Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  Two whole nights …

  He felt the old trouser snake stir. ‘Angel, you know how much you mean to me.’ He kissed her ear. ‘How good you are for me.’ He bit her neck gently. ‘How well you understand me.’ He felt her back arch beneath his hands – that was more like it. He crushed her to him, showering her face with tiny kisses. ‘I’ll think of something, darling. Trust me.’

  Her arms slid round his neck, and she kissed him back.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  And he did think of something. Two things, as it happened, and though he said it himself, they were both pretty damn close to genius.

  The first came to him as he was riding home on his bicycle after leaving Anna – feeling a bit shaky, if truth be told, after the intensity of their lovemaking. He really was going to have to stop Anna scratching his back quite so hard; apart from the ever-present danger of Ruth catching sight of the damage – he always wore pyjamas in bed these days, but he’d look bloody silly keeping a T-shirt on in the shower – it was ruddy painful, frankly.

  He was pedalling past the Five Bells when he saw a couple of blokes swinging punches at each other in the car park outside. Big chaps, they were hurling abuse at each other as they fought (some altercation about the way one of the blokes had eyed up the other’s girlfriend, apparently), egged on by a crowd of jeering onlookers who were all tanked up and still on the beer; a couple of glasses already lay smashed on the pavement. He’d been forced to stop because the traffic lights turned red just as he approached, which quite frankly was pretty worrying. He’d kept his back resolutely turned, making it clear he wasn’t taking the slightest interest in the fight. There was no point in looking for trouble; he’d got quite enough of that already, thank you very much … He forced himself not to turn round as he heard another glass smash, followed by a roar of approval from the crowd.

  It was then that the first idea came to him.

  He’d read somewhere that the best way to succeed with a lie was to stick as closely to the truth as possible – probably the Duke of Wellington again, poor bastard. As the traffic lights went amber, some fool in a BMW started beeping him, which meant he had to get off pretty sharpish as he was in the wrong lane. This was a challenge because someone (what did he mean, someone, it had to be the twins paying him back for putting his foot down about their sudden three shower a day habit) had superglued his gear lever so it was permanently stuck in first. He couldn’t give his idea the full attention it deserved until he’d got himself safely out of the way. The window on the BMW’s nearside was open, and he could hear music as it shot past. It was turned up loud, and was irritatingly familiar. Strauss, was it? Schubert? Suddenly it came to him. Mendelssohn, that was it – Midsummer Night’s Dream. Quite pretty if you liked that sort of –

  The second idea hit him so suddenly, and he was so excited by its sheer brilliance, he nearly fell off his bike.

  His adrenaline was up and pumping now, and he positively enjoyed the rest of the ride. As he dismounted outside 58 Beech Avenue he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. By the time he wheeled his bike down the path and round the side of the house (tripping over Charlie’s tricycle – oh for Christ’s sake, how many more times?) he’d got his excuse off pat.

  He didn’t break into even the mildest of sweats when the back door was flung open and Ruth stood in the doorway, arms folded, lips tight. He’d known she’d be up. He’d torn himself away from Anna half an hour earlier than usual for a Monday night to get the inevitable confrontation over with: he absolutely had to get some sleep tonight. For one thing he had a sixth-form study group on the Lake Poets in the morning, and he was buggered if he could think of a single one at the moment if you didn’t count Melvyn Bragg, and for another in his secret heart he wasn’t entirely certain his nerve would hold if he left it overnight.

  Propping his bike against the wall, he lifted his briefcase from the back basket and turned towards her, wincing – though not too much – and contorting his features into a brave – though not too brave – smile.

  She put her hands on her hands on hips as he approached. ‘What the hell do you mean by making all that racket? For Christ’s sake, Jack, I’ve only just got Charlie down, he’s been crying all evening because Spike’s got a bigger willy than he has, and the girls told him …’

  He accentuated the limp. Bugger moderation; he’d probably have to point it out to her if he’d just had both legs amputated. He put a bit more wattage into the brave smile as he squeezed past her. As he staggered into the kitchen she gave a shrill cry of horror. Ah, that was more like it. Perhaps now she’d show a bit of …

  ‘You stink to high heaven, what the hell …? And why are you walking in that peculiar way?’

  He sat down heavily with a sigh, allowing himself to slump as if suddenly overtaken with exhaustion, the way Tom Hanks did in the good bit at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. Wait till she caught sight of the stains. He leaned back against the chair, allowing the full glare of the kitchen light to fall on him.

  She shrieked. ‘Blood? For God’s sake, Jack – who’ve you been provoking now?

  It wasn’t quite the reaction he’d hoped for, but no matter. He smiled wearily, and spread his hands. ‘There was a fight outside the Five Bells, Ruth.’

  ‘The Five Bells? What the hell were you doing at the Five Bells? It’s not on your way home.’

  The one point he’d overlooked. ‘I know that, Ruth.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ned – you remember, poppet, the art master, he’s in charge of … er … scenery for the Dream – insisted I went for a swift jar. Just a half, mind, after the rehearsal, to discuss –’

  ‘A swift …?’ She slammed the back door and hurtled over to the kettle. ‘I always said that man was trouble – I suppose he thinks it’s clever to wear red socks. And another thing, I always say …’

  Phew. Though what if the stains had been blood? He could have haemorrhaged to death by now. He let her rabbit on about the shortcomings of bohemians in red socks/sandals/beards until he got his nerve back, then got her back on track. God, he was tired, it was all right for Anna demanding they always make love twice every time he nipped round; everyone knew it didn’t take it out of women like it did men.

  ‘Actually, poppet, it wasn’t us doing the fighting. We’d just arrived, and I was explaining to Ned that maybe a swift one wasn’t such a good idea after all, it was high time I was getting home to see my beloved lady wife, when all hell broke loose – tiny little bloke rushed out, pursued by this bloody great gang of thugs. Been looking the wrong way at one of the thug’s girlfriends, it seems, and these blokes just …’

  He sank lower in his chair, pretending to be Tom Hanks again as he described the fight; he thought he did it rather well. ‘Nothing to do with us, of course, but we couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, could we, angel? All those huge great brutes setting on one poor little bloke –’

  She was pouring hot water into a mug and stirring briskly. Great; he’d never needed a cup of tea more in his life. ‘Well, you’d better get those clothes off and start sponging them with cold water right away, it should do the trick if the blood hasn’t dried yet. Mind you don’t put them in the machine until you’ve got it all out.’

  Thank God.

  She picked up the mug and began to hurry past him. ‘I’m off to watch Newsnight. And remember what I said about not putting anything in the machine until you’ve got all the stains out. I’ll know if you cut corners – there’ll be rings when it dries.’

  She was almost past when she halted suddenly and wheeled round. ‘What is that perfectly disgusting smell?’ She bent closer, and gave a squeal of disgust. ‘That’s not blood, Jack, it’s wine!’ She made ‘wine’ sound synonymous with leper’s pee.

  It would be hours before he got to bed now. Back to the original story, fast. ‘I know, poppet – that’s what I was trying to tell you –’

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed. Jesus, if the Germans had had Ruth waiting on
Omaha beach those poor bloody GIs would have taken one look and turned and run. The war would probably have been over that very same day … Concentrate, Teale.

  ‘Exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you, Ruthie. The fight broke up as soon as I made it clear I wasn’t going to stand for it – buggers disappeared like snow in June once I came on strong with a couple of the kick-fighting steps I picked up from those Jackie Chan films, and Ned did a sort of Feng Shui thing. (Was that right? Still, Ruth hated all things oriental, with a bit of luck she wouldn’t know either.) They could see right away they’d better not mess. Thing is, just as we were strolling back to our bikes –’

  Wow, he could see it. He had one of those poncho things thrown over his shoulders, and a cigar stub clenched between his teeth … (Though he’d always wondered about that, actually. Did Clint have ashtray breath and yellow teeth as a result? And if so, did it put the birds off?) ‘– when a couple of the thugs chucked their wine over us.’ That should do the trick.

  ‘Wine?’ She was frowning. ‘These thugs were drinking wine?’ Don’t crack up now, Teale – think.

  ‘They were foreign.’ She bent closer, examining the stain on his shirt suspiciously.

  ‘And what on earth is all this?’ Christ.

  ‘Salt, dear. From … er … perspiration.’ He was sweating again now, come to think of it – amazing the effect terror had on one. ‘Believe me, it was pretty scary in that car park. Plus I had to cycle home pretty bloody tout de suite, I can tell you – wouldn’t have put it past the dago in the beret and the striped matelot shirt to hot-foot it after us. Worked up quite a lather.’

  She straightened up. ‘Well, all I can say is next time come straight home. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘It’ll all need a good soak in Bio-Rinse before you machine wash. And see that it’s hung out on the line before you go to bed. I don’t want it anywhere near my airing cupboard.’ She took a peck at whatever poisonous brew she had in the mug.

  ‘Righty-ho, poppet.’

  She was making for the door. Should he take a chance and risk the rest of it now? Hell, yes. Go for it, Teale. He got to his feet.

  ‘Still, the rehearsal went very well. Which reminds me …’

  She stopped.

  Best not to look at her, he’d only lose his nerve. He strolled over to the counter, elaborately casual. ‘Er – had a chat with Rodney, the music master, earlier today; he’s in charge of the music for Dream. Excellent fellow, you’d like him, Ruthie – sings counter tenor in the church madrigal group, wears Hush Puppies …’ (If that didn’t do it, nothing would.) ‘… Wife’s a GP.’ Oh, superb touch, Teale. In point of fact, Rod wore a black leather jacket so ancient it was on the verge of falling apart and played bass guitar at weekends in a London band whose sexual exploits (as reported by him in the staffroom on Monday mornings) made the Stones look like choir boys. Notwithstanding, he was also a superb classical musician, and was genuinely engaged in writing an original score for the school play. Jack had only spoken to him once, and that was to ask him to pass the sugar during a staff meeting. ‘… Anyway, we thought – that is, Rod thought – it might be a good idea to pop up to Stratford one weekend in September to see their new production of Dream. You know, to get inspiration, throw some ideas around.’ He picked up the lurid green box beside the kettle. ‘Mmm, nettle. Delicious.’ He dropped one of the fetid-smelling bags into a mug and switched on the kettle. ‘Thought we’d stay the night and do the whole Elizabethan bit. You know, visit Will’s birthplace, Anne Hathaway’s cottage – generally soak up the ambience …’

  Please God. Please, God …

  There was silence behind him for a moment before the storm broke. With a shriek, Ruth slammed her mug down on the table and scuttled round to stand directly in front of him. He noticed the whiteheads had got worse.

  ‘Get some inspiration? Soak up the … Do you think I’m a complete fool, Jack?’

  As she got into her stride, he let his mind wander. What was Anna doing now? … Why did they always get spotted dick for school dinner on Mondays? … Why hadn’t he made a start on that screenplay yet? … Should he put some more of that athlete’s foot cream between his toes when he went to bed or was he only imagining that the itching had started again …?

  With a rattling bubble and a demented hiss, the kettle (or it might have been Ruth, he certainly wasn’t going to risk checking) began to boil. Wearily, he switched it off and began to pour water onto the acrid sachet in his mug.

  ‘I know exactly what your little game is.’

  She knew?

  ‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’

  She knew.

  Panic turned his knees to jelly. As he turned, palms damp, to face his wife, his grip on the kettle’s handle loosened; boiling water splashed agonisingly onto his wrist. He was apologising profusely to the kettle when the kitchen door banged open.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ Charlie stood in the doorway, red-faced, his Poisonous Insects of the Tropics pyjamas sagging round his knees, his plastic Kalashnikov cradled in his arms. Jack had never been so glad to see his son. He moved towards him, holding out his arms with a fatherly smile. ‘Hey, big guy! What …?’

  Charlie ran to Ruth and buried his face in her skirt, sobbing. ‘I had a bad dream, Mummy!’ He shot Jack a look of hatred. ‘I dreamed Daddy hurted my bikie!’

  The little brat must have heard him kicking the living daylights out of his bloody tricycle.

  ‘You see the damage you’ve done? I’ll thank you to save your martial arts skills for the Five Bells in future. I should think you woke up half the street with your disgusting exhibition of mindless violence – and all because the poor little love forgot to put his bike away!’ She bent and stroked Charlie’s hair. ‘It’s all right, darling, Mummy’s here. I’ll take you back to bed in a minute.’

  Charlie darted a look of triumph at his father, and let go of Ruth’s skirts. Please God let her take him up right now and forget about …

  ‘Ha! Will’s birthplace … Anne Hathaway’s cottage …’ She was off again. He kept terror at bay by trying to decide whether it would be worse to be forced to appear on Big Brother or I’m A Celebrity. At some point during his cogitations he noticed that Charlie was wandering around slurping strawberry yogurt from a large plastic pot decorated with bright pink cows that appeared to be in the terminal stages of CJD. What on earth …?

  ‘You can’t fool me, Jack! Soak up the ambience, my foot!’ She thrust her face close to his, hissing. ‘Do you think I don’t know it’s just an excuse for a glorified pub crawl?’

  A glorified …? Relief flooded over him like a tidal wave. She didn’t know!

  ‘And you can take that silly grin off your face – if you think it’s funny then you’re even more stupid than I thought you were. Meanwhile, if you’ve got any other little plans you’re proposing to corrupt the music master with I suggest you forget them.’

  ‘No dear, of course I haven’t.’

  ‘And now if you don’t mind I –’

  There was a thin wail from the direction of the washing machine. Charlie sat slumped on the floor beside it, clutching the plastic pot as he jerked forwards and projectile vomited a stream of lumpy pink liquid onto the grubby lino.

  ‘Now see what you’ve done! Poor little love – trying to comfort himself with Kiddie Kows after his nightmare!’ Turning away, she scuttled towards Charlie, cooing. Jack gave him a reassuring, manly sort of nod: Charlie responded by eyeing him malevolently over Ruth’s shoulder as, murmuring endearments, she gently removed the soiled pyjamas. For a hideous moment it seemed entirely within the realms of possibility that his small son’s head would turn a hundred and eighty degrees and he’d start to intone obscenities in the devil’s rasping tones.

  ‘And another thing.’ Ruth had straightened up now, and was clutching Charlie to her chest. ‘You’d better look in on the girls when you come up, and make sure they’ve finished their World Affairs homework. I he
ard them giggling in their room over that Mr Bean video they’re so fond of earlier. And you’d better have a look at the thermostat on the bloody boiler, it’s playing up again. And don’t forget to empty the dishwasher. There’ll be trouble if I find it’s still full when I come down in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, of course, dear.’

  As she reached the door, she turned and threw something at him. ‘You can stick these in with your stuff. But make sure you give them a good rinse first, I don’t want a lot of vomit clogging up the drum.’

  She went out, banging the door behind her.

  After Jack reckoned she’d been gone long enough not to be pulling one of her favourite tricks of leaving a room only to return silently a minute or two later – he’d been caught out more than once like that – he set the noisome bundle down gingerly on the counter. He was slowly unbuttoning his shirt when he became aware of a frenzied scratching and snuffling at the back door. Spike, wanting to come inside for the night. If Ruth found out there’d be merry hell to pay, but who was the boss round here, anyway? A man’s home was his castle, wasn’t it?

  Quietly – no sense in courting trouble – he opened the back door. Spike entered, tail wagging furiously. Jack bent and rubbed the top of his rough, brindled head. Good old Spike! At least somebody loved him – somebody didn’t want him around just to foot the bill for replica firearms or gold lamé crop tops or whatever they were called.

  Spike pushed eagerly past his legs, nearly knocking him over.

  From somewhere behind Jack came an obscene lapping sound, accompanied by deep grunts of pleasure. He turned slowly.

  With a grin contorting his canine features, Spike was lapping up the cloudy curds of pink vomit.