Divorced and Deadly

by Josephine Cox

  ‘TEN MINUTES, BEN!’ That told me!

  ‘I’VE ALREADY SAID…I AM NOT GOING, AND THAT’S FINAL.’ End of! Not up for negotiation! Last word on the subject.

  With her good and told, and out of my hair, I sighed, and cuddled up with my Big Ted.

  I’ve done it! At long last I’ve put my foot down; both at home and at work, and not before time neither.

  What’s more, although I might live to regret it, I have definitely decided to broach the matter of sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. Though it will mean I’ll have to take on his hairy mongrel, whose wind problem is almost as frightening as my father’s.

  The day seemed to have ended as well as expected.

  The church was cold as usual. I warbled through two hymns I’d never even heard of, but when the organ struck up All Things Bright and Beautiful, I sang my heart out with the best of them.

  The collection box got me on the way out. I only had two pence, which I threw in with a grand gesture. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the verger tucked the coin back into my hand, ‘I think you need it more than we do.’ I was miffed. What real man wears a skirt anyway!

  As I slunk out, I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. ‘You’re a mean bugger, you are!’

  If he wasn’t just three feet high, and sucking a sticky dummy, I might have smacked him one. (Though I did manage to stamp craftily on his foot. It did my heart good to see the shock on his little pink face.)

  Ah well, happy days. Tomorrow has to be an improvement. Doesn’t it?

  BEDFORD

  OCTOBER, SATURDAY

  Well here we are, diary. After all the doubts and aggravation, today’s the day, and I really hope I’m not about to make the biggest mistake of my entire life (though, Lord knows, I’ve made enough mistakes already to sink a battleship!).

  I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, with my head in hands and all my pitiful worldly possessions lying round me, consisting of: four pairs of plain brown socks, two ties—one formal for unexpected events, and one bright green with a motif of Donald Duck in the corner. Then there are seven pairs of yellow and blue spotted underpants from Marks and Sparks (Laura bought me those two weeks before she threw me out—is it any wonder our sex life took a nosedive!).

  Fraying at the elbow, my black Travolta bomber jacket was lying crumpled on the floor; beside it was a blue windjammer depicting a skier in action; there are my favourite baggy jeans; two pairs of serviceable trousers for work, and my one and only suit for unexpected formal events (which so far number two in total—one was for an aunt’s funeral, and the other ever ready for when the virtual owner of the kennels pays a flying visit, to check that his business is not being run into the ground).

  Then there are the usual man’s things, like a baseball cap, an unused cricket bat, a pair of dodgy sunglasses from House of Fraser, oh and a packet of extra-size condoms for unexpected emergencies (also never used how pitiful is that?).

  ‘How can you be so ungrateful?’ The door was flung open and there she was—every sane man’s worst nightmare! ‘I hope you know you’re breaking my heart.’

  ‘Oh, Mam! Don’t start all that again!’ Her eyes were redraw from crying, and she was wringing her hands together like she had my neck between them. ‘It’s no use, Mum.’ Oh yes, I can be heartless when tried, ‘I’m leaving and that’s that!’ Before she could persuade me to stay, I began throwing my things into a bag like the ship was going down!

  ‘Oh, Ben, after what I’ve done for you, I honestly don’t know how you can up and away like this.’ She was so close I could feel the fire of her breath down the back of my shirt collar. ‘I took you in when that witch of a wife threw you out. I’ve loved you and cherished you. I’ve washed your dirty socks and made sure you never go to work without your lunch pack, and when you had the flu, I sat by you day and night and held your hand. I’m your mother, for heaven’s sake. You can’t leave me here with your dad!’

  A huge surge of compassion made me forget all the bad things, ‘Aw, Mum, I’m sorry, I really am. I know you sat with me when I was ill, and I know you washed my dirty socks, and I’ll always be grateful to you for taking me back when I had nowhere else to go. And you will never know what it meant to me when you lovingly packed my lunch.’

  I tried not to let her see how badly my life had been affected by these things, ‘I promise you this, Mum…if I live to be a hundred I will never forget what you did.’

  ‘There you are, y’see!’ (She was so puffed with pride I hadn’t the heart to burst her bubble.) ‘Nobody can say I haven’t been a model mother.’

  Drawing myself up to my full height, I placed my hands tenderly on her lardy shoulders, and smiling into her pea-like eyes, I tried to soften the blow of my imminent departure. ‘Look, Mum, I know it’s hard for you…oh, and me of course. But I’m not a little boy any more. It’s time I moved on…don’t you think?’

  I swear to God I didn’t see it coming. She smiled at me, then before I could scream for help, she had me against the wall, her hands at my throat, ‘YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!’ I could have yelled for my father, but something told me he was probably lying downstairs with his head caved in.

  ‘Let go of me!’ I gurgled, (though it wasn’t easy with her shovel-like hands flattening my windpipe). ‘I promise…I’ll come back and visit!’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t! I’m not falling for that old lie! (When she smiled that smile, I knew I had to escape or die.) ‘You’re a liar, just like your useless father. You say you’ll come back and visit, but I know you won’t! I’m sorry, Ben. I did not want it to come to this, but you have to understand. Y’see you are my one and only child, and I can never allow you to leave this house.’

  She waggled a key in front of my face, ‘I would not be doing my duty as a mother, if I let you leave! You’re too vulnerable. People take advantage of you. Look at the way Laura treated you! And look at that slip of a girl…what’s her name…Poppy? One of these fine days she’ll have the pants off you and there’ll be a child on the way, you see if I’m not right. Then she’ll leave you and I’ll have to pick up the pieces as usual. Oh, and what about this new idiot you seem to be hanging around with…what’s his name…oh, yes, Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. And why would a man get a nickname like that, eh?’ (When she winked one eye like that, she had a distinct look of Captain Pugwash.)

  Suddenly the sound of Dad’s voice calling her made her lose her grip and that was my chance, which I took like a true hero. ‘You come back here!’ she yelled as I grabbed my bag and ran. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’ As I half ran half fell down the stairs she was right behind me; it was like being trapped at the foot of an avalanche, like any minute she would fall on top of me and I’d never be seen again.

  ‘Leave me alone, Mum!’ The terror must have been etched on my face, because when I got to the bottom of the stairs my father leaped aside, shouting, ‘KEEP GOING, SON…IF YOU DON’T GET OUT NOW, YOU NEVER WILL!’

  As I ran out the door, my bag fell open and all my underpants fell out on to the pavement. ‘Somebody’s got a colourful ass, that’s for sure!’ That was grumpy old Bob from the corner house. Judging from his long, straggly beard and dirty overcoat, I wouldn’t be surprised if his underpants have never seen the light of day. (That’s if he wears any. Ooh! What a frightful image!)

  ‘RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, SON!’ That was Dad. ‘YOU’RE FREE! FREE!’

  He stopped yelling when mother wrapped him round the head with her fist. ‘GO ON THEN!’ she yelled at me as I fled, ‘YOU’LL MAKE A MESS OF THINGS LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO, AND THEN YOU’LL COME CRAWLING BACK, YOU SEE IF I’M NOT RIGHT!’

  Panicking, I almost ran head on into Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants as he came rushing round the corner. ‘Whoa there!’ He blocked my path. ‘I was coming to fetch you. We’re supposed to have picked up the key to our new pad half an hour ago.’

  ‘BEN! DON’T TAKE ANY NOTICE OF THAT WEIRDO. COME BACK HERE THIS MINUTE!’

 
‘Crikey, what’s got into her?’ Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants peered down the street at the mad marauder, ‘She looks like Cruella de Vil…you know, her in that film…with the spotty dogs and all that.’

  ‘RUN FOR IT, MANSEY…’ I grabbed him and took off. ‘QUICK…IF YOU VALUE YOUR BLOCK AND TACKLE.’ (I know how fond he is of fishing…for girls that is.)

  We set off at a run, with mother’s voice following us to the bitter end, ‘THAT’S IT…CLEAR OFF THEN…YOU AND YOUR HALFWIT FRIEND! AND DON’T BLAME ME IF PEOPLE CALL YOU A COUPLE OF LAYS!’ The eerie sound was her gardening trowel as it whistled past my ear and impaled itself in Maggie Leatherhead’s front door.

  When we got clear, Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants had a question (as always).

  ‘What does she mean…“a couple of lays”?’ he puffed.

  ‘Search me!’ My mum was a complete mystery.

  Behind us my warring parents could be heard screaming at each other. ‘WHAT THE DEVIL WAS THAT YOU CALLED ’EM?’ I’m proud of my dad.

  ‘WHAT D’YOU MEAN, YOU SILLY OLD FOOL?’ Mother yelled back.

  ‘YOU SAID PEOPLE WILL CALL THEM “A COUPLE OF LAYS”.’

  ‘SO WHAT IF I DID?’

  ‘BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?’

  ‘YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT IT MEANS!’

  ‘I WOULDN’T ASK IF I KNEW.’

  ‘IT MEANS MEN WHO PREFER THE COMPANY OF MEN…IF YOU UNDERSTAND MY MEANING?’

  ‘YOU DITHERING IDIOT! THAT’S “GAYS”…NOT “LAYS”!’.

  It got me thinking, ‘Hey, I hope you’re not getting any ideas about you and me?’ I asked Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, ‘I mean, I for one, have no particular leanings in that direction.’

  Dickie laughed out loud, ‘Well, neither have I,’ he said with a wink, ‘you should know by now…I’m more partial to peaches and cream than meat and two veg…’ He slid his arm through mine, ‘But I’m an adventurous guy…up for anything, if you take my meaning?’

  Giving him an almighty shove, I widened the distance between us, ‘TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME!’

  Undeterred, he suggested with a twinkle in his eye, ‘I reckon we’d best get this flat organised…after all, we’re free souls now aren’t we?’ I did not like the look in his eye. ‘There’ll be nobody to tell us what to do, or how to behave.’

  There was a tense moment before he started laughing, and I realised he was having me on.

  ‘Did you pick up the keys?’ I asked.

  ‘O’ course.’ Dickie looked very pleased with himself.

  ‘Good!’ At last! Something was going right for once.

  Our laughter rang through the streets as we made our way to the fish and chip shop. ‘I reckon we’ll be all right, you and me,’ Dickie said encouragingly.

  It took him a full ten minutes to get the door open, ‘Get away, I can do it,’ he argued when I asked to have a go. ‘I’m not so stupid I can’t turn a key in the lock!’

  Eventually the key turned and the door was flung open, ‘We’re in!’

  As we climbed the stairs to the flat above, every wooden step groaned and shifted, and I began to wonder if we’d ever get down again. ‘We’ll soon have this place shipshape,’ announced Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. ‘Now that we’re free men with nobody to nag and control us, there is nothing we can’t do!’

  All the same, when we flung open the top door to the stench of dead birds and damp, not to mention the holes in the walls, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d bitten off more than I can chew.

  ‘We’ll turn this place round, you see if we don’t!’ Grabbing a black sack that had been used to stuff a hole under the window-sill, Dickie was in there like a madman, collecting all the stiff, black crows that had obviously got in down the chimney and never managed to get out again.

  ‘You won’t regret going in with me,’ he said cockily. ‘It’ll be great! Parties every night…Girls! Let me at ‘em!’

  When I gave no answer, he turned round, disappointed at my long face, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It stinks in here.’

  ‘Well, that’s because of the crows. But look, they’re all in the bag now.’

  ‘It still stinks.’

  ‘That’s because the damp is coming in through the holes in the plaster, and that tight git downstairs is too busy making money from his chip shop to spend the necessary on this place.’

  He slapped me on the shoulder, leaving sticky bits of feathers on my windjammer. ‘Come on, Ben! It’ll be great, honest. The landlord said we could make improvements! We can get everything we need from the DIY place in King Street, and once we’ve rolled up our sleeves and got stuck in you won’t recognise this place.

  ‘You really think it’ll be all right, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘Absolutely, yes!’ At least Dickie had the right attitude.

  ‘And you don’t think I was too hard on my mum…running out like that, and not saying cheerio properly?’ I still wasn’t sure if I’d done the right thing.

  ‘Tell me this, Ben…if you hadn’t run out on here, what would she have done?’ Dickie wanted to know.

  ‘Probably locked me in the cellar and fed me on bread and water.’

  ‘There you have it, then. With people like your mother, slightly unhinged and controlling, a man has no choice but to make a run for it.’ He gave me one of those looks that panicked me, ‘Do you agree?’

  I nodded, which instantly earned me a hearty pat on the back. ‘Good man! Now then…let’s explore the rest of this wonderful place!’ And off he went, totally convinced that this dirty, stinky hellhole was the answer to our prayers.

  I’m not sure of anything any more.

  But it’s too late now, and there’s no turning back.

  Rightly or wrongly, I have burned my bridges with a vengeance.

  Heaven help me!

  BEDFORD

  NOVEMBER, SUNDAY

  Well, diary, it’s been a while since me and Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants moved in over the fish and chip shop, and I’ve been so busy, this is the first time I’ve been able to get to my diary.

  The first night we stayed in the flat was so terrifying, I’ll remember it to the end of my days (and if we don’t soon solve the problem of these big old crows trying to break in, the end will be sooner than we think!). I remember my dad fishing out an old recording of Hitchcock’s thriller, The Birds, and y’know what, I reckon me and Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants have landed right in the middle of it!

  Just now I nearly leaped out of my skin when he popped his head round my bedroom door. ‘I don’t believe it!’ he gawped, ‘It’s gone eight, and there’s you, still lying in bed. Oh and what’s that you’re scribbling?’

  ‘Nothing!’ I rammed the diary and pen under the bedclothes with such force I nearly did myself a private injury; not that anyone would notice what with my social life being non-existent. ‘Anyway, what’s the problem?’ I grumbled. ‘After all the work we did yesterday, I deserve a lie in.’

  He threw himself on the bed, his face wreathed in one of them obnoxious grins. ‘Don’t tell me you keep a diary?’ he laughed. ‘Only prissies and young girls keep a diary!’

  I gave him a forceful push, ‘As you well know, I am neither a prissie nor a young girl. And if you don’t mind, I’d like you to clear off while I get washed and dressed!’

  ‘I’m not going, not till you show me what you’re hiding under the bedclothes.’

  ‘I mean it,’ I had to be forceful, ‘I want you to bugger off, out of my room!’

  ‘Not until I see what you’ve got there.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing that might interest you, so you either leave of your own accord, or I throw you out.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Again, that obnoxious grin. ‘Touchy touchy, Ben!’ When he made a grab for the bedclothes, I gave him an almighty shove that sent him sprawling across the room. He scrambled up and glared at me. ‘You’ve really hurt my feelings!’ he muttered. ‘I’ve seen a side to you that’s positively awful!’
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br />   Feeling guilty, I waited for him to leave, then I leaped out of bed, locked my door, and hid the diary under a loose floorboard. I then ran to the grubby old bathroom, had a quick swill, combed my hair, had a shave and got dressed.

  When I walked into the makeshift kitchen, the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon drifted across the room. ‘I made breakfast,’ Dickie said sullenly. ‘You can eat it or leave it, I don’t care!’ He sulkily slid two plates on to the table, each loaded with mushrooms, bacon and egg, and even a slice of toast on the side (it was burned black, but I didn’t complain. After all, I needed him to help me paint the flat).

  An hour later, we set off in Dickie Manse’s old banger. ‘I hate this useless heap!’ he kept saying, ‘I really hate it!’

  ‘So, why didn’t you keep your old Audi?’

  ‘You know why. Because I’ve been put on short time, and I would never have been able to pay my half deposit for the flat, let alone help with all the paint and brushes and new plaster for that gaping hole in the ceiling…’

  ‘Which I might add, you put there yourself, when you were putting things in the loft and fell through the ceiling…twice!’

  ‘Well there you go!’ Like many before it, the conversation was fast developing into a full blown row, ‘If you’d gone up there like I asked you, the ceiling might still be intact. You know I have a fear of heights.’

  ‘A fear of work you mean!’

  ‘I’ll ignore that! Anyway, this flat needs a fortune spending on it. If we wait for the landlord to do it, it’ll be ages before we can invite anyone back. We both know that sacrifices have to be made.’

  ‘All right, I get the picture,’ I apologised. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s me that should be sorry. I’m just accident prone. I can’t seem to help myself.’

  ‘You need to calm down,’ I reminded him. ‘What about the other day, when you leaped out of the car and had a real go at the man in front, because he didn’t move forward when the lights turned to green?’