by Tim Lott
I decided I’ve got to. Although to be honest, I don’t want to.
Why?
Because it’s going to put you on the spot.
Can I open the wine before you tell me?
He pours out a glass for himself and a glass for Owen.
Get on with it, then.
Nodge takes a large swig of the wine.
So. This is the thing. I was taking my lunch break and going out the back way because there’s a little coffee bar that way. I don’t know if you know, but to get out the back way from the curtain department, you have to go through menswear.
Is all this scene setting strictly necessary?
Nodge still seems to be concentrating more on the food than on Owen. He is already halfway through his plateful.
Probably not. I was making my way out and it wasn’t too crowded or anything, but I noticed quite a few people staring over by the Ralph Lauren counter. Then I saw there was this couple, snogging like billy-o. It was really embarrassing. But they didn’t care, they were so carried away. Tongues down the throat, everything. Someone shouted ‘get a room’, but they didn’t take any notice. Anyway, I had to walk past them to get out. I walked right past them. They both had their eyes closed, they were so lost in it.
I hope this is going somewhere. This chicken’s a bit pink in the middle.
I think you’ll find it interesting.
It’s not even mildly diverting so far.
What if I was to tell you that the woman was Veronica?
Nodge stops poking at the chicken with his fork, puts his cutlery carefully down on the table.
Fuck.
He stares in bewilderment at Owen.
It gets worse.
How could it get worse? Did they rip each other’s clothes off and shag next to the gloves and accessories?
The other person was Tony.
Tony who?
Tony. Your old friend Tony. Frankie’s old friend. Tony Diamonte?
Now Nodge falls silent, and stares straight ahead of him, past Owen, at the wall with the framed Frida Kahlo print on it.
I told you it puts you in a difficult position.
I can’t believe it. Tony? With Veronica? She always hated Tony.
Hate is a very powerful emotion.
What did you have to tell me for?
Because you had a right to know.
Thanks a lot. What should I do now?
That’s got to be up to you.
Now that you’ve told me, I’m complicit. I’m party to it.
That’s exactly what I felt. Complicit. Which is why I had to tell you. But before you make any decision. It’s different with Frankie. I made a decision that puts you in a difficult position. The decision you make could destroy his marriage.
Yes, I know that, O.
So you don’t necessarily feel you have to do what I did.
I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t say, I don’t know, something.
I expect you’ll find a way. I always thought you were the pragmatist. It’s probably just some brief fling that will blow over. Look, why don’t you have a quiet chat with Veronica about it? That should at least make her think twice.
You know how that goes down, Owen. Her guilt will make her hate me. She’ll say I’ve been snooping. Or that it’s none of my business. Or something along those lines. And then she’ll set about turning Frankie against me. Just in case.
You have a pretty negative view of women for someone with your politics.
It’s nothing to do with her being a woman. It’s just the way people are. What do you think I should do?
I don’t think you should go and blurt it all to Frankie. I imagine he’s got enough on his plate as it is. Haven’t you noticed? The property market is going down the toilet. If you’re any sort of friend, you won’t add to his troubles. Remember how he was after Colin died? Went down like a stone.
He got up again, didn’t he? In the end.
Yeh, but he’s . . .
‘He’s never been quite the same’. I know. Or perhaps too much the same. Only brittle. Manic. I don’t know. Like he’s been running so fast he’s afraid to stop.
This could push him over the edge.
I don’t know what to do, Owen. My conscience . . .
There’s more important things than your conscience, dear.
I could have said the same to you! You didn’t have to tell me what you saw.
I didn’t ruin your life. Like I said, it’s different.
I’m not so sure about that. A principle is a principle.
Look, you’re a good man, Nodge. A wonderful man. You don’t have to go and prove it to everybody by smashing Frankie’s marriage.
He trusts me. Probably the only person he does trust really. Or should trust.
He trusts you to act in his best interest. And his best interest in this case is very much keeping absolutely schtum.
I don’t know, Owen. I just don’t know.
Nodge stares at his plate of unfinished stew. He sits, unmoving.
Do you want that? says Owen.
Lost my appetite.
* * *
Hello, Mum.
Hello, Frankie. You come and have a seat. How’s everything with you and Veronica?
Couldn’t be better.
The old house. Unchanged since forever. Thank god he still has some security in the world. Whatever happens to him, the house will always be there. Sooner or later, it will be his. Every few months Flossie invites the family over for Sunday lunch. This time Veronica can’t make it, she has accompanied China on yet another one of the endless, extra-curricular and very expensive ‘educational’ trips her school is continually arranging. This time it’s a sculpture park in the Cotswolds.
I’ve done the roast well done like you like it. I know you pretend you like it with all the blood running out of it but you don’t really, do you?
Frankie feels the weight of the chair under him, looks at the net curtains.
Do you want a glass of plonk or somethink?
I’ll take whatever you’ve got, Mum. How’s the mysterious Gordon?
You’ll find out. He’s joining us.
You what? Really? What prompted this?
Oh, nothing much. Thought it was about time.
I don’t know why I haven’t been introduced to him sooner.
Tell you the truth, I don’t know either. One of those things I suppose.
I must say I’m honoured.
The table, he now registers, is set for three. Flossie retreats to the kitchen. He hears a brief fit of coughing, then she brings out the lamb on a plate, then the vegetables and roast potatoes.
No one makes a roast like his mum.
You still got that cough, Mum?
I went to the doctor. He said it was asthmatic or something. Gave me an inhaler.
Are you using it regularly?
When I remember.
You’ve never had asthma before.
Well, I have now, says Flossie, as if that settles the matter. Frankie takes the hint and drops the subject.
So you said you had something to tell me then, Mum.
Can’t it wait until you’ve had your dinner?
She starts to put out the vegetables, overcooked, and the roast potatoes, done perfectly in beef dripping.
Why, will it ruin my appetite?
Nothing like that.
Don’t tell me. You’re getting married. Is that it? He laughs.
Gawd, what on earth gave you that idea? I’m not marrying no one.
Frankie breathes a sigh of relief. Although he doesn’t understand why and although he knows he should wish his mother every happiness, he doesn’t like the idea of her getting married again. She is, after all, his. His mother. And his father’s wife.
Frankie applies a liberal spoonful of Colman’s mint sauce on the lamb and shakes salt out of the cruet.
Oh yes, Mum. This looks good. The business.
Gordon rang to say he’ll be a bit late
. Problems with the bus. I’m sure you’ll enjoy meeting him. He’s a very nice man. But he said we shouldn’t wait.
Frankie starts chewing on his lamb determinedly. It is almost grey, it is so overdone.
Flossie, he notices, looks nervous and will not meet his eye. She fiddles with the food in front of her absently. Eventually she says:
I suppose I’d better spit it out.
Oh Mum, it’s not that bad. Bit overdone perhaps.
Shut up you!
She puts her hand on his, her liver spots like water marks on tissue paper.
Look, Frankie. This is it. I know you love this old house. But. Well, I’ll come to the point. I’m selling it.
What?
In fact, I’ve sold it.
Frankie’s food stops halfway to his mouth. A wave of panic unexpectedly hits him. The house has always been here. Solid, stable, immovable, like his mother.
You’ve sold it?
Yes. I got half a million quid. Just fancy that.
Frankie has put his fork back down again.
Right.
You look upset, Frankie.
Do I?
I expect you’re upset that I didn’t ask you to sell it for me, aren’t you? But just for once, you know, I wanted to do something on my own. You do so much for me.
Frankie is surprised to find himself fighting back tears. But his countenance gives nothing away.
Do I?
Oh, you know me too well, don’t you, Frankie. Too well. Truth is, I thought you’d try and talk me out of it. You would have tried, wouldn’t you? You love this old house. And I couldn’t sort of deal with it. I’d cave in. That’s what Gordon said anyway. He said it was best not to say anything.
Well, that’s brilliant, Mum, says Frankie. But what on earth are you going to do with half a million quid?
She cackles cheerfully.
Oh, I won’t end up with anything like half a million quid. It’s all remortgaged up to the hilt, isn’t it? How do you think I paid for all those cruises? No, probably there’s one hundred and fifty thousand left in it. I can’t keep paying the mortgage. I always think – well I have thought since your father died – that you can’t keep thinking about tomorrow. But it does come in the end, doesn’t it? Now Gordon has a nice clean place in Hemel Hempstead. Or it will be clean when I’ve had a go at it. He’ll let me stay there and we’ll still have that money in the bank. We might even get a few more cruises out of it. I mean I’m sixty-five years old now, Frankie, and I’m not getting any younger. I don’t want to let it all slip through my fingers. I never got the opportunities that you got when I was younger. Spent my life doing nothing much really. Tootling around the house and that. I want to live, see. And you’re doing all right, you’re all sorted out. I know we won’t see so much of each other anymore, but you don’t come round that much anyway nowadays, which I don’t blame you for, honest I don’t, you’ve family responsibilities.
The sound of the doorbell interrupts this lengthy soliloquy.
I’ll get that, love. Probably Davina from next door after a cup of milk or something. She’s always on the cadge. Why have you stopped eating? Isn’t it very nice?
No, Mum, of course it’s nice. Tell you what, why don’t I get the door? You rest your legs. You’ve gone to all the trouble of cooking.
Are you sure?
Frankie is already on his feet.
That’s very nice of you. Thank you, Frankie. I do feel a bit frazzled.
Frankie, in a daze, makes his way to the front door. When he opens it, an enormous black man, maybe six foot three, with dreadlocks, dirty to the point of turning green, is standing there. He looks to be about forty years old, but it’s hard to tell. He is shabbily dressed, in jogging trousers, a chunky grey sweater and what looks like an ex-military overcoat. His trainers are old and dirty and one of the shoelaces is undone.
Yes. Can I help you? says Frankie, reaching in his pocket for change.
The man stares at him. Frankie starts to feel irritated.
What do you want, mate? I’m in the middle of my Sunday dinner.
I’m Gordon.
His voice is soft and quiet with a slight West Indian accent.
You’re Gordon.
Gordon Lucas. Yes.
He puts his hand out.
Frankie automatically takes it and allows his to be shaken. Gordon smiles, showing rows of large, yellowing teeth. The two lower front ones are missing.
She didn’t tell you, did she?
What?
She didn’t tell you I was black. She’s a bit of a racist, old Flossie, he says cheerfully. Probably ashamed.
Now he pushes past Frankie and calls out. Frankie catches the reek of skunk.
Floss! It’s me, darling.
Lucozade!
She runs up to him and throws her arms round his neck. They kiss. Passionately. And Frankie looks away.
Gordon takes his coat off and comes and sits down heavily at the table. His eyes are bloodshot, but he seems entirely content and at home. Frankie sits opposite him, unable to stop staring.
So. Frankie. Flossie tells me you’re an estate agent, says Gordon and smiles as if he is performing a job interview.
Yeh.
Nice business to be in.
Right.
Frankie’s not happy being in the interviewee’s seat and he tries to turn the tables.
You got kids, Gordon?
Oh yes.
How many?
Seven.
Five different mothers, says Flossie almost proudly.
Don’t see much of them nowadays, says Gordon cheerfully, picking a roast potato off Flossie’s plate with his nicotine-stained fingers.
That’s a lot of kids. And a lot of mothers, says Frankie.
That’s the way we did things in the old days. Stupid, innit? But I was a young man. Wanted to be a babyfather. Didn’t know any better. They’re good kids. I still see some of them.
What do they do?
Oh, you know. This and that.
Got any pictures of them?
Not on me, no, I don’t. Too many of ’em, they don’t fit in the wallet.
He laughs, a sparkling, deep chuckle.
Frankie, refusing to be put off, continues the interview.
So you have a house in Hemel Hempstead?
Not mine exactly. It’s a council house. Well, flat. It’s a nice one, though. Well, it will be, when Flossie has finished with it. I was never that house-proud, you hear what I’m saying?
Ooh, he’s a filthy pig, says Flossie, grinning broadly. Her face is flushed. There is blood suffusing her lips. Don’t you worry, Lucozade. I’ll make it lovely for you. He used to live in the Bush, didn’t you, Gordon?
I did indeed, says Gordon, helping himself now to a parsnip. Twenty-five years. Plumbing was my trade.
Amazing we never met before. I mean before we really met. When you came round to fix my washer.
Frankie’s meal has gone cold now and he cannot even bother to pick at it anymore.
You’ve been quite a mystery to me, Gordon.
Gordon chuckles again, a sound of stewing fruit.
I bet I have. I bet I have.
We’re out of wine, says Flossie.
Gordon leaps with surprising speed to his feet.
I’ll go and get some. I could use the walk, tell you the truth. There’s a handy Gandhi by the bus stop, isn’t there, Floss?
Are you sure? says Frankie. Gordon, who up until now has moved with an arrested, slow loping motion, looks sprightly and urgent.
Yeh, course.
He reaches in his pocket.
Only . . .
He takes out a cheap plastic wallet and opens it to inspect it.
Frankie reaches into his pocket, hands him a twenty-pound note. He smiles.
He’s a fine boy, Flossie. You should be proud. I’m embarrassed, Francis.
Oh, he don’t mind, says Flossie. My Frankie’s got money coming out his jacksie.
; I’ll get some beer for myself as well, if you don’t mind, Frankie.
Be my guest.
With that he is gone.
Well, Mum, says Frankie, staring at the space that Gordon has left. It’s nice to see you’ve become a liberal in your old age.
He’s not like a lot of them other blacks. He’s a lovely feller. Heart of gold. You like him, don’t you?
Course I like him, Mum. When’s the house sale going through?
End of the month.
That soon!
You’ll come and see me in Hemel, won’t you?
Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Mum . . . ?
Yes, dear?
Why didn’t you tell me he was Jamaican?
Oh, I don’t know. Tell the truth, I always thought you was a little bit racially prejudiced about coloured people. Anyway, he’s from Guyana.
Her eyes glitter, knowingly.
Mum, I’m not a racialist. Racist. Anyway, does he know what ‘Lucozade’ is rhyming slang for?
Don’t know what you’re talking about, she simpers.
And we don’t call them coloured people anymore.
Well what are we meant to call them, then?
People of colour.
Well, what’s the bleeding difference?
She coughs again into her handkerchief. This time, Frankie notices, there are small spots of blood on the handkerchief, imprints of a tiny, invisible cloud.
* * *
Veronica has come round to Roxy’s rented flat because Roxy has told her that she has important news.
They sit at the kitchen table, sipping cups of builder’s tea. Roxy shovels another cup of sugar into hers.
So what’s the big news?
The big news? I’m closing the popcorn shop, announces Roxy, almost as if with pride.
You’re not! says Veronica.
It’s closed already, actually. Two days ago.
Veronica takes a deep draught of the tea.
I’m sorry, Rocks. Tell you the truth, though, I’m not surprised. You’ve been worried about it for months, I know you have.
Not anymore.
I hope you don’t mind me asking but – how much did you lose?
Altogether? I don’t know. A lot. To be honest? All the money I put into it.
So why are you so cheerful?