OK, so it sounded a bit like SOWINS acceding to my lovemaking, but I’m sure there was an affirmative in there somewhere. “Well, that’s marvellous. Tell you what, why don’t I meet you in the Fatted Calf at about eight?”
“What?”
“The Fatted Calf? About eight?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
I ring off before she has time to change her mind. Maybe life really does begin at forty.
The Virgin
Philip shivers and bites on his knuckles. The poor love doesn’t see why he should have to put up with the guard’s van just because Michael does. “God, it’s cold in here,” he whines. “I don’t think I can stand much more of this.”
But he knows he can’t say anything, because he doesn’t want to upset the golden goose. He sees Michael as his passport to theatrical immortality, especially since that tart Hardbody arrived on the scene. Isn’t it amazing how a few false promises (‘You’re so talented, Philip. I’d love to work with you on my first feature.’ ) and a pole dancer’s wardrobe can turn a bloke into a slobbering idiot.
“Why don’t you go down to the buffet and get Michael a coffee?”
“Yes, all right,” he says, pulling up the collar of his trenchcoat. “Don’t worry, I may be some time.”
You should have seen him when I broke the news that Michael would be joining us. OK, so I’d just started my period, which always sharpens my sense of Schadenfreude, but I couldn’t believe how good it felt to watch his Daniel Day-Lewis cheekbones rearrange themselves into a petulant frown. It felt even better when I remembered what he’d said to me the previous night: “If you use those things you’re technically not a virgin anyway, so Christ knows why you’re making a five-act tragedy of it.”
“What’s the matter with him?” says Michael.
“He’s not a happy bunny. He’s still sulking because I won’t let him do what bunnies do best.”
Michael has this gorgeous, open smile, which practically lights up the guard’s van. I’m not being funny. I mean, I know, physically, he hasn’t got a lot going for him, but that smile of his is to die for. “I don’t suppose I’m his favourite quadriplegic right now.”
“Probably not.”
“That’s good then. I hate the way he talks to you.”
“Oh, Mike, you’re so sweet.” To tell you the truth, I’m a bit in awe of the guy. The more I get to know him, the more amazing I realize he is. There’s a Zen-like stillness about him. Like that poem, he always manages to keep his head when everyone around him is losing theirs.
“I think it’s time for my medication, Anna.”
“No probs,” I say, reaching for my rucksack.
“You’re getting good at this.”
When the actor guy begged me to look after Michael while he went for his audition, my first reaction was to head for the hills. Quite frankly, I’ve never been that good with excreta, not even Maggie and Tom’s, but as soon as I saw Mike lying there, tubes all over the place, it began to make sense. He looked so helpless, like a magical, talking baby. And the funny thing is, I knew exactly how he felt. All I wanted was to keep him safe.
♦
Daddy’s waiting for us at the station, in the horse-box. He doesn’t look best pleased when he clocks our two enormous suitcases. “Bloody hell, Pumpkin, I didn’t realize you were staying for a fortnight.” He looks so archetypically upper middle in his ancient Barbour that I’m quite sure Philip is staring straight down his nose stud at him.
“They’re Michael’s,” says Philip, overdoing the put-upon-baggage-handler routine. “He doesn’t believe in travelling light. It’s Philip, by the way, Philip Sidney. As in…”
“Chuck them in the back, there’s a good man. Then come and give me a hand getting young Michael here lashed to the mast.” Daddy always resorts to nautical jargon in a crisis. “You are Michael, I suppose?”
“No, I’m the other quadriplegic.”
“Jolly good,” says Daddy.
They trundle him up the ramp into the horsebox and secure his wheelchair with some of the blue nylon rope that Maurice the handyman uses in the orchard. “You’ll be all right in there, won’t you, old son? It’s only twenty minutes to the village.”
Michael’s voice echoes out of the darkness, “Yes, thanks, Mr Jenkins,” and Daddy heaves closed the doors.
“Wait a minute, Daddy. I want to go in the back with Michael.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pumpkin, there’s nowhere to sit. And between you and me, it could do with a damned good hose-down in there.”
I’m uber-sensitive to whiffy odours just after I’ve come on, so I reluctantly join Daddy and Philip in the front seat.
“How’s Mummy?” I say, trying to sound cool about it.
“After the Oxbow Incident, you mean?” says Daddy, crunching into third gear. “Well, you know your mother, Pumpkin. It never rains but it pours.”
Philip flicks through a copy of Horse and Hound, obviously storing up every detail of Daddy’s bourgeois ramblings to beat me with later. His aristocratic features gleam superciliously in the late morning sun. He’s never more attractive than in the middle of a major strop.
“Pumpkin tells me your people are from Sussex,” says Daddy, trying to change the subject. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if our paths had crossed at some point.”
“I doubt it,” says Philip loftily.
Although I didn’t have what you might call an idyllic childhood, I still get a warm, sticky feeling when we turn into the drive and I get my first glimpse of the Old Rectory. “Nearly there, Michael,” shouts Daddy, banging on the back wall.
“God, I hate excessive wealth,” mutters Philip under his breath. He’s capable of quite staggering hypocrisy when he feels like it.
Mummy is waiting by the stables in her ‘vont to be alone’ shades, smiling bravely and clutching my bratty brother, Barnaby, who’s allegedly recovering from a dose of chickenpox. Even Maurice has wandered up from the meadow to stare at us.
“Where are they?” I say, trying to conceal my disappointment.
“Here they come,” says Daddy, pointing towards the old barn.
“Hello, my babies,” I squeal, as Tom and Maggie (our faithful black labs) bound up to welcome me with their lovely sloppy tongues. I’ve missed them so terribly. They’re living proof that it’s actually possible to love someone without trying to run their lives for them. “Who’s going to give their mummy a lovely kiss then?”
I can’t help noticing that Philip recoils slightly when Maggie tries to make friends. I suppose I always assume that anyone I’m attracted to is bound to be potty about animals. But that’s the least of Philip’s worries. Mummy is on him in a flash.
“You must be the young man that Anna is so sweet on. And I can see why.” She grabs him by the shoulders and plants kisses on both his cheeks. “I’m Camilla. Welcome to the Old Rectory.”
“It’s Philip, Philip Sidney, as in…”
“And where’s the other one?” says Mummy, almost certainly raising an eyebrow behind her shades. “Your little charity case?”
“He’s not my charity case, Mummy. And his name’s Michael.”
Mummy flashes Philip the smile she uses to present the prizes at the village show. “Anna Panna’s always had a weakness for waifs and strays.”
“Give us a hand, Maurice,” says Daddy, struggling with the ramp.
Maurice lumbers forward, shirttails poking through his flies as per usual.
“You all right in there?” says Daddy, jumping into the horsebox.
Two minutes later, Michael appears at the top of the ramp.
The Quadriplegic
Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Quasimodo, the Elephant Man, Stephen Hawking and Frankenstein’s monster all rolled into one. Even though it stinks of stale stallion’s piss, and I wanted to puke the moment ‘Daddy’ banged me up, I’d have given my right ear to stay in that horsebox. What in the name of fucking fuck made me think that this was a g
ood idea? But you’ll have to excuse me, my public awaits.
“Jeepers creepers,” says the woman with the eye complaint. “Oh, I am sorry.”
“Look,” says the little kid who hasn’t twigged it’s rude to point, “it’s EX”
“Shut up, Barney, you little creep,” says Anna, blushing furiously.
“Now, now, Pumpkin,” says her father, “I’m sure Michael knows that Barnaby doesn’t mean it.”
Philip Sidney stands smirking like the cock-of-the-house, and the old man in the boiler suit shakes his head and slopes back to the big field. Just when things couldn’t possibly get any shittier, two monstrous hell-hounds plant their muddy paws on my wheelchair and scour my face with their disgusting slobbery tongues. And I honestly believe I’m going to die. “I can’t breathe. I think I’m going to…”
“That is so sweet,” says Anna. “They’ve really taken to him, haven’t they, Mummy?”
“You’ve got a couple of friends for life there,” adds ‘Daddy’.
“Just get them off me, PLEASE!”
“I think Mike’s in trouble, Mrs Jenkins,” says Philip Sidney, probably not wanting to see his Hamlet torn apart before opening night. “Shouldn’t somebody…?”
“Tom, Maggie, DOWN!” bellows Mr Jenkins, scaring the crap out of me, but also having the desired effect.
“Perhaps we should go inside,” says Anna’s mother, taking Philip by the arm. “My darling daughter tells me you’re a budding Sir Peter Hall. How exciting. Why don’t you tell me all about it over lunch? Oh and please, call me Camilla.”
♦
Camilla Jenkins can’t conceal her disgust. Perhaps she should have thought more carefully about the luncheon menu. Anna made a good stab at feeding me the lemon sole, but bread-and-butter pudding with creme anglaise (a la Delia) is the last thing you should serve up for a quadriplegic.
“Can I feed him now?” says Barnaby Jenkins, his face almost as well custarded as my own. “Go on, Mummy, please.”
“I don’t think so, darling.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Michael?” says the hyperactive ten-year-old. “I could do aeroplanes if you like.”
“Why don’t you go and play cricket on the railway track?” says Anna.
“Why don’t you?” says Barnaby.
Anna wipes my face with a well-starched napkin. “Sorry, Michael, I told you he was a pain in the arse.”
“She said ‘arse’, Mummy, did you hear her, she said ‘arse’?”
“Barney’s the ‘little miracle’ that was going to bring Mummy and Daddy closer together again. But as you can see,” says Anna, gesturing to either end of the enormous kitchen table, “he only succeeded in pushing them further apart.”
“Coffee, anyone?” says Mr Jenkins, commencing the long walk to the Aga.
Philip Sidney shows his contempt for bourgeois convention by attacking his bread-and-butter pudding with a fish knife. “Thank you so much, Camilla. This is superb.”
Camilla Jenkins looks like a sadder, thinner version of her daughter. “I’m just delighted to see you in the flesh, Philip,” she simpers. “I didn’t think Anna would ever meet a suitable young man. Now tell us some more about this documentary of yours. It sounds fascinating.”
“Strictly speaking it’s about Michael,” says Philip grudgingly.
Camilla Jenkins casts a dubious eye in my direction. “Oh, really, why on earth would anyone want to…?”
“But Nikki, that’s the director, has promised faithfully that my Hamlet is going to be the centrepiece. It’s a massive boost for Histrio-Mastix, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Bernard and I can hardly wait,” says Camilla, glaring at her husband who is crossing the kitchen balancing a cafetiere on a National Trust tray. “Careful, you clumsy oaf, that’s Mummy’s best china, as well you know.”
“Ah, yes,” says Mr Jenkins, “the Beast of Bodmin, God rest her soul.”
“Granny Devonshire thought that Mummy married beneath herself,” adds Barnaby helpfully.
“And she never tired of reminding me of it,” says Mr Jenkins, angrily downing the plunger. “The City was far too vulgar for the likes of Granny D. Didn’t stop the old witch sponging off me though, did it?”
Camilla Jenkins dabs her eyes with a napkin. She looks more like her daughter than ever. “Now do you see what I’m talking about, Anna Panna? Twenty years of marriage and he still treats me like the hired hand. No wonder Dr Prideaux is so worried about me.”
Mr Jenkins walks, wearily, to the door. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen, while I abandon ship.” He turns to his wife with a gleam in his eyes. “Nature calls. If you want me, you’ll find me at my compost heap.”
“Tell Maurice I need him in the pantry,” Camilla shouts after him. “The dishwasher’s playing up, and we can’t do anything about dinner until he’s seen to it!”
As soon as her husband is out of earshot, her hostess-with-the-mostest smile is up and running again. “Why don’t you take Philip for a walk, Anna? It’s a lovely afternoon and Maurice says he’s seen that kestrel again. I’m sure you could do with a bit of private time, eh, Philip?”
“Yes, indeed,” says Philip Sidney, with a huge metaphorical wink.
“What about Michael?” says Anna.
“Does he like videos? Yes, of course he does. How about Bedknobs and Broomsticks? Anna Panna used to love that film, didn’t you, darling? Barnaby can show him the games room. I’m sure they’ll get along famously.”
“Give us a ride,” says Barnaby, jumping onto the back of my wheelchair.
“Leave him alone, you little beast,” says Anna. “Let me give him his coffee.”
That bloody kid’s worse than the fucking dogs. “Come on, Michael,” he shouts, “I’ll show you my spots.”
And just for a moment I almost wish I was back in Oxford, listening to one of Timothy Salt’s tedious stories about how he almost got the lead in Gone with the Wind.
The Virgin
Dinner was a nightmare. (You should try feeding lobster to the severely disabled.) Mummy entertained Philip with her yucky Mrs Robinson act, and afterwards, Daddy actually had the nerve to ask me to play the piano – like I was Jane Austen or something. “Come along, Pumpkin. I didn’t cough up for all those lessons with Madame what’s-her-name so that you could hide your light under a bushel.” I bashed my way through a couple of Mozart sonatas, careful not to catch Philip’s eye as he stared mockingly into his brandy.
Philip was the worst of the lot (worse even than my little brother, who’s now decided that poor Michael looks like a character out of Star Wars ). The moment he clapped eyes on the Old Rectory, I could sense his contempt. ‘Manners Maketh Man’ might have been his old school motto, but some of the things he said this afternoon were simply unforgivable: “Oh dear, Daddy, I think I need a shit. Better get Maurice to pop up from the meadow to wipe my arse for me.” Considering his family probably owned half of Sussex, he had a bloody nerve.
Poor Michael, it must be awful for him. At eleven o’clock, everyone except Mummy (who’s retired early with a Temazepam) troops along to the Day Nursery to put him to bed. “It’s all hands to the pump then, is it?” says Daddy.
“Will his legs fall off if I pull too hard?” says Barnaby.
“Just keep out of it, you little gobshite,” I say, remembering an expression I picked up from an alternative comedienne at Toby Chamberlain-Webber’s twenty-first.
“Now, Michael, we’re just going to lift you onto the bed. Is that OK?”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Right,” I say, “I’ll take his head, and you two can do the body. On my count, we’ll swing him onto the bed.” Daddy and Philip stand there like melons, waiting for me to take control. “Come on, guys, let’s get on with it. One, two, three!” I can’t believe how light he is. He hovers above Barnaby’s old Postman Pat duvet like a magician’s lovely assistant.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I say, reaching for Michael
’s belt. “Now let’s get you sorted, shall we?”
Daddy twiddles his thumbs, just like he does when he spots a woman breastfeeding. “We’ll leave you to it then, shall we, Pumpkin? Too many cooks and all that. Come along, Philip, how about a nightcap?”
“Good idea.”
“Night-night, Michael,” says Barnaby, following them to the door. “May the force be with you.”
Poor Mike; his spindly legs are so out of proportion with his body, and his pale skin looks even more emaciated alongside that pink-faced Postman. Hasn’t the guy had enough to deal with without my family treating him like a circus act? I’m so angry I can hardly speak. “Sorry, I mean…sorry…I’ll just get you…sorry.”
But preparing him for bed is like one of those walking meditations that Piers is always talking about in his warm-ups. It’s just nice to spend some time with a guy who doesn’t lunge at you every five seconds. As soon as I feel the warmth of his colostomy bag, the tight knot inside my stomach begins to unravel. By the time I’ve brushed his hair and sorted out his PJs, I’m completely chilled. “I’m so sorry, Michael. I should never have brought you here.”
He sounds so cute without his microphone. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had a great time.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“OK, it’s been total crap, but at least your boyfriend looks pissed off.”
“I don’t think Philip likes me very much right now.”
“Then he must be an idiot.”
“Oh, Michael, you’re so sweet.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me that.”
“But you are,” I say, tucking him in and kissing him on the forehead. “You’re the only one around here who really understands me – apart from Maggie and Tom, of course.”
“Goodnight, Anna.”
“Nighty-night. I’ll be back in a couple of hours to turn you over.”
“Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
Have you noticed how some people can make you feel good about yourself? I practically dance upstairs to my bedroom, forgetting for a moment the inevitable trials to come.
The Opposite Bastard Page 13