Toff Chav

by Miles Hadley

  ‘Christine,’ Gary muttered to himself and smiled, before settling down to sleep again.

  19

  Archie was surprised to receive an invitation to Konstantine’s birthday do. He looked at it angrily. The card was thick, but not in an over-the-top way. The font was perfect and the choice of black rather than gold gave it a reliable sophistication. He had no idea what to do. The invitation was addressed to him and Polly. He had at least wanted Konstantine to get the hint when he was drunk on the Tolstoy II. Now he felt such an idiot. Yes. He had gone too far and Polly and Razza had emphasised this back at the Manoir de Parvenu, when they’d all had a blazing row about Archie’s behaviour.

  Henry had told Archie earlier about Konstantine’s party because ‘With Pleasure’ had been hired to organise the event. The party was to be held at a new stately home acquisition from the Frampton family. The rumour was that, if any of the dearly deceased Framptons knew what was going to occur in their stately home, they would probably have rolled in their graves. Henry told Archie that one of the Framptons had been quite a key British Major General in the Cold War.

  Archie was told that the Frampton estate had fallen on hard times, and that the family’s attempt to increase visitor numbers by borrowing money and expanding the gardens caused them to go bankrupt in the last economic crisis. Henry mentioned that the Zugalovs had pretty much carpetbagged the place at a rock bottom price during the recession. It was said that half the estate workers wept with the Framptons; some, remembering the Framptons’ kindness over the years, even slipped the elderly Mrs Frampton a fiver or two. Archie was told that Mrs Frampton died of a broken heart in a really shitty nursing home, just outside Slough of all places. The very name Slough made Archie’s stomach churn.

  ***

  On the night of the party, Archie and Polly turned up at Frampton Hall, along with Jake Coxwell and Cressilla Fraser-Bing. Razza and his new girlfriend were already there. Razza had driven to the party in a Porsche 911, which Archie was a bit envious of. Security was extremely tight and there was an army of Russian skinhead bodyguards with earpieces. Some of them frisked Archie, much to his disgust and displeasure. He looked at them before being frisked with obvious contempt.

  ‘Oh, you are fucking joking, aren’t you?’ he said.

  Archie noticed that the paddock and drive were full of black Mercedes. He pointed them out to Polly. ‘It’ll be Mafia cavalcade after cavalcade tonight!’

  Polly laughed and snorted into her hand. Archie gestured towards the exterior of Frampton Hall and explained to her how splendid the Framptons were rumoured to have been and related their sorry tale. Archie put his arm around Polly for comfort and said that he hoped the same fate would never fall on Risely.

  They walked to the huge marquee, which was situated next to a lake that was frozen over. There were flaming torches all around lighting the area. In the centre of the marquee was a huge ice sculpture showing Mother Russia and Britannia holding hands. Archie and Polly thought that it was so funny that they had to take pictures of it with their phones and do some selfies in front of it, which immediately got sent to their friends.

  Archie looked at the guests milling around. The men were attired in dinner suits of various varieties. The ladies were very elegantly dressed. Many wore diamond tiaras and fur stoles, as well as Chanel and other designer dresses. One or two of the older ladies looked like they had gone a bit overboard on what was probably very expensive plastic surgery.

  Above, Archie saw crystal chandeliers, their cut glass drops catching the light. Polly commented on their beauty. The flickering light from them seemed to flirt with the light of the diamond jewels of the Russian women. On the stage, a string quartet was playing a piece by Vivaldi. They had already played the ‘Four Seasons’ and were proceeding through a number of the lesser known Ryom-Verzeichnis.

  Much of the food was on display. There was an oyster pyramid, a caviar pyramid and a champagne glass pyramid. An elegant waitress came and offered Archie and Polly champagne, while another offered them oysters and caviar as an aperitif. Archie noticed that there was a black Lamborghini on display. It had a garland tied to it with the words ‘Happy Birthday Konstya’.

  ‘At least it will stand out from all the Mercedes,’ Archie commented.

  Polly smiled. ‘Not if it’s black, it won’t. I really couldn’t tell the difference, to be honest. I mean, a car is a car, isn’t it? I know Razza likes his Porsche, but I’m quite happy with my VW Polo.’

  ‘Which is why I love you all the more,’ said Archie, giving a Polly a quick peck on the cheek and a very happy one on the lips. Secretly, though, Archie still harboured a longing to get his Pa’s old Aston out and about again. It would just crap on Razza, Konstantine and Henry. However, Archie suspected that the Arbuthnott-Percys probably had one or two better cars lurking in a barn collecting dust somewhere.

  Henry approached Archie and Polly with a broad grin on his face. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. All three burst into hysterics. ‘Have you seen what the oligarchical Princelet is getting for his birthday?’

  ‘A fucking Lamborghini!’ Archie laughed. ‘We were just saying that it will make a change to all the Mercedes they have.’

  ‘Too fucking right it will!’ Henry chuckled. ‘Naturally, I arranged for the purchase, and got a lovely commission from his dodgy father – with pleasure!’

  ‘Careful, Henry,’ Archie said. ‘You don’t want to put your foot wrong with this lot. They might have you poisoned or something.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed Henry. ‘It would give a whole new meaning to the term “Plutocrat”!’

  ‘Oh, how very witty, Cuz,’ Polly chuckled.

  ‘Wasn’t it polonium?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Oh, either or,’ Henry responded. ‘I’m sure they’ve got stacks of both somewhere.’

  ‘No cup of tea for me tonight,’ Polly chuckled.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Archie.

  ‘Ditto,’ Henry laughed.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ Archie said. ‘I did put my foot in it back in France, when I got drunk and we were playing cards on the fucker’s yacht.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’ asked Henry.

  ‘He insulted Konstantine and Donna,’ Polly said seriously.

  Henry started laughing. Polly looked at him. ‘It’s not funny, Cuz.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Henry asked Archie.

  ‘I accused him of cheating at cards. Then I said his family had dodgy money and that it wasn’t cricket.’

  ‘And you called Donna an Essex bint,’ Polly interjected.

  Henry burst out laughing. ‘Mate, that was pretty harsh. To be honest, I’m amazed that he invited you here.’

  ‘Well, you know Konstantine,’ replied Archie. ‘He can be a little strange.’

  ‘Look. Here they are now,’ Henry muttered and subtly gestured to Konstantine and Donna.

  As Konstantine welcomed them, Archie, Henry and Polly exchanged secret knowing glances at each other, pleased with their recent discussion and Konstantine’s timely arrival.

  The three wished Konstantine a happy birthday and he beckoned for them to follow him to the Mâitre d’, who showed them to their seats in the marquee.

  During the banquet, the guests were repeatedly asked to raise their glasses to ‘Konstya’ and Archie began to feel bored. Speech after speech was made, both in Russian and English. Konstantine’s father said a very long speech in Russian, which was repeated in English by an interpreter over the microphone.

  ‘That was a bloody marathon if ever I’ve heard one,’ Archie muttered to Polly.

  She gave a laugh and snorted slightly. They held hands under the table.

  The ordeal for Archie was finally over and the Mâitre d’ made an announcement. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Those that wish to skate this evening, please line up in an orderly queue so that your skates can be fitt
ed.’

  Archie looked at Polly and raised his eyebrows. He had not skated before, but Polly had in her childhood and said that she would teach him.

  Once on the rink, a chamber orchestra played music from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Archie stumbled, but Polly aided him. He noticed that she was still able to do an occasional pirouette and he was quite impressed.

  He looked at the Russians, many of whom appeared to be good skaters. He heard an odd mix of Russian being spoken with English. Henry had naturally had a few lessons with one of his many contacts, so skated quite well, but not with the finesse of the Russians, Archie observed.

  There was a festive spirit to the evening, which Archie and Polly grew to like. On the side of the rink there were huge bonfires, next to where guests stood, champagne glasses in hands, observing the many smartly attired skaters. Archie listened to the hubbub of the often excited voices, while a Cossack band started playing traditional Russian music on the balalaikas and accordions, which slowed down and sped up according to the whims of the conductor.

  It was a cold night, but crisp and clear. High above, the stars were chased by the steady ascendance of the yellow sparks of the bonfires. After skating a while, Archie and Polly stood on the side of the rink.

  Polly looked at Archie and smiled. ‘Arch... this is magical... like Narnia or something.’

  Archie grinned and had to agree. ‘Not as magical as you though, Poll.’

  Polly gave her lovely laugh with a snort and they held hands.

  Perhaps Konstantine isn’t so bad, Archie thought. Things were changing. The elite of Britain were changing and, quite often, this elite were doing their level best to fit in. He felt a pang of guilt at what he had said on Konstantine’s yacht in the summer. There was no telling what Konstantine had really felt.

  Henry whizzed past and did quite a slick backwards manoeuvre, causing Archie and Polly to grin and wave at him. Dear Henry, Archie thought to himself. Such a bloody good friend and twice the man of Konstantine. In Archie’s book, the old ways still mattered, and these Russian oligarchs were not the old ways, no matter how much money they brought with them.

  Yet, deep down, Archie knew one thing. Konstantine had managed to ‘beat the crap out of the Aristos for party impressiveness’, and Henry had made this happen. Archie smiled at Jake and Cressilla as they skated past, with Razza and his new girlfriend in hot pursuit. Things are changing fast, Archie thought to himself, and the old guard need to keep up.

  20

  As his days progressed in the little retirement bungalow, Gary slept less and slowly began to recover. He longed to be walking again and Bollard had, by now, reached the execution of Charles I, Cromwellian England and the life of John Lilburne, which Gary had found engrossing.

  ‘You mean, they chopped the geezer’s head off?’

  ‘Yes, Gary. You see, one might say Charles lost his head through sheer arrogance.’

  One particular morning, Gary felt sufficiently well enough to attempt to walk. Much of the bruising had subsided and his black eye was no longer as swollen as it had been. He called for Bollard to assist him. His legs were weak from lack of movement and, at first, he stumbled greatly.

  Gary practised walking around the coffee table, first with his arm around Bollard’s shoulders, until finally he was walking unaided.

  ‘Christine!’ Bollard triumphantly yelled. ‘We have a walker now! He’s not just a talker! It’s one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind!’

  Gary laughed. ‘You are a fucking nut job!’

  ‘Now, now Gary! What have Christine and I told you about the F word in our house?’ said Bollard.

  ‘I couldn’t give a fuck!’ Gary exclaimed. ‘I can fucking walk again!’ He tripped and fell, nearly hitting his head against the coffee table. Bollard immediately rushed to his aid, but Gary was all right. They looked at each other and began laughing.

  ‘You are a fucking nut job!’ Gary repeated, grinning. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

  ‘Now that you are walking again, we’ll rustle up a special one. Full English.’

  It was at the point of the Hanovarian period being read by Bollard that evening, when Gary felt that his time in Bollard’s home should come to an end. He was itching for a smoke and a drink. He had been thinking about Crystal, Jamal and Deano. He even wondered about Sheila and Warren.

  The next day, before he said his goodbye, Gary looked sincerely into Bollard’s eyes. ‘You know what they say about you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They say you’re a fucking paedo.’

  ‘Young man,’ replied Bollard. ‘Do you think I care? I have Christine and my books with me. That’s all I need. We couldn’t care less what people say.’

  Gary was about to argue with Bollard, but something held him back. He shook Bollard’s hand with his better one and said, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Bollard. ‘If you’d like to continue with the lessons…’

  ‘I’ll see,’ Gary responded, looking away. He limped off, but turned briefly and smiled.

  Upon his return to the little council house where he and Sheila lived, he unlocked the door and stepped in. It appeared that his sister and Warren were out. Gary sat in the squalid lounge, thinking deeply about so many things. He thought of his existence on the estate. He thought of old Bollard and all of the history that he had learnt from him. He wanted to break out from his existence and live. He wanted to achieve great things, like those historical characters of old. Yet, he realised something – it would be incredibly difficult for him to do so. Gary felt exasperated, angry, frustrated and he was close to tears. He was still in physical pain, so he lay down on the couch and was soon asleep.

  He was eventually awoken by a familiar voice. ‘Gary!’ At first he thought it was his mum’s, but he knew that was impossible. ‘Gary. Where the fuck have you been?’

  It was Sheila, his sister. Her face could have been his mum’s. As his vision blurred into reality, he suddenly realised the resemblance that he had not noticed before.

  ‘Hello, Sis.’

  ‘Gary, where the fuck have you been?’ Sheila repeated. She was holding the baby, Warren.

  ‘Places to be, people to see,’ he replied evasively.

  ‘Look at you, Gary,’ said Sheila. ‘You’re in a right fucking state. How did you get the black eye and bruises?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fucking nice,’ shouted Sheila. ‘That’s fucking nice, Gary. You disappear for days and fucking days. There I am... there I fucking am, worried sick about you, and then you just turn up... looking like shit.’

  Warren started crying.

  ‘Don’t start,’ Gary said resignedly to Sheila.

  ‘What do you fucking mean, don’t start?’

  ‘I don’t want to fucking argue with you.’

  ‘Well, it never fucking stopped you before.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Gary. ‘I’m fucking knackered. Got a sore fucking head still.’

  ‘Were you in a fight?’

  ‘I don’t want to fucking talk about it.’

  ‘Fucking social services are threatening to come around. Warren’s not well. I’m worried they’re going to take him.’

  Gary looked at his sister. He looked straight into her eyes and smiled. The first time for a long time. ‘We won’t let them, Sis.’

  There was a moment of silence as their eyes met. The silence was interrupted only by the gurgles of Warren, who had now calmed down.

  Sheila changed her tone. ‘Truth be told, I’m fucking scared. I mean, what kind of a future is it for him? How will he fucking end up? Like us?’

  ‘I know.’ With that, Gary did something that he had not done since he and his sister were little. He struggled from the couch, went over to Sheila and kissed her on the forehead.

 
; ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m here for you and Warren. Do you fucking understand that?’

  ‘Gary…’ Sheila said. ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘We’ve got to make things better, Sis. There’s a food bank just opened up. We should use it. Get what we need for us all. I’m sorry about being a fucking cunt.’

  ‘Gary? What’s brought this on? Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I dunno... It’s just, I’ve realised… even if neither of us make it, Warren has to. He’s got to be something.’

  ‘And how’s that gonna happen, Gaz? This place is a shit hole. People don’t care.’

  ‘Remember Mum, Sis?’

  ‘Only bits.’

  ‘She was a good woman. She did her best for us. We’ve just gone fucking downhill since she... died.’

  Sheila began to cry. ‘Mum used to say things would get better for us. But they never did, Gaz. They never did.’

  Gary gave Sheila a hug. ‘Are you going soft or what?’ she chuckled.

  ‘I’m worried about Warren, Sis. Mum would go apeshit if she was here. What if the little shite dies?’

  Sheila looked at him in surprise. ‘Gaz... you’ve changed.’

  Gary thought of the Death Squad and of Bollard, but did not say anything.

  That evening, as dusk settled upon the dreary gloom of the estate, Gary limped down Bevan Road alone. He sat down at his favourite private spot – part of the concrete overpass next to the railway line. The place where he liked to stop and think and wonder about the passing commuters. He wondered what sort of lives they led. It was the place where he could dream to be one of them; to be a person with a destination in life.

  He saw old Bollard as the key. There was something that had really hit him. Whatever had hit him was not hard, like the environs of the estate. It was a softness that had come from the kindness of a fellow human being. Gary was still reeling from the impact of this and felt dazed and confused.