at me. Wary might be one way of describing it.
‘I think, maybe I’d better –’
‘That’s settled then,’ says Sid breezily. ‘I hope you feel better soon, Imogen. I’m sorry about my father-in-law. He becomes prone to these bouts of over-tiredness.’
There is a lot more ‘lovely evening!’ and ‘don’t mention it’ while Rosie fetches Imogen’s coat. Crispin has grudgingly given me his car keys and is staring at the jumbo-siz
ed brandy Sid has just shoved in his mitt. ‘The reverse is up and away from you,’ he says.
‘Your wife knows the – yes, of course, she must do,’ I say, glad that I have prevented myself from asking if Imogen knows the way to her own home.
‘I’m ready,’ she calls to me from the front door. Her handbag clicks shut like a trap closing on its prey and she delivers a minute flare of the nostrils as she catches my eye. ‘Goodnight, Crispin,’ she says. ‘I’m going to take one of my pills, so I won’t be awake when you get home.’ Crispin says something sympathetic and blows her a kiss. They don’t have a proper Swiss Miss.
‘How do you feel?’ I say, once we are in the car and I am trying to find out how the lights work.
‘Tense,’ she says. She feels in her bag and brings out a packet of fags. ‘Do you use these?’
‘No,’ I say. I am wondering whether to do any more apologizing for the family. In the circumstances, it seems best to leave the subject alone. It could sound a bit like a German apologizing for Hitler. ‘Tell me where you want me to go, will you?’
‘Down the end of the street and turn left. It’s very near. I could have walked.’
‘Better not to, these days.’ I say in my best Dixon of Dock Green voice. ‘You might bump into a spot of bother.’
‘You mean, I might be raped?’ She drags in a lungful of smoke and blows it out so hard that I expect it to splinter the windscreen. ‘I should be so lucky.’
‘There’s one or two nutcases about,’ I say.
‘Lead me to them!’ Mrs Fletcher grits her teeth and rakes her finger nails down my thigh. I manage to keep the car off the pavement, but only just. ‘Poor Timothy,’ says my volatile passenger. ‘You must think I’m mad.’
‘Of course, I don’t,’ I say soothingly. ‘You’re just a bit unsettled, that’s all. The cheese on the ice-cubes and all that.’
‘You think it’s giving me nightmares?’ Imogen laughs. ‘Cheese is supposed to give you mightmares, isn’t it?’
‘You didn’t eat any, did you?’ I say soothingly.
Lovely Imogen Fletcher brushes some hair from her eye. ‘It’s often the things you don’t have that give the most trouble, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is,’ I say. I don’t have to get out my crystal balls to see that there is something troubling the lady. Something apart from Dad and the rest of the aggrochat. ‘Your family wear their hearts on their sleeves, don’t they?’ She gives a short laugh. ‘That father of yours practically wears his parts on his sleeve!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I –’
Imogen touches my sleeve. ‘Turn right at the level crossing and it’s the third house on the right. Don’t apologise for your father. At least he comes out with what he thinks. Crispin and I are less honest.’
I take the car round the corner and pull up outside the third house. It is half a large semi-detached, painted white. I notice that they have new dustbins. ‘Here we are,’ I say.
Imogen pulls her coat across her Manchesters. ‘Come in and have a drink,’ she says. ‘A coffee, something like that.’ The way she says it, she sounds as if she means it. ‘You weren’t particularly enjoying the party, were you?’
‘I was enjoying being with you.’
Imogen waves a hand like a conjuror producing a handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘If you come in, you’ll continue to be with me.’
I hesitate for a moment while I think what her old man is going to say. Is he going to cut up rough if I don’t show up in a couple of minutes? Sid and Rosie haven’t exactly been responsible for the party of the year, so far. Am I going to put the kibosh on it even further?
‘Nobody will notice if you’re away for a few minutes.’ She is right, of course. When you’re pissed – and everybody at Rosie’s was pretty pissed – people can disappear for hours and it seems like minutes. I remember when Sid had it off with Gabriella Duke at Sandy Ponder’s party. I thought he’s only just gone into the karsi, yet, when they broke the door down they were both starkers and she was – it doesn’t really matter what she was doing. That has nothing to do with the time element. It didn’t half surprise me, though. Mainly because I was younger, I suppose.
‘Are you coming?’ Love Goddess is getting out of the car and tilting her flawless nut in my direction. It’s meeting a bird like this that makes me wish I’d been to Oxford University. It may seem a funny thing to come out with but it’s true. It’s all a question of communication. You have to have the same terms of reference if you are going to sustain a relationship. I don’t mean having money and talking posh. I mean approaching things in the same way. Having the same attitude of mind. If you don’t have that in common then you’re never going to get much further than humping the sack together. It doesn’t normally worry me overmuch. Only sometimes. Very rarely. Occasionally.
‘Crispin’s lucky,’ she says as she opens the front door. ‘He’s got his work. He finds that fulfilling,’ She waits for a moment in the darkness and then turns on the light. ‘I need something more.’
When I think about it, it seems that she was waiting for me to do something. She couldn’t have been – could she? I mean, if it had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But being her, all cool and refined and unattainable, the thought never entered my mind until the moment had gone.
‘You get involved in his work, don’t you?’ I say.
‘Only peripherally. I admire it. I give advice when I’m asked for it. But on the whole, Crispin keeps his work to himself. He keeps everything to himself.’
‘You don’t do anything?’
Mrs Fletcher runs one of her long fingers up my arm. ‘Tea or coffee? Oh, or there’s some Ovaltine if you’d prefer it?’
‘Tea, thanks,’ I say. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, I think you ought to find something to do. Look at Rosie. You’ve no idea what she was like when she first married Sid. It wasn’t until she got bored and opened a boutique that she really started developing as a person.’
‘Developing what?’
The question throws me for a minute. ‘Well – er, self confidence and all that kind of thing. I hardly know her now.’
Mrs Fletcher gives another of her short laughs. ‘Crispin hardly knows me now. I don’t want the situation to get any worse.’
We have gone through to the mod kitchen and Mrs F throws off her coat and gets down to the teapot in a blaze of spotlights. It reminds me of one of those ads in the women’s monthly glossies. Birds always seem to be doing the housework in evening dresses.
Some might be surprised by the turn of events but it is amazing how people, especially women, suddenly start telling you their life history after a few moments’ acquaintance. I find it difficult to believe my ears sometimes.
‘I don’t think Crispin is very interested in women,’ continues Imogen, reaching for a very ancient-looking biscuit tin – blimey! I hope the biscuits aren’t that old. ‘Not sexually, I mean. Has your brother-in-law said anything to you about it?’
‘What? About your husband? No, why should he?’
‘I think Crispin finds him rather attractive.’
‘Sid?!’ The mind boggles. I never saw Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman as a lighthouse for gingers.
‘I think it’s latent, mind you.’
I look at my watch. ‘Yes, it is a bit, isn’t it?’
Mrs Fletcher shakes her head and pours the hot water into the pot. ‘You probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Your sister’s talked to me about you.’ The two remarks seem contradictory but I don’t say anything. I find that when birds are in this mood it is best to let them do the talking. ‘She intimated that you’d led a very protected childhood.’
I am not quite certain what Rosie could have meant by that. Maybe she was referring to the short period I spent giving Her Majesty pleasure at Bentworth Grange. I suppose I was protected then, though I seem to recall the beak saying that he was bent on protecting other people. I reckon he was bent himself, stupid old blee
der! Putting me away for helping in a slum clearance scheme – that’s what it was! I swear to this day that I never thought I was stealing when I helped take the lead off that old building. If anything, I was easing the load on the foundations. Of course, it could have been that Rosie was referring to my sexual innocence. It is amazing how your relations can fool themselves. Especially when they are like Rosie – ravers to the bitter end.
‘I wouldn’t say I was all that protected,’ I say. ‘Ta.’ I accept a cup of tea and Imogen pushes the sugar bowl towards me. ‘I have an artificial sweetener,’ she says. She smiles when she speaks as if enjoying a private joke. I wonder what she is talking about?
‘Come through to the sitting room.’ I do as I am told and follow her into a room with a big bay window and a huge circular lantern that goes up and down on a pulley. Some of the bits of sculpture I wouldn’t hang Dad’s collection of gas masks on, but it’s purely a question of taste. It goes to back up what I was saying earlier about terms of reference. ‘Is it a problem being a good boy?’ she says, patting the sofa beside her.
Now, I know I am going to appear stupid when I say this, but it has never occurred to me up till now that this smashing bird is looking for what I would only be too pleased to give her. I can’t reckon that a lovely tart like that could ever fancy me buttering her tea cake. Even now I am not certain.
‘I’m not very good,’ I say. You don’t want to believe everything Rosie tells you. Sisters don’t always know, you know.’ I try and take a crafty gander at my watch but she notices immediately. She doesn’t miss much, this bird.
‘Worried about getting back?’ she says. ‘Don’t bother yourself about Crispin. He’ll be quite happy talking about false walls or curtain lengths.’ It occurs to me that Imogen Fletcher is a lot more worried about Crispin Fletcher than I am. She never stops talking about the bloke.
‘I was thinking of Mum and Dad, actually,’ I say. ‘I expect they’ll want to be getting back soon. The last bus goes soon.’
‘You’re not going to take him on the bus?! Not in that condition?’
‘No, I suppose you’re right. Sid will have to run us home.’
