Who Sent Clement?

by Keith A Pearson

  My question is immediately answered as my mother appears behind Stanley.

  “Beth, darling…what a lovely surprise.”

  She’s wearing a skimpy, silk dressing gown, and little all else.

  “You had me worried, Mum. Why didn’t you answer the door?” I bark.

  “We were…asleep,” she replies coyly.

  “At this time of the morning?”

  My mother looks at Stanley. He looks back at her, his eyes wide.

  “Yes, well, we fancied a lie in.”

  Two pink faces look at me, a faint glint of sweat on Stanley’s forehead.

  Realisation dawns, along with a crushing awkwardness.

  “Ohh, right. Shall I, erm, come back in ten minutes?” I ask.

  Ten minutes? Why not twenty minutes, or thirty? Christ, what is the socially acceptable period of time one should allow two pensioners to conclude a shag?

  It’s a question that brings no answers, but a cold shudder.

  “No, don’t be silly,” my mother chirps. “Come on in.”

  Stanley forces a smile on his face before he disappears, presumably to deal with his attire.

  I step through the door into a lounge area. The interior of the mobile home is surprisingly pleasant, styled with a palette of natural tones to complement dashes of plum and turquoise blue. A stone-coloured sofa faces an Adam-style fireplace, with two matching armchairs either side.

  “This is really nice, Mum.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Stanley chose all the furnishings.”

  We take a seat and chat idly until Stanley reappears.

  “Tea, Bethany?”

  “Please.”

  He heads through an archway into an equally pleasant kitchen, and puts the kettle on.

  The three of us then sit for an hour, sipping tea and talking about nothing in particular. I catch Stanley’s eye a couple of times, and I wonder if he’s hoping I’ll bugger off so they can resume their shenanigans. That doesn’t bother me quite as much as the fact my pension-age mother is getting more bedroom action than I am.

  The conversation eventually peters out but I’m satisfied everything is well with my mother. I get to my feet, much to Stanley’s relief.

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, Mum. Is there anything you need?”

  “No, thank you, darling. Stanley has everything in hand.”

  I’m sure he has, or did.

  “Good. I’ll leave you to, err…”

  “Goodbye, darling.”

  They edge me towards the door and Mum plants a kiss on my cheek. Stanley cautiously pats me on the shoulder, as if petting an unpredictable terrier.

  Once I’m on the opposite side of the door, they stand side-by-side and wave me goodbye as I edge backwards down the path. I’m sure Stanley mumbles “just piss off,” through a gritted smile.

  I plod back to the car, trying to purge the image of Stanley’s ruddy sex face from my mind. As I cruise back past number twelve, I have to force myself to keep looking straight ahead.

  Look away, Beth. Don’t think about what’s going on in there.

  Notwithstanding the interruption of a scene I’d rather not dwell on, at least my mother appears in good spirits. She’s safe, and that’s all I really care about as I drive away from Grange Park.

  I pass the same five-bar gate and I’m relieved there are no hallucinations this time. I seem to recall my mother’s doctor once saying the first step in dealing with stress and anxiety is acceptance — you can’t fix a problem if you don’t accept you have one. Maybe I’ve done that now, and my little episode earlier was a warning; a signal that I could follow the same path as my mother if I’m not careful.

  And that brings me to the object of my hallucination — Clement. Is he alleviating my stress levels, or adding to them? Would I now be in a better place if he hadn’t gatecrashed my life?

  It’s an interesting question — where would I be?

  Would I have been any less stressed if I’d spent yesterday in the shop, trying to figure out how to get Sterling’s money on my own? I doubt it.

  Would I now be at home, pacing up and down, still trying to come up with a solution? Probably.

  Either way, I’d be on my own.

  For all Clement’s faults and delusions, he has stood by me. Maybe I should return the favour and stick by him, at least until this evening’s foray is over.

  The fields and hedgerows soon give way to brick and concrete as I get closer to the town centre.

  I arrive at Waitrose and spend five minutes trying to find a parking space. Then, with a basket in hand, I head towards the ready meals aisle — sadly, a section of the supermarket I’ll be frequenting more often now I’m single again.

  There’s a fairly eclectic choice of meals from around the globe. However, I suspect Clement favours more traditional fare. With that in mind, I plumb for lamb hotpot with herby dumplings.

  I grab some milk and bread, and for a moment I consider the other items on Clement’s shopping list. I compromise and buy a box of eggs to scramble for breakfast tomorrow.

  Finally, I head down the toiletry aisle, looking for Imperial Leather soap. I have the option to buy a single bar, or a four-pack. Thinking about it, I assume Clement will be long gone before a second bar is ever opened so I grab a single bar.

  I hadn’t, until this moment, really considered what happens to Clement once this is all over. It’s funny how the most innocent of decisions can suddenly prod your thoughts in an unexpected direction.

  It’s a question I’d rather brush away though, but it does play on my mind all the way through the checkout, and the journey home.

  I walk through the door just after one o’clock. Judging by the noise coming from the lounge, Clement has finally got to grips with the volume on the TV.

  I put the shopping away and wander through to the lounge.

  “Is that loud enough?” I yell above the TV.

  “Eh?” he shouts back.

  I grab the remote control and lower the volume. I’m pleased to see there’s no evidence of Clement having helped himself to food or drink.

  “That’s better. How was the football?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because it was just a load of bloody foreigners falling over every five minutes.”

  “Ahh, you’ve discovered the joys of modern football, and the Premier League.”

  “Yeah, that’s another thing. What happened to Division One?”

  “I think it’s one and the same now. It was re-branded.”

  “Load of poncey nonsense if you ask me,” he grumbles. “They’ve ruined football.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got you something nice for lunch. I hope you like hotpot and dumplings.”

  “Yeah, perfect. I’m bleedin’ starving.”

  “Great. It should be ready in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes? How are you gonna knock up a hotpot in ten minutes?”

  “I’m…erm, not. It’s a ready meal so it just needs to go in the microwave.”

  “The what?”

  “Really?” I groan. “Did you not question what that shiny silver box on the kitchen side was?”

  “That thing? Thought it was a TV.”

  “It’s not. It’s an oven, of sorts.”

  “Right. And it can cook a hotpot in ten minutes?”

  “Well, less actually.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “You want to watch a hotpot cook in the microwave?”

  “I just watched West Brom play Watford. It can’t be any less interesting.”

  “Right.”

  Clement follows me out to the kitchen where I retrieve our ready meals from the fridge. As instructed, I pierce the film lid several times and place the first tray in the microwave. Clement watches on intently as I set the timer to five minutes and press the start button.

  I wash my hands as the aroma of lamb hotpot drifts across the kitchen.

  “Oh, Clement, that
reminds me — I bought you a present.”

  I dry my hands and retrieve the bar of Imperial Leather from the cupboard.

  “As requested,” I say, handing him the soap.

  He unwraps the packaging and holds the bar to his nose, inhaling deeply.

  “Ahh, that’s what a man should smell like, doll.”

  “Unlike my spare bedroom.”

  The microwave pings and I retrieve the first tray, sliding the second one in and resetting the timer. Although I can’t imagine Clement really caring, I serve his meal in a bowl rather than the depressing plastic tray.

  To my surprise, he waits until my food is ready before he starts, and we tuck into our hotpots together at the kitchen table.

  “We gonna get everything together after lunch?” he asks.

  “Yep. I’ve checked the route and it should take about ninety minutes to drive, so I was aiming to leave around half five.”

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He shoots me a frown while stabbing a dumpling with his fork. “Suit yourself.”

  “There is something else you might be able to help me with, though.”

  “Go on,” he grunts.

  “Something crossed my mind while I was in the supermarket. I was thinking, when this is over, where will you go?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether this works out well, or not.”

  “Do you want to expand on that?”

  “Not really.”

  “But when you first arrived, you said you’d end up somewhere horrible if you failed.”

  He chews slowly on a mouthful of lamb as he appears to consider my point.

  “It’s not your concern, doll. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, it kind of is my concern. I…um…want you to be okay.”

  “Careful, doll. Next you’ll be telling me you actually care.”

  “I do care, Clement.”

  “Then half my job is already done.”

  “Eh? I’m not with you.”

  He nudges the final dumpling around the bowl with his fork before slicing it in two. Half the dumpling is transferred to his mouth without an answer.

  I give it a few seconds before pressing him. “Well?”

  “What’s for pudding?”

  “Forget pudding. Are you going to answer my question? What do you mean about half the job being done?”

  He forks the second half of the dumpling and devours it. I don’t think he intends to answer my question so I pose another.

  “Okay. Where will you go if everything works out and we solve the problem with Sterling?”

  He drops his fork into a now empty bowl.

  “Honestly, doll? No idea,” he sighs. “Lap of the gods.”

  He gets up and takes his bowl to the sink.

  “Doesn’t that concern you?”

  “What’s the point in being concerned about something I can’t change? I’ll do what I can to help you but beyond that, what will be, will be.”

  “That’s a very philosophical view.”

  He rinses his bowl under the tap and places it on the drainer.

  “Not a view, doll. Just a fact.”

  With another line of questioning closed, I finish my lunch while Clement disappears outside for a cigarette.

  Once our bowls are put away, I crack open a packet of apple pies and put the kettle on. Clement steps back into the kitchen and we return to the table for tea and cakes. Just one solitary apple pie is left in the packet, much to my shame.

  Fully fuelled, we then get everything ready for our trip. It doesn’t actually take long, despite Clement requesting we add a flask of tea to our inventory.

  By two thirty, everything is laid out on the kitchen table, ready for our departure.

  “Now what?” Clement asks.

  “We could watch a film?”

  “At the cinema?”

  “No. There’s more choice on Sky, and it’s a damn sight cheaper.”

  We head into the lounge and I pull up the movie menu on the TV.

  “What’s your favourite film?”

  “Easy. Treasure Island. First film I ever saw at the cinema.”

  “When did that come out?”

  “I saw it when I was a teenager, so some time around the early fifties, I guess.”

  “Hmmm. Maybe something else then.”

  “You choose.”

  I dismiss dozens of movies before I spot something that might appeal to both of us.

  “I’m guessing you used to watch Star Trek?”

  “Yeah, I did. Now you mention it, you remind me of one of the characters.”

  “Really? Lieutenant Uhura?”

  “Nah. Spock,” he sniggers.

  I frown, but as I have a soft spot for Spock, I’ll take it as a compliment.

  “I think you’ll like this,” I reply, ignoring his jibe.

  I download the 2009 Star Trek movie; the one with a new cast playing the original characters. I’ve seen it before, but the geek in me is happy to watch it again.

  It proves to be a good choice as Clement is glued to the screen for the entire two-hour duration. While he’s absorbed in the action, I take the opportunity to scour Google on my laptop, trying to find any plans of the old Tower Hill station. It proves fruitless so it looks like we’ll be going in blind. I do, however, manage to locate a cheap car park fairly close to our destination.

  Unfortunately, neither the movie nor the research distract from the knot of anxiety, slowly growing in the pit of my stomach as our departure time looms closer.

  All too soon, the movie ends and we return to the kitchen. We go through a final checklist before loading it all into an old rucksack I acquired for my one and only camping expedition.

  “Right. I think we’re good to go,” I announce, trying my best to appear calm.

  “To boldly go where…”

  “Stop, Clement,” I interrupt. “You’re not going to do that all evening are you?”

  “Do what?”

  “Quote lines from Star Trek.”

  “Maybe.”

  I roll my eyes as Clement grabs the rucksack. “Let’s go.”

  He raises his hand and salutes. “Aye, Captain,” he replies in a passable Scottish accent.

  God knows how he can be so jovial. My nerves are already on edge and we’ve not even left yet.

  I fear there will be nothing bold about this journey.

  29

  “Shit! It bloody speaks,” Clement gasps, referring to the sat nav.

  “Sort of.”

  “How does she know where we are?”

  “It’s not really a she. It’s just a computer generated voice.”

  “Alright. How does it know where we are?”

  “A signal is sent to a satellite every few seconds and it reports our position back to the device.”

  “That’s bleedin’ amazing. Do you have to buy your own satellite?” he asks.

  “Um, no. That would be a bit impractical.”

  Clement continues to study the sat nav, fixed to the windscreen, with child-like fascination.

  By the time we hit the M25, Clement has turned his inquisition from the sat nav to the motorway itself. When did it open? How long is it? Where does it go? Despite my mild incredulity at his questions, they do keep my mind distracted.

  The decision to make the trip in the early evening proves wise as the traffic is light, and we reach junction seven within forty minutes. We can either leave the M25 for the M23 northbound, until it becomes the A23, or we can continue around the M25 towards Dartford and take the westbound A2. The Dartford option is marginally quicker but almost twice the distance. Time is not as valuable as petrol so we leave at junction seven and head north on the A23 — the road that will take us right into the heart of London.

  For the first five miles we trundle along quite happily, and I even have to slow down as we pass the numerous speed cameras dotted along the roa
d. Every few minutes, Clement stares intently out of the window and passes comment on a building that is either no longer there, or has changed. I give up responding by the fifteenth time.

  We pass by Croydon and the traffic continues to build. Fifth gear becomes a stranger as I continually shift between second and third, or sit stationary at a never ending succession of traffic lights.

  We reach Brixton, and still with almost five miles to go, the balls of my feet begin to ache from the constant pressing of pedals. It’s so tedious, I’m almost tempted to ask Clement to take over the driving. Almost, but not quite.

  After another thirty minutes of stop-start traffic, we eventually reach Tower Bridge Road, and my hope that the city would be quiet on a Sunday evening is dashed. It feels like we’re nearing a giant hive, with hundreds of drones buzzing haphazardly from every direction while revving engines and blazing horns. I’m not the most confident of drivers and I think I’ve just entered my own personal driving hell.

  It’s just after seven o’clock by the time we pass over Tower Bridge, and I’m approaching meltdown. An already stressful drive is made worse as daylight ebbs away and dusk arrives.

  “God, this is horrendous,” I whimper. “I hate driving in London.”

  “I noticed,” Clement jeers. “And I can’t believe you had the nerve to criticise my driving.”

  What is now clear is that Clement’s aggressive driving style is exactly how everyone in London drives. In my home town, lunatic drivers are a rare exception. Here, they rule.

  “Please don’t, Clement. I’m crapping myself enough without your input.”

  The sat nav chimes yet another instruction but I’m too focused on switching lanes, and miss it.

  “I think you were supposed to turn right there,” Clement mutters.

  Another horn blares from behind us as I dither over my next manoeuvre.

  “Turn around where possible,” sat nav woman suggests.

  “Fuck off,” I scream in reply.

  Clement chuckles to himself.

  “Pull over, doll.”

  “Where? I can’t.”

  He points to a drop off lane for coaches delivering tourists to The Tower.

  “Just pull in there.”

  I guess I’m probably not supposed to, but I’m past caring. I pull up behind a coach and try to control my breathing.

  “You want me to take over?” Clement asks.