by JL Merrow
“Yeah? What sort of case?” I hoped it wasn’t another cheating wife/husband/significant other. Phil’s inner cynic didn’t, in my considered opinion, need any more encouragement.
“Some woman claiming identity theft and refusing to pay her bills. Client reckons it was her all along.”
“What do you reckon?”
“Don’t know yet, do I? That’s what I’m supposed to be investigating—after he’s given me all the details. Anyhow, you’d better get that van shifted. Just in case he’s early. Tell you what, though—walk back up in an hour or so, and we can go out for that pint.”
“Or you could drive down and pick me up.”
“More chance of making it before closing time if you come up here, the way this bloke goes on. He spent half an hour on the phone just making the appointment.”
“Fine, I’ll come and save you from the mouthy client. Don’t worry about me having to drive home and then slog all the way back up here.” All right, it was only a five-minute walk, ten if I stopped off at Vik’s shop en route for a Mars Bar and a natter, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Phil smirked. “Help stave off the middle-age spread, won’t it?”
“Oi, I just turned thirty, not fifty!”
Unsympathetic git.
Cherry rang again that evening, just as me and Phil were getting cosy in front of the telly with the cats, having decided we couldn’t be arsed to go out after all.
“Did you go to see her?” she demanded.
I heaved myself off the sofa and walked into the kitchen so Phil could carry on goggle-boxing in peace. Merlin, the eternal optimist, padded after me to give his empty bowl a pointed look. Arthur, being a lazy sod and cynical to boot, stayed where he was, purring on Phil’s lap. “Yeah, I went. You know she only wanted me to search her stepdaughter’s room, right?”
Sis made some kind of noise that didn’t translate at all well over the phone. “Oh, I was afraid of that. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, you might have warned me.”
“Would you have gone round if I had?”
“What do you reckon?” All right, I probably still would’ve, but no need to let Sis know that.
“Which is why I didn’t warn you. Look, I know she’s tiresome, but please just humour her. For my sake?”
I rolled my eyes at this blatant attempt to appeal to my brotherly feelings. It was safe: she couldn’t see me. “Who exactly is this Mrs. F-M., and why’s she got you over a barrel?” I asked.
Cherry tsked. “She’s friendly with the bishop. Very friendly. She’s only been living in St. Leonards for less than a year, but she’s already running half the activities of the diocese.”
I took that with a pinch of salt. There’s a whole team of high-up church types at St. Leonards, and I’ve never been sure exactly what all of ’em do. Canon Greg, although definitely a big shot compared to your average parish priest, seemed to be a fairly minor firearm in the cathedral’s arsenal. Which, as usual, seemed to directly translate as “did all the work.” At any rate, he was a fair way below the bloke with the shepherd’s crook and the pointy hat, who Cherry had her heart set on officiating at her and Greg’s wedding.
God knows why. I mean to say, if anyone’s going to upstage the bride on her wedding day, it’s got to be a bishop. Unless Cherry went for the full-on puffed-up meringue look—which, being her, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t—no way was her frock going to be prettier than his.
“If she hadn’t just got married to Alex Majors,” Cherry went on, “I’d suspect her of having set her cap at the bishop. He isn’t married, you know.”
“Yeah? This your surprise bishop who ate all my cakes?” Merlin gave his bowl one last disappointed sniff, then tried winding himself round my legs in case I was up for a bit of emotional blackmail.
“Toby. Yes. We don’t have any suffragan bishops at St. Leonards.”
Whatever those were. I focussed on the bit I understood. “You call the bish Toby? Isn’t that, I dunno, disrespectful or something?”
“What do you expect me to call him? My lord? Nobody’s that formal these days. And at least I don’t refer to him as the bish. He came round to talk about carbon footprints with Gregory. And before you come up with some hilarious joke about Gregory’s shoe size, please don’t.”
“Wouldn’t dream of putting my foot in it like that. Hey, if Greg and the bish are all chummy already, why are you so worried dear old Amelia’s gonna put you in bad with him?”
“They’re not. That’s the problem. You know Gregory’s been castigated—”
“Sounds painful. Is the wedding still on?”
“—for speaking out in support of gay clergy? Well, the bishop is something of a traditionalist, I’m afraid.”
“Great. Still, he’s not likely to refuse to marry you for something like that, is he?”
“This isn’t just about the wedding. Gregory’s career is at a very vulnerable stage. He doesn’t want to be a canon all his life, you know.”
“Oh, I see. Got your eye on a bishop’s palace, have you? Fancy Greg in purple?”
“Don’t be silly. I just want what’s best for Gregory. And the position of dean could be becoming vacant soon.”
“So we need to keep the bishop sweet at all costs. Got it.”
“Not at all costs.” There was a breathy noise down the phone. “I’m not really asking that much of you, am I?”
“No, but . . . I dunno. Just doesn’t seem right, sneaking around behind the daughter’s back.” Talking of which, I felt an arm sneak around my front as Phil stealth-cuddled me from behind. I leaned back into him, smiling at Merlin, who’d finally abandoned all hope and was sitting on top of the fridge. He gave me a frankly worried look, leapt down, and scarpered. “And she’s roped me into her Harvest Fayre, whatever that is,” I went on. “Has it got a y in it? I bet it has. You’ve got to have a y in it, or people start expecting fairground rides and dodgy hoopla stalls.”
“I think she’s planning some of those as well,” Sis said drily. “And it’s not her Harvest Fayre, or at least, it never used to be. It’s an annual event in St. Leonards, to raise funds for the needy.”
“I s’pose it’s a bit better than just getting all the kiddies to turn up to church with an out-of-date can of Heinz soup from the back of the cupboard. Or a couple of wormy apples from the tree in the garden.” Which was the sort of thing I vaguely remembered from my long-off Sunday school days.
“Exactly. So what’s she got you doing? I’m running the cake stall, of all things.” Cherry’s tone said it all. My sis doesn’t bake. Ever.
“Didn’t say. When is it, anyhow?”
“The last Saturday of the month. This month, so don’t forget. Although I’m sure Amelia will give you very precise instructions nearer the time.” There was a certain tightness to her tone.
“Voice of bitter experience, that, is it?”
“It wouldn’t be right of me to say anything disparaging about someone who’s done so much for the cathedral,” Cherry said in the sort of voice that meant she really, really wanted to. “Anyway, I know it’s short notice, but why don’t you and Philip come over to Gregory’s for Sunday lunch this weekend?”
I gathered that was a peace offering. “Sorry, can’t. We’re going round to Phil’s mum’s.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “Is this the first time you’ll be meeting her?”
“Yeah. Well, you know, since school.” I mean, chances were I’d at least seen her around at some point, but to be honest I couldn’t have picked her out of a police lineup. It wasn’t like me and Phil had been mates in those days.
“Oh. Well, good luck.” She made it sound like I’d need it.
“You, um, remember Phil’s family?” I was very conscious that the bloke himself was currently wrapped around me and could hear every word I said.
“Oh yes.” Another pause. “Call me Sunday night if you need to.”
Cheers, Sis. Way to make me feel optimistic an
d all.
Saturday, both me and Phil had work to do in the morning that managed to stretch on to midafternoon. We met up for a late lunch—well late—and decided it was way too nice out to just veg in front of the sport on the telly, ’specially as in mid-September you know the weather’s not gonna hold forever. So we took a walk down to Verulamium Park, where we wandered around the old Roman ruins, had an ice cream from the van, and ended up down at the Fighting Cocks like I’d wanted to the previous evening.
The beer garden there isn’t huge, and it was full of people, like us, trying to stretch out the summer just that little bit longer. In fact, we got out there with our pints just in time to nab the last couple of seats—they’d set up a big screen out there to show the England rugby match that night, and laid on a barbecue as well. Now, rugby’s not really my thing—bit too public school for me—but it was England, yeah? You’ve got to cheer on your national side. And I’ve gotta say, there’s a lot to be said for what rugby does to a man’s thighs. So we settled in for the evening, and a very good evening it was too.
See, the thing about football—proper football, I mean, played with a round ball like God intended—is, it’s like an art form. The clever footwork, with eleven men playing as a team, dodging and, all right, sometimes diving. Tactics. They call it the beautiful game for a reason, don’t they? It’s, well, it’s elegant. Poetic, even. The players are athletic, yeah, but it’s all about the skill too. Not just the brute force.
Rugby, now . . . Well, it’s just a bunch of big bastards getting up close and personal with each other, innit? Sort of like wrestling, only not faked, with intervals of some bloke built like an armoured car grabbing the ball and legging it, trying to make it to the other side of the pitch before fifteen other blokes, some of who’re built like Chieftain bloody tanks, throw themselves on top of him. And, all right, there’s a bit of skill involved too, but mostly there’s a raw physicality about it that I didn’t have to be into the game itself to appreciate.
I wasn’t alone there, as it happens. I was trying to grill Phil a bit about his family, get some tips on how best to make ’em like me—or at least, to not piss them off too much. I mean, I did okay with Jase, but this was Phil’s mum. It was important, yeah?
But every time I tried to bring up the subject, some bugger with legs like beer barrels would make a tackle, or score a try, so I s’pose it wasn’t surprising Phil kept getting distracted. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Couple that with the testosterone boost of our side winning, well . . . I’m sure you get my drift. Not that me and Phil were all over each other while we watched or anything—Phil’s not into public displays of affection, and neither of us is into getting gay-bashed—but let’s just say we had a very good night after we got back to mine.
Waking up slowly on Sunday morning in the arms of my fiancé was pretty good too. At least, until I got a look at Phil’s expression and had a moment’s panic it was Monday. “Oi, what’s up? Merlin wake you up by biting your toes again?” Serve him right for being so bloody tall his feet stuck out the end of the duvet.
Phil made a low, grumbly sound. “Forgotten what today is, have you?”
“Sunday. I checked. Day of rest, peace, and goodwill to all men—no, wait, that’s Christmas. So what’s got you all pissed off before you’ve even got out of bed?”
He hmphed. “You do remember where we’re going today, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. Your mum’s. But that’s hours off, innit?” I tried to snuggle into his side, possibly—all right, definitely—with a view to getting a bit frisky, but it was like trying to cuddle a block of granite.
“One o’clock, Mum said. She’s doing a roast.” Phil glowered so hard at one particular spot on the ceiling, I was worried the plaster would crumble.
I could feel my sex life going the same way. “Okay, you wanna tell me why you’re looking so bloody miserable at the prospect? What is it—lumpy gravy, overcooked meat, what?”
Phil almost smiled at that, and shook his head. “Nah. She’s not a bad cook. It’s just . . . Mum stopped doing Sunday lunch after Dad died. Said it was too much of a faff, and none of us lot ever appreciated it anyway. Half the time, Jase was at work, Nige was away, and Leanne was still in bed sleeping off her hangover.”
All right, it wasn’t that early in the morning, but it was still too early for me to read subtext. “You’re gonna have to spell it out. What is it—sad memories of your dad?” I hadn’t thought he missed the old guy that much, but still waters sink ships and all that. Maybe recent developments in my life had brought it all up in his mind. Dredged up long-buried emotions, that sort of thing.
He huffed. “Nah. It’s you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“It’s not what you’ve done. Pulling out all the stops, isn’t she? Just you wait. There’ll be napkins on the table and forks with the pudding spoons. She’ll probably even turn the telly off while we eat.”
“Hang on, I thought you said she remembered me?”
“Yeah, as that posh kid whose family were planning to sue us.”
“Come off it—you know I’m not posh!”
“Yeah, you are. Compared to my family, anyhow.” At least he said it without getting visibly shirty. My Phil’s always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about his council estate origins, but I like to think I’m doing my bit to wear it down. Phil would probably be the first to agree I can have an abrasive effect at times.
“You don’t act posh,” he added grudgingly.
“Yeah, well, the polo pony got a flat, and my top hat’s in the wash.”
He laughed. “Never seen you dress posh, for that matter. Not since Gary and Darren’s wedding, anyhow.”
“Leave all that to you, don’t I?” It at least made him an easy bloke to buy presents for, which I appreciated, seeing as he had a birthday coming up in October and him proposing on my last birthday had set the bar a bit high. All I’d have to do would be take out a second mortgage and buy him another sweater. “Oi, I don’t have to dress up for this, do I?”
“Christ, no. Just wear what you want. Well, not your actual work clothes or they’ll think you’re taking the piss. And maybe give the joke T-shirts a rest.”
“Okay, you wanna stop before you rule out my entire wardrobe?”
“Don’t worry. I might think you look best naked, but I don’t reckon it’d go down too well with my mum.” Then he huffed to himself. “Either that, or it’d go down too bloody well.”
We eventually dragged ourselves out of bed—there’s only so long you can ignore the pointed miaowing of a couple of cats convinced they’re about to die of starvation—and grabbed a light breakfast of toast and coffee. Well, you’ve got to make sure you leave plenty of room for a roast dinner, haven’t you? Mortally offending Phil’s mum by refusing her Yorkshire pud probably wouldn’t be the best way to make a good first impression.
I’d thought maybe Phil would actually dress down for the occasion, but he just put on his usual gear of designer shirt and trousers so smart that if I wore ’em, I’d be pretty much guaranteed to spill gravy all over the front. I kind of liked that—like he was saying, This is how I am now, and I’m not gonna change for anyone.
Course, he might also have been saying, Look how far I’ve come, losers. Like I said, there’s a bit of a chip on those broad shoulders of his.
I dithered a bit, then put on a new-ish pair of black jeans and a dark-green shirt Gary reckoned brought out my eyes. Phil gave me a look.
“What?” I asked, narked.
He smirked. “Thought you weren’t gonna dress up.”
“Shut up. Are we going or what?”
Phil gave me a look like he wanted to say Or what. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and headed down the stairs.
I’d be lying if I said there weren’t one or two butterflies flitting around my insides as I followed, but Christ, how bad could his family be?
Phil’s mum still lived in the house he’
d grown up in, which was on the Cottonmill council estate at the bottom of St. Albans. The estate had a bit of a bad rep locally, but it’s all relative, innit? A bad postcode round here was still dead posh compared to any of your inner-city no-go areas. Phil’s childhood home was one of a row of terraced houses with white-painted siding and a blocky entrance hall-cum-porch stuck on the front like a spare building block chucked there by a giant-sized toddler.
“Home sweet home, eh?” I asked as we marched up the garden path.
Phil coughed. It sounded a lot like Fuck off and die.
“Come on,” I said. “One meal, then we’re out of here. How bad can it be?”
Phil just looked at me.
I rang the bell. There was a short pause during which I’m pretty sure Mrs. M. hurriedly put on her lipstick, if the wonky line of it when she opened the door was any guide.
Not that it mattered, as she proceeded to leave most of it on Phil’s cheek and then turned to bung the rest on mine. I tried to wipe it off under cover of handing her the big bunch of flowers we’d brought. (Phil had tried to talk me out of them, but my mum brought me up proper.)
“Oh, love, that’s so sweet of you. And it’s lovely to meet you at last.” That was directed at Phil. “Come on in, love, don’t stand on the doorstep. The neighbours can bugger off and make their own entertainment, that’s what I always say. Come on, straight through to the living room while I sort out dinner. And call me Tracy, love.”
By the time I’d finished thanking God she hadn’t asked me to call her Mum, she’d shepherded us inside and closed the door behind us.
Phil might have been right about his mum preferring me naked, at that. I was guessing Mrs. Morrison—sorry, Tracy—fancied herself as a bit of a cougar, judging from the amount of leopard print she was wearing. It was a long top that clung tightly to her curves, of which she had an ample amount, and was low-cut to show about three times as much boob as any of the female members of my family would have thought it suitable to put on display.