How to Steal a Piano and Other Stories

by John Hughes

  I’m dew tu retir soon. Dont rely wont tu but Im getin on a bit an long in the teeth four chasin scalys awl dai and neit. Im lukin fourwurd tu sum pees an quite, so long as I cun stai with George an his famly as there pet. A gurlfrend wud be neis, start a famly, mak sum litel polees dogs.

  Im enjoyin writin an wont tu do a propr autobiogrufy telin my leif storey, Iv alredy thort of a graet titel…

  ZULU – WORIER AGENST CREIM!

  Maybe maek a gud film won day, Stevn Speelburg directin, no won els wil do. Rover next dor dusnt think much of the idear. He sais that anthrupumorfism is a vulgr omniputense thes days, an the rot set in with Wolt Disny. I havnt a clu wot hes talkin abowt.

  Wen Iv got mor teim I wont tu improov my spelin and lurn tu teip betr, I know its paw. That wos a joak by the way, paw. Maebe not the best joak evr but then luk at it this wai… not bad for a dog eh?

  Dotty

  Mrs. Dorothy Roberts – Dotty to those who knew her well, Mrs Roberts to anyone else – had few pleasures left in life. At eighty-six, widowed, with her two children and four grandchildren living in different parts of the other side of the world, few remaining friends she hadn’t outlived, and struggling to get by on a meagre state pension, there was, frankly, little to take pleasure in.

  Admittedly she lived in a lovely part of the country, Dunton Green, on the Kentish stretch of the North Downs Way, a couple of miles from Sevenoaks. Born and bred in Tunbridge Wells, she hadn’t moved far; Kent had been home to her all her life. The housing association flat she lived in was basic and functional but pleasant enough. There were convenience shops nearby and the public transport into Sevenoaks wasn’t bad; not great but not bad. Her lifestyle lacked the finer things, yet it was comfortable. For her age she was in good health, and remarkably agile. By and large she had much to be grateful for, even if pleasures were few and far between. Like many who had exceeded their three score and ten and outlived their spouse and most of their contemporaries, she was finding loneliness the hardest challenge of old age.

  One small, some might say mundane, solace did, however, bring her a sense of satisfaction, if not out and out pleasure; her daily morning walk down to the local shop to buy a newspaper, which she took home via a gentle stroll around the nearby recreation park and then read from cover to cover, even the sports pages, sitting in her armchair with a nice cup of tea. Twinings English Breakfast. No other brand would do. Golden and well rounded, it said on the packet, and the packet was right.

  Mrs Roberts had had a good upbringing and education, was well-read, and although a housewife for most of her adult life, she had taught for a while in a private school; English Language and Literature. She prided herself on being a bit of a pedant. For example, it bothered her that there was no apostrophe in Twinings. She knew from research in the library that Thomas Twining had started the business in the eighteenth century. So, if the family name was Twining, an apostrophe was necessary to designate possession of the tea, or the business that produced the tea. She had written to them about it and received a polite but brief reply thanking her for her interest and saying how sorry they were that she was disappointed in their trade name. It had, however, been their trade name for over two hundred years and there were no plans to make a change.

  Each morning she bought a different newspaper. She had no preference; the easy reading style of the tabloids appealed to her just as much as the more scholarly treatment in the broadsheets, or what had once been broadsheets. Chopping and changing between them kept her up to date not just with the news but with their diverse perspectives upon it. Today it happened to be The Guardian.

  Punctuated by sips of tea, she read every word and then went back to the beginning to reread the articles that had stuck in her mind first time round, as was her habit. On this occasion, she didn’t get past the first on her list; a short but intriguing piece about goings-on in a court hearing the day before:

  Thursday 11th August 2016

  Judge and defendant exchange insults

  in court

  A judge who was verbally abused by a defendant reciprocated at a court hearing where he was being sentenced for breaching an antisocial behaviour order.

  John Hennigan, 50, who had breached the order by using racist language towards a black woman and her two children told Chelmsford crown court judge Patricia Lynch QC that she was “a bit of a cunt”. And Judge Lynch replied: “You are a bit of a cunt yourself. Being offensive to me doesn’t help.”

  When Hennigan screamed back “Go fuck yourself”, the judge replied: “You too.” He reportedly also shouted “Sieg Heil” – a pro-Hitler chant used in Nazi Germany – and banged the glass panel of the dock as he was jailed for 18 months.

  Hennigan, from Harlow, Essex, has dozens of previous convictions for offences including drug and firearm possession and common assault.

  Mrs Roberts found this extraordinary. Fancy a judge using the C-word, a female judge at that… and in court! She wasn’t sure whether to disapprove of her for stooping to Hennigan’s sordid level, or admire her for parrying the moron’s verbal abuse in language that he would understand. Mrs Roberts had never used the word in her life, not even in private. She was no prude and had no problem with swearing; indeed, she had done her share over the years when circumstances demanded, usually when Richie, her now long departed husband, had been guilty of some misdemeanour or other. But the C-word was the worst imaginable swear word and it had never passed her lips. She remembered once reading somewhere that someone – Germaine Greer it might have been – had said that in a world where the use of the F-word was commonplace and had lost its edge, the C-word was the only word left in the English language with the genuine power to shock.

  “If high court judges are using it now,” mused Mrs Roberts, “perhaps that too is losing its power.”

  The story about the judge fascinated her. Why was the C-word so offensive? She determined to find out more about it the next time she was online. She didn’t have a computer in her flat, she used one in Sevenoaks Library. It wasn’t that she was averse to new technology; it was down to cost. She couldn’t afford one. Good heavens, she’d been embracing new technology all her life; telephones, fridges, televisions, cars, washing machines, freezers, microwaves, mobile phones. Everything was new technology when it first came out then gradually became part of your life depending on how long it took you to appreciate the benefits. Richie had taught her that. He’d been a civil engineer, until his health failed, and always the first to lock onto and own a new gadget. She remembered doing the shopping with him when the first mobile phones appeared back in the early eighties, staring at him with embarrassment as he talked loudly to his mates through what appeared to be a house brick glued to his ear.

  She was due to visit the library the next morning. Books were another of the few pleasures old age had failed to diminish. She loved libraries, always had done, and was an avid reader; fast too, invariably with at least several books on the go. There had been times when she would take three or four books out a week. But not these days; they were heavy and a struggle to carry on and off buses. Her habit nowadays was to take out one at a time and visit the library more often, every other day or so rather than once a week. It was an excuse to get out of the flat, otherwise she would never leave it for days or weeks on end. God’s waiting room.

  One of the librarians, Mrs Anderson, had worked there for twenty years and knew her well, and always had a smile and a welcome for her. She would ask about the book being returned – what was it like, did she enjoy it, was it the author’s best – and was usually impressed by the response. Mrs Roberts was clearly an erudite lady with insight who absorbed what she read and had a critical flair. Once in a while the feedback could be terse and to the point if the book hadn’t met her expectations – “piffle” or even “crap” on occasions – which, coming from someone who bore a strong resemblance in both appearance and manners to Joan Hickson playing Miss
Marple, left Mrs Anderson in fits of giggles.

  The library in Sevenoaks was about a twenty-minute bus ride away; according to the timetable buses ran every half an hour, though the reality was usually rather different. Mrs Roberts was the only one at the bus stop this morning. She had timed her arrival to be ten minutes before the bus was due. She waited patiently for twenty-five before the familiar shape of a blue single-decker turned the corner into view. Over the years she had got to know all the regular drivers. Mostly they were pleasant and accommodating; with the occasional exception. Today was one of the exceptions. She could tell as the bus drew nearer it was the miserable fifty-something with the Bobby Charlton comb over who never smiled, was abrupt at best and more often than not plain obnoxious.

  “Good morning,” said Mrs Roberts as she stepped onto the bus. “At last.”

  “I came, didn’t I?” grunted the driver. “No pleasing some people.”

  Mrs Roberts decided not to labour the point and started to make her way towards an empty seat. The bus was only half-full so there were plenty to choose from.

  “Oi, where d’yer think you’re going?”

  Mrs Roberts turned around and looked at the driver.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Bus pass.”

  “Do I need to? I would have thought you’d know me by now, and I’m hardly borderline senior citizen. Most drivers don’t usually…”

  “Bus pass.”

  “Well, really!” She fumbled in her handbag, walked up to the window of the driver’s cab and pressed her pass up against the Perspex. He didn’t even bother to look at it, so she put it away and took a seat. Hopefully on the way home she’d get that nice young woman with the nose piercing and the tattoo of a python on her neck.

  Mrs Roberts arrived at the library just before eleven o’ clock. Today, rather than perusing the shelves for an interesting new read, she headed straight for the upstairs room, containing a row of five computers which could be used for a maximum of an hour at a time, although the librarians only enforced this rule if they were busy. This morning they were not. Only two were occupied: at the far end was a grubby-looking youth wearing headphones who was grunting and appeared to be playing a highly unsavoury video game. Then there was a gap. At the third along she recognised a fellow silver surfer, Mr Pardey, a retired solicitor whom Mrs Roberts knew slightly and avoided whenever possible as he was very boring. He nodded by way of a greeting, and Mrs Roberts nodded back. She had a choice; either sit next to Mr Pardey or leave a space and use the computer at this end of the row. It was a no brainer. She sat down at the end.

  “Good morning, Mrs Roberts,” said Mr Pardey, in his soft I’m-in-a-library voice, smiling and nodding.

  “Good morning,” she replied in a tone intended to be friendly but with a hint of matter-of-factness, hoping to avoid a prolonged conversation, or preferably any at all.

  “What are you looking at today… recipes, clothes, holidays?”

  “Oh nothing in particular.”

  “Online dating perhaps?”

  “I should think not!”

  Mr Pardey sensed this wasn’t going anywhere, so he returned his focus to the article he was reading. An avid collector of milk bottles, he had found a fascinating piece about Dr Hervey D. Thatcher, the New York druggist generally regarded as the father of the milk bottle. Mr Pardey dreamed of one day owning an Original Thatcher.

  Mrs Roberts’ computer screen was dark but ready and waiting for her. A slight movement of the mouse had it bursting into life and prompting her to enter her library card number and pin. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she typed them both in and pressed Enter. Up came the default browser page. Google. Next, with the index fingers of each hand alternately, she carefully tapped C-U-N-T into the search box, then clicked on the little magnifying glass icon that denoted Search.

  First to come up was a concise dictionary definition. Two definitions in fact; both nouns, one anatomical, the other vulgar. Below this were broader definitions, a thesaurus listing alternative words – some she recognised (vagina, pussy, twat), others were new to her (snatch, minge) – followed by a series of articles about its origins, analysis of why it was regarded as so offensive, and references in literature from Chaucer by way of Shakespeare and James Joyce to D.H. Lawrence.

  Already the search brought up mention of Judge Lynch’s use of the C-word in court earlier in the week. Opinions seemed to be divided about it. On the one hand, social media comments were predominantly supportive:

  What a legend Judge Patricia Lynch QC is.

  Judge Patricia Lynch QC has a cracking reply to a racist thug in her courtroom. I think it was a reasonable response given the circumstances.

  What a wonderful lady – we need more judges like her.

  It is hard to give children role models nowadays but Judge Patricia Lynch QC is definitely one.

  On the other hand, The Telegraph was reporting that the Judicial Conduct Investigations Office (JCIO) which handles complaints made about judges both inside and outside court had received complaints regarding HHJ (Her Honour Judge) Patricia Lynch’s comment in court. They would be considered in accordance with the Judicial Conduct (Judicial and other office holders) Rules 2014. To what extent the public were appalled enough to object was unclear. A spokesman added that they “never comment on how many complaints have been received”.

  Mrs Roberts couldn’t really understand what the fuss was all about. Having spent a good half an hour absorbing all the information she could glean, it seemed to her that the judge had merely thrown the awful man’s insults back at him, using his own words. He deserved no less. She particularly enjoyed reading in another account that after the vile racist had raised his arm in a Nazi salute and shouted Sieg Heil he had started singing an offensive song about the Jews, to which Judge Patricia Lynch QC responded: “I’m sure we’re all very impressed. Now take him down.” This raised her admiration even higher. She supported what the judge had done and said and felt inclined to write to her and tell her so.

  Whilst reading up on the etymology of the C-word, a fascinating snippet had come to light; she found it repeated in various Wikipedia entries. Apparently its first recorded usage anywhere was on thirteenth century street signs in a number of English towns including Oxford and London – Gropecunt Lane!

  She chuckled out loud.

  Mr Pardey heard her. “What’s funny over there?” he asked.

  “Oh nothing.”

  “Careful now, Mrs Roberts, they say that’s the first sign.”

  Of what she chose not to enquire and ignored him.

  Unsurprisingly, she read, when she had regained her concentration, these were streets where prostitutes plied their trade; red light districts in modern parlance. It was common in medieval times for a street name to reflect the business that went on there – Fish Street, Silver Street – although Gropecunt Lanes had over the years been modified to less graphic equivalents; Grape Lane, Grove Lane and in the case of Oxford to the entirely innocuous Magpie Lane. It occurred to Mrs Roberts that if it appeared on public notices in those days, surely the word was neither vulgar nor offensive. Looking ahead, Mrs Roberts couldn’t help but think that if it was good enough for Chaucer, Shakespeare and D.H. Lawrence, it was good enough for her. (James Joyce didn’t count – his books were crap.)

  There was an unfortunate incident at this point in Mrs Roberts’ research. The urge to spend a penny had been building for a while and reached a point where it could no longer be ignored. She gathered up her handbag, preparing to leave her computer in order to pay a visit. Mr Pardey stood up and shuffled towards her.

  “Not leaving already are we, Mrs Roberts?”

  “Just off to powder my nose.”

  “Shall I keep your place
for you?”

  “That won’t be necessary, I’ll only be a few moments.”

  “What was it that made you laugh just now – a recipe, a holiday review?” He leaned forward and peered at her screen.

  “Oh nothing. I suppose I ought to lock the computer before I go.” She fumbled on the keyboard, struggling to remember the odd combination of keys you needed to press, but not quickly enough to prevent Mr Pardey from seeing the screen.

  “Social history, eh? I do enjoy looking back into the past. Street names in the late medieval period – how interesting. What’s this, Grope… Gropecu…”

  She remembered! Control… Alt… Delete… Enter. This Computer is Locked.

  Mr Pardey stepped back, looking bemused and pale and more than a little taken aback. “I say, I really don’t think it’s appropriate…”

  Mrs Roberts did not hear him. She was halfway across the room, heading for a door in the corner with a stick man and a stick woman on it, above a stick person who appeared to have wheels instead of legs.

  When she came back, Mr Pardey was back at his computer; he glanced across at her, frowned disapprovingly, and focused his attention again on the father of the milk bottle in 1880s New York. Mrs Roberts didn’t really care whether he approved or not. Nevertheless, he had bothered her and so she decided to pack up and leave.

  Around the corner from the library was a Starbucks where she settled down with a small cappuccino. She would have preferred a nice cup of tea but they didn’t serve Twinings English Breakfast in Starbucks, nor did they serve whatever brand they did have in a proper teacup, or provide something to put your teabag in when you’d fished it out of the glass; a disgusting American habit, she presumed, which meant either plopping it onto your saucer and wetting the bottom of the glass so it dripped over you when you drank from it, or using a stack of serviettes, hoping you had enough to stop it from seeping through onto the table. In terms of good practice in tea making, it was a shambles. But their cappuccinos were very nice.