A Patient Man

by S. Lynn Scott

  “It says we will learn somefink to our advantage,” nagged mum. “It could be an in’eritance.”

  “Who do you know that has any money to leave us?” replied Dad heavily.

  “Well, I dunno, it could be some great aunt or summat.”

  “I don’t have any great aunts.”

  “Well, maybe I do,” replied Mum doggedly. “I might do, me mum might ‘ave ‘ad sisters or brothers. Or maybe it’s me dad ‘as tracked me down.”

  “Yer mum never knew who yer father was so it don’t seem likely, does it?” That was probably the cruellest thing I had ever heard my dad say to my mother, but she’d heard it before throughout her life and had accepted the truth of it years ago. Besides at that moment, she had other things on her mind.

  “Well, stranger things ‘ave ‘appened,” she persisted and, little though she knew it at the time, a much stranger thing was about to happen.

  “No good can come of letters from lawyers,” grunted my dad opening the Racing Times.

  “But it specifically said that it is ‘to discuss the disposal of a large sum of money and it will be to our advantage to go. And they want the kids to go too…”

  “It’s a trick, a con, a sting, woman. Forget it.”

  Mum was silent, and I could just see her staring at the parchment, crumpled with much re-reading.

  “The disposal of a large sum of money,” she mused on the words before her.

  Of course, she was going to go. The letter promised so much. Very few people would be able to resist such temptation and my mother was less able than most. My father was a deal more cynical and didn’t believe for a moment that there was anything to be tempted by.

  “It says to go to their offices. Barker and Sons ‘ave been on that street in Southend for years.”

  Dad sighed.

  “I got Vi to check for me.”

  “For Christ’s sake, woman, keep your distance from that treacherous cow or she’ll bring us all down.”

  He shook out the paper in disgust and continued pretending to read. Mum was silent for a few minutes, but she wasn’t one to give up that easily.

  “Established in 1947,” Mum read from the letterhead to underline her point about respectability. About which trait she knew nothing. “I just can’t see that they would be mixed up in anyfink dodgy and we wouldn’t ‘ave to agree to anyfink. So long as we don’t sign anyfink there can’t be any anyfink they can do and wot ‘ave we got to lose.”

  “I said no.”

  This provoked a torrent of colourful abuse from my mother, the purport of which was that Dad was ignorant, selfish, stupid, illegitimate, corpulent and anatomically amazingly flexible. She used different words of course. Just imagine that from now on every second word uttered by my mum was a variation on fornication sprinkled with many other anatomically referenced four-letter words and you will get the flavour of the woman and the word count on this manuscript will be considerably lower.

  Dad just shrugged. He was generally foul-mouthed too but with less passion and, as he said considerably less, the epithets were exponentially lower in number.

  That was that. Dad left the room followed by mum, still spitting invective like a cat, and I heard no more.

  Mum kept the letter with her almost constantly so getting hold of it was a challenge, even for the manipulative little sod that I was then. I was reduced to sneaking into my parent’s bedroom whilst Dad was in the pub and Mum in the bathroom. Luckily, she had elected to take a long hot bath that evening because it took some time to find. Handbag, no. Bedside table, no. Underwear drawer, no. That was a trial for a nine-year-old boy I can tell you. After that I honestly think that Freud’s theory that all boys grow up wanting to sleep with their mother is complete twaddle, not to say downright disgusting. Wardrobe, no, but the bed was a mess as if it had not been made for weeks (entirely likely as Mum wasn’t keen on housewifely duties) and in a flash of inspiration I discovered the life-changing letter tucked into her pillowcase.

  “Tuesday, 9 am at Barkers and Sons Offices, 21 Esplanade Way, Southend on Sea.”

  And there was my name, Michael James Tomlinson, which I almost didn’t recognise as my own, being so used to Mikey. I returned the letter to its hiding place under the pillow and slipped from the room. Mum might disobey Dad and Sarah might follow her lead, but she wouldn’t risk it as far as myself or Gary were concerned. Anyway, it wouldn’t matter to her whether we were there or not. She was only really interested in what advantage there might be for herself from this meeting.

  On Tuesday morning I was up at six. I dressed myself with care. I had it in mind that I ought to go smartly dressed but this posed somewhat of a problem. I didn’t have many clothes, they were all cheap and I tended to be quite hard on those that I did have, consequently, knees and elbows were scuffed and frayed, and none were particularly clean. Much against my own inclinations I elected to wear my grey school trousers and the least grey of my white school shirts that I could find. I thought about the school tie but had used it recently during a heavy cold so decided against it and pulled a yellow and purple flowered one from the still sleeping Gary’s drawer. It was the 70’s, remember. As an afterthought, I also purloined a purple wool jumper that had shrunk in the wash. That completed my rather startling ensemble. I was quite pleased with the effect as I glimpsed myself in the hall mirror. I slicked down my tousled hair and rubbed my teeth with my fingers. I did not want to take the chance of using the bathroom and being discovered. I had the money I had scraped together from my usual scavenging of returnable bottles and had, for the first time ever, borrowed money from Bones, whose parents, it must be said, were a damn sight more forthcoming with pocket money than mine to whom the concept never occurred. So, I slipped from the house and walked to the bus stop secure of my return fare and with enough for a cheap breakfast once there.

  Over the bridge to Benfleet and up the long hill to Hadleigh and Leigh and along the unrelenting sprawl of houses and shops and businesses that line the Thames all the way from Shoeburyness to London. Southend’s town centre was made of concrete. Vast slabs of cold, grey concrete. I can’t say much more about it than that. However, even in those days, Southend-on-Sea had other attractions. At that time the esplanade was the epitome of cheap English seaside resorts and was complete with stalls selling ‘Kiss Me Quick Hats’ and other delights, a pier claiming to be the longest in the world, a long strip of beach, punctuated with wooden breakwaters that reached into the estuary mud and, of course, fairground rides. Entertainment enough for the young, brash and easily pleased. That morning in the early spring sunshine, to a nine-year-old boy with time to kill, it was a place of enchantment.

  I don’t know that I felt any trepidation at the potential ordeal I faced. My name had been on the letter after all so why should I not present myself in my grown-up finery (even though the tie was bloody uncomfortable) and demand entrance as a right? It did occur to me that it might be some horrible mistake and that they meant some other Michael James Tomlinson entirely. That caused me a few moments of painful uncertainty, but I thrust the possibility aside, bought myself a chocolate bar, a bag of crisps and a coke and sat on the beach to enjoy my breakfast. At half past eight, I climbed what are grandly called the cliffs but is little more than a sharp incline up into town, asked several passersby the time until I found one who responded and presented myself at the grand glass doors of Barker & Sons, to the best of my judgment, just a few minutes before nine. Mum and Sarah weren’t there of course. I felt sure they would turn up eventually, but Mum never ever arrived early for anything. She had no concept of timekeeping and rarely rose before 10 am, so if she turned up before 11 it would be a miracle.

  Faced with an expanse of gold-lettered glass I was suddenly at a loss. In my naivety, I knocked politely. At this, a dark-skinned woman in her twenties with big hair, red lips, and emphatic shoulder pads leaned forward at her desk beyond the
glass doors and frowned at me. I knocked again. She gave me a filthy look but when I knocked yet again she rolled her eyes and made a pushing gesture which could have meant push off or push the door, you toerag. I took it to mean the latter. They were heavy doors, but I gave it my all and fell onto the marble floor in the walnut-wooded atrium with much less dignity than I had intended.

  “Yes,” she rapped down at me, her shapely brows drawn together over fine blue eyes. I picked myself up.

  “Michael James Tomlinson,” I said cockily to cover my confusion. I sauntered over and leaned on her desk.

  “Who?” she said, scathingly. Behind her was a double staircase that swept up about ten feet or so to a landing and behind which were several doors. A large, pinstripe-suited gentleman with a completely bald pink head had emerged from one of these doors just in time to catch my name as I repeated it loudly and, I must admit, very cheekily. Surprisingly he came to my rescue.

  “Master Tomlinson is my nine o’clock appointment. Please make him coffee or a tea, whatever he wants, and conduct him to the conference room.”

  “Bloody ‘ell,” I thought, listening to the well-honed voice whisper around the paneled walls. I couldn’t analyse my reaction any more succinctly than that. “Bloody ‘ell,” I thought again as the girl rose to reveal long, long legs under a skirt that was short but still classy.

  “I beg your pardon, Master Tomlinson,” she said smoothly. “Please come with me.”

  I followed the legs up the split staircase to the landing. The bald man had closed the door of his office behind him and, so we passed that by and went to a heavy oak door proudly proclaimed as the Conference Room by a shiny, brass plaque. It revealed itself to be a large, high-ceilinged room with stucco architraves, moulded fireplace, ornately framed portraits of suited, middle-aged gentlemen and three tall wide windows through which blossomed trees peeped. Central to the room was a massive table glossily reflecting the sunshine, surrounded by twelve sturdy chairs. Embossed leather placemats were before each seat and the girl, stepping back for me to enter, gestured vaguely, indicating that I could take any seat I desired.

  “Tea or coffee, sir?”

  I glanced at her suspiciously. I was sure that in calling me sir she was taking the piss, but her face was serene.

  “Tea,” I said, and then, with a confused idea that tea was common, and that coffee was sophisticated, “No, coffee.”

  Her lip curled slightly.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Definitely taking the piss. I gave her a two-fingered salute as she closed the heavy door on me and then looked guiltily around, afraid of being secretly observed. I particularly checked the eyes of each of the portraits just in case. Well, you never know, and I was still only nine remember.

  There ensued quite a long wait. Knowing my mother’s innate tardiness, I expected that. Even the smell of money couldn’t get her to organise her life to coincide with others. The girl with the smooth legs tripped in with a bone china coffee cup on a tray accompanied by a matching cream jug and a sugar bowl with silver tongs. Two thin sophisticated looking biscuits sat on a delicate side plate and even they seemed to regard me with disdain.

  “There you are, sir,” she said cockily. “Do let me know if there is anything else you desire, sir.”

  She swept sinuously towards the door and, draping herself elegantly, dropped into a low, mocking curtsy before closing it behind her. I gave her another two-fingered salute, stuck out my tongue and called her a very unflattering name which I am fairly sure she didn’t deserve before I remembered that I had intended to be grown up and dignified for this important meeting. Whatever it was.

  I turned my attention to the coffee which smelt delicious but, to my youthful palate, tasted foul. I added five sugar lumps and a generous helping of cream to make it more palatable but that overfilled the cup and the liquid sloshed into the saucer. Not knowing what else to do I raised the saucer to my lips and slurped up the sweet liquid in a very undignified manner. Then I bit into one of the disdainful biscuits and discovered that they tasted of marzipan. I hate marzipan, and I detested it and anything else almond related when I was young, so I sauntered over to one of the highly decorated pots on the window sill and spat the soggy mess into one of them.

  To that point, my attempts at sophistication had been less than successful so I gave up on that plan, pulled out one of the chairs, sat down and leaned disconsolately on the shiny table. I think it was inlaid with different types of wood all around. It was clearly expensive. I was very tempted to get out my little pocket knife, the very same that I had used to cut the rags that had bound old Bert, and mark my presence permanently on at least one article of decadence in the room, but, considering that the repercussions might be infinitely more serious than they had been for my artistic efforts on school desks, I decided not to indulge. Besides I wanted to hear what they had to say before I defaced their property. That might still be an option later.

  The minutes ticked by. At least I supposed they did. There was no clock in the room and I had never owned a watch. To relieve the monotony, I took a few turns around the room, looked through the windows to a leafy courtyard below and terraced Edwardian houses beyond, inspected the portraits in detail yet again and made faces at the small white busts of Greek or Roman people on the mantelpiece. Then I returned to my chair and started knocking the table legs with my feet for something to do.

  I had given up bewailing my boredom and taking it out on the furniture and had started daydreaming about, when I was old enough and had presumably learnt something about navigation, although that didn’t figure strongly in my plans, I would take (steal) one of the more seaworthy boats from Canvey boatyard and set sail to the Bahamas, perhaps with Bones but more likely by myself. I was happily planning the most important aspect of my adventure, what I would buy from Bill’s corner shop to stock up for the long voyage when the door opened, the dark-skinned girl curled her lip in my direction and my mother walked in.

  “What the ruddy ‘ell are you doing here, you little sod?” was wrenched from her before she could stop herself.

  Sarah, just behind her, protested “Mu-u-u-m,” in a disapproving wail. The attractive girl’s lip curled even further.

  Mum was dressed remarkably well all things considered. She had kept her petite figure, despite her age and random child-bearing and, although her hair was the texture as well as the colour of straw, it retained a faded glamour. On this occasion, she had chosen to wear a short skirt and very high platform shoes which was not good, but she had seen fit to cover her cleavage and the rest of her curves with a loose batwing top which was good. She had overdone it with the cheap jewelry though. Sarah…well, there was no hope for Sarah. She managed to look like a particularly unattractive trollop whatever she wore and over the months her pregnancy had served to increase her voluptuousness to bursting point. She had decided to celebrate her now magnificent cleavage by, not so much wearing an uplifting bra, as hoisting her breasts on to a sort of shelf. The sophisticated receptionist was highly entertained.

  Sadly, I am well aware that, on that day, I was no picture of sartorial elegance either.

  Anyway, when Mum recovered from her surprise at finding me there and had established, by irritable interrogation, that I had brought myself with no help from anyone she relaxed enough to ignore the sardonically raised eyebrow and to reply to the girl’s smooth request.

  “Tea…no, coffee,” she stuttered, exactly as I had done and with no doubt the same thought processes.

  Sarah demanded tea and instructed that it be strong.

  “Not like gnat’s pee.”

  I felt a sneaking admiration for her at that point. For some reason that I did not understand my half-sister did not feel any necessity to alter her behaviour to fit her circumstances. Neither of them bothered to inspect the room as I had done. Sarah because she was too bone idle and could see what she wanted fr
om any chair in the room and Mum because she was nervous as hell and anyway could only recognise quality if it had a price tag attached.

  Mum took the chair next to me and put her capacious gold handbag, which didn’t match anything she was wearing, onto the table as if to create as many obstacles as possible in front of herself and the door through which the agent of this mystery was to appear.

  The next thing that happened on this unusual and life-changing morning was after all not so surprising when you knew the relationship between my mother and my father.

  The door was opened once more but not by the girl this time. Perhaps she was brewing the extra strong tea for Sarah. Spitting in it is more likely.

  The bald man entered briefly, nodded at each one of us in turn and then stood back for my father and Gary to enter. Dad came straight in and took a chair opposite me and Mum, indicating the one next to him for Gary.

  “Tea, coffee?” purred the bald man.

  “No,” responded Dad curtly and without thought. The bald man left closing the door and I imagined him raising two immaculate fingers behind it, but he was probably too distinguished for that.

  Of course, Dad would not let Mum come without him. He had known that in this at least she would disobey him and if she were to be here then so must he. He would face a lot for her sake. She was annoyed but not surprised. She shrugged when he looked at her and turned her head away.

  “Did you bring the boy?” he asked. Mum laughed, a short, hard mirthless laugh.

  “’E wuz ‘ere when I got ‘ere. Came by ‘imself, I fink.”

  Dad looked at me and I nodded. Gary slumped in his chair, pulled out a roll-up and lit it without bothering to look for an ashtray first. When the coffee tray eventually appeared carried by the now efficient and professional receptionist it contained a gold-rimmed ashtray but until then he used his hand. This, if you think about it, showed a fine awareness of his surroundings as, under any other circumstances, he would have thought nothing of using the floor.