There you go – personally speaking, only I’d’ve thought they’d’ve grabbed it with both briny hands so to speak – very nautical I thought. Tale of the deep and all that, original slant too – young girl stowaway. Sex in the old apple-barrel (she’s a ticking time-bomb in no mistake). Mutinous crew, thirty days without water. Little Tommy Webster the cabin-boy stuck up in the crows-nest. ‘Ship ahoy cap’n!’ ‘Baint no ship young matey … them be … ICEBERGS!’ goes the cry. If it hadn’t been for little Tommy Webster they’d’ve all come asunder I’ll bet – no doubt whatsoever.
Letters (two): From Alison in Mallorca, she’s inviting me to visit. “See the sights!” she’s put. Maybe not, I’ll have to take a rain-check. I’ve sent her a postcard of Ilkley Moor with a picture of the famous Cow & Calf rocks on the front.
6:00pm. About Jordan Poritt’s funeral. Okay, as funerals go I expect (it had to rain, of course). What’s a funeral if it doesn’t rain? Even so, it was a pretty good turnout all the same. However, what really spoilt it for me is Gabriel B.T. (him wanting to take over the whole show as usual). There’s him in his expensively tailored black barathea overcoat and Homberg hat. Trust him to stand right next to me. Needless to say I stuck out like a proverbial sore thumb, wearing my navy-blue blazer with shiny chrome buttons (I’d even tried darkening them with nail-polish).
Natch, then it turns out, on top of everything else he’s doing the eulogy too. (Oh, let him get on with it I thought). All the same, given the chance I wouldn’t’ve minded saying a few well-chosen words myself to be honest. Though if I’m being truthful I’ve heard a mighty lot worse. Let’s face it funerals can be tricky even at the best of times – not what I’d’ve said, of course. Too many of his old, well used favourites for my liking – people soon get bored I find, e.g. ‘many moons ago’ and ‘the mind boggles’ also ‘moment in time’ etc etc. Maybe that’s just me, I counted four and I wasn’t even listening half the time.
Like I said, one or two of the older ones were nodding off, they were falling out of pews just about. Old Jordan, him being the so-called Bard of the Dales, not surprisingly he quoted him quite a lot. What with ‘merrily tripping, merrily skipping’ and ‘harken to the lark, doth sing’ et al – maybe too much some people thought, including yours truly.
Strikes me he just likes to hear the sound of his own voice.
One good thing, it was a traditional funeral, that’s something at least. Personally speaking I don’t hold that much with bodies, trundling off, disappearing through curtains into a nether world of the unknown so to speak.
According to Leslie Crabbe, my shandy drinking friend who works for the local council (27 years) – he scoffs at the idea. He’s seen the self-same coffin used loads of times up at the Crem. He swears that for a fact, just to prove a point he tied fuse-wire around the coffin-handles. WHO CAN YOU TRUST?
Who knows, that’s what he told me anyway.
One thing for sure, old Jordan, he’d’ve loved the drama of the whole thing. Fair to say his widow bore herself up remarkably well I thought, everybody said that (if anything she looked a bit relieved if you ask me). Then, another nice touch, she’d taken his old faithful Border Collie Ben along too, so that was nice. Maybe it’s just me, it’d crossed my mind we might’ve had one of those heart-wrenching scenes, something on the lines of Lassie, kind’ve pawing at the old fellows grave-side. Instead she kept yanking her all over the shop, wanting to be off (it had three pisses into the shrubberies, that’s at least). Luckily she restrained herself not to do it over the grave. That’s something I suppose.
Oh yes – here’s a thing too. Then on our way back, running into Cyn & Co, her and her American entourage (driving on the wrong side of the street) in their fancy new pickup truck. What else do you expect, the whole cortege is held up, they’re blocking off the entire road. Don’t you worry I kept my eyes right ahead, making out I hadn’t seen them.
***
Saturday 20th September.
There’s no place like home (old song).
Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).
1:00pm. Afternoon off! (My turn for the kids.) Cyn’s swapped days for some inexplicable reason. Luckily for me Thelma’s stepped into the breach at v.short notice – she’s a real gem in no mistake! That said, she’d been a bit quiet all morning come to think. Mind you she can be awfully moody at times.
We were down in the basement having our morning tea-break. All of a sudden, then she says ‘Did your friend find you alright the other day?’ Finally I thought – so that’s what’s bothering her is it. Don’t you worry, I know who she meant alright. ‘Hah, you mean Alison, yes thank you. No problem’ I said.
After that I rather neatly changed the subject,
‘Mother’s had the chimney-sweep in. God knows what the house will be like’ I said, dunking my biscuit into my tea.
She steered it straight back. ‘Lovely girl, she’s very attractive – don’t you think?’ She waited. I shrugged, I kept it light. ‘Um, now you mention it I suppose she is. She’s a member of the Poetry Society, we’re really old friends.’
Then, after a silence. ‘She came into the Library asking for you, she looked upset’ she gave me a look. ‘Well, I wasn’t sure what to do for the best – it isn’t my place is it?’
I stared ‘What, me living at my mother’s you mean? No, you did the right thing under the circumstances Thelma,’ I was able to reassure her. ‘She’s living it up in Mallorca last I heard’ then added (rather stupidly I reflected later). ‘Not that it matters, she’s left Gabriel Biggar-Titte for good – not before time either if you ask me.’ Too late, I’d already said it. How am I supposed to know that (I’m surprised I didn’t tell her all about our night out while I’m at it). If Gabriel B.T. gets wind of that, it’s chuffing dynamite – I’m done for.
After that I deliberately changed the subject, I said ‘You know Thelma, you really ought to come along one evening. You’d really enjoy it’ I enthused, adding ‘it’d take you out of yourself.’
She was just that way out you could tell. ‘Well, I don’t know about that so much. It’s more a question of priorities, isn’t it’ she told me in a flat either way kind of voice. She snapped the lid down on her lunch-box with finality. That’s how it got left.
No lady I thought. This is you’re trouble, you’re far too occupied trying to please other people. Her dopey Eric for one, the latest is he’s started counting railway-sleepers on his way home from work. Don’t ask (he’s done it before – that’s what kicked it all off before by all accounts). She’s really worried, according to Thelma if he’s out even by one, that means he’s to start all over again just to make it tally – it was past midnight when he finally landed home the night before last. Don’t tell me that’s normal, if it was up to me I’d strangle him in his sleep (she’d be doing everybody a favour). Least said I thought. No wonder he’s on three kinds of tablets for depression.
Join the club I thought.
Talk about something else I thought (neutral territory so to speak). Anyway, so then I purposely diverted her over to Kirsty and Shiraleen (always a high point of interest where Thelma’s concerned). What bothered her mostly, now that they’d both ‘come out’ what happens next? Her frown deepened ‘Does that mean they can’t get married in white?’ Thelma wondered aloud. ‘Um, good point. I hadn’t thought of that’ I said, stifling a yawn. She shook her head ‘That’s really awful’ she exclaimed, blinking furiously behind her glasses. What had I started. ‘Dunno, probably not’ I said yawning widely.
Frankly, by now I’m wishing myself someplace else, happily ensconced in Betty’s Cafe over in the High Street having a peaceful half-hour or so browsing through the small ads in the local paper, enjoying a poached egg on toast. I yawned.
Next thing you know Thelma’s stood over me, shaking me to bits almost – I must’ve dozed off. Mind you, I blame that prehistoric central heating boiler. ‘No wonder I get all these headaches’ I said – ‘somebody ought to report it.’
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Her head shook ‘That’s coke, you don’t get any fumes from electricity – I thought everybody knows that’ she stated, trudging up the stone steps. Her head appeared round the cellar-head door ‘Just in case you’ve forgot, you’re supposed to be picking the kids up at one-thirty sharp.’
‘I could be dead for all you care’ I yelled out.
***
There’s me thinking I’m late. Then when I get there nobodies even ready. Typical I thought – all that rushing about, then on top of everything else Cyn’s blaming me turning-up on the wrong day. ‘Sunday’s, your day’s Sunday’ she persisted.
‘No, I don’t think so – we swapped days. Your idea, not mine.’
She’s never wrong. So, then she’s running around like a headless chicken, trying to catch-up, preparing the children’s lunch (so-called more like). Oh, listen, this is a beaut, then it turns out they were waiting for fish-fingers. Yeah, me too (hard to believe, right). This is for two energetic growing kids don’t forget. One thing for sure, nothing changes much. Mind you, it’s the children I feel sorry for. Both sat at table, too scared to move (half-starved, who knows) staring down at their empty plates with glum-faces, waiting forever for their late, late lunch I expect.
No wonder they looked so unhappy. I’m not surprised. I daren’t even tell them about the homemade Desperate Dan-sized meat and potato pie I’d just eaten over at my mother’s house.
Looking around, the whole place is a bit of a tip if you ask me – there’s a pile of ironing you can hardly see the sky. Cyn too come to think. Boy O boy – I’ll say. No madam I thought, we’re not looking quite so glammed-up today are we petal, if you’re hot-shot, glitzy, jet-set friends could only see you now eh, e.g. wearing baggy jogging-bottoms and a dippy old cardi I’m meaning, hair tied back in a scorched Dalesway tea-towel, slopping around the place in old sneakers.
It surprised me, she’s really let herself go.
Cynthia opened a window. ‘We’re having a late lunch’ she repeated for the third time, waving her spatula staring at sizzling fish-fingers. She turned up the heat (by now the whole kitchen is a haze of acrid blue smoke) she pressed down with the spatula, as if willing them to cook faster. ‘Something cropped-up. I’ve had to go out on an errand of mercy’ Cynthia explained, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ‘That’s why we’re having a late lunch.’ We both nodded. Everything went quiet. ‘Avril’s having her eye-brows lifted’ Lucy volunteered bravely from her end of the table. Jamie’s head shook ‘Over two grand!’ he exclaimed, blowing out his cheeks.
Lucy looked at Jamie, holding her knife like a dagger, then giggled, ‘She’s going under the knife’ she chanted in a scary voice.
This made them both giggle.
Cyn turned from the stove, waving her spatula, threatening the pair of them, ‘Yes, and you know what happens to sharp noses too I suppose?’ She glared (not that I blame them). Let’s face it, it’s a lot of money to look permanently surprised if you ask me.
Finally the fish-fingers were ready. Cyn rushed over to the table holding the frying-pan ready to dish-out. Both kids looked up expectantly, faces beaming. Somehow or other her shoe must’ve caught under the mat, making her trip-up, she clipped the edge of the table with the pan, in turn causing her to shoot hot food right across the floor.
We all looked at each other. Both kids stared down at their empty plates. Rightaway Brian pounced onto his unexpected prize, swishing his tail, pawing gingerly at the red-hot fish-fingers, Cyn stayed remarkably cool I thought. Though, what’d made it worse, she’d left the cupboard door open, then on her way back, she accidently bumped her nose, giving it a sharp knock.
Everybody held their breath, waiting for her to explode.
Again, instead, not saying another word she dived into the fridge. Without further ado, each in turn, she dropped a greeny banana in front of them, then plonked down two cartons of yoghurt.
Lunch served she flounced out, one hand holding her nose.
Trust it to start raining. We sat inside the car waiting at the cross-roads, listening to the steady to and fro thumping of the wiper-blades, looking despondently out at the steady drizzle, trying to decide where to go.
Where do all the other Dad’s go?
Good question, more to the point – where to go if it rains?
Then I got an idea. ‘I know, let’s all go to Haworth’ I said.
Great idea, why hadn’t I thought of it before. Haworth village (onetime home of the world famous Bronte sisters) right on our doorstep. Ten minutes drive at the most. There’s always plenty to do there, not to mention the locally renowned steam-train.
‘Haworth is so boring’ Jamie moaned. ‘Oh no’ Lucy repeated. ‘Oh, noooooooo!’ they both chorused.
Right behind me I could hear irate drivers honking like mad. Too late I’d already pulled out. This is the trouble we’d been there before, lots of times. Both kids really hated it you could tell. ‘Wait till you see the steam train’ I cried, trying to inject a spark of interest. No chance (in my day I’d’ve been leaping about the platform wild with excitement). In slow crocodile line we trailed slowly up the steep cobble-stone Main Street. Jamie especially, just to show how bored he was he ambled way behind, kicking out at things.
Finally, two ice-creams later (Lucy dropped the first one in a puddle) we stopped at the top of the hill in front of the ancient square-towered stone church, next door to the famous parsonage. I pointed at the weather beaten stonework ‘Great literature has sprung from these very stones’ I said.
Jamie rolled his eyes (‘Big deal’ I thought he said) – I could be wrong.
Not a great idea. Lucy looked pained. I’d reminded her, she’s got a stone inside her shoe, as indeed she had, bless her – so infinitesimal I lost it under my thumb-nail. Also, she’s in desperate need of a toilet she whispered.
After that we all trooped into the Bronte museum (it was worth a try at least). Only, this time I made sure to hold Lucy firmly by the hand – last time we came here she managed to get herself lost. I led them into various rooms, ‘This need not be boring’ I said. If I’m truthful neither of them were much interested in anything. Again Jamie more so (he takes after his mother, that’s why). Last time we were here Cynthia refused to go in, instead she waited outside, smoking furiously, staring at her watch every five minutes. As things turned out we were all escorted outside under hard looks. Jamie I’m meaning – he’d started ‘touching things’ (purposely I thought). He grinned smugly – I could’ve swiped him one I’ll tell you.
What stopped me I don’t know.
It finally stopped raining.
After that we all headed for the quaint old Victorian railway station. Then we had a very pleasant trip on the renowned Haworth via Oxenhope Worth valley steam train (well, I enjoyed it at least). Things were looking up – that is until Lucy got soot in her eye, she’s yowling her head off. We all ended up sitting in the back of an ambulance, this is for over an hour at least.
Time to go, then on our way home we all piled into a big country pub (why didn’t I think of it before). After we’d eaten the kids raced off over to the Wacky Warehouse to let off steam for an hour or so while I enjoyed a leisurely pint of beer.
Oh, here’s a thing too.
What happened is when we all got back to DeLacey Street, nobodies home. No doubt Cyn’s next door over at Avril’s house. So, what’s new, right – no problem. Though, what did surprise me some is my latch-key not working, for some strange reason it didn’t fit the lock. Meantime, both kids shot off through a well-worn gap in the hedge, a short-cut into next door. Me and the cat kind’ve looked at each other, he’s like me I expect, both wandering why I can’t even get into my own house.
‘Me and you both brother’ I said aloud.
Odd to say the least – I’ve left a message on Cyn’s answerphone, telling her to give me a call A.S.A.P. or even sooner.
10:00pm. Look at the time. Cyn’s just decided to return my call – oh, finally I th
ought. She’s wanting to know, how come I’ve got her new number (yes, that’s what I thought). She sounded a bit put out. I told her it must’ve been a lucky guess. Imagine that, her changing her number without even telling me – as a matter of fact I got it off Jamie.
‘You might’ve mentioned it’ I said.
There was a pause. ‘Why, is it important?’
Amazing – how I kept my temper I don’t know. ‘Lots of things. No big deal or anything, making sure the kids are okay for one thing. That’s what parents do, right. No big deal or anything.’
NO BIG DEAL. I’m trying not to say that – it’s really stupid.
‘Look, I have to run. We’re going out’ Cynthia said.
‘Huh?’ (I looked at my watch). Who goes out at this time of night? What is she a burglar? I wouldn’t’ve minded, I’ve been waiting for her to call me. So, then I said. ‘Listen. That’s something else too, about my door-key not working, has something happened with the lock? I couldn’t get into the house.’
There was another pause. ‘Get in? I’m not with you, why would you want to get into the house anyway – we’re supposed to be separated?’
She was going too fast. ‘Right, I agree. Just for now we are – temporary. No big deal or anything.’ (NO BIG DEAL OR ANYTHING!)
What next I wondered? First it’s the phone-number, now the locks (unbelievable) she’s even changed the locks? She was waiting for me, I was too busy being incredulous. ‘That’s what a trial separation means’ Cyn continued filling the gap. ‘That’s the arrangement, demarcation lines, just for the time being, that’s all. Plan B, if I’m not at home the kids go round to Avril’s. What’s simpler than that? No big deal or anything.’
You think – you call that simple?
‘Wonderful, I can’t even get into my own house. I’m outside with the fucking pussy-cat, right?’
She changed the subject. ‘Oh, by the way. What’s happened to Lucy’s new dress? She landed home, looking like a little savage. She had it bought especially for her birthday over in the States – her pocket was completely hanging-off.’
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