by David Nobbs
The manager opened the residents’ book. Oh, God, he could have just done that himself.
‘Easy to find, sir. We’re very quiet at the moment.’
I’m not surprised.
‘I’ll write it out for you, sir. Lake View, 69 …’
Their eyes met again. It was an even unhappier meeting.
‘… Pond Street, Poole. No postcode, sir.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘You should always put the postcode, if I may make so bold as to advise you, Mr Rivers. I do hope the ring arrives safely, but without the postcode there is no guarantee.’
Fuck off.
He parked the Subaru neatly in the little visitors’ parking area. It was neatly roped off by privet hedges, so that the residents’ view over the manicured grounds remained unsullied. These flats were perfect. It irritated his mother that there was nothing to complain about. It was one of the many things that she complained about.
It had been another slow, tedious drive through the crowded, melting streets of North London. He was tired, so tired this day. He let his head drop down onto the steering wheel, so that he could rest a moment. He hadn’t switched the ignition off completely, and the horn blared loudly. He sat up rapidly, but the damage had been done. Faces appeared at windows all over the low, bland, unblemished complex. He twisted his neck to see if his mother had come to her window. It didn’t look as if she had. He would risk it. He would sit in the car for ten minutes, gathering his strength.
He shouldn’t have had that fifth drink. Holly had said that he should drink less. He’d known that this was good advice, and he’d decided to put it into practice straight away. Where better to drink less than in a pub? There was a pub in Hampstead called the Holly Bush. Where better to go to put Holly’s advice into practice? And now he was bushed. He smiled at the word play and wondered if he was going feeble. His mother would suggest he was if he tried the word play on her. Once, when he said he found Jack Dee funny, she had said, ‘Jokes are all right, I suppose, if you like laughter.’ She’d been a cheery woman once, while his father was alive. ‘Somebody has to be cheery,’ she’d once said, ‘while that man’s around.’ And then, when he’d died, and she could have really led a cheery life, she’d seemed to find no use for cheeriness, nothing to set it against. Tragic, almost.
He had only drunk halves, just to prove that he could drink less. But it’s tiring drinking slowly, as any true drinker knows. Sip sip sip. Drip drip drip. Wearisome. And the slow tick tick tick of the clock clock clock as he sipped sipped sipped in that long hot Hampstead afternoon, thinking in circles, thinking fondly of Deborah, thinking longingly of Helen, a fortunate man suspended between great events, a lonely man with a host of friends, but it didn’t do him any good to have lots of friends if none of them were in the pub with him on that long, slow afternoon, and he felt as unhappy as his right kidney. He cursed himself for having arranged to see Mike. He cursed himself for not having arranged to see Helen. He should have eaten something, but he had to leave room for the walnut sponge. He shouldn’t have had that fifth half. Two and a half pints were nothing, usually, but James this Saturday was not a strong man.
He could still ring Helen, see if she was free this evening, have a quick drink with Mike, spin him some yarn about funeral arrangements. But James this Saturday was a man riven by indecision, a weak man.
He should have gone home, as he usually did after his acupuncture, for a nice little lunch with Deborah. But there was no Deborah, there was no lunch, he was a man who couldn’t face shopping, he was a man this Saturday who couldn’t face himself, couldn’t face the truth, would be very unwise to face Helen, no, leave things as they were. James this sunny Saturday was a man without a home, a nomad, a wanderer in the desert, a man caught betwixt and between.
He felt slightly better now that he’d made up his mind not to ring Helen.
Suddenly, without his being conscious that he’d decided to, he was getting out of the car, he was walking away from the car, he was locking the car, he was walking towards his mother’s flat, he had nothing in his hands, nothing to give her, no flowers, no sweet little book of notepads, no thoughtful little gift of any kind. If he’d brought her flowers, she’d have said, ‘How much did they set you back? Florists? Daylight robbery.’ If he’d brought a sweet little book of notepads, she’d have said, ‘You think I’m losing my memory, do you?’ If he’d brought scent, she’d have said, ‘Do I smell? You would tell me if I did, wouldn’t you? Because sometimes old people do start to smell.’
But he should have brought something.
‘Hello, Mum.’
Kiss. One cheek. Brief. Not the tactile generation. Sad.
‘Why did you wait in your car?’
To give me strength to face you. No!
‘What?’
‘You set the horn off and I looked out because I was sure it would be you. A mother recognises her son’s horn. Right in the middle of Mrs Pardoe’s nap, I shouldn’t wonder. That nap of hers. You’d think it was the Trooping of the Colour. Quarter of an hour you’ve been.’
I was wondering whether to ring the woman I love and have loved for five years and whom tomorrow I will be f— No.
‘Ten minutes I’d have thought, top whack. I … there was a programme on the radio I wanted to hear the end of.’
‘I see.’
Much more important. Your poor old mum has nothing as interesting to say as the BBC. It was in her voice, but she didn’t actually say it, and for that he was grateful.
‘Anyway, thank you for coming, and this is all so sad. So very sad, dear. And if I may criticise, but what’s a mother for if she can’t, don’t you think that pink shirt’s just a bit cheerful a bit soon? Oh, poor Deborah. Though of course it was sudden, and at least we know she won’t end up in a home. There is that.’
‘She was forty-six, Mum.’
‘Oh, I know. Much too young. Tragic. I’ll make the tea.’
He watched her as she made the tea, and he was very relieved. She was as brisk and efficient as ever. But she looked so small. She was shrinking slowly over the years. The dress she was wearing, the red one too thick for the weather, the one that looked as if it had been made from part of a carpet, still fitted perfectly. He wondered if the Kwality Cleaners, round the corner, were serendipitously shrinking it at exactly the same rate as she was shrinking.
‘And some walnut sponge?’
‘Please.’
He went to the window and looked out at the pleasant, anodyne prospect.
‘There are no birds,’ he said.
‘We’re not allowed to put food out. It’s against the rules.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Probably the noise would disturb Mrs Pardoe’s nap.’
The bitterness in his mother’s voice was a physical shock to him. So small, but capable of such ferocity.
‘If we ever get another bad winter I’ll take no notice. I won’t let my birds starve.’
‘Quite right, Mum. You do that.’
He was glad to see that she poured the tea with a steady hand, and cut the cake very professionally. She was only seventy-six, which was no age these days, but still, it was best to keep a close watch. She still had her bone structure, too, though she was heavily lined, having been a sun worshipper in those Malta and Majorca days. But her grey hair was getting humiliatingly sparse.
‘James, there’s a fork for the cake.’
‘Oh, Mum.’
‘We have standards in our family, James. The Harcourts think they’re posh, Fliss with all those double-barrelled friends, but we have standards too. I hope the funeral tea will be a classy affair. You can judge a family by their funerals just as much as by their weddings.’
‘Mum! I just want it to be a good send-off for Deborah.’
‘Of course. I hope the vicar’s all right. The decline in vicars in this country is shocking. Is he all right?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never met him. We just have to hope.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘I can’t not invite him, Mum.’
‘No. I know. I was hoping he might be the next to go. That’s the only solution, really, for people like that. More tea?’
‘Thanks. Nobody makes a cup of tea like you, Mum.’
She tried so hard not to show that she was pleased. Why?
‘Another slice?’
‘Please. It’s lovely, and I’m really hungry.’
He expected that to please her, but she said, ‘Now that’s bad. You should make sure to eat. I bet you can’t boil an egg.’
‘I can cook, Mum. I have a limited range, but … not bad.’
‘Things with rice,’ she said scornfully.
‘Partly. We like rice.’
‘Well, that’s lucky. I wouldn’t thank you for it. It’s fine if you’re Chinese, but I’m not. And nor are you, may I remind you?’
There was silence for a moment. He could see that his mother was brooding about something, and he was happy to concentrate on not dropping crumbs.
‘She doesn’t sleep at night,’ said his mother. ‘Of course she doesn’t. It’s because of her precious nap. The whole block has to be quiet. It’s Remembrance Day every afternoon.’
Her eyes had sunk into her face, but they would still be able to spot a speck of dust in a stately home at two hundred yards.
‘Have you seen Philip?’ he asked.
‘Coming tomorrow. He’s not a bad boy.’
‘I come whenever I can, Mum.’
‘I didn’t say you didn’t. You shouldn’t be so touchy. Touchiness is not an attractive trait in a person. More tea?’
‘I’ve had two.’
‘You always used to be a three-cup person. In the old days.’
Ah, those tea-swilling days of yore.
‘All right, then. Thanks. Seen Charles?’
Her face broke into a smile at last.
‘Ah, Charles,’ she said. ‘He’s doing so well.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Not since March. He’s so busy with his concerts.’
So typical. Place the one who doesn’t come on a pedestal. Make him your favourite. You were an individual once, Mum, strong, holding the family together, saving them from Dad. When he died the purpose went out of your life and now, now you’re in danger of becoming a cliché. When all this is over, Helen and I are going to take you in hand, make sure you become the sort of old woman you ought to be. You won’t like Helen at first, but she’ll grow on you.
‘He’s away now, isn’t he, giving his concerts? Ecuador or Iceland or somewhere like that.’
This vagueness is a new thing. I think it’s put on. You’re an educated woman.
‘I see him on the telly, of course. I saw Philip on the telly too, on that programme about global warming. It’s a pity you’re never on the telly.’
I’ll make some suggestions to the BBC. Strictly Come Packaging. I’m in a Parcel, Get Me Out of Here. Britain’s Got Cardboard.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said at last. ‘I’m going to have to take my leave.’
‘Well, thank you for coming. I do appreciate it.’
He tried to hide his astonishment.
They walked slowly towards the door. It would be a while before they reached it. Saying goodbye to his mother was never a swift affair.
‘You’ve been a good husband, James. Take comfort from that,’ said his mother. ‘Do you remember Mrs Tomlinson from number forty-four, when we were in Carberry Crescent before we went up in the world?’
‘No, Mum. I think I was two when we left Carberry Crescent.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say Carberry Crescent was a fount of wisdom. You didn’t meet your Jean-Paul Sartre slipping off to Londis. Your father used to be very scornful of the people in Carberry Crescent. But you learn in this life that wisdom sometimes comes from unexpected places.’
‘So what did Mrs Tomlinson from number forty-four say?’
‘Do you know, I’m not sure now if it was number forty-four. I think she might have been from number forty-two … Yes, I think she was, because number forty-four was right opposite the letter box and had those purple curtains, and I said to Mrs Tomlinson, “What sort of person chooses curtains that colour? Actually chooses them?”’
‘Mum, what did Mrs Tomlinson say?’
‘She said, “People who know no better.”’
‘No, no. Not about the curtains. What you were going to say before that?’
‘It’s gone. Don’t mock.’
‘I’m not mocking.’
‘You’ll get like it one day. You’ll see.’
‘I’m not mocking, Mum.’
‘Where was I? Prompt me.’
Oh, God. What had she been talking about?
‘You can’t remember. You weren’t listening.’
‘I was listening. You hadn’t got round to what you were talking about. You’d gone into a detour about Mrs Thingummy’s curtains.’
‘Tomlinson.’
‘Mrs Tomlinson’s curtains.’
The conversation was shaped like a maze. Would he ever escape from it?
‘They weren’t Mrs Tomlinson’s curtains. That was the whole point of it. They were the curtains of the woman next door. I was going to tell you something about Mrs Tomlinson. Something she said. It’s almost there. Oh, it is frustrating. I’ll remember the moment you’ve gone.’
Gone. Eventually he would be gone. Here was a cue to begin to depart. He opened the door, very slowly, as inconspicuously as possible. But he found that he just couldn’t walk through it. Not yet. Not till she’d remembered.
He tried harder, thought back over the start of the conversation, and inspiration struck.
‘It was following on from your saying that I’d been a good husband.’
‘That was it. Thank you. If you’d said that in the first place. Mrs Tomlinson said once, out of the blue, right out of the blue, she said, “Do you know, Kathleen, what is one of the most wonderful feelings in the whole wide world?” and I said, “No, Gladys, I do not. What is one of the most wonderful feelings in the whole wide world?” and she said, “One of the most wonderful feelings in the whole wide world, Kathleen, is when you wake up one morning and realise that you did nothing to be remotely ashamed of yesterday.”’
‘That’s very good, Mum.’
‘Isn’t it? And I think you can say that, can’t you? Every morning.’
Oh, Mum, Mum, how little of me you know. Or am I underestimating you? Are you being devious? Are you putting the knife in, as mothers do?
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and walked through the door. He had made it. He was out.
There was still time to kill before he met Mike. He’d said seven o’clock. God, it was in danger of being a long evening. He dreaded all the drinking that he would have to do. Correction. He had the car. He dreaded all the drinking that he wouldn’t be able to do. Sitting watching Mike drinking. It would be about as exciting as watching synchronised swimming. He couldn’t face it without a drink.
He stopped in a cavernous pub with a car park big enough for a rugby club. The huge bar smelt of stale chips and disinfectant. There were five other customers, three sad men at the bar and a couple with just about a full set of teeth between them kissing and cuddling under the blackboard menu, on which was chalked ‘Special of the Day – Burger and Chips’.
He ordered a single gin and tonic, and poured the whole bottle of tonic in. He sat opposite the clock, and decided to ration himself to a sip every two minutes. It wasn’t long before he noticed that the clock had stopped. After a few moments he realised that this was actually a stroke of luck. He began to count the seconds to himself, and took a sip every time he reached a hundred and twenty. That way his mind was fully occupied. There was no room for useless anticipation of great moments with Helen or unwanted nostalgia for great moments with Deborah.
He savoured
each sip, seeking out the sharp juniper taste of the gin under the sweet quinine of the tonic. God, how he longed to drink it faster.
The three men at the bar were hardly speaking, but he heard one of them say, ‘Fucking bastard immigrants, they’re going to destroy our whole way of life.’
He longed to shout, ‘What way of life?’ but managed not to.
A thought occurred to him. He would tell Mike about Ed’s disappearance. Mike had known Ed. It would take up a minute or two. Any topic of conversation was welcome, to help while away the long hours of struggle.
He needed to ring Jane first to check if Ed had been found.
He dialled her number. His phone told him that there was no network coverage.
‘No fucking reception in here,’ called out one of the sad men, ‘and that goes for that fucking cow behind the fucking bar too.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said James with exaggerated politeness, and the three men went, ‘Ooooh! Thank you very much!’ in posh unison, and the dentally challenged lovers looked up and cackled before resuming their exploration of the gaps in each other’s mouths.
James drained the rest of his gin and tonic in three long, luscious gulps, and walked defiantly to the bar to hand over his empty glass.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said again, but this time there was no response from the men.
‘Thanks,’ said the barmaid. ‘See you later.’
No chance.
He phoned Jane from the car park.
‘Hello, Jane, I’ve been thinking about you. I wondered if there’d been any developments.’
‘Thanks. No. Nothing.’
‘Oh, Jane. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, it is pretty terrible, James. The not knowing. It’s … indescribable actually.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I’m all right. The family are doing shifts of Jane-sitting. I’m coping. But how about you?’
‘Bearing up. No alternative. But at least I have something to try to get over. You just don’t know.’
‘I know. Every time the phone rings my heart races. Will it be, “I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs Winterburn”? or, “It’s me. Sorry about this, but can we arrange a time next week when I can come round and collect my things?”’