“OK then, what did she say?” I said, unable to get this discussion out of my mind.
“What?”
“Annie, my wife, the one you’ve been talking to - what did she say?
“Well, she listened to me. I could tell that… well, that I had her complete attention.“
“And?”
“And nothing…” pausing for a second, “She’s maybe too close. You have a very easy going wife there Charlie. She isn’t alarmed by what she thinks is a simple relaxant, because she doesn’t see any differences in the way you are with her. But don’t you think it’s strange that everyone else who knows you does recognise … you’ve changed.”
“Ha, everyone except the person who knows me best. See, I told you I’m fine.”
“This is going no-where, I need to leave. We’ll draw a line in the sand on this one – you are on that side of it, I am on this. End of story,” he said sighing. “I don’t want to fall out with you, but…. Look, a few of us from the Star are going to see our lad racing at the weekend. If you want to come, you’re welcome. Up to you. Phone me if you’re interested.”
I never did call. While my wife remained conveniently blinkered to the detrimental effects Pennie was causing, I was all too aware that Stuart was right. I was stepping back from others, but was too paralysed by my own inactivity at this point to do anything about it. Wilting on the shabby futon night after night, I’d plummet into gormless stagnation, waiting for some kind of intervention which might change the situation I was in. I failed to appreciate that the change I desired, was the one I had to make. Without the companionship of others to temper those introspective tendencies, to challenge my faulty thinking and lift my spirits; it was all too easy for those giant Spanish cables to get knitted together and pull me out of shape. Habits shape character. Character determines destiny. My destiny was slowly being warped.
The Marianne Faithfull book, work pressures, shady bosses, and hassles with the house had all nudged me back to Pennie, but it was the next couple of terrible events which guaranteed I would maintain my asphyxiating affair with her.
15. Fate, Against Your Will
Stuart and I didn’t speak to each other for ages after the row about Pennie. We were both too proud to back down and make the first move. I did hear on the grapevine that he’d changed jobs and had started working for a sandblasting company which provided specialist machinery to remove road surfaces. Months passed and then in March 2001, came news that he’d been involved in a serious industrial accident at the end of one of his shifts. With no one around to assist him, he had decided to try and jostle one of the sizable sandblasting machines back onto a wagon by himself using a temporary ramp. Leaving the machine switched on to make it easier to move, Stuart almost got to the top of the makeshift slope before slipping backwards, pulling the machine with him. Although he’d fallen into a soft ditch, the blaster - which was about the weight of a small car – landed directly on top of his body, carving deep wounds into his arm and the side of his face.
Visiting Stuart as he convalesced, I was staggered by the seriousness of his injuries and overwhelmed by just how lucky he was to still be alive. Standing inside the intensive care unit and at a loss for words, I became very angry with myself for not knowing how to react. I felt numb and emotionally impotent. Stuart was far too traumatised to talk about the accident and I lacked the social skills to be able pretend that nothing had happened. Half an hour of awkward conversational cul-de-sacs, brought home just how far we had drifted apart. For two people once so close, I was upset to find we were in this situation, with so little to say to each other.
It was Faye who finally cracked the wall of ice between her boyfriend and his unworthy mate. Ushering me into the hospital corridor, she explained that the two of them had decided to tie the knot. It was the only thing they’d been able to talk about since he’d regained consciousness. Following a courtship which had spanned three decades, Faye wasn’t hanging about and had already started to make preliminary arrangements for a simple summer wedding in the hope it would give them both something concrete to look forward to. This fantastic news was made even more meaningful by her unexpected request for me to be their best man. It was the first positive thing that had happened in ages.
Pennie Fenton worked especially hard during the build-up to the impending nuptials to minimise my involvement with any of the wedding arrangements. This lack of visibility probably accounted for why Stuart’s work colleagues ended up making most of the plans for his stag night, which they decided should take place in Whitley Bay a week before the September wedding. As a dormitory town for Newcastle, this was a favoured destination for boozy stag do’s and hen parties. Although apprehensive about the outing, because I’d never met any of Stuart’s workmates before, I cast my mind back to all the mayhem we’d created back in Ilfracombe. If this Whitley Bay adventure turned out to be half as much fun, then the weekend away could be an ideal time to revive some of those memories and form some new ones.
On the day of the stag-do we agreed to meet in the familiar surroundings of the Ashby Star. On arrival, Stuart and I exchanged a friendly, knowing glance with each other. I interpreted this unspoken acknowledgement to be a good sign – one which made me think the weekend could provide a platform for us to bond again. Building up to the event, Kirsty had been on holiday in New York which meant I’d not seen Pennie for a few days. Abstinence had made me a little tense; but based on this single flicker of friendliness from The Stag, I decided that Ms Fenton’s absence may not be a bad thing.
Stuart introduced everyone over a drink. First impressions were one or two of his workmates seemed OK, while the rest looked like total psychos. Really rough lads you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. The last person I met was Faye’s brother Clive. He had travelled over from Devon for the event and appeared to be more reserved than the others, but was at least willing to engage in everyday conversation. Most of us, including the driver of our rented minibus, sank three or four swift pints in quick succession, before leaving the pub. Just as we were boarding ready for our weekend playtime, an unexpected treat – forget what I’d thought about a Pennie-free weekend, a couple of lads mentioned they’d brought a decent sized lump of resin with them.
“Don’t know if you two girlies are up to any of this…” one of them said, quickly showing Clive and myself a small piece of resin wrapped in tin-foil. “But most of us are gonna get shit-faced this afternoon.”
“I’ve tried it before,” I said, delighted by what I’d seen, but not wanting to sound too needy.
“Not for me,” said Clive.
“Ditch the wuss and come and sit at the back of the bus with us instead mate, stick with us and you’ll have a great time.”
Before I knew it, I’d jettisoned my original intention of sitting with our groom-to-be at the front and was repositioning myself where all the action was.
Under his breath I heard Stuart mutter, “For fuck’s sake!”
Prior to the engine being struck up, the back seat boys were busy passing round the spliffs. The smoke was so heavy at the rear of the unventilated minibus, that by the time we’d travelled the one and a half miles to the motorway junction, we were forced to pull over and allow one over-indulgent smoker to spew at the side of the road. All the indications were this was going to be a long and difficult trip.
Stuart’s workmates behaved like rabid animals. He’d warned me they were ‘up for anything’, but I was still surprised at just how debase they actually were. In the minibus, Faye’s introverted brother was immediately ostracised for (rather sensibly) fastening his seatbelt. They took the piss out of his accent and christened him ‘Clunk’, after the old ‘clunk-click every trip’ safety campaign. Full cans of lager were thrown at the back of his head to get his attention on route.
“Oi, Clunk, catch this one.” He did really well to ignore the incessant jibes which continued for the whole trip.
I covertly unfastened my own seatbelt seco
nds after yet another can of Fosters was lobbed across the minibus – hoping no-one had noticed my own faux pas. Elsewhere, our driver was taking full advantage of the free in-transit entertainment; enjoying the various spliffs and beers being passed around. Echoes of the clapped out old Nene College minibus flashed before me as he then tested the performance of the vehicle; veering between lanes in an attempt to dislodge his rowdy passengers from their seats. I knew only too well, how sluggish these things were to drive and how unresponsive the steering was at high speed. At one stage our fully medicated driver was forced to drive completely blindly, as a couple of mates piled into the front and lay flat across the dashboard to obscure the windscreen while he continued to accelerate along the congested motorway. It was terrifying. Internal light fittings were ripped out and lobbed at motorcyclists. Passing lorries were taunted and mooned at. I was amazed the police weren’t alerted. Rather than having to stop for loo breaks, the old rusting back doors were periodically flung open while we were rumbling along the busy motorway. Each lad would take it in turn to stand up, holding onto to the door frame and literally piss all over the cars behind us. What had I got myself into? I loved a good laugh – but any of these drunken idiots could easily fall out of the rattling bus onto the road behind us. That would be it, end of story.
I was so relieved to get to the hotel at Whitley Bay and happy to find out we’d been booked into a famous topless bar called Idols in the heart of the busy club circuit. None of us wasted any time inspecting the capabilities of the complimentary tea and coffee making facilities and instead headed straight out to visit as many of the bustling bars as we could. I’d originally toyed with the idea of putting a bit of free beer from the brewery into a few pubs and clubs as a ‘Welcome to Whitley Bay’ gift for Stuart, however good old Jack Wallace had predictably rejected the proposal. Wandering around the town turned out to be as scary as the journey to get there had been. No need for freebies as everyone got completely legless.
Inebriation was as much a coping strategy for Clunk and me as anything else. We had no option but to spend the night mixing alcohol with the unnaturally high levels of adrenaline saturating our bloodstream, caused by our association with these lunatics. In turn, many of Stuart’s colleagues did a fine job of mixing alcohol with various amphetamines; while the remainder of the party mixed their alcohol with an uncontrollable desire to create as much aggravation as they possibly could. It was a torrid melting pot.
There was an atmosphere of repressed violence everywhere we went. Before long, arguments broke out about which bars we should go to next. One Neanderthal thought I was ‘too posh’ and tried to start a fight with me in a nightclub while the rest of his inarticulate mates were distracted by every scantily clad Geordie lass who tottered by. It was therefore very easy to lose track of what happened to Stuart in all the madness. There were teams of people milling around – various gangs of drunken people wearing ridiculous outfits, trampling over puddles of vomit at every turn. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.
To avoid agitating anyone else I spent most of the time with Clunk, who I decided was the most balanced person around. As more trouble erupted around the club and my anxiety levels peaked, I spotted a potential release in the form of half a dozen ready rolled spliffs being brandished about by one of the group. Seeing these, I was transformed from disgruntled bystander into ingratiating funny-man. The next half hour, I’m embarrassed to say, was spent trying to be being as likable as I could to my prospective supplier. Pennie Fenton detector re-activated, I disregarded all the unpleasantness around me and concentrated all my efforts on badgering him to share as much of his gear as possible. While all this was going on Stuart, who I suspected just wanted to sit around, catch up with a few mates and maybe ogle the odd girl; was being incited by his workmates to drink stupid-sized measures from as many of the optics as he could.
According to Clunk, the groom-to-be was enjoying himself at the start of the night, but had turned a little melancholy after his seventeenth double. Clunk was concerned that his future brother-in-law had drunk way too much and was becoming agitated. None of his workmates had the sense to pick up on any of this and were continuing to ply him with more ethanol. No one appreciated that Stuart was incredibly sensitive about how he looked following his accident. Self-conscious about the sizable scar on his head, he’d deliberately avoided socialising until this weekend, to prevent having to explain what had happened. Now legless in a strange town, with heaps of strangers staring at him, it all came crashing back and with no one around to listen to his concerns, he broke down in a flood of tears.
I’d totally missed the point of the weekend and had been so busy chasing the Pennie Fenton trail that I’d not uttered a word to him all night. Inexplicably, I decided the best way to rectify this omission, was to wait for one more little number to be ‘sparked-up’, grab a few good tokes and then with calm fully restored, get round to checking that he was okay. After all I owed it to him – I was his best man. So, after what turned out in the end to be a rather lengthy period of cannabis inhalation; I raised my anesthetised frame and saddled over to talk to him, blissfully unaware of his state of mind.
If ever you saw a person who was a mixture of indignant, angry, upset and disappointed; here he was. Bravely putting aside the state he was in and all the tears streaming down his blotchy face; Stuart still managed to harness all his non-verbal communication to send out a deafening and unambiguous message which said he was about to explode with anger. Foolishly, my insensitive response was to ignore all these signals and, instead, swan over in a way which suggested we were still the close mates we had been in Ilfracombe.
Grinning a little too much, I opened my arms wide as if ready to embrace him, while at the same time shouting his nickname, “Jackooooooooooo!” in flamboyant fashion over the sound of the music. Stuart looked over at me – with an expression which said it all. There may as well have been subtitles printed-out below his chilling stare... ’Even on my own stag night, it’s always about Pennie-Fucking-Fenton with you’.
For the first time in sixteen years, we looked blankly at each other as if we were strangers. During this un-retractable moment, I realised this was what we had indeed become. I suspected Stuart was still waiting for me to say something, but once again, I was lost for words.
While all this stoney faced inactivity was taking place, my new drinking buddies had started a heated argument with the door staff. This tiff soon escalated into a violent brawl. The grit blasters from Scunny ended up knocking one security guard unconscious. As a result of the carnage which followed, all those suspected to be from the Industrial Garden Town were herded together like cattle and slung out. We were warned to watch our backs and avoid trying to get into other any local clubs who had been provided with our detailed descriptions. It wasn’t even midnight and we were already banned from every Whitley Bay bar, with nothing to do except look over our shoulders for hostile bouncers in search of retribution. What a fabulous conclusion to the night.
Waking up the next day, the memories of the blood, sweat and tears returned as I opened the functional hotel curtains to reveal the sorry sight of numerous half-naked men stripped down to their boxers and handcuffed to the promenade railings. Each of the inebriated specimens no doubt regretted their decision to come here just as much as I did.
Visions of that deplorable trip haunted me as I half-heartedly prepared for my best man duties. With just three days to go until the wedding, I was asked to present the new HR Internal Communications Plan to a group of regional sales managers at their monthly meeting. During a review of area trading conditions, two managers from the North East stood up to describe a ‘horrific incident’ which had taken place on their patch at the weekend. Apparently, a large group of ‘meat-heads’ from Scunthorpe had descended on their accounts, causing hundreds of pounds worth of damage to the interiors of their pubs. The unwelcome gang created havoc everywhere they went as they abused locals, threatened bar staff and knocked out a wel
l-respected doorman who was believed to have been the unwitting victim of an unprovoked attack. Head down, I kept schtum, asked no questions about the incident and remained silent until the end of the meeting.
By the time the wedding came around, I never wanted to hear about Whitley Bay again. However, being wedged tightly between a dozen of Stuart’s boastful workmates at the jam-packed reception, meant this was never going to happen. I fulfilled all the assigned role requirements to the letter, but did feel like I was going through the motions - satisfying some old long-standing obligation. Stuart and I hardly spoke at all on the day and on increasingly few occasions after it.
The next terrible event during this incredibly draining year was the shocking news my mother had unexpectedly passed away. She’d recently separated from her curmudgeonly second husband, moved into her own flat and had hit her head after slipping on the kitchen floor. It was an awful image, one made worse because we’d just taken the kids to see her new place the week before the accident. The day I heard the news was the day Pennie finally crushed my willpower. It signalled a change in the nature of my relationship with the eponymous Miss Fenton. She instantly became the dominant player in our relationship. The servant became the mistress. My dominant foible grew exponentially as a playful indulgence was distorted into an insatiable craving. In the space of a few of months I’d lost both Stuart and Mum, two of the people I thought I would always be able to rely on.
Learning from what happened with Janet, I did allow myself to grieve and welcomed the support of everyone around me. Annie as ever, was superb. She was really considerate and gave me all the space I needed. She never pushed the issue, but always let me know she was there to talk about things whenever I wanted to. Her approach reinforced just how much I loved her and how hopeless I would be without her. She simply allowed me to take stock and this was precisely what I needed. Hattie and Toby who were only nine and seven years old, seemed to pick up on what was happening and were both great. Even little baby Travis slept right through the night for most of that month. Stuart came over a number of times and although he told Annie he felt he wasn’t much help, his presence was especially welcome.
Drowning in the Shallow End Page 19