by Pamela Evans
‘Okay.’
Settling herself in an armchair, Rita asked after Jane and the family and he entertained her with some amusing anecdotes about her grandchildren.
‘You’ll have to come over for the day one Sunday soon.’
‘I’d like that but you know your dad won’t go visiting.’
‘Why not come on your own then, Mum?’ suggested Mick. ‘That’ll shake him. I’ll come over in the car and pick you up. I usually come to collect Jane’s dad on a Sunday anyway.’
‘And leave your father to get his own Sunday dinner!’ exclaimed Rita. ‘Can you imagine how he’d react to that?’
‘He’d go spare.’
‘It might be easier to organise if you didn’t live so far away.’
‘Come off it, Mum,’ he said, grinning. ‘Twickenham isn’t far.’
‘It’s off your dad’s patch, which amounts to the same thing.’
‘I’ll buy you a little place near us one o’ these days,’ Mick promised lightly.
‘Your dad wouldn’t move away from here if you paid him.’
‘But he could still work around here if you moved to somewhere nicer. He’d keep the greengrocery round.’
‘Wilf still wouldn’t go,’ said his mother. ‘All his mates live around here. He’s the cock of the walk.’
‘He’d be that anywhere . . . he’s that type.’
‘I know. But he wouldn’t leave this place if you bought him a mansion to live in.’
‘Seems daft.’
‘Not really. We’re both settled here . . . I’m used to it too.’
‘There is that.’
Rita cast an approving glance over her son: a fine figure of a man, dark and swarthy like his father with the same coal-black eyes and winning smile, but taller and bigger altogether. Both father and son had the gift of the gab, but Mick had been shrewd enough to use his outgoing personality to make something of himself. For all his happy-go-lucky ways, he must have a sharp brain to have done so well, she thought. But with all his success, he still hero-worshipped his father, a man who lived from day to day selling fruit and veg from a van around the streets.
‘Business still doing well?’ she asked.
‘Great.’
‘It’s wonderful what you’ve done, son. I’m proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said, adding triumphantly, ‘I bought a new Jaguar today.’
‘Blimey, Mick, you really must be raking in the dough!’ Rita threw him a sharp look. ‘New business premises and a posh new motor? Are you sure you’re not overstretching yourself?’
‘No, not me.’
‘Well, you know the old saying about the higher they fly . . .’
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
‘I hope you do,’ she said, but sounded reassured. ‘Anyway . . . what are we sitting here for when you’ve just bought yourself a Jaguar? Come on, let’s go and have a look.’
She followed him down the stairs to the street in her carpet slippers and duly admired the car which he’d parked under the street light.
‘It wouldn’t stay in that condition for long if you lived around here,’ she remarked. ‘The vandals would have a field day.’
‘If I still lived around here, I wouldn’t be able to afford a car like this.’
‘True.’
She shivered and hugged herself. ‘Ooh, that wind has really blown up! I’m going back indoors before I catch a cold.’
On the way up the dimly lit stairs that smelled faintly of urine and had obscenities scribbled all over the walls, Mick said he ought to be going. At the front door, he took his wallet from his pocket and handed her some notes.
‘I can’t take this,’ protested Rita. ‘You’ve more than enough to do with your money, with a wife and two kids to support.’
‘If I can’t give my mum a few quid now and then, I don’t deserve to have the money,’ Mick told her, swelling with pride at his own generosity. ‘Enjoy it. Treat yourself.’
‘I don’t know how much longer you’re gonna stay in the money the way you flash it about.’ She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘But thanks, Mick. I really do appreciate it.’
‘I know.’
‘Tell your dad not to stay out drinking till closing time.’
‘I’ll tell him but it won’t make a scrap of difference,’ said Mick. ‘You know he won’t come home until he’s ready.’
‘Tell him there’s wrestling on the telly. That’ll shift him.’
‘Okay.’
‘And, Mick?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I meant what I said about being proud of you,’ she said.
‘I know you did, Mum. Thanks.’
As Rita closed the door behind him, her smile turned to a frown. She knew that her pride in him wasn’t what Mick really wanted.
On the short drive to the pub, his mother’s words lingered in Mick’s mind. Humility not being a strong point with him, he had no difficulty in agreeing with her. She was right, he had done very well and stayed on the right side of the law to do it, too. Plenty of other lads from the estate had become small-time villains. Some had tried to tempt him into crime over the years but Mick’s refusal had had more to do with self-preservation than integrity. He didn’t fancy the idea of rotting away in some prison!
Looking back on his meteoric rise to success, he couldn’t help being proud . . .
He’d left school without qualifications but with plenty of ambition. After a spell in a factory, he’d worked on the markets for a man trading in cheap clothing and household linens. Mick’s business acumen had soon been spotted and he’d been given responsibility for the stall while his employer concentrated on other interests. An insight into buying had attracted Mick to the lucrative wholesale side of commerce at a time of new national affluence following the period of post-war austerity.
Thanks to his flat feet, he’d been spared two years’ National Service and been able to concentrate on his business plans uninterrupted. Running the stall by day, he’d worked evenings as a bouncer at a club in the West End to get enough money to buy a secondhand van and some stock.
Trading in anything from working boots to bedsheets, he’d kept his eye on trade publications for bankruptcy sales and auctions of government surplus stock. He’d touted for business among traders in the London markets and further afield, storing his wares in a rented lock-up garage until he could afford his first warehouse, where customers could either visit or order goods for delivery.
Nowadays he dealt in anything he judged to be a mover, from household goods to working men’s overalls and cheap clothes for both sexes. Small shopkeepers now bought from him as well as market traders. He also had door-to-door salesmen on his books.
In retrospect, those early years hadn’t been conducive to a happy love life, with him working all hours and ploughing back every penny he earned into the business. But Jane had given him her full support and now they were both reaping the rewards of his hard work and her patience.
Life was good. His business was thriving and he was able to keep up the payments on the house, the furniture, the cars, and all the other luxury items that made their life so comfortable. Thank God for credit - a convenient short cut to stylish living.
Turning into the car park of the King’s Arms, Mick felt a sickly feeling of nervous apprehension in his stomach. He turned off the engine and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, his hand trembling slightly. For all his swank, there was one person who could destroy his confidence in an instant - his father!
The pub was smoky, crowded and noisy as there was a darts game in progress. Mick couldn’t see his father but knew he was there; the roars of raucous male laughter told him that.
A group of middle-aged men stood at the far end of the bar and Wilf Parker was among them. His magnetic personality ensured that he was always the life and soul of any party. He was often crude and downright ill-mannered but still drew an audience, albeit exclusively male. He made an absolute po
int of being the centre of attention.
‘Watcha, Dad,’ said Mick, nudging his way through the crowd.
‘Mick - what are you doing round here?’ asked Wilf, sounding none too pleased to see his son. ‘Doing some slumming?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he said defensively. ‘I come from round here, remember?’
‘I’m not the one who needs reminding o’ that,’ said his father meaningfully.
‘What are you all having?’ asked Mick, ignoring the jibe and turning to his father’s cronies. ‘I’m in the chair.’
‘I’ll have a double scotch as you’re paying and I’m not driving,’ said Wilf, laughing heartily. His mates thought anything he said was hilarious and this had them splitting their sides. ‘Have whatever you fancy, lads, my boy’s paying . . . that’ll teach him to flash his money around!’
Wilf Parker was ludicrously flamboyant himself in a bright red shirt and multicoloured satin tie worn with a black and white checked jacket hanging open to reveal a substantial paunch. In his early-fifties, he was an older and smaller version of his son, though Wilf’s features were sharper than Mick’s, his face weatherbeaten and heavily wrinkled, his dark hair dusted here and there with silver.
Mick got the drinks and offered his cigarettes around.
‘So, how are you getting on in your posh house among the nobs?’ asked Wilf.
‘We’re doing all right,’ said Mick, ignoring the implied criticism.
‘Wife and kids okay?’ enquired his father dutifully.
‘Fine,’ replied Mick, pretending not to notice his father’s lack of interest.
‘Good.’
‘How’s business, Dad . . . people still buying plenty of fruit and veg?’
‘I’m not complaining.’
Not ten minutes ago Mick had felt like a man of power and influence. Now he felt like a gormless schoolboy.
‘I’ve got my new Jag outside,’ he announced, knowing he would be made to regret having mentioned it but unable to resist the temptation to show off. ‘Do you wanna see it?’
Wilf didn’t reply but the cronies seemed keen to take a look so he couldn’t refuse without appearing churlish.
‘Now that really is some motor,’ said one of the men as they stood around the vehicle.
‘You must be doing well,’ said another.
Wilf said nothing.
‘Well, what do you think, Dad?’ asked Mick.
‘Very nice,’ he said with noticeable indifference.
‘Glad you like it,’ said Mick stiffly.
‘Now that we’ve seen it, let’s go back inside, eh, lads?’ said Wilf, turning away from the car and walking back to the pub.
‘We want to hear the rest of that story you were telling us,’ said one of the men as they drifted away, Mick’s car forgotten.
He caught up with his father and took him to one side.
‘What is it with you, eh, Dad?’ he demanded. ‘Why don’t you ever show an interest in anything I do?’
Wilf shrugged his shoulders.
‘Afraid I might steal some of your limelight, is that it?’ pressed Mick.
‘Coming round here flashing your money about isn’t gonna do that,’ he said. ‘All that does is put people’s backs up.’
‘You just can’t bear anyone else to have any attention, can you?’
The pub door opened and one of his cronies called, ‘Come on, Wilf . . . we’re all waiting to hear the rest of the tale.’
‘New cars and posh houses won’t bring you popularity,’ said Wilf, moving towards the door.
‘Depends what sort of people you mix with,’ replied Mick lamely.
‘Are you coming?’ asked his father, ignoring Mick’s remark. ‘They’re waiting for us.’
‘They’re waiting for you,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’ll give it a miss.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Wilf nonchalantly and sauntered back into the pub, leaving his son outside feeling deflated, as usual.
God knows he ought to be used to it but it hurt just as much now as it had as a boy when his father had mocked and discouraged him whenever he’d shown promise or initiative. Wilf Parker was a man who refused to be upstaged for a second, especially by his own son.
In the office Mick found the catalogue he needed, glanced through it then sat down with his feet on the desk, smoking a cigarette and staring absently through the office window into the warehouse, stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes and packages on rows of high metal shelving.
He was still feeling unsettled by the meeting with his father which was why he’d sat down to calm himself with a cigarette instead of going straight home to Jane.
Thinking back over it, he decided that he probably had his father’s enormous ego to thank for the existence of Parker Supplies, because the need for attention he’d never had from his father had made him determined to make something of himself. The spotlight had never shone on Mick or his sister Marie when they were growing up. Wilf’s overbearing personality had pushed everyone else into the shade. Poor old Mum still lived in his shadow now.
It was pathetic really, he admonished himself. He would be thirty next year and still he wanted approval from his father. Still he longed to have his own love reciprocated, even though he would never admit it to anyone, not even Jane.
The thought of her immediately made him feel better. She thought he was wonderful merely because he breathed. So why was he sitting here thinking about his father when he had a diamond like her waiting for him at home?
He put his cigarette into the ashtray while he rolled up the catalogue and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, eager now to get home and remembering with some annoyance that he had promised to call on his father-in-law. Shutting the door of the office rather too forcefully behind him in his haste, he hurried down the aisles of stock to the exit.
Unbeknown to Mick, the slamming of the office door caused the cigarette he had left balanced on the ashtray to fall on to a pile of invoices on the desk . . .
Joe Harris opened the door to his son-in-law in pyjamas and dressing gown.
‘Blimey, Joe, it’s a bit early for bed, even for you,’ said Mick.
‘I’m not going to bed yet,’ explained Joe, a thin man in his early-fifties with brown receding hair and a snub nose like his daughter’s. ‘I’m watching a play on the telly and I feel more comfortable when I’m dressed like this.’
‘You and that blooming telly,’ teased Mick, going inside. ‘We’ll never get you away from it when colour television comes in. They reckon it’ll be starting next year.’
‘Yes, I was reading about that in the paper,’ said Joe, his pale brown eyes troubled, for unexpected visitors unnerved him.
‘It’ll seem funny seeing things in colour instead of black and white, won’t it?’ said Mick. ‘We’ll get to see what the celebrities really look like.’
‘Yes. I bet the sets will be expensive, though,’ said Joe conversationally.
‘Bound to be when they first come on to the market,’ agreed Mick. ‘I’ll be one of the first to have one, though, whatever they cost.’
His father-in-law didn’t doubt it.
‘Can I offer you anything?’ he dutifully invited as they went into the living room, soberly furnished in beiges and browns with a few tasteful nick-nacks dotted about.
‘No, thanks. I’m not stopping,’ said Mick, amused at the look of relief on his father-in-law’s face. ‘Jane asked me to call in as I was in the area but I can’t stay long, so don’t panic.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Ooh, not much!’ boomed Mick, laughing loudly. ‘I know you can’t wait to get rid of me so you can get back to the telly.’
Still smarting from the meeting with his father, he was being even more exuberant than usual in an effort to restore his own confidence. Without his even being aware of it, the volume of his voice had risen to an irritating level for someone of a quiet disposition like Joe.
A model of working-class respectability, he worked
as a clerk in the offices of a food-processing factory. He had never been gregarious and since losing his wife had retreated even further into his shell. His son-in-law was always a bit too full of himself for Joe’s taste and tonight Mick was being particularly exhausting. Joe longed for him to leave.
‘Have you been to see your folks?’ he asked politely.
‘Yeah. Dad was in the pub, having everyone in fits as usual.’
Joe nodded.
‘He’s a real comic . . . the most popular man on the manor.’ Praising his father to other people was something Mick felt compelled to do. It helped assuage his guilt about his true feelings.
‘Yeah, I can imagine,’ said mild-mannered Joe who actually thought Wilf Parker was a boring, self-opinionated git and avoided him whenever possible. He wouldn’t tolerate him at all if it weren’t for the fact that Jane was married to his son.
‘Anyway, Jane said I was to tell you we’ll see you on Sunday for lunch . . .’
Joe frowned. Even after all this time, he still felt shattered by his wife’s death and found company difficult. ‘I’m not really sure . . .’
‘She told me to tell you she won’t take no for an answer. The children will be disappointed if you don’t come, too.’
Although Joe loved his grandchildren, he never felt able to amuse or control them. Everything seemed so difficult since his wife had fallen victim to a heart attack. All his zest for life had gone along with her. But he knew he must make the effort for the sake of his beloved daughter.
‘Okay, Mick, I’ll be ready.’
As they headed for the front door, Mick just had to mention the car.
‘I bought a new Jaguar today.’
‘A Jag, eh?’ said Joe, pretending interest. ‘What will you come up with next?’
‘Ah, that’s all part of my charm, innit? You never know what I’m gonna do next.’