[Phoenix Court 04] - Fancy Man

by Paul Magrs

  “I’ve lived here most of my life, but no. I still identify as English, at a push. I’m not as closed-in as the Scottish tend to be.”

  “Is that what they’re like? Belinda’s born Scottish, isn’t she?”

  Wendy nodded. “One of the few real Scots living in central Edinburgh. And she’s not know for being closed-in. Colin’s give to these sweeping generalisations.”

  “You know what I mean, though,” Colin said. “Scots have a great capacity for ignoring what’s going on right in front of them. Like when Princess Diana died. Off went the Royals to church at Balmoral, the very same morning. And in the service, the death of Saint Diana wasn’t mentioned once. That’s exactly it. Put a lid on it. Ignore it. That’s the Scots.”

  “But that was more to do with the Queen,” she said. “I think you’re being unfair.”

  “Well,” said Colin. “I’ve been involved with more Scottish people than you have.”

  For the rest of the trip to the Scarlet Empress on the slow decline of Broughton Street, Wendy thought about the Sunday Diana died. Coin had wept throughout the day, for the death of a princess, an icon, someone he saw as bringing common sense and the common touch. Aunty Anne had taunted him with her hasty theories of conspiracies, cover-ups, secret service shenanigans. Colin retreated to his room and played ‘Candle in the Wind’ repeatedly. “I’ll never get to meet her now,” he said, later that night.

  In the café they managed to secure Colin’s favourite table by the window, and spread out the large yellow menus. The proprietor, chuckling, bald, in vest top and PVC trousers, greeted them and Wendy asked for three pints and a snack of bruschetta, tomatoes and Mozarella.

  “But we mustn’t eat too much, or Belinda will be cross.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to meet her, after all,” said Timon.

  Colin rolled his eyes. “Do you see yourself as a Lancastrian, then?” he asked Timon. “Do you think of people like that? As belonging in places?”

  “I’m a free spirit,” said Timon frankly, as their fizzy lagers arrived in wet glasses. “I was born in London. I don’t like it there much. But I can live anywhere. With people, more than places.”

  “Might you stay in Edinburgh, then?” From Colin it sounded like a challenge.

  Timon was soaking up the atmosphere. Brenda Soobie on the café speakers, singing ‘What now, my love?’ “I might just,” he said easily. “We’ll just have to see how it goes.” He turned to Wendy. “Is this a café just for faggots, then?”

  “Faggots and their friends,” she said.

  “How nice,” he said, tartly. And Wendy thought: that’s one in the eye for Colin. Serve him right.

  “It’s very cramped in here,” Colin complained, once their bread and tomatoes had arrived.

  “I’ve felt cramped all day,” said Timon. “That train was murder. I was sitting with this very old American couple and you know what I’m like, Wendy. I heard all the ins and outs of their lives. All their marriage stories. She was a war bride, coming back to bonny Scotland for the first time. She couldn’t remember hardly anything. It was sad, really. She couldn’t remember which was furthest north—Aberdeen or Inverness.”

  “People never know anything about Scotland,” said Colin. “They don’t know what it’s like north of Edinburgh. Just a funny little appendix to England. A few mountains.”

  “Surely it’s not still like that,” said Timon. “Not now.”

  Colin shrugged.

  “So you felt cramped and claustrophobic all the way up,” Wendy prompted. “Forced into hearing the confessions of those Americans. Oh, you love it really, don’t you?”

  “It’s hard not to feel pressed in by it after a while. The woman wouldn’t shut up. She was so on edge. I thought her hubby was going to punch her. I just did what I always do. Breathe easy, create your own atmosphere around you. Make your own head-space.”

  “Head-space,” repeated Colin absently, collecting up one of his clichés. Timon eyed him warily.

  “That’s how I get by,” he went on. “Then I can breathe.” He looked around again. Out of the window the tiered garden looked autumnal. The rooftops were prettily bleak. “It’s a picturesque place.”

  “And a very picturesque group you’re joining!” laughed Colin. “We’re a picturesque bunch. Just you wait and see.”

  When Colin went off to the toilets, Wendy said to Timon,

  “What are you writing?”

  “The usual stuff. Bits and pieces. I sent a whole load off to some publishers and it all came back saying it was nice, but I had to write something coherent and substantial.” He took a long slurp of lager. “Can you think of anything?”

  “You won’t write about here, will you?”

  “Nothing’s happened here yet,” he laughed.

  “But it will. And they wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’ll be good, Wendy.”

  “You turn everything into your funny stories.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Is that what you’re going to turn Belinda into?”

  He looked serious. “You’re really suspicious about me and Belinda, aren’t you? But you shouldn’t be. I’ve never felt as connected to another person as I am to her. Can you imagine what it feels like, being in the same city? It’s like I’m aware of her, nearby. Her mind, everything. Waiting for me.”

  “She bought the biggest chicken you’ve ever seen,” Wendy said. “For dinner tonight. Everything’s been given over to your arrival.”

  “Good.”

  “So don’t mind Colin if he’s a bit sharp.”

  “He’s all right.” Timon drained his glass. “Are we having another? That booze is really hitting the mark.” Wendy waved at the waiter. “What does he do anyway, your cousin?”

  Colin slid back into his seat. “Are you talking about me?”

  “Timon was just asking what you do.”

  “What I do…” said Colin. “People always ask me that. You get defined by your function. Like a bloody tool kit.”

  “That means he does nowt,” said Wendy.

  “A gentleman of private means, of private income.”

  “Thanks to the National Lottery,” Wendy smirked. “And, of course, Astrology Annie.”

  “The day we won the Roll-over she forecast it would be a father with a son who was a very pretty young man with time on his hands. And it was me.”

  Wendy explained. “Astrology Annie is a saint in Colin’s pantheon. Second only to Princess Diana, and a little way in front of Madonna.”

  “Who’s never been the same since she was cast as Evita.”

  “Right,” said Timon. “Don’t you get bored, though?”

  Colin flushed. Their new drinks arrived. “I’ve got things I like to do. I fill up my long, empty hours. Nothing as elevated as writing, though.” He was about to add, “or working in a chip shop,” but he bit his tongue.

  “Writing has never felt like a job,” said Timon. “I’ve made bugger all money out of it.”

  “You will one day,” said Colin generously.

  “Maybe I’ll write a novel about Wendy,” said Timon suddenly. “One day, when we can all see what she’s made of her life.”

  “You dare,” she said.

  “And I’ll do a bit of it in third person, like a biography, and some of it in first and get it as close to the tone of your eventual, grown-up self as I can. And then I’ll claim it’s all your own work. So you’ll have to get on and do lots of scandalous things for me.”

  Colin laughed. “I’ll drink to that. To Wendy—and everything she’ll get up to.”

  Wendy blushed furiously.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Hello again, Timon,” said Aunty Anne graciously at the door.

  She took his hand and didn’t know what to do with it. “Show him his room, Colin. Belinda’s changing downstairs. Dinner’s almost done, apparently.”

  “I can smell,” Timon grinned. The hallway was scented like every family Su
nday he had ever been invited to. Belinda had topped everything with rosemary—carrots, peas, potatoes, and on the chicken’s humped and basted back. It was a trick she’d learned recently. Aunty Anne whirled away with a smile. She’d worn a new M&S print frock for the occasion. “Wendy, could I have a little word?”

  Once Timon had been safely led away, Wendy was grabbed by her aunt. “I’ve had the most awful thought. Have you warned Belinda?”

  Wendy stared at her. “What about?”

  “Sweetheart,” said Aunty Anne pointedly. “You and I know and love Timon a great deal, but a stranger cannot help but notice how black he is.”

  “Black?”

  “Does Belinda know he pen-friend is black?”

  “I suppose so. I don’t know what they tell each other.”

  Aunty Anne narrowed her eyes. “Wendy, if this is all a bit of mischief-making, then I take a very dim view. And so will your Uncle Pat. You want to see how she’ll react to a black man, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re testing her.” Aunty Anne looked piqued. “And the rest of them. Thinking you’re oh-so-right-on and politically whatsisname. Now, have you made it plain to Belinda what colour he is?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does! She’s in love with him. Well, with the idea of him.” Aunty Anne tried to compose herself. “For all her mini dresses and knocking about with young people, you may have noticed that your friend Belinda is actually a quite naïve and old-fashioned person. I’d have thought you’d have had more sensitivity than to land her in a predicament like this.”

  “I think you’re being…” Wendy took a deep breath. It was hard work having one of these hissing arguments with her aunt. “I think you’re being ridiculously over-protective. And insulting to both of them. Has Belinda ever acted like a racist in front of you? What makes you think she’s like that?”

  “I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt. I see that you don’t think that’s important.”

  “This is all just you. You’re putting your own racism onto Belinda.”

  “Me, racist! He can be bright blue for all I care! And I never invited him in the first place. That young man means nothing to me. It’s Belinda I’m thinking about.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I hate that tone of yours, young lady. You’ve lost all respect.”

  “You’ve got to respect my friends.”

  “Wendy, don’t you see? To some people, the colour you are is very important…”

  “This is the woman who dyes her hair every other day.”

  “Don’t be stupid. I mean colour as in race. It’s to do with who you come from, and where.”

  “Bullshit,” said Wendy. She wanted to finish this conversation. “And anyway, Timon’s an orphan. He doesn’t know where it is he comes from. Can’t you just accept him for what he is?”

  “I can,” said Aunty Anne frostily. “I’m very good at accepting people for what they are. I’ve had to be an expert, haven’t I? I just hope Belinda’s like that too.”

  “Aunty Anne… Belinda claims to have been to space and had sex with her visitors. Is interracial marriage going to be such a shocking thing to her?”

  “Now you’re being ludicrous. And who said anything about them getting married?”

  Timon had unzipped his rucksack in the newly-decorated guest room. It was painted forest green in here, with blue skirting boards and floor. Colin had supervised the furnishing in his father’s absence and he lapped up Timon’s enthusiasm. He watched Timon shake out his luggage onto the new duvet and found himself staring as the newcomer yanked off his shirt and shoes, at his nipples which looked almost purple and bruised. Timon shucked off the rest of his clothes, changing hurriedly for dinner, and saying how starving he was. From his pile of belongings he plucked out a fresh yellow shirt.

  Colin—although he could have kicked himself because of it—was already half in love. “I’ll show you where the kitchen is.” He added, as Timon followed on, “I’m not getting changed.”

  “You look pretty smart as you are.”

  Colin head swam with lager and praise.

  In the warm, rosemary-scented kitchen, the long table was laid with the best silverware. Aunty Anne had set out the places and glasses herself, refusing to let the jumpy Belinda touch any of the precious pieces. “We were given this tableware on our wedding day,” she explained mistily.

  Already installed at the table in her wheelchair was Astrid, who looked up when Colin and Timon walked in. “Jesus God, he’s a fine-looking man,” she gasped, dropping the spoons she’d been rubbing. “Is this him?”

  “This is him,” said Colin.

  Timon stared at Astrid. “You’re in a wheelchair.”

  Astrid nodded.

  “And you’re… Asian.”

  Astrid looked perturbed. Then she realised. “I am not Belinda.”

  Colin hurried to smooth things over. “This is Belinda’s pal, Astrid. She works in the launderette.”

  “I have my own business,” said Astrid, and let Timon kiss her hand. Wendy came in.

  “Astrid, you’re here too! It’s proper gathering of the clans.”

  “Jesus God,” said Astrid. “That Belinda has got her knickers twisted and no mistaking it.”

  “Are you German?” asked Timon.

  “Somewhat,” said Astrid, deadpan. “He is very curious about me, everyone, no? Belinda will be quite jealous. But tell me about Wendy’s sister and her unborn child. You have seen her most recently, I hear…?”

  While Timon talked with Astrid, Colin set about corking wine. Wendy sidled up to him. “I’ve had a right ding-dong with your mother.”

  “Surprise.”

  “I think she feels usurped.”

  “Usurped! She doesn’t even belong here!” He grunted as the cork came free.

  “That’s harsh, Colin.”

  “She’s been getting on my nerves recently. Fussing around Dad and all. As if she thinks she’d better make up to him before he pops his clogs.”

  “Don’t say that He’ll be all right.”

  Colin changed the subject. “Hey, I like your mate Timon.”

  “Really? I thought, the way you were going on, you disapproved of him.”

  “That’s just my secret weapon. He’ll be begging to be friends with me. And he dropped his drawers without a by-your-leave or anything.” He smacked his lips and poured out glass after glass of Chardonnay. “What a beauty!”

  “Oh, fuck,” said Wendy.

  Aunty Anne appeared in the doorway. “Belinda’s on her way up, everyone.”

  They went very still.

  “Have a drink,” Colin told Wendy.

  Timon was sitting beside Astrid now and the both stared at Aunty Anne in the doorway. Now they could all hear Belinda’s heavy tread on the stairs beyond the front door. She was walking very carefully, trying not to drop something. The door clashed behind her and she was coming up the hallway. No haste, almost ceremonially.

  Timon looked at the others’ apprehensive faces. Then at the doorway. Aunty Anne stood aside, and there was Belinda.

  The same Belinda as ever, in her best pink frock, her massive arms held out before her, carrying a home-baked, home-decorated cake. It was overrun with pink sugar mice and she had piped on the top: “Welcome, Timon!” A number of indoor fireworks hissed and burned merrily all around his name. Above them her face was radiant, expectant. She’d put on a new colour of lipstick. Fuchsia, fresh, sticky, and her hair was tied up in ribbons.

  Timon was standing slowly, out of his chair.

  “Welcome, Timon!” cried Belinda, stepping in the room, as if she was reading the cake aloud.

  “Belinda!” he laughed, and ran to her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Captain Simon was not a happy man. When Uncle Pat came home and gently installed himself in the kitchen, the door was flung open and the Captain came crashing in, brimming with complaints about his sister’s behaviou
r. “They’ve taken over,” he moaned. “They’re at it day and night. Humping and pumping like animals. Whenever my back’s turned. Belinda is becoming a floozy and it’s an embarrassment. She told me yesterday—while I was eating my tea, mark you—that she’d been ravished by her black boyfriend on the very same table that very morning.”

  Pat chuckled. “It’s their honeymoon period, Simon. It’ll all fizzle out soon.”

  “Big black bastard,” glowered the Captain. “I’ve asked her, what does she want, taking up with the likes of him?”

  “Oh, hey, now,” Pat said, wincing. “I don’t hold with that kind of thing. Timon’s a nice enough chap. And he thinks a lot of your sister. There’s not a lot you can do about that.”

  Captain Simon felt reprimanded. “Ay, well. I get possessive, you see. No-ones come between me and Belinda. A fella is likely to be protective of his little sister, isn’t he?”

  “She’s doing all right, Simon. She’s having the time of her life, by all reports.”

  It was from Wendy, on her last few visits to the hospital, that Uncle Pat had learned of the most recent events at the Royal Circus. He was glad of anything going on, any distraction from his coming home. He didn’t want a lot of fuss around him. As far as he was concerned, the doctors had given up. They’d looked right inside him and seen how far the disease had progressed. Far too far. A man who’d hardly been ill all his life, who’d never actually spent much time in a hospital before, had become too ill for surgery. Now he was home, supposedly waiting for them to decide what to do with him next. More queues, more botch-jobs. He was waiting, he knew, to die. He was pleased things were going on around him when he returned. He didn’t want a whole load of weeping and wailing. Everyone round here acted like a bunch of old women already as it was.

  Aunty Anne appeared, lugging his things from the hospital, all of them wrapped in new, shiny NHS bags. She looked overly bright and cheery. “Shall I put these away?”

  “Sit still for a while, Anne. Come and talk with us.”

  “I’ll just…”

  “Come and sit down, woman.”

  She obeyed him then, which was surprising. It was like having a whole new range of faculties, he thought, this business of dying. People actually started to listen to you. He’d have to try that out some more.