by R J Gould
A donkey brayed.
‘Will you get it, Wayne? It’ll be a text from Mum, she’s sending me daily “don’t forget tos” about the party.’
Wayne smiled as he went back into the bedroom. Clarissa had got the donkey ring in response to his own dog alarm. He found Clarissa’s phone underneath the cup of the bra on the bed. If he possessed an iPhone the last thing he’d do would be to destroy its sleekness with a glittery pink cover.
‘What’s she saying?’
‘Just looking.’
Wayne read the text. Hope I guessed right with purple and black, Riss. Want to see you in them! Can we meet Monday lunch? Si.
Lil Briggs-Collingwood
It was freezing and Lil wished she’d worn something warmer. Jack – she refused to call him Dad – had given her £50 to buy an outfit to wear at the engagement party. She’d snatched the notes and turned away, but Mum had called her back with a, ‘what d’you say, dear?’
‘Thank you, Jack, most generous,’ she’d said, mock posh. Then he’d reached across and rested his hand on her shoulder. For far too long, the bloody perv. Right from the start she hadn’t liked him, and when he married her mum she insisted on keeping her original surname. After a lot of argument she reluctantly agreed to settle for Briggs-Collingwood.
Now it was off to see what Miss Selfridge and Topshop and maybe H&M had to offer, hopefully something which would embarrass her mum, though whatever she chose Jack would say, ‘you look gorgeous, Lil.’ The shorter the skirt, the lower the top, the better, as far as he was concerned. He never said nothing nice to Mum, poor old cow.
Bloody families. And now Wayne was going to marry rich bitch Clarissa, the little princess who spoke like she was the Queen. ‘On reflection we’ve decided to separate the function for parents from our friends’ party, haven’t we, Wayne? Lil, you’ll come to the parents’ do.’
‘Oh, how jolly decent of you to invite me to anything, I am deeply honoured,’ she’d like to have mimicked. Or maybe ‘I ain’t going nowhere you’ll be, Barbie.’ But instead she’d thanked Clarissa and said she was looking forward to it. She didn’t want to upset Wayne.
Her purposeful stride towards the shops was interrupted by a male voice.
‘Scuse, please. I wonder if you tell me where I find Marx Inspinter.’
‘What?’
‘Marten Spenter.’
‘Martin who?’
‘No, Marten. The big shop. I meet my friend there.’
‘Shop? Oh, you mean Marks and Spencer.’
‘Yes, I say this. Mark in Spenter.’
‘Well, not quite, but I know what you mean.’ Lil smiled and he smiled back, a pretty, neat smile that made his brown eyes sparkle. Lil had a thing about sparkling eyes. And about dark hair, too. His was jet black, wavy, long ringlets hanging over the collar of his blue denim shirt.
‘Where I find it?’
‘Well, it depends. There are two shops round ’ere, clothes and food.’
He looked perplexed, a frown that made those eyes sparkle again. ‘Friend in café, she work there. Café for food, yes?’
‘Well, yes and no. The café’s in the bit where the clothes are, near the homeware on the second floor. I’ll show you, follow me,’ Lil said spontaneously, surprising herself with the offer. She had just stormed off from her boyfriend Matt – well, ex-boyfriend now, after he’d called her a bitch for refusing to go to Rod’s party that evening. All they’d do there was get pissed and she just didn’t fancy it. In fact, she should have dumped him weeks ago.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Algirdas.’
‘Jesus, weird or what. Where you from?’
‘Lithuania.’
‘Pretty weird, too,’ said Lil, thinking how impressed her mates would be if she had a Lithuanian boyfriend. Perhaps she’d bring him to the engagement party. That would get everyone talking. She smiled, one of those smiles she knew boys loved; maybe it was that little gap between her two front teeth. Mandy had said that once, she’d read something about it in a mag. But fuck Mandy, what a bitch she turned out to be, getting off with Darren when he was still her boyfriend.
‘And you name?’
‘I’m Lil. Come on, follow me.’ This gave her the chance to walk on ahead. Bastard Darren had said her bum and legs were the things that got him turned on and she knew they were pretty all right. She’d worn thin white trousers and a thong today for Matt, but now this guy, Algid whatever, could benefit from the view.
She turned to check he was following her as she dodged past slow-moving shoppers on the crowded high street. She noticed that his once white trainers were in need of a good clean, frayed laces rolling along the pavement as he walked. His jeans were ripped at the knees and they didn’t look like fashion cuts. Yes, it would be really cool if he came next Sunday. Clarissa would be so pissed off.
She held out her hand. ‘Just in case you get lost.’
He took it. ‘OK, I stay within you.’
They were still holding hands as they moved up the Marks and Spencer escalator, and he looking up at her smiling. When they reached the second floor he let go and stroked her arm. Lil shivered. Now he strode ahead, following the signs to the café, past bed linen, furniture, and kitchenware. Lil followed.
A girl with raven black hair tied into two pigtails was wiping the café tables. She turned, exposing a face of angelic beauty, pale skin, high cheekbones, full rose lips, and laughing grey-green eyes. ‘Algirdas! Svieks!’ she shrieked, dropping the cloth, rushing up to him, flinging her arms round his neck, and kissing, her left leg bent up like in an old Hollywood film.
‘Bitch,’ muttered Lil, as she turned and headed back down the escalator, avoiding eye contact with the uninviting racks of old age pensioner clothes. She deliberately knocked against the racks as she advanced through the ground floor towards the exit, sending skirts swirling and scarves spinning.
‘Makes yer wanna puke, this place,’ she declared as she walked out the shop entrance.
‘Scusee?’
She looked accusingly at the woman trying to edge past her to enter. ‘You’re bloody foreign, too. Are there any English people left round here?’ The woman smiled.
As she stepped out she was hit by such a strong blast of bitterly cold wind that it made her eyes water.
‘Lil! Lil!’ Matt was approaching. ‘I’ve been looking all over for yer. Changed your mind about the party?’
‘Changed me … what a nerve. Have you changed your mind?’
‘Rod’s me best mate, I’ve got to go.’
‘Well, go then. I’m not.’
‘If you go, I’ll trek round shopping with you for as long as you want now.’
‘Get lost.’
‘I’ll even buy you lunch.’
‘Not hungry, thank you very much.’
‘My parents are out tonight, you can stay over after the party.’
Very short pause. ‘OK, I’ll come.’
‘I’m sure you will, and I expect I’ll come, too!’
She smiled, ensuring an elongated exposure of her gap. ‘Dirty sod. But no need to help me shop, I’d rather go it alone. Walk round to mine to get me tonight, will ya?’
‘Yeah. I’ll be there around nine.’
‘See you then,’ she said as she turned, and slowly white trouser and thonged her way down the High Street.
Shopping was not as easy as expected. She’d missed the party stuff put out for Christmas and New Year. There were leftovers from the sales, clothes surely no one would buy, and a few nice things only in sizes 8 and 16. Jack had paid for a Colour Me Beautiful session for her birthday – he’d wanted to sit in with her, but she wasn’t having that. Black, white, bright blues and reds had been recommended together with a warning to stay away from browns and greys. No surprises there and a waste of £145, really, but it was quite nice to be pampered. The make-up part of the session had been just as useless. ‘Forget fake tan,’ she’d been told. Forget that advice.
; After Miss Selfridge, Topshop, and H&M were rejected she headed off to French Connection. A huge glittery FCUK across her tits, that would piss them off. But the first thing she spotted, up on a display stand, was a royal blue, sleeveless shift dress in a satiny material. On the floor next to the model was a pair of blue high-heeled sandals with silver studs. A nearby table displayed a chain necklace with two gorgeous shiny blue stones and earrings to match. She looked at the labels. Dress £90, sandals £85, jewellery £45.
Her mobile phone was metallic pink. She dialled.
‘Hi, Mum. Is Jack there? … I just want to ask him something … Jack, you’re gonna kill me, but I’ve just seen an amazing outfit. I’d really love something special for the engagement and I’d wear it loads … Well, if you must call it damage, it’s £220 … Please, Jack, I’ll be the nicest girl in the world … I’ve already asked, they’ll take your card details over the phone, there’s someone standing next to me now … Thanks, that’s so kind.’ She handed over the phone. ‘Wanker’, she mumbled.
When she got home, Jack was by her side before she’d even got through the door.
‘Let’s see ‘em then, Lil.’ She opened up the bag. ‘No, try them on, silly girl.’
So she did, and guess who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Carol, come and see this.’ She came out of the kitchen, wiping floury hands onto her stained apron.
‘Lovely, pet. You’ll be the star of the show.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ That wouldn’t be hard at a sodding parents’ party. Rage flared up again at the insult of not being invited to the friends’ party. She was almost eighteen and Wayne was twenty-two, a gap of less than five years. Everyone at the parents’ party would be forty or more, a gap of over twenty. What a nerve. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m staying over at Matt’s tonight, Mum.’
‘Will his parents be there, Lil?’
‘Course, Mum.’
Jack Collingwood
Some bloke’s a lucky sod, thought Jack, as he watched Lil come downstairs in her new outfit. Well worth the £220 just to see her like that, and her smile was magic. A very lucky sod. Carol could hardly compete, standing there in her stripy apron with flour-covered hands, though whatever she was cooking smelled good. Recently, he’d felt a bit restless – maybe commitment and Jack Collingwood weren’t made for each other. But Carol had rescued him at a pretty unpleasant time. He should be grateful for what he’d got, and life with her wasn’t too bad at all. Much better than looked likely when the council had given him the push. What a day that was.
Dear sir,
I engaged one of your recommended plumbers, Jack Collingwood, to fit a new boiler and he has made a terrible job of it. Just because I am elderly and female, he thinks I don’t know what reasonable plumbing is like, but actually I do, as my late husband was a plumber and he used to tell me about his call-outs.
Mr Collingwood never turned up when he said he would, so a job that should have been done in two days ended up dragging on for two weeks. He didn't use a heat mat when doing the soldering so I’ve got black scorch marks all over the wall. To get the pipework in he drilled holes through my kitchen worktop rather than running the pipes under the floorboards, which is dreadfully unsightly. When he plastered up the holes he made an enormous mess. Just three weeks after completion I’m coming down each morning to clear up lumps of plaster from his so-called “repair work.”
Jack put the letter down and looked up. The three Camden Council panellists were waiting for him to speak. The one in the middle – a tweedy, frumpy grey-haired bat – had been the most aggressive since the start of the meeting. ‘What have you got to say, Mr Collingwood?’
‘She drove me up the wall, that woman. As soon as I arrived she started moaning, “you’re late”, “wipe your feet”, “use a dustsheet”, “my Eric would have done this, my Eric would have done that”.’
‘But, Mr Collingwood,’ now the decrepit old man with little tufts of white hair and a puckered hooked nose was joining in, ‘as you well know, this is not the only complaint.’ He handed Jack a second letter. He already knew what the outcome was going to be, it was hardly worth the bother of reading. He glanced at the bottom of the first of several pages of type. At least it was easier to read than the previous moaning scrawl.
That night we had a leak from one of his joints, which left cold water spraying all over the kitchen at around 11.00 p.m. while we were in bed. It was pure luck we heard it and turned off at the mains before it flooded the downstairs of our house. We called Mr Collingwood and his only advice was to turn off the cold water supply, which of course we’d just done. He said he’d come over first thing the next day so I let work know I might be a bit late. His “first thing in the morning” was after 12.00 p.m.
Jack sighed. ‘I remember him, too. He told me I had to get it finished that day, he threatened he wouldn’t let me out until I’d done it, so I was rushed. If you want quality work you need the time to do it properly.’
‘But this follows an unacceptable pattern.’ Now it was the younger man speaking, Mr Doughty. ‘Head of Customer Services’, he’d informed Jack with a firm handshake on arrival. Tailored black suit, crisp white shirt with cufflinks – who wears cufflinks these days? – bright red and orange striped tie, slick gelled hair. ‘Look at this one’, he suggested, removing a letter from a large folder.
Jack could see no point, but took the document and randomly turned to page four.
On the fifth day he arrived around 2.00 p.m. because he said he had another job. As usual he left before 4.00 p.m. He never came back so we had to discover ourselves how the boiler worked. Around a month after the installation it broke down due to an electrical fault on the board. I wasn’t having Collingwood back, so paid for a new plumber and within a couple of weeks four boards were replaced. Finally the boiler manufacturer agreed to replace the complete system and sent its own installer. He found that Collingwood had never blocked the original flue hole. The cold air coming in had resulted in condensation, which kept causing the electrics to short out.
‘This tenant is suing us for recommending you. He claims increased expenditure, loss of work time, and severe stress,’ stated Doughty, reading from one of the documents in the file.
‘It is essential that we recommend service personnel with competence and a sense of pride,’ added the old bat. ‘You seem to possess neither.’
‘So we have taken the decision to remove you from our list of recommended plumbers for those living in council properties,’ added white tufts man. ‘Have you anything to say?’
Get fucked, the lot of you. No, best not to burn bridges. ‘I’ve always done me best and for every disappointed customer there must be loads of delighted ones. Still, if you’ve made up your minds that’s it then.’
‘Our decision is final, Mr Collingwood. We just need you to sign these forms to state that you accept the outcome of this hearing.’
Jack signed. By the time he put on his jacket and stood up they were standing by the door, smiling with arms extended. He declined the opportunity to shake hands.
It wasn’t going to be easy without the council work, it supplied well over half his business. What with the recession and all the Polish plumbers over here, it wasn’t going to be easy at all. He’d have to make up some flyers and drop them through doors, he decided. He handed in his visitor’s badge at reception and stepped out to a dark, rain-laden sky, the pavement glistening with deep puddles nestling in crooked and broken slabs. He crossed Euston Road and walked down Argyle Street to his grubby white van. Once again he resolved to clean it to get rid of the unfunny ‘also available in white’ graffiti across the back doors. It was only when he was sitting in the van and had started it up that he noticed the ticket on the windscreen. ‘What the hell!’ he yelled. It turned out that the meter had expired just four measly minutes before he had returned. Forty pounds, twenty if you paid up within fourteen working days.
The next week he got the flyers p
rinted and spent a couple of days popping them through letter boxes. He was delighted to get such a quick first response. Carol told him she’d received his advert the very day her boiler began to make a noise that sounded like a person with a rattling, wheezy cough.
‘Nasty, I’ll be over first thing tomorrow to have a look. By 8.30, if that’s OK with you,’ said Jack.
He was greeted at the door of the small Victorian terrace by a pleasant enough woman, smiling and welcoming. And how he needed that smile after the difficult past few weeks. The council meeting was only part of it. There was also Shirley walking out on him. He couldn’t really blame her, she’d gone on and on about commitment, she wanted to move in, to be “roomies”, as she’d called it. Shirley was nice enough, but he just didn’t like her enough to live with her. He knew from experience that once cohabiting was involved it was so much more complicated if you decided to end it. Mary had taught him a lesson on that score, all that crying and pleading, the embarrassing scenes at the front door. Then contacting his friends, the cheek of it, trying to get them to talk him out of leaving her. Of course, they weren’t successful – he didn’t want her anymore and that was that. Now, Nicola was a different story. He was genuinely upset when she told him that she’d tried to make it work but had come to the conclusion that her first instinct – that he was an absolute moron – was correct. Lovely, Nicola was. And now, despite it being his fault, he was missing Shirley. Particularly the sex.
There were the money problems, too. No likelihood of enough business to replace the council work – in fact no business at all. But the bills kept arriving, including a £700 van repair and the death of his television. It was near the end of the season so he couldn’t wait, he couldn’t miss the football. The 42-inch flat screen had been so tempting, such a great picture, but that was another £750. And then he’d got a letter from the landlord regretting to inform him that the rent was going to increase by £60 a month just when gas and electricity was shooting up.