With the gifts wrapped to Mrs Hird’s satisfaction, Alfie was about to leave. He had spent a good deal more time in the flat than he had planned and it was nearly time for Mrs Hird’s son to collect her.
‘Oh, by the by,’ Mrs Hird said. ‘A lady telephoned for you earlier on, just before I started bangin’ on your ceiling.’
‘A lady?’ Alfie knew it could only be Loriana.
‘Yes dear, foreign sounding. Told her, I said, I can’t get up the stairs to find him, it’s my hip you see, I’m on a list to have it replaced you know but…’
Alfie nodded patiently, although his heart had sped up. ‘How long ago did the lady phone?’
‘Ooh, good couple of hours ago now, you should call her back, she sounded nice.’
Phone calls had become something of an established practice between Alfie and Loriana recently; they’d shared and enjoyed several lengthy chats about themselves, their interests, their backgrounds and Alfie found this arrangement wonderfully exciting, illicit even. He supposed that he was having an affair, a love affair, like in the romance novels his mother used to read when he was a boy, and it felt good.
Alfie hurried into the pinched hallway and grabbed the receiver from the communal payphone, realised he’d no change and sprinted upstairs to his flat, returning moments later with a handful of coins.
‘Hello…’
Alfie forced a coin into the slot.
‘Loriana, it’s Alfie, I just this minute got a message that you’d called.’
‘Merry Christmas ‘Fredo.’ She sounded pleased to hear from him.
‘Oh yes, right, Merry Christmas. Erm, was that all you wanted?’
‘I realise this will sound rather…well, rather desperate but…’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Alfie encouraged. ‘Fire away.’
‘Well, you recall the reservations I had for a festive lunch at the Narracott?’
‘Yes, with your husband, sounds lovely and it saves cooking a turkey.’
‘You see, my husband has decided he would rather be in the pub with his friends than with his wife.’
‘Ah, right. Well that’s a poor show…’
‘So, I was wondering if perhaps you might care to join me for lunch, you could bring your family, I could meet them perhaps or…’
‘Bring the family? Well, thing is, they’re erm, well they’re not here. I was going to spend Christmas with them but I didn’t in the end. So, lunch you say?’
With the arrangements hastily made, Alfie barrelled upstairs to his flat and into his bedroom. He flung open the wardrobe door and rummaged for a suitable shirt, quickly settling upon a plain blue one that was a little frayed around the cuffs. He decided to team the shirt with his one and only tie; the one he wore to job interviews.
‘Blimey, Kenny,’ Alfie said to the cat, alerted by his owners frenetic actions. ‘I’ve only been invited out for Christmas lunch, how about that then?’
The cat yawned and rolled onto its side on top of the bed, pawing idly at the pink rubber squeaky mouse Alfie had bought him for Christmas.
Alfie had a breakneck shower, was liberal with the deodorant, dressed and then considered a gift. A swift search of the flat confirmed he possessed nothing even remotely suitable to give to Loriana, save for the slightly overweight cat which Alfie considered for a second then dismissed.
‘Well Kenny, how do I look?’
The cat sat up, jumped to the floor and disappeared under the bed. Checking the time, Alfie exited his flat and set off on foot to the Narracott.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Alfie panted when he’d arrived and been shown to the table where Loriana was already seated. ‘By the time I’d got changed and set off and…’
‘You do not need to apologise ‘Fredo.’ Loriana smiled warmly, radiant in an exquisite designer suit. ‘You are doing me a great favour and I gave you very little notice; I appreciate it a lot.’
The restaurant was packed with couples and families making merry and Alfie was deeply impressed; he’d never been anywhere like this. Each linen covered table was set with silver cutlery. Artful decorations adorned the walls, all illuminated by a large central chandelier.
Wine was uncorked, handmade crackers were pulled – Loriana was initially reluctant but Alfie’s boyish enthusiasm would not be denied, and ambrosial food served: Stuffed pumpkin with mushrooms, apple and chestnuts; mashed potato cakes with tomato and pepper relish; smoked haddock, leek and gruyere tart; classic roast turkey with a sausage and crispy bacon stuffing; pear and date pudding with armagnac cream and Italian trifle.
‘I can’t believe how nice this all is,’ Alfie said between mouthfuls of turkey. ‘And so unexpected.’
‘You may thank my ignorant pig of a husband,’ Loriana replied with malevolence.
‘I can’t believe he’d rather be in the pub than here…with you.’ Alfie blushed.
Loriana couldn’t hide her smile. ‘You are such a sweet man, why on earth were you planning to be alone on a day like this?’
Alfie chewed his food a little slower. ‘Well, you know how it is,’ he began uncertainly. ‘People get tied up doing other things, other commitments…’
‘Surely there is nothing more important than family at this time of year?’ Loriana said with wonderment. ‘You always speak so fondly of them, especially Frank, your brother.’
‘Well, yes,’ Alfie agreed reluctantly, desperate to change topic. ‘But, you know this yourself; you can’t always rely on folk to be where you want them when you want them.’
Loriana nodded. ‘That is true Alfredo, here I am questioning you when my own husband was quite prepared to leave me alone and my family is in another country.’
Inwardly however, it struck her as rather peculiar that Alfie would be alone and have apparently no contact with any of his relatives.
Alfie picked up the wine bottle and refilled her glass. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Thank you for giving me a Merry Christmas.’
* * * *
It had been a typically discommodious Christmas and New Year during which Sharada had shed a good deal of ireful, distressed tears over what, by now, she’d convinced herself was the demise of her relationship with Brandon. Now, Sharada was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by various coloured marker pens, large sheets of card and an A4 sheet of slogan ideas dreamed up by her father and the various members of CHIMP, all very much against her will.
This latest batch of posters was for an ongoing campaign against an animal refinery. The issue, which had been present in Morecambe for decades, raised its head on an annual basis and was always an easy way to polarize local opinion and provoke public interest because the smell the site generated was repugnant and affected most of the town. That was why Sharada was captive in the kitchen writing slogans such as ‘Boiling Cows Makes a Stinky Town’ and ‘It’s Not Fine to Refine’ on pieces of card.
Membership of the group had swelled, due in no small part Sharada had decided, to the fact that free nibbles were now provided at meetings, consisting of leftovers from Modhubon. It was amazing how interested in politics people suddenly became when there was free food on offer.
The direction of the group seemed to be changing quite dramatically too. When Sharada had crashed into Brandon outside the park three months earlier, CHIMP sounded impressive to her naïve ears. But the reality had proved rather different. The meetings consisted of an ineffectual group of people drinking beer in gloomy pubs and putting forward increasingly outlandish ideas, few of which ever progressed beyond the stage of inebriated discussion. The only tangible efforts that CHIMP seemed to make was to man a humble stall in the town centre every Saturday where they would gladly discuss their philosophy with curious passers-by, make half-hearted attempts to recruit people and hand out leaflets on various government acts around the world that they deemed immoral or unjustified.
Sharada knew that although her father’s strong political opinions were genuine, he’d little real interest in CHIMP. Hi
s enthusiasm was manufactured to allow him to monitor her relationship with Brandon; similarly it was the reason Mr Bhumbra had employed Brandon at Modhubon. Brandon, for his part, seemed ignorant of all this. In fact he seemed to welcome Mr Bhumbra’s involvement, leaving Sharada increasingly marginalised and frustrated.
15 The fall of the house of Etchman
Loriana Cipriani closed the front door with a steady hand and turned to face the extravagant, yet still somehow undeniably elegant, mirror hanging in the opulent hallway. She smiled ruefully, but resolutely. She could hear her father’s voice speaking to her as clearly as if he were still alive, powerful, almost lecturing but full of love, clearly enunciating each word. Avverbio sempre, siete un Cipriani. Always remember, you are a Cipriani.
Loriana straightened her jacket, checked her appearance and took a deep breath. She was a Cipriani, a proud family, hard working and strong, intolerant of fools. There would be no more tears, no more wasted words; it was done and she would stand alone. With her plans clear in her mind she walked calmly up the stairs to begin packing.
* * * *
Geraldine, tall in heels, wearing a full-skirted clinging white satin dress and an auburn wig, looked and felt ready for business tonight. She was at one of her usual haunts; an intimate bar called the Prince Albert. In appearance no different from any other pub in Morecambe, a brass rail fringed the bar and fabric covered stools were arranged around a number of square wooden tables. Only the cerise lighting over the stage and cocktails with names such as Dancing Queen and Sugar Rimmed Vodka Milkshake suggested that it was essentially a gay bar which attracted a sprinkling of transvestites.
Ordinarily Geraldine was a punter but tonight, because they were short-staffed, she was helping out as a hostess; greeting customers, serving drinks and generally having a peachy time chatting to people.
It was midweek so the Prince Albert was fairly quiet. Geraldine preferred this as it meant she’d more time to spend with the customers that had braved the cold and more freedom to get on stage and sing a couple of songs to help the atmosphere. In fact, just as she’d completed a moving rendition of Barbra Streisand’s Some Day My Prince Will Come, she spotted a lone gentleman enter the bar. Wasting no time, she glided across to introduce herself.
‘Well, hello there.’ Geraldine began, taking the man’s hand and shaking it gently. ‘I am Geraldine, welcome to the Prince Albert.’
‘Alright,’ the man replied without interest.
‘May I get sir a drink, perhaps take sir’s coat?’
‘Pint of lager and a whiskey chaser please, love.’ It was clear from his slurred speech that the man was drunk and tired.
Smiling sweetly, Geraldine ushered the man to a seat and went to fetch the drinks. Whoever he was looked rough, and miserable as sin, but no matter; half an hour in the company of Geraldine would perk him up.
‘So then,’ Geraldine paused, waiting for a response.
‘Lee.’
‘So then, Lee,’ she continued, placing the drinks on the table and pulling up a chair. ‘What brings you here, and why the long face?’
‘Fancied a drink. I’ve had a shit few days and I wanted to go somewhere I didn’t know nobody.’
‘Well, we’re all friends here. So what is it then, trouble at work, or perhaps something closer to home?’ Geraldine tilted her head to one side, her auburn bob falling over one eye.
‘Just lost a good employee is all, difference of opinion.’
‘I see. Your standards too high perhaps? Are you a demanding boss?’ Geraldine teased.
‘What? Nah I’m not; I’m a great boss, very…approachable. Now I’ve lost her.’ Etchman downed the whiskey and took a long slug from his pint.
‘Her? Seems like someone has lost a bit more than just an employee.’
‘Look, love. I’m not being funny but I fancied a solo session if you don’t mind. Besides, you’re not really my type; you remind me of the wife.’
‘Quite the charmer aren’t we sir?’ Geraldine exclaimed. ‘Well then, I’ll leave sir alone. Perhaps a song might make you smile.’
Geraldine sashayed to the stage and picked up the microphone.
‘This next track is for the gentleman over there.’
She pointed as the introduction began to play and a few heads turned in Etchman’s direction.
‘Lee, this is for you. I hope it helps and remember, The Best Is Yet To Come.’ Then Geraldine blew him a kiss and began to sing.
Out of the tree of life I just picked me a plum
You came along and everything’s starting to hum
Still it’s a real good bet the best is yet to come
Lee Etchman lowered his balding head onto the table and sighed.
‘What a mess,’ he said to himself. ‘What a bloody awful mess.’
Tania had quit her job at the park and refused to take any of his calls while on the other hand Chrissie was bombarding him with calls about the baby. Etchman finished his pint and waved his glass at the barman. The barman waved back and advised Etchman that, if he wanted another drink, he’d have to come to the bar.
Finally, after a protracted conversation with a young lad named Colin and an embarrassing misunderstanding when he asked where the toilets were, Etchman caught a taxi home. He paid the cab fare, lumbered up the drive and put his key in the front door; it didn’t turn. Annoyed, he jiggled the key impatiently in the lock, plucked it out, glowered at it, shoved it back in the lock and wiggled it some more. When this failed he thumped the door angrily.
‘Lori,’ he barked. ‘Loriana, I’m locked out.’ Etchman rattled the letterbox to attract her attention.
Upstairs a light went on and a window opened. Loriana Etchman, who several hours earlier had reverted back to her maiden name of Cipriani, looked down with obdurate eyes at her duplicitous and deplorable husband.
‘There you are sweetness,’ Etchman called. ‘Something’s wrong with the lock, keys broke or something.’
‘I’ve changed the locks. You are no longer welcome in this house.’
‘Aye?’
‘You are no longer welcome in my house.’ Loriana repeated slowly and clearly.
‘But it’s my fuckin’ house!’
‘It is not, this house is mine, I paid for it, and I am now the sole occupant.’
‘Why the hell’ve you done that?’
‘Today I had a visit from a young woman named Chrissie, impassioned creature but not unpleasant. Seems she’s been trying to reach you for some time. Apparently she’s curious to know what you plan to do about the child she’s carrying.’
‘Oh Christ.’
Etchman leaned against the front door for support, unaware that behind him, several sets of curtains were twitching as the neighbours watched the developing scene.
‘So, I’m afraid you must leave.’
‘Come on, Lori, we can talk about it, sort something out.’
‘My name is Loriana, and I have no more words to waste on you.’
‘What about my stuff then? Let me in to get some stuff.’
Loriana reached from the window, a small remote control in her hand, and pressed a button; the garage door rolled open.
‘I have placed your things in there.’
Etchman lurched over to look in the garage and called back angrily. ‘There’s nothing here, just a couple of boxes of old crap.’
A barely perceptible smile passed across Loriana’s lips and was gone in an instant. She gestured at the boxes with the exaggerated air of a magician’s assistant.
‘That’s yours.’
‘What about my suits, my shirts, the keys to the Aston?’
‘My money bought all of those things and they will either be sold or given to charity. The contents of those boxes are all that’s left of what you brought with you when you moved in here and that is all you take with you. Goodbye Lee.’
Loriana closed the window and the light went out.
‘Lori, come on Lori.’ Etchman bellowed.
‘Fuck off!’ Etchman screamed.
He lumbered around the side of the house and began trying to scale the fence to the back of the house, gripping the top of the fence with both hands and swinging his right leg wildly, trying to find purchase. Two minutes later, summoned by a concerned neighbour, a police car rolled around the corner and let off a single blast of its siren. Etchman tumbled from the fence and landed in an undignified heap on the lawn. He was breathless, perspiring heavily, his shirt and trousers grubby from the fall.
‘Evening sir. I believe you’re having some trouble getting in.’
Five minutes later, following some garbled discussion and to a couple of cheers from hidden neighbours, Lee Etchman was driven away with his belongings in the police car, robbed of any self respect he had left, to a nearby hotel to sleep off the alcohol. Inside his former home, Loriana sat on her bed, listening to the commotion outside, a single tear the only sign of emotion.
The following morning Etchman was woken from his stupor by his mobile phone; it was 09:15 in mid-January and his head was throbbing. The call was from Chrissie.
‘Morning Chris, love, how’s life treating you?’ Etchman’s voice was croaky and cheerless.
‘Oh, you’ve remembered how to answer your mobile then. You sound bloody terrible, you ill?’
‘No, not ill, just homeless. Thanks a bunch for going to see my wife by the way.’ Etchman said, with all the sarcasm a man in his position could muster.
‘Serves you right. Nice woman actually, too good for you. So, thrown you out of that nice house has she?’ Chrissie sounded almost amused.
‘Yeah, funny that. So, what’s up anyway?’
‘You know what’s up, me, up the bloody duff aren’t I, thanks to you.’
‘I’m not being funny, but well, you sure it’s mine?’
Chrissie laughed. ‘If I hadn’t been trying so hard to get hold of you I’d slam this phone down, you cheeky bastard. Of course it’s yours.’
All the Fun of the Fair Page 14