Widows & Orphans

by Michael Arditti

  Barbara sneezed.

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘How about I just consider myself blessed?’

  ‘Do you have an allergy?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘In this chemical factory? I started wheezing as soon as I stepped through the door. Furniture polish and silver polish and glass polish and air freshener and bleach.’ She turned to Adele. ‘What is it you’re so afraid of?’

  ‘Forgive me. If I’d known I was entertaining a hippie, I’d have left out some dirty clothes and kitchen slops.’

  ‘Mother, please!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Duncan, but I won’t be insulted in my own home.’

  ‘You shouldn’t call Barbara a hippie,’ Neil said. ‘She just said she doesn’t like it.’

  ‘That’s enough, Neil,’ Ellen said firmly. ‘You’ll ruin all our appetites. I for one want to enjoy this wonderful meal, this deliciously moist turkey Chris has cooked.’

  ‘And the toffee tart.’

  ‘Thank you, Jamie,’ Duncan said.

  Everyone focused on the food and an uneasy hush descended, which was eventually broken by Jamie. ‘What do you think they have for Christmas lunch in jail?’ he asked.

  ‘Really, darling,’ Adele said, ‘some of us are still eating.’

  ‘Mind if I start clearing away?’ Chris asked. ‘That pudding’s been steamed to within an inch of its life.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Jamie asked Neil.

  ‘Why should Neil know?’ Adele asked. ‘He’s not an expert on prison menus, is he?’

  ‘No, but his dad is.’

  ‘That’s enough now,’ Duncan said.

  ‘It’s no secret,’ Barbara said. ‘My daughter’s ex-husband was a fraudster and a thief.’

  ‘Not just an ordinary thief,’ Jamie added. ‘He stole from people in hospital.’

  ‘I said that’s enough!’

  ‘The suspense is killing me,’ Chris said, ‘but that pudding won’t switch itself off. Fill me in later.’ He hurried out of the room.

  ‘Don’t let it upset you, Neil,’ Ellen said. ‘It’s not worth it.’

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ Barbara said. ‘You’ll make your own life regardless of your parents. What your father did has no bearing on you.’

  ‘Sure, it does,’ Jamie said. ‘It’s why he’s so gay!’

  ‘Jamie!’ Duncan jumped to his feet. ‘That’s quite out of order. Neil’s sexuality has nothing to do with his father. It’s innate – he was born with it – and he’s entitled to our respect.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Duncan, I think you may have misunderstood –’ Ellen said.

  ‘No, I understand only too well. I’ve fought against prejudice all my life. I know I’m not your father, Neil, but I hope you’ll feel able to come to me if ever you’re being mocked or bullied. You’re only thirteen; your feelings may well change. But whether you end up gay or straight or both, you can count on my support.’

  ‘This is a fucking nightmare,’ Neil said, banging his head on the table.

  ‘Do take care, dear,’ Adele said, ‘that glass is Lalique.’

  ‘Stop there!’ Barbara said to Duncan. ‘What gives you the right to speak to my grandson like that? It strikes me you take far too much interest in his sexuality.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Ellen said to Barbara. ‘I’m so sorry, Duncan. I warned you, she’s a sick woman.’

  ‘Someone has to look out for you,’ Barbara replied. ‘You’re obviously incapable of doing it yourself. You’ve just escaped from one disastrous marriage and here you are, ready to throw yourself into another and to a man you’ve only known for a few weeks.’

  ‘Marriage?’ Adele asked. ‘Did you say “marriage”?’

  ‘How much do you really know about him?’ Barbara asked Ellen. ‘He may seem credible enough, but have you seen the figures for the respectable middle-class men who prey on single mothers?’

  ‘Not more statistics!’ Duncan said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’d prefer to gloss over them. But Ellen’s a vulnerable woman with two teenage children. They need protecting.’

  ‘You mean the way you protected me?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘I always took care of you. I always put you first.’

  ‘The sad thing is you believe that.’

  ‘Is this why you made me spend Christmas here?’ Jamie asked Duncan. ‘So’s I could listen to this crap?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was wrong. You should have gone to Antigua.’

  ‘Why not stand up for yourself: tell her where to get off?’ Jamie turned to Barbara. ‘This is my dad you’re talking about. He’s a great dad. The best.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Neil said. ‘So how come your mum has to pay you to stay with him?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  ‘Jamie, please!’ Adele said. ‘We have guests.’

  ‘Deny it if you can! She gave you two hundred quid.’

  ‘That was for Christmas, Neil,’ Ellen said. ‘You’re always telling me you’d rather have cash.’

  ‘He got an iPad. You were there when Sue told us. She heard it from Craig. His mum gives him money loads of times when he has to come here.’

  ‘You have to be bribed to visit me?’ Duncan asked Jamie, as the rest of the table fell silent.

  ‘You know kids,’ Ellen interjected, ‘out for whatever they can get. My two won’t even clean up their rooms without the promise of a couple of pounds. It’s hardly a bribe.’

  ‘You have to be bribed to visit me?’

  ‘Why can’t you all just leave me alone?’ Jamie ran out of the room, colliding at the door with Chris, who was holding a flaming Christmas pudding.

  ‘Watch out!’ Chris said. ‘No, it’s still burning. Lucky I went overboard on the brandy. Can everyone see?’ he asked, bewildered by the lack of response.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Duncan said, the words like acid in his mouth. ‘It’s spectacular.’

  ‘Shall I serve now or wait for Jamie? He looked desperate to get to the you know where.’

  ‘Are there any coins in the pudding?’

  ‘No, after last year I thought it best to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Then there’s no need to wait.’

  Eight

  Pier Proprietor Honoured

  by Ken Newbold

  Thursday, 2 January 2014

  Local property developer and entrepreneur, Geoffrey Weedon, has been awarded the OBE in the 2014 New Year Honours list.

  The controversial businessman whose company, Weedon Investments, owns a string of properties in the area, along with Francombe Pier, the Excelsior Wheel Park and various entertainment outlets, has been recognised for services to urban regeneration and charity.

  On leaving school, Weedon worked for his parents in the motor trade before branching out on his own. In 1972 he founded his property empire by buying up disused guesthouses and hotels, and renting out rooms to DSS claimants from around the country. Responding to criticism of the scheme, which was later widely emulated, he claimed that even the most disadvantaged members of society should have a chance to benefit from the Francombe climate.

  He caused outrage in 1984 when his subsidiary company, Excelsior Leisure, demolished a row of listed Regency shopfronts on Flood Street in order to expand their flagship amusement arcade. Then in 1994, having bought the Olympic pool out of receivership, he reneged on a commitment to restore it to its former glory, transforming it instead into a wheel park. The Council’s failure to take action in either case led to unsubstantiated allegations that both councillors and Council officers were in his pocket.

  Weedon is currently engaged in what he has described as the ‘crowning glory’ of his career: the restoration of Francombe Pier and its transformation into an adult entertainment complex. Plans for the project, which has provoked widespread opposition, are due to go before the Council’s Planning and Regeneration Committee later this month.

  In recent years Weedo
n has combined his business activities with charitable work: setting up a drugs advice centre for the under twenty-fives; sponsoring the annual Seafood Festival after Birds Eye withdrew; chairing the Forward Francombe initiative; and sitting on the board of the Princess Royal Hospital, for which he ran a £2,000,000 appeal to equip the Len and Doreen Weedon Dementia Unit.

  Asked for his reaction to the award, he replied by phone from his holiday home in Antigua: ‘I’m over the moon. The first I knew of it was when I received an official envelope postmarked London. For hours I didn’t open it, since I was afraid it was another spanner in the works for the pier.

  ‘When I finally plucked up courage, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I feel honoured and very humbled to be on a list with such distinguished men and women who have contributed so selflessly to their community. In business, as in my private life, I’ve tried to stick to the principle that you have to give back ten times more than you take out.’

  For the full story, as well as public reaction to the award, see next week’s Mercury, out on Thursday, 9 January.

  Although by nature neither superstitious nor sentimental, Duncan had resolved to propose to Ellen on New Year’s Day. Encouraged by an exceptionally clement New Year’s Eve, he invited her for a walk on the cliffs, where he envisaged going down on bended knee against the romantic backdrop of sea, sky and the ruined Martello tower. But an overnight downpour rendered the paths impassable and the grand gesture, which in any case risked absurdity in a man approaching fifty, would have caked him in mud. Instead, they retreated to his flat where, sitting so companionably on the sofa that the question was almost a formality, he asked her to marry him.

  ‘You don’t have to give me your answer at once. Not for weeks. Take as long as you like,’ he said, terrified that despite all their efforts to settle the differences both within and between their families since the Christmas Day debacle, she would regard the antipathy between their sons as an insuperable barrier.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, without any show of hesitation or attempt to draw out the suspense.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you. Yes, I will. Yes. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘Yes.’ Such a tide of joy and relief engulfed him that he scarcely trusted himself to kiss her. For several minutes he could do no more than trace his fingers over her cheeks as if he were blind, although his sight, along with the rest of his senses, had never seemed so sharp.

  ‘This calls for a celebration,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the fridge.’

  ‘Someone was very sure of himself.’

  ‘No, not at all. Quite the opposite,’ he said, failing to read her smile. ‘It’s been tucked away at the bottom for years waiting for the right occasion.’

  ‘A likely story!’

  ‘It’s true,’ he said, unwittingly providing confirmation when he uncorked the bottle without a pop. ‘Oh no, it’s gone flat! I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I never like the bubbles anyway. They go straight up my nose.’

  Refusing to toast their future in stale champagne, he offered to run to the mini-mart for a fresh bottle, but she claimed that she was intoxicated enough already and would prefer a cup of tea.

  The whistling kettle was their cue to discuss practicalities. Within minutes they had fixed on the when, where and how of the wedding (late spring, St Edward’s, as quiet as possible). Neither relished having to break the news to incredulous family and friends. Ellen’s confusion at Duncan’s joke that they should take out a full-page advert in the Mercury both charmed and humbled him. They agreed to tell no one before their children, which, to avoid misunderstanding (Duncan privately added resentment and rage), they would do at exactly the same time a week or so after their return to school, giving them less time to brood.

  Term began on 6 January, but events on both sides conspired to delay the announcement. Rumours of the takeover having leaked out, Duncan was left to reassure the staff, stall creditors and negotiate with the two rival bidders, at the same time bringing out the paper as usual. Ellen, meanwhile, was preoccupied with Neil, who had been threatened with suspension for insulting two Iraqis. She was summoned to see the headmistress, who explained that, although Neil’s domestic circumstances had disposed her to overlook his behaviour last autumn, her patience was wearing thin. He must learn to engage with his classmates. She therefore asked Ellen to stop sending him to school with sandwiches and to encourage him to eat in the canteen. Shocked, Ellen replied that she never made him sandwiches but had a standing order for his lunches with ParentPay.

  As soon as he arrived home that afternoon – making his usual beeline for the kitchen to guzzle a bowl of cereal – Ellen confronted him with the headmistress’s allegations, starting with the racist abuse. After vehemently denying it, he admitted, between sobs, shrieks and charges of disloyalty that he had called them ‘Camel Jockeys’, but only after they had called him far worse (precisely what he refused to say). He maintained that he had been routinely bullied and had kept away from the canteen after other children, girls as well as boys, put salt in his water and spat in his food. Horrified both by his ordeal and her own obtuseness, Ellen promised to go to the school the next morning and demand that the culprits be rooted out. This made him so hysterical that she backed down in return for his undertaking to report any further incidents himself.

  ‘And if anyone calls you names, ignore them,’ she said. ‘You’re too good to stoop to their level.’

  ‘Yeah, you can’t go any lower when you’ve got your head slammed on the ground,’ he replied.

  Every day since then she had given him a bag filled with sandwiches, fruit and a muesli bar, which he placed in his backpack without a word.

  ‘Do you have any idea how it feels to know you can’t protect your child?’ she asked Duncan, after relating the story over dinner. He had to answer ‘no’, since however remote he felt from Jamie he had never for a moment doubted that he was safe. With a concern for Neil that was now independent of his love for his mother, he declined coffee and headed upstairs to talk to him. Ignoring both the derision that greeted his knock and the groans that greeted his entry, he stood as far away from the bed as the confines of the room would allow and asked what he could do to help.

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’ Neil said.

  ‘Well, I could try,’ Duncan replied lightly. ‘But I’m not sure it’d do you much good and I might end up in traction.’

  Neither his levity nor his support made any impression on Neil. Trying another tack, he urged him to return to Mercury House to complete his history project, trusting that there at least he could keep an eye on him. When his warning that the imminent sale of the paper might restrict his access to the archives was met with a terse ‘Who cares?’ he admitted defeat and returned downstairs, where he spent a further hour persuading Ellen that, whatever the difficulties, she had been right to move to Francombe, using every argument except the clincher: if she had stayed in Hertfordshire, she would never have met him.

  Switching on his mobile as he left the house, he picked up two new messages from his mother about Chris’s unexplained absence for the second day running. From her voice, it was clear that her initial irritation had been replaced by anxiety, which turned out to be warranted when, shortly after returning home, he received a call from Paul, informing him that Chris was in the Princess Royal, recovering from an attack in Salter Nature Reserve.

  Duncan’s horror was compounded by the realisation that the story had been under his nose the whole time. On Monday morning Ken had briefed him on a weekend queer-bashing at the reserve. Convinced that his readers were as weary of the murky goings-on in the woods as he was himself and afraid of fanning the flames of prejudice, he told Ken that there was no need to follow up the story, which he consigned to a hundred-word nib on page five outlining that a male in his thirties had been mugged and was being treated in hospital. Now that the male had a name and a face and a voice, he felt deeply ashame
d. He was, however, able to ring his mother first thing the next morning and assure her that Chris was being well looked after, while taking care to blur the details of the attack, since experience had shown that her acceptance of homosexuality was dependent on its remaining clothed.

  He promised to visit Chris in hospital and report back to her as soon as he had put the paper to bed that afternoon. So at four o’clock he drove to the Princess Royal where, ignoring the poster exhorting him to ‘Burn Calories Not Electricity’, he took the lift up to the Balmoral wing. Stepping charily over a toddler racing a toy bus in the direct path of the swing doors, he made his way across the packed ward to Chris, whose bed was at the far end between a grizzled old man with a withered goitre clutching a bag of oranges to his chest and a young Arab sporting a pair of giant headphones, deaf to the two women in sequined niqabs keening softly by his side.

  Chris was lying propped up on pillows, his bruised cheeks looking as if they were designed for the Rorschach inkblot test. His left hand was bandaged, the three middle fingers in a splint and a drip attached to the wrist, with his right arm resting in a sling.

  ‘These are from my mother,’ Duncan said, handing Chris a bouquet of yellow, orange and pink gerberas.

  ‘The petals are so bright, they look dyed.’

  ‘Just forced. I don’t suppose they’ll last.’

  ‘Then they’ve come to the right place. Would you…?’ He gestured with his bandaged hand to his locker.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Duncan said, placing the bouquet on the top. ‘I’ll ask a nurse for a vase. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’ve been better. I suppose you know what happened.’

  ‘Paul told me.’

  ‘And Mrs Neville?’

  ‘Not the full story. But then my mother rarely knows the full story about anything.’

  ‘I’m glad. I don’t think I could bear it if she…’ His eyes watered.

  ‘She won’t. Have they given you any idea how long they’ll keep you in?’