by Miles Hadley
‘Look, I’ll think of something to improve stuff,’ replied Gary.
‘But we’ve got to improve now, Gaz! Time has run out! We can’t improve in time to keep Warren! Oh, my God!’
‘Pull yourself together, Sis! Try and pull yourself together. Look... stop panicking and try and hold yourself together.’
‘I feel so fucking stupid!’ said Sheila. ‘He’s my son, for Christ’s sake! Once he’s gone, he’ll forget me! Me! His own bloody mother!’
Gary turned to Sally, who was now leaning against the door frame of the bedroom.
‘Look, Sheila love,’ she began. ‘We’re only trying to act in the best interests of Warren. Poppet, you can always visit him when he’s in care. We understand your situation, love. It’s happening more and more. You wouldn’t believe the number of cases I have to deal with now, where the mother and child don’t even have a proper home above their heads. They just move from hostel to hostel. It breaks my heart having to tell mums that I have to take their child into care, it really does. But I’m sorry, love, we just have to do this for him.’
‘I’ve tried my best,’ Sheila sobbed.
‘Yes, love, you did your best, but now it’s time to make sure that Warren’s general welfare is a priority. He’ll be well looked after and, like I said before, you can always visit.’
Gary watched as Sheila sobbed before kissing Warren on the head. She slowly passed Warren to Sally’s outstretched arms.
Gary looked sincerely into Sheila’s eyes. ‘We’ll get Warren back, Sis. Don’t worry.’
Gary and Sheila hugged each other tightly as Sally passed Warren to the other social worker, who smiled sympathetically.
23
Archie and Henry met in Spratt’s, the Gentlemen’s club. Places like Spratt’s had seen a resurgence in membership of late. They were in the library, just the two of them, by the fire, sampling one or two single malts. Archie had opted for Glendronach, Henry a Highland Park. They had thought about a game of Real Tennis, but had decided on Spratt’s instead as neither of them were feeling very energetic.
It began like this from Henry. ‘You haven’t been in touch very much recently.’
‘Well, what do you expect, Hen? I think I’ve fallen in love with Polly.’
Henry gave a look of disgust. ‘Oh, come off it, Arch! You’re not serious about that Raynard girl, are you?’
‘Of course I fucking am, Hen... and that Raynard girl is a relation of yours, if my memory serves me correctly.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t give a fuck about us being related or not. What the fuck’s happened to you, Arch? What’s happened to us being the Brito-Romano Princes with our joint harems and orgies?’
Archie thought about it briefly. ‘I don’t know… It’s…’
‘It’s what?’ Henry’s face was crimson. He looked fuming.
‘Its just...’ continued Archie. ‘Poll... and the Oxford days... that Hugh Despenser Society shit... it’s over.’
‘And what about me?’ said Henry. ‘Where do I fucking come in all of this? I mean, it’s bloody obvious Polly doesn’t think much of me.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ replied Archie. ‘You know she likes you.’
‘But Arch... she’s not into what we’re into... fucking, drugging and boozing.’
‘Polly is a different kettle of fish.’
‘But what about the models and fucking... the blokes you were shagging?’
‘Hen... if you really want to know, I think that I’m changing.’
‘For her?’
‘Yes... for Poll.’
‘But Arch, what about me? What about us?’
‘We’re still close.’
‘But not in that way anymore... I mean, when was the last time we...’
‘Oh, fuck off!’ Archie was starting to get angry. ‘What about that blondie you picked up at Steals?’
‘Oh, that Swedish bitch... She was nothing to me. Just a shag.’
‘And the brunette at the Shoddleys?’
‘Yes...’ replied Henry. ‘Oh, you know what, Arch... just forget it. I’m fucking off.’ He got up out of the chair.
‘I want to marry her, Henry,’ said Archie.
With that, Henry stormed off in a rage, almost barging a waiter out of the way in the process. Archie had never seen him looking so angry before. Then he understood. Henry was properly in love with him! The fucker! The actual fucking fag!’
Archie was worried. What if, from now on, things became awkward between them? He began to feel sickened. It had not just been Henry. It had been Archie as well. There had been good times, but somehow not the sort of good time that he was getting with Polly now. Yes, Henry and he had probably been in love. But was it like anything that he was experiencing now? Were all those orgies and one-night stands anything compared to what he felt for his dear, sweet Poll?
Christ almighty, he suddenly thought. I am properly in love and I no longer give a fuck about just a fuck.
‘Amazing,’ Archie said to himself as he gazed into the roaring fire. He no longer gave a fuck about just a fuck! He suddenly got up, putting his whiskey glass down and yelled into the fire. ‘I no longer give a fuck about just a fuck!’
The waiter came over and he looked slightly worried. ‘Sir, are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Archie said, looking straight into his eyes. ‘But you know what?’
The waiter shook his head, clearly not understanding him.
‘I no longer give a fuck about just a fuck!’ said Archie and he started laughing. ‘And I want to marry Polly Raynard next May.’
With that, he walked out of the library, down the great oak staircase and out of the huge doors and past the doormen. He was in fucking love – properly in love – and he no longer gave a fuck about just a fuck.
Archie immediately grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialled Polly.
‘Polly!’ he said. ‘How are you – where are you?’
‘I’m just in between lectures,’ she replied. ‘Where are you? Are you all right, Arch?’
‘Polly. You know fucking what? I’m actually over the fucking moon!’
Polly started laughing and Archie could hear that endearing snort afterwards. ‘What are you over the fucking moon about?’ she asked.
‘Oh, only you, Poll. What are you doing later?’
‘I’m... not much,’ she giggled and snorted.
‘I’m coming over once I’ve done a shoot at the studio.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because I think I’m over the moon about you, that’s why!’
Polly proceeded to laugh again and gorgeously snort again down the phone.
‘I’ll aim for seven and we’re having supper in,’ Archie said.
‘Shall I cook something up?’
‘No. We’ll cook it together.’
‘But I thought you couldn’t cook?’
‘Well, that’s the fucking point, Poll. I want you to teach me. I want you to just teach me stuff. Seriously, Poll, I think that I’ve fallen for you.’
Later on at the studio, Archie took the pictures and appreciated the models, but now it was somehow different. One of the models whom he had slept with on one occasion before proceeded to flirt with him, but he brushed the bitch off. Yes, she was a stunner. Yes, she had been a good shag. But was she also a spot on Poll? It was an emphatic ‘No’. Genevieve Fulton no longer had that attraction for him. In between her fake pouts in the photo shoots, she proceeded to glare at him in a way that was a female version of what dear old Henry had been doing earlier in Spratt’s, only with less intensity.
Later that afternoon, Archie had never been as exasperated with London traffic as on that day. He wanted to be with Polly, and here were all these fucking plebby drivers clogging up the fucking roads and preventing them from being together. He began to
get angry in a way that he had never been angry at the wheel before. He started swearing and giving drivers the finger. He wanted them to know he was pissed at the plebs. Pissed at them for preventing him, Archie Hodgkin-Smith – Mr Hodgkin-Smith – from getting to his dear, dear Polly Raynard.
Driving the Range Rover up the motorway to Cambridge, he put his foot down on the accelerator, no longer caring about speeding. Nothing mattered to him much anymore other than being with his dear, sweet Poll.
Eventually, he made it and was in such a rush to park that the car was completely skew-whiff in the parking space. The time was now 8pm – an hour late. The London traffic had been diabolical. Shitty, shitty, shitty, Archie thought.
Archie slammed the car door behind him and looked up at the nondescript apartment block and worked out that the lights were on in his darling Polly’s flat. She would be there and he would, too. Shit, he couldn’t cook, but they would cook something together and it would taste great – even if it was a can of beans on toast with marge. Why? Because it would be with his dear, dear Poll.
So he ran up the stairs, knocked on the door and there she was. They kissed, and that kiss tasted even better than whatever they were going to have for supper – he was sure of it.
24
Gary did not know what to do when the social workers took the baby, Warren, his nephew, away. He started to blame himself. If only he had paid more attention in the first place. If only this. If only that. Deep down, he felt smaller and more insignificant than he had ever felt. The mere existence of his life had sunk further to deeper and darker depths. He still felt the physical pain, but inside of him there was a pain akin to grief; akin to when he had lost his mum. Pain, but also shame.
He comforted Sheila, who would not stop weeping.
‘I’ve let us down, Gaz. I’ve let the whole family down,’ she sobbed.
‘We’ll figure something out,’ he relied. ‘We’ll change. We’ll get Warren back and things will be better.’
‘How are we fucking going to do that?’ she sobbed. ‘If they think I can’t look after him now, what would they think in the future?’
Crystal had come round to visit them, but Gary had told her that he no longer wanted a relationship with her. She broke down in tears before leaving and muttered the words, ‘I get it.’
Deano and Jamal also visited, but all Gary could do was to think of what Bollard had said about them being yellow bellied and running away. He got angry and told them to fuck off.
‘All right, all right, we’re going,’ Deano said as they left.
Gary thought of Bollard. He could not get him out of his mind. He could not get all that history out his mind. He decided to do something about it. He decided to talk to him again.
He told Sheila he was going out for a bit.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Places to be. People to see,’ he replied, smiling at her. ‘We’ll figure something out, Sis. We’ll figure it out.’
When he arrived at Bollard’s door, Gary was at first hesitant about knocking. He didn’t know what to say to begin with. He didn’t know whether it was the right thing to do – until he remembered. He remembered Bollard’s offer to teach him shortly before he had limped away.
Gary knocked on the door. Bollard answered.
‘Ah! Young man! We were just discussing you only yesterday and wondering if we’d see you again. Come in! Come in! Christine! The young gentleman we helped is back! Take a seat, young man. I’ll just go and make us a cup of tea with the good lady wife.’
Gary sat down briefly on the couch, upon which he had recovered, but then got up again and started to browse along the bookshelves. Beowulf, Julius Caesar’s The Conquest of Gaul, Piers the Ploughman, Canterbury Tales, Aristotle, Plato’s Republic, Machiavelli’s The Prince.
He slowly read all of the exotic titles in wonderment. Bollard returned, causing Gary to suddenly look up and put The Prince back in its slot.
‘No, no,’ said Bollard, carrying the now familiar Coalport tea set on the tray. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you. So you’ve still got the history bug, have you?’
Gary smiled nervously. He then tried to suppress his smile with a deliberate frown.
Bollard put the tray on the coffee table. ‘Christine! The young man’s caught the history bug! I told you he had! Now, young man, what were you just looking at? Ah...!’
Bollard pulled out the book that Gary had quickly put back.
‘The Prince,’ he said. ‘Some would say one of the wickedest instruction manuals for any modern-day politician. I blame this book for so much of our political ills... Isn’t that right, Christine? What?’ Bollard paused, as if listening to somebody. ‘Without darkness... She’s trying to say something... Oh, without darkness, we wouldn’t have light... Well, yes darling, I suppose that’s true... But Machiavelli... how should I describe him? Probably as a shining light of darkness.’
Gary grinned, already intrigued. ‘Why’s that?’
‘The Prince, young man, is pretty much an instruction manual for the princes of the day to strengthen or gain more power. It’s still very relevant to today’s politicians, although it was written in the 1500s during the Renaissance. It’s rather ruthless... help yourself.’ Bollard gestured to the tea. ‘Digestives today.’ He smiled at Gary with a satisfied twinkle in his eye.
Gary smiled back. ‘Thanks for helping me before,’ he said.
‘That’s all right. You look much better now. Doesn’t he, Christine?’ Bollard yelled towards the kitchen.
There was a silence before Gary asked Bollard a question that had been nagging at him. ‘How did you end up here?’
‘How do you mean, young man?’
‘I mean, how did you come to end up in this shit hole?’
‘Now that, young man, is a very good question,’ Bollard chuckled. ‘Golly, Christine, where do we begin? Yes, all right, love. I’ll start then.’
There was a pause, during which Bollard took a sip from his cup of tea and looked at Gary.
‘Young man,’ he began, ‘people rise and people fall, like the shadows that follow them. It all began when Christine and I were married. We were so happy. I had just graduated in History at the University of York and then we married and I came down to London to teach History. We had a lovely house in Balham and I taught at a Grammar school. Christine taught English part time at a local state school.
‘Things were going so well for us. We had a mortgage on our place, which we could afford, but then things started to go wrong when I saw a financial advisor. He offered us this thing called an endowment mortgage, which we switched to. The dastardly thing followed us like a shadow until we went bankrupt. My wife had a breakdown and then I had one, too. We lost everything, Christine and me. As quickly as we had been happy, we were suddenly hit by financial disaster.’
‘That’s how you ended up here?’
‘Yes,’ said Bollard. ‘We couldn’t cope after our breakdowns. You see, although we both had jobs, because of our health we couldn’t hold on to them anymore and… well, the rest is history, I suppose... Isn’t that right, Christine?’ He paused and then chuckled sadly. ‘Oh, how I wish I had not taken that idiot’s advice.’
‘Cunt,’ Gary muttered.
‘Now, young man, mind your French in our house, please.’ Bollard leant forward and smiled. ‘Christine really abhors it.’
‘Sorry,’ Gary said.
‘But, talking of the French...’ continued Bollard. ‘Have you ever wondered where the two-fingered salute comes from?’
‘What? The “V” sign?’ said Gary.
‘The reversed one. Not the Churchillian one, but the other.’
‘No. Where?’
‘Deep in the darkest depths of our history, when we were at war with France.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘England was renowned on the battlefield for having the best archers, or longbow men,’ explained Bollard. ‘The two fingers were needed to unleash the wrath of our arrows upon the French Knights. So, the French would chop off the English archers’ fingers if they captured them. That is why the archers would show their fingers to the French to show that they still had theirs, as an act of defiance.’
‘That’s pretty sick,’ said Gary. ‘Is that true?’
‘Well, I like to think so, young man,’ replied Bollard. ‘It had to come from somewhere, and I suspect it is our military history.’
‘So, you’re telling me that, after all those centuries, people have been giving the two-fingered salute because of that?’
‘That I am... Now, go on... have another digestive.’
There was another silence before Bollard asked Gary a question. ‘Where do you see yourself, young man?’
‘I see myself on a train with all the others,’ replied Gary. ‘Going somewhere.’
‘You mean to say that you’d like to be a commuter?’
‘A commuter with a future.’
‘But young man,’ said Bollard, ‘there are many different varieties of commuter. What would you like to be in life?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ Gary replied despondently. ‘Maybe a lawyer or accountant.’
‘Has nobody ever asked you before?’
‘No.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died.’
Bollard looked sympathetically at Gary. ‘We are very sorry to hear that, young man. How did you do at school?’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Gary and smiled.
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Do at school.’
Bollard laughed out loud. ‘Christine! He’ll be the end of us! What, young man, do you mean – you didn’t do at school?’
Gary shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything.’
‘Now, I did realise that our schools were going downhill, but I didn’t realise it had got to this!’ laughed Bollard. ‘Sacre bleu!’
‘Sacre what?’ said Gary.
