by R J Gould
So yes, the smile was welcome.
Carol Collingwood
Carol stood there, in her stripy apron and with flour-covered hands, proud to see Lil looking so good, and for once quite respectable with it. Jack was chatting away as usual when all she wanted was to get back to the roast chicken that needed basting. Admittedly, Jack had his good points – always so sociable, especially after a few pints, but to be honest, things hadn’t really turned out as she would have liked.
All those months ago – could it really be over three years? – his advert had dropped though the letterbox just as she was picking up the Yellow Pages in search of a plumber. There was a cartoon of a man waist up with a wide smile, a swathe of hair falling across his forehead, a polka dot bow tie (and no shirt, it seemed). He was holding a spanner in one hand and giving a thumbs up with the other. Jack Collingwood, a plumber you can TRUST, it read. So she called, getting angry with herself as she described the noise of the boiler as being “like a person with a rattling cough.” Typical woman, he must have thought.
It was such a pleasant surprise to see a plumber actually turn up when they said they would. In fact, he arrived ten minutes earlier than arranged. And this one was immediately reassuring, telling her not to worry because whatever it was he would sort it straight away. He had a cheeky grin, too, a bit like the cartoon man in his advert. Mind you, the last thing Carol wanted was repair work in the house. Lil spent money like there was no tomorrow, but be that as it may, she was determined to see her through school whatever the sacrifice. Perhaps even university, if that was what Lil wanted. There had to be some commitment, though, at that time she was spending money on magazines rather than college books, and too much possible study time was taken up in bed.
Despite it all, sometimes she missed Thomas. At least they would have been able to discuss their daughter together. In fact, Thomas was surprisingly strong when it came to discipline. He would have put his foot down when Lil wanted to stay out nights at boys’ houses, but she’d relented following a feeble attempt to discuss contraception and STDs. ‘I know, Mum, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ Lil had said.
It had been such a traumatic time those last weeks – months, even – married to Thomas. The doctor had diagnosed her with severe depression and offered to prescribe her one of the new drugs. Lil was being incredibly difficult at the time, though probably no worse than many other young teens. And Thomas was just Thomas; obsessed with his trains, never wanting to go out, so very dull. She could see nothing to look forward to. She’d declined the pills, then after one particularly fraught sleepless night made up her mind. She couldn’t desert her daughter, but she could leave her husband. Poor old Thomas was devastated.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’ he kept asking. It was a Sunday. He went for a walk and Carol was beginning to worry that he was going to do something stupid, as he was gone far too long. Then he came in and told her to wait in the front room while he made a cup of tea. He brought in the tea, nothing for him, just a cup for her, then slumped into his favourite armchair, head down.
‘Carol, you don’t have to leave, I know how much you love it here. It’s the family home, you stay here with Lil and I’ll move.’
After that, she couldn’t stay in the room. She ran upstairs, slumped on the bed, and cried her eyes out. How could she be so cruel to such a kind man? But there remained no choice – cruel as it was, she didn’t love him anymore.
Thomas would have sorted the boiler like he sorted everything else. The house was full of reminders of him; the fitted wardrobes with Louvre doors, the conservatory, the tarmac front drive with room for two cars, the Italian tiles in the bathroom. She’d gasped at the expense, but he knew she’d fallen in love with them when they’d seen the tiles at Homebase.
Well that was well and truly over now, and it wasn’t often that she thought back to those dark days. Her mind had wandered so much she’d left the plumber standing in the hallway waiting for instructions. He was giving her a puzzled look. A right nutter here, he must have been thinking. ‘The boiler’s in the kitchen. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Tea, white, two sugars, would be lovely.’ He was smiling, didn’t seem to mind her having drifted into memories.
He tutted away as he worked on the boiler, undoing bits then vacuuming with one of those Henry hoovers. It had a louder cough than the boiler. ‘On its last legs, but I’m too fond to part with it,’ he said, pausing to drink his now cold tea.
‘What’s that bloody racket, Mum, it’s not even nine yet?’
‘Here comes trouble,’ Carol muttered as Lil burst into the kitchen in T-shirt and knickers.
‘Who are you?’ she asked the man staring at her.
‘Lil, will you go upstairs and put on something respectable, you’re embarrassing Mr, err, Mr …’
‘Collingwood. Jack.’ Jack’s eyes escorted Lil out the room before turning back to Carol. ‘We’ve got trouble here, I’m afraid. It isn’t going to be worth repairing. The fan’s gone, that explains the knocking, but to be truthful, the pump’s close to packing up, too.’
‘How much is a new one going to set me back?’
‘Trouble is, you have to install condensers now, they cost about a thousand, then there’s labour.’
‘A thousand, that’s terrible.’
‘Well, one plus point is you’ll save on energy.’
‘I’ve read all about that – it’ll probably take twenty years or more to cover the cost.’
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mrs, err …’
‘Briggs. Carol.’
‘Carol. I can keep the labour as low as possible, perhaps a couple of hundred. I’m not VAT registered like some of the bigger plumbers. In fact, if you paid me cash I’d knock some off for you.’
So he was back the next day to fit it, rabbiting on while he worked. Quite a clever man, Carol thought, what with his views about all sorts of things. She didn’t agree with it all, especially his attack on Polish plumbers, but she enjoyed the chat and his curiosity about what she did. He was interested in Lil too, which was nice.
‘A pretty girl you’ve got there, how old is she?’
‘Fourteen going on twenty-five.’
Yes, lots of questions about Lil, what school was she at, did she have a boyfriend, how did she like spending her time? To be fair, there were lots of questions about Carol too, very direct things, straight for the jugular, really – did she have a husband, did she own the house, did she have any brothers or sisters, did she work? No husband any more, a small mortgage to pay off, a sister living in Bootle, and a part-time job at Mr Singh’s newsagent.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ he said when she mentioned Singh’s. ‘I go there to get me paper some days.’ It must be very few days, she thought, because she didn’t remember having ever seen him.
When he’d finished, with countless cups of tea down him, she was quite flabbergasted when he volunteered to come back on Monday to check everything was OK and that there would be no charge for the visit. She passed over £1,180. She’d never held so much money in her life and her hands were shaking as she counted it out.
‘Cup of tea, Lil,’ she called up after he’d gone. ‘You’ll be late for school unless you get a move on.’ She heard the shower start and then the boiler kicked in with a soft, reassuring purr.
Jack Collingwood
It was the least he could do, to go back and check the boiler. He needed money fast, but felt unusually guilty installing a new one when half an hour working on the fan blades would have done the job. He’d cheated people before but this lady was clearly tight on money and she was a good sort. At The Spread Eagle that evening he sat quietly, his mates now ignoring him after having briefly tried to cheer him up.
So he sipped his beer, more or less happy with his own company, when in walked Shirley, heading straight for him, tottering a bit on the way. ‘Jack, I thought you’d ruined my life, but in fact I’m so much happier now than when I was with you, so much happier
that I am actually very happy,’ she slurred. He had no idea what to say, but thoughts of his Mary troubles resurfaced. Why couldn’t women just accept that good things can come to an end?
‘You’re too much of a bastard to answer me because you’re such a bastard,’ she continued as she staggered. Ron steadied her. ‘Get off of me, I can stand on my own two feet. Even one. Look.’ She lifted one leg and swayed erratically, then tumbled onto Pete’s lap. There was a loud clink as his glass knocked against his teeth before a near-full pint emptied over his chin.
‘Sorry, mate, but it’s his fault. Aren’t you going to say something, Jack? You usually ’ave lots to say.’
Jack still couldn’t think of anything as he watched Shirley try to stand up and collapse back onto Pete, whose shirt was drenched. Finally, she managed to get back to her feet and she clapped her hands manically. ‘Listen, everyone, you listen to me,’ she yelled. Everyone was already listening and watching. It was that type of pub. ‘Silence! This man here is Jack Collingwood,’ she announced, pointing at him. ‘And I’d just like you all to know that he has the smallest dick in the world.’
That was enough for Jack, who got up and left, conscious of some rather uncalled for laughter.
An awful week followed. For a start, he didn’t receive a single phone call for work. Worse still, on the work front, he received a letter from the council informing him that a group of customers was planning legal action and that they would be supporting the claim. Socially, it was no better. He kept away from The Spread Eagle just in case. A Tesco special offer on Carlsberg was taken up – they must think I’m having a party, he thought as he went through checkout with four cartons of twenty-four cans. A party for one. He popped out every day just for the sake of it, to get fags or a paper or to sip over-stewed tea at Ida’s Dream, the local café, his head in an alcoholic daze.
The phone was flashing when he got back on the Wednesday afternoon. A message from Shirley, who sounded drunk. ‘I just want to tell you, Jack, that you are a absolute bastard. A complete and utter bastard. You won’t hear from me again.’
On Thursday there was another message from Shirley. ‘You think you can just dump people like they ain’t got no feelings. Well, we have got feelings. I’ve met Mary, Jack, and she’s told me all about you, you swine.’
When he came back from the café on Friday, there was a message from Mary in that soft, self-righteous Welsh voice he had grown to detest. ‘Jack, guess who I’ve met? Poor Shirley. It looks like I’m not the only one you’ve destroyed. You’re evil, Jack, evil.’
Then there were no more messages, but he got still more downhearted on Saturday watching the Gunners lose to Sunderland and that was the title out of reach. Saturday night and Sunday he drank himself stupid.
Monday he returned to Baynes Street, rather worse for wear.
Carol seemed pleased to see him, a welcoming smile again. Not too bad looking either, really, he thought as he carried out his customary body inspection. Good-sized breasts, shapely legs, slim waist. Then he looked up to her face. Everything was acceptable enough there, including the shoulder-length, well-kept, brown hair. Seemed to be made up this time, with red lipstick and mascara. Was it for his benefit, he wondered.
‘Working OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, lovely and quiet, thank you. Purring like a kitten.’
‘That’s good then.’ He just stood at the doorway. What next? No reason to come in really. ‘I didn’t expect no problem.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea, Mr Collingwood?’
‘Jack, you can call me Jack. And yes, a cuppa would be lovely.’
And that was the start of it.
‘Fancy staying for tea? I’ve got shepherd’s pie in the oven.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Jack said.
And then after the meal he asked, ‘Fancy going out for a drink?’
‘That would be lovely,’ Carol said. ‘The Spread Eagle?’
‘No, I don’t think there if you don’t mind. What about The Devonshire?’
‘I’m going to the pics on Friday, fancy coming with?’ she asked as they were walking back from the pub, both staggering tipsily and Jack certainly not in a fit state to drive.
‘That would be lovely,’ Jack replied. ‘What’s on?’
‘Mamma Mia, it’s back on at the Odeon. By popular demand, the paper said.’
‘I used to love ’em, ABBA innit, when I was a kid.’
‘Me, too. When Lil saw the film first time round she said people were getting up and dancing in the aisles.’
‘Fine by me, never shy away from a dance. Where’s Lil tonight?’
‘Staying at her friend.’
‘All by yourself then?’ As he spoke he regretted asking, worried that it might be misinterpreted. He recognised a lady when he saw one and had no intention of pushing his luck.
‘Yes, I am and you can’t drive your car in that state, can you? Want to stay?’
Although surprised, he readily accepted. And what a revelation – she’d seemed so docile and reserved, but in bed it was like she was a saucepan with a lid on and God knows what boiling underneath. Then off blows the lid and it’s uncontrollable steamy passion. Biting, sucking, scratching, bloody hell he was exhausted by the morning. He was still dozing in bed when in she came with a cup of tea, all dressed and made up, looking as fresh as if she’d had a full night’s sleep.
A little over six months later they were married and Jack had moved into Baynes Street, a surprisingly easy decision despite his track record of reluctance to commit. There was a lot he liked about Carol and the new situation. Maybe love was too strong a word, but Carol was a great listener, always laughing at his jokes. A really good cook, too, the sort of traditional English meals he enjoyed most. One thing he particularly appreciated was that she was perfectly happy for him to go off with his mates some evenings to The Spread Eagle. And the sex. Who’d have thought that Jack Collingwood would be the one wanting a rest? But Carol was insatiable. It was much nicer having a woman that way than the opposite.
Then there was Lil. He could tell she liked him and what a beauty she was to have around. She was up there with the best, he knew that from his attempts to see her with as few clothes on as possible – bringing her tea in bed mornings and the ‘accidental’ bathroom visits when she was in the shower. ‘Sorry, Lil, I thought it was Carol in here,’ he’d say. She didn’t seem to mind, and sometimes walked around the house in bra and knickers. Of course, nothing would ever happen between them, but it was an added bonus her being there.
But recently he’d got a bit restless with Carol. He’d been with her for coming up to three years, which was longer than anyone else, except for Janet, and she didn’t really count because that was soon after he got his own place, well over twenty years ago. Silly really, he could give no reason as to why he felt the way he did. He knew Carol adored him, and would be devastated if he ever walked out on her.
Carol Collingwood
Lil told Carol how much she despised Jack many a time. In a way, it was quite a compliment when Lil said she could do so much better. But what exactly could Carol do? Walk away from a second husband? No, of course not. It wasn’t working out how she thought it would, but she was stuck with it.
The kitchen was her favourite place to think about things. She’d basted the chicken, the potatoes were roasting nicely, and now she could chop the parsnips and carrots. Chop, chop, chop. Such a reassuring sound, the knife striking the wooden board. Jack liked his two veg, she’d heard that from him rather too many times. ‘Meat, potatoes, and two veg, Carol, that’s what I like, proper English food. None of this pasta or stir-fry muck.’
She couldn’t remember when things about him that she had once liked, or at least tolerated, began to grate. It hadn’t been a eureka moment, but jokes which at first had made her smile now made her cringe. She kept up appearances, smiling even though she had heard them all before and was quite disgusted by some of the content, like when he referred to Pakis
and Yids and Gyppos. In fact, his racism was deplorable. She was rather sensitive to it, what with working for Mr Singh, who treated her so well and was quite the gentleman.
‘England’s going downhill, Carol,’ Jack had said when she told him how Mr Singh was sending money to distant relatives in India. ‘I’ve got nothing against people like Singh, but his sort are making money out of us British.’
At least Mr Singh was prepared to work his socks off, which was more than she could say about Jack. He lay around at home most of the time with hardly any work coming his way, particularly since The Camden Gazette had given front page coverage to the court case – “Local Plumber a Scandal, Say Customers”. She’d never been so embarrassed in her life as when she saw their street name given in the article. He’d had to pay out over three thousand pounds in compensation, so that was the end of him contributing to the mortgage.
He rarely took her out. He’d head off to The Spread Eagle most evenings, and the assumption had always been that she wouldn’t be joining him. Back he’d come the worse for wear at eleven. Usually she’d be in bed reading by then. Then, the cheek of it, he’d grope about a bit before falling asleep, leaving her completely unsatisfied and stuck with his burping, farting, and snoring.
Carol loved reading. Mr Singh had a small display of classics at his newsagents. Hardly any books were sold but he continued to stock them because he wanted to give his customers the opportunity to further themselves. Such a nice man. He let Carol borrow books at will and she discovered the wisdom in novels that had passed her by in her days at school. Having had a few months with Austen and Bronte, on his advice she turned to American fiction. The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, and The Grapes of Wrath were her choices based on Mr Singh’s recommendations. As soon as she’d finished a book there was the excitement of discussing it with him. He seemed to have read everything and encouraged her to value her own opinions.
‘Not another book, Carol, I don’t know how you can be bothered with all that reading,’ Jack would say.