by Irvine Welsh
Then she rose and smiled over at him as she passed him. His spirits lifted. The next time he’d talk to her, then the time after that he’d talk to her when she was with Lorraine.
When Glen returned to the ante-room, he heard Freddy next door in the mortuary. He couldn’t bear to look, but he listened at the swing doors. He heard Freddy’s gasps, – Wor, wor, wor, looks like a good un!
4 Admission
The ambulance arrived quickly, but it seemed a long time for Perky. He watched Rebecca gasp and groan on the conservatory floor. Self-consciously, he grabbed her hand. – Chin up, old girl, they’re on their way, he said once or twice.
– You’ll be right as rain, he told her, as the ambulance men loaded her into a chair, placed an oxygen mask over her face, and wheeled her into the back of the van. It was as if he was watching a silent film in which his own sounds of encouragement seemed like a badly imposed voice-over. Then Perky was aware of Wilma and Alan Fosley, watching the scene from over their hedge. – Everything’s fine, he assured them, – just fine.
The ambulancemen, in turn, gave Perky a similar reassurance that this would indeed be the case, intimating that the stroke looked a mild one. This contention carried a conviction that he found unsettling and it served to lower his spirits. Perky found himself hoping fervently that they were wrong and that a doctor would come up with a more negative evaluation.
He started to perspire heavily as he turned the options over in his mind:
The best scenario: she dies and I am minted in the will.
Next best: she is okay and continues to write, and promptly completes the latest regency romance novel.
He shuddered as he realised that he was in fact flirting with the worse-case scenario: Rebecca is incapacitated in some way, perhaps even reduced to a vegetable, incapable of writing but a drain on our resources.
– Aren’t you coming with us, Mr Navarro? one of the ambulancemen asked, his tone quite accusatory.
– You chaps go ahead, I’ll follow in the car, Perky replied sharply. He was used, in social situations, to giving orders to people from such a class, and was therefore riled by their presumption that he should do as they think appropriate. He looked over at the rose-bushes. Yes, they could do with a spraying. At the hospital there would be all the fuss and palaver of checking the old girl in. Yes, time for a spraying, surely.
Perky’s attention was arrested by the manuscript which lay on the coffee table. There was chocolatey vomit on the front page. With some distaste, he brushed the worst off with a handkerchief, exposing the bubbled, wet paper.
He opened its pages and started to read.
5 Untitled – Work In Progress (Miss May Regency Romance No. 14.)
Page I
It only required the most modest of fires to heat the small, compact schoolroom in the old manse at Selkirk. This was considered a particularly advantageous state of affairs by the Minister of the parish, the Reverend Andrew Beattie, a man noted for his frugality.
Andrew’s wife, Flora, matched this frugality with a lavish extravagance. She knew and accepted that she had married into reduced circumstances and that money was tight, but while she had learned to be what her husband constantly referred to as ‘practical’ in her day-to-day dealings, the essential extravagance of her spirit could not be broken by those circumstances. Far from disapproving, Andrew adored her all the more for it. To think that this wonderful and beautiful woman had given up fashionable society in London for the life he had to offer. It made him believe in the virtue of his calling and the purity of her love.
Their two daughters, huddled in front of the fire, had inherited Flora’s extravagance of spirit. Agnes Beattie, a porcelain-skinned beauty, the elder at seventeen years, pushed back her raven hair to afford herself an unbroken view of the contents of Ladies Monthly Museum. – There is the most ravishing evening gown! Do look at it, Margaret, she exclaimed wildly, thrusting the page in front of her younger sister by one year, who was idly stoking the meagre coals in the fireplace, – a bodice of blue satin, fastened in front by diamonds!
Margaret sprang up and attempted to wrestle the paper from her sister’s grasp. Agnes tightened her grip, then her heart skipped a beat, from anxiety that the paper might tear, but she kept her tone admirably condescending as she laughed, – But dear sister, you are far too young to consider such things!
– Do, pray, give it me! Margaret implored her sister even as her own hold was loosening. In their frivolity, the girls failed to notice the entrance of their new tutor. The slender, spinsterly English woman pursed her lips and tutted loudly. – So this is the behaviour I must expect from the daughters of my dear friend Flora Beattie! I must think twice before absenting myself in the future!
The girls looked embarrassed, but Agnes detected the note of playfulness in the tutor’s reprimand. – But madam, if I am to be introduced to society, in London too, then I must consider my attire!
The woman looked at her. – Training, education and etiquette are more important qualities for a young lady in her introduction to polite society than the detail of the finery she wears. Do you imagine that your dear mama, or your father, the good Reverend, for all his austerity, would see you embarrassed in that way at London’s balls? Leave the consideration of your wardrobe in those capable hands, my girl, and turn your attention to more pressing matters!
– Yes, Miss May, Agnes said.
That girl has an untameable streak, thought Miss May, just like her dear mama, the tutor’s dear old friend from many years ago – from the time, in fact, when Amanda May and Flora Kirkland were introduced to London society together.
Perky slung the manuscript back onto the coffee table. – What a load of utter nonsense, he said out loud, then, – Absolutely fucking brilliant! The bitch is on form. She’ll make us another fucking fortune! He rubbed his hands together gleefully as he strode out into the garden towards the rose-bushes. Suddenly, a tumult of anxiety rose in his breast as he ran back into the conservatory and picked up the manuscript. He thumbed through it, to the back pages. It stopped at page forty-two and had, by page twenty-six, degenerated into an unintelligible series of stark sentences and ramshackle spidery notes in the margins. It was nowhere near finished.
I hope the old girl’s all right, Perky thought. He felt an uncontrollable urge to be with his wife.
6 Lorraine And Yvonne’s Discovery
Lorraine and Yvonne were preparing to go onto the wards. After their shifts they were going out to buy some clothes, because tonight they were hitting a jungle club where Goldie was headlining. Lorraine was slightly perturbed to find Yvonne still engrossed in her book. It was all right for her; she didn’t have Sister Patel on her ward. She was about to remonstrate with her friend and tell her to get a move on when the name of the author on the cover jumped out at her. She examined the book and the picture of a glamorous young woman adorning the back. It was a very old picture, and if it hadn’t been for the name she would not have recognised Rebecca Navarro.
– Fuckin hell! Lorraine’s eyes widened. – See that book you’re reading?
– Yeah? Yvonne looked at the glossy, embossed cover. A young woman in a bodice pouted in a dream-like trance.
– Ken her that wrote it? Her on the back?
– Rebecca Navarro? Yvonne asked, flipping it over.
– She was admitted to Dean, Ward Six, last night. She’d had a stroke!
– That’s wild! What’s she like?
– Dinnae ken … well, she’s fuck-all like that anyway! She seems a bit dotty tae me, but she’d just had a stroke though, eh?
– That would do it right enough, Yvonne smirked. – You gonna see if she’s got any freebies?
– Aye, ah’ll dae that, said Lorraine. – Aye, and she’s really fat as well. That’s how she had the stroke. She’s a total pig now!
– Yeuch! Imagine looking like that and letting yourself go!
– Right but, Yvonne, Lorraine looked at her watch, – we’d better be maki
n a move, eh no?
– Yeah … Yvonne conceded, earmarking a page and rising to get ready.
7 Perk’s Dilemma
Rebecca was crying. Just as she had been every day that week he had gone in to visit her. This gravely concerned Perky. When Rebecca cried it was because she was depressed. When Rebecca was depressed she didn’t write, couldn’t write. When she didn’t write … well, Rebecca always left the business side of things to Perky, who in turn painted a far glossier picture of their financial situation than was actually the case. Perky had certain expenses unknown to Rebecca. He had needs; needs, he considered, that the self-centred and egotistical old bag could never comprehend.
Their whole relationship was about him indulging her ego, subsuming all his own needs in the service of her infinite vanity, or at least that’s what it would have been had he not been able to lead his private life. He deserved, he reasoned, some recompense. He was, by nature, a man of expensive tastes, as extravagant as her blasted heroines.
He looked at her clinically, drinking in the extent of the damage. It had not been what the doctors would term a severe stroke. Rebecca had not lost the power of speech (bad, Perky considered) and he was assured that her critical faculties had not been impaired (good, he thought). But it certainly appeared nasty enough to him. One side of her face looked like a piece of plastic which had been left too close to a fire. He had tried to keep a mirror away from the self-obsessed bitch, but it proved impossible. She’d insisted, until someone had furnished her with one.
– Oh Perky, I’m so horrible! Rebecca whined, gazing at her collapsed face in the mirror.
– Nonsense, my darling. It’ll all get better, you’ll see!
Let’s face it, old girl, you were never much in the looks stakes. Too gross, always stuffing fucking chocolates into your face, he thought to himself. The doctors had said as much. Obese was the word they had used. A woman of only forty-two years of age, nine years his junior, though you would never think it. Three stone overweight. It was a fantastic word: obese. The way the doctor had said it, clinically, medically, in its proper context. It hurt her. He noticed that. It cut her to the quick.
Despite this recognition of the change in her face, Perky was astonished that he couldn’t really ascertain any real aesthetic decline in Rebecca’s looks since the stroke. The truth was, he reckoned, that she had repulsed him for a long time. Perhaps, indeed, she always had: her childishness, her self-obsession, her fussing, and above all, her obesity. She was pathetic.
– Oh darling Perks, do you really think so? Rebecca moaned to herself rather than Perky, then turned to the approaching Nurse Lorraine Gillespie, – Will it get better, Nursey?
Lorraine smiled at her, – Aw, ah’m sure it will, Mrs Navarro.
– See? Listen to this lovely young lady, Perks smiled, raising a bushy eyebrow at Lorraine, and maintaining eye contact for a flirtatiously long time, before ending it with a wink.
A slow burner, this one, Perky thought. He regarded himself as a connoisseur of women. Sometimes, he considered, beauty just bit you straight away. You went wow!, then you acclimatised yourself to it. The best ones, though, the ones like this little Scotch nurse, they just crept up on you slowly but resolutely, showing you something else every time, with every mood, every different expression. They allowed you to form a vague woolly neutral perception of them, then they looked at you a certain way and ruthlessly mugged it.
– Yes, Rebecca pouted, – my darling little Nursey. She’s so kind and gentle, aren’t you, Nursey?
Lorraine felt flattered and insulted at the same time. All she could think about was finishing. Tonight was the night. Goldie!
– And I can tell that Perky likes you! Rebecca sang. – He’s such a terrible flirt, aren’t you, Perks?
Perky forced a smile.
– But he’s such a darling, and so romantic, I don’t know what I’d do without him.
His personal stock with Rebecca seemingly higher than ever, Perky instinctively placed a micro-cassette recorder on her locker, along with some blank tapes. Maybe a bit heavy-handed, he thought, but he was desperate. – Perhaps a bit of match-making with Miss May might take your mind off things, my darling …
– Oh Perks … I couldn’t possibly write romance now. Look at me. I’m horrendous. How could I possibly think of romance?
Perky felt a sinking fear hang heavily in his chest.
– Nonsense. You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world, he forced out through clenched teeth.
– Oh darling Perky … she began, just before Lorraine stuck a thermometer in her mouth to silence her.
Perks looked coldly at what he saw as this ridiculous figure, his face still moulded in a relaxed smile. Duplicity came so easily to him. However, the nagging problem remained: without another Miss May Regency Romance manuscript, Giles at the publishers would not cough up that hundred-and-eighty-grand advance on the next book. Worse, he would sue for breach of contract and want back the ninety grand on the last one. That ninety grand; now the property of various London bookmakers, publicans, restaurateurs and prostitutes.
Rebecca was getting bigger and bigger, not just literally, but as a writer. The Daily Mail had described her as the ‘world’s greatest living romance writer’, while the Standard referred to her as ‘Britain’s Princess Regent’. The next one would be the biggest yet. Perks needed that manuscript, something to follow up Yasmin Goes To Yeovil, Paula Goes To Portsmouth, Lucy Goes To Liverpool and Nora Goes To Norwich.
– I’ll really have to read your books, Mrs Navarro. My friend’s a big fan of yours. She’s just finished reading Yasmin Goes To Yeovil, Lorraine told Rebecca, taking the thermometer from her mouth.
– Then you shall! Perks, be a darling, do remember to bring in some books for Nursey … oh and, Nursey, please, please, please, please, please call me Rebecca. Of course I shall keep calling you Nursey because I’m used to it now, although Lorraine is a most lovely name. You look just like a young French countess … in fact, you know, I think you look just like a portrait I once saw of Lady Caroline Lamb. It was a flattering portrait, as she was never as lovely as you, my darling, but she’s my heroine: a wonderfully romantic figure not afraid to risk scandal for love, like all the best women throughout history. Would you risk scandal for love, Nursey darling?
God, the sow’s ranting again, Perks thought.
– Dinnae ken, eh, Lorraine shrugged.
– Oh, I’m sure you would. You have that wild, ungovernable look about you. Don’t you think so, Perks?
Perky felt his blood pressure rise and a layer of salt crystallise on his lips. That uniform … those buttons … removed one by one … he forced a cool smile.
– Yes, Nursey, Rebecca continued, – I see you as a consort of Lady Caroline Lamb, at one of those grand regency balls, pursued by suitors eager to waltz with you … do you waltz, Nursey?
– Naw, ah’m intae house, especially jungle n that likes. Dinnae mind trancey n garage n techno n that, bit ah like it tae kick but ken?
– Would you like to learn to waltz?
– No really bothered. Mair intae house, eh. Jungle likes. Goldie’s ma man, eh.
– Oh, but you must, Nursey, you really must, Rebecca’s swollen face pouted insistently.
Lorraine felt faintly embarrassed as she was aware of Perky’s eyes lingering on her. She felt strangely exposed in her uniform as if she was something exotic, something to be held up for inspection. She had to get on. Sister Patel was coming on soon and there would be trouble if she didn’t get a move on.
– Where about in Bonnie Scotland are you from? Perks smiled.
– Livingston, Lorraine said quickly.
– Livingston, Rebecca said, – it sounds perfectly delightful. Are you going home to visit soon?
– Aye, see ma mother n that.
Yes, there was something about that Scotch nurse, thought Perks. She had an effect on more than his hormones; she was helping Rebecca. This girl seemed to ignit
e her, to bring her back to life. As Lorraine left, his wife drifted back into a litany of self-pitying whines. It was time he left as well.
8 Freddie’s Indiscretion
Freddy Royle had had, by his standards, a tiring day prior to his late afternoon arrival at St Hubbin’s. He had been in the television studios all morning filming an episode of From Fred With Love. A young boy, whom Fred had sorted out to swim with the dolphins at Morecambe’s Marineland, while his grandparents were brought back to the scene of their honeymoon, was all excited in the studio and writhed around on his lap, getting Freddy so aroused and excited that they had to do several takes. – Oi loike em still, he said, – very, very still. Barry, the producer, was not at all amused. – In the name of God, Freddy, take the rest of the fucking afternoon off and go to the hospital and shag a stiff, he moaned. – Let’s see if we can dampen that bloody libido of yours.
It seemed good advice. – Oi think oi moite just be doin that, me ol cocker, Freddy smiled, summoning a commissionaire to order him a cab from Shepherd’s Bush down to St Hubbin’s. On the ride through West London, frustrated at the grindingly slow pace of the cab in the traffic, he changed his mind and requested the driver to drop him off at a Soho bookshop he frequented.
Freddy winked at the man behind the counter of the busy establishment before sauntering through to the back. There, another man, wearing strange, horn-rimmed glasses, and drinking tea from a Gillingham F.C. mug, smiled at Freddy. – All right, Freddy? How you going, mate?
– Not baad, Bertie, moi ol mucker. Yourzelf?
– Oh, musn’t grumble. Here, I got something for you … Bertie opened a locked cupboard and rummaged around through some brown-paper packages until he saw one marked FREDDY in black felt pen.
