by Tom Sharpe
The old man sitting in the wheelchair beside her, a tartan rug draped over his knees, looked up at her with a livid expression and swore that he wasn’t going anywhere called the Last Post because that was what the buglers played when they buried the dead, and he’d seen too much of that in his time.
“Well, it’s a lot better than some of the other places I’ve visited and the Matron there was only too pleased to take you in. She’s got a son who was an officer in some county regiment or other so you’ll have special treatment.”
Lady Clarissa turned to Eva to explain, “Uncle lost his leg at Arnhem.”
“At the crossing of the Rhine, damn it,” grumbled the old man. “Can’t you get anything right?”
“Oh, well, somewhere in Europe.”
Uncle Harold raised his voice.
“In Germany, confound you!” He scowled. “What about women? I suppose that place is crawling with old hags. I see enough of them here already.”
Lady Clarissa sighed and shook her head.
“There are no female residents. Well, except for Matron, of course.”
But the old man still wasn’t satisfied.
“Trust you to choose a nursing home in Clarton Road. There’s a graveyard there, you know.”
“Well, it was a choice between that or one called Journey’s End which, come to think of it, is conveniently close to the Crematorium. Perhaps you’d prefer that,” Lady Clarissa suggested sweetly.
“The Crematorium, damnation!” squawked Uncle Harold. “I wonder why you don’t call it the Incinerator. I don’t want what remains of my body crisped up, thank you very much. Bad enough that the ruddy Hun barbecued my leg when they blew it up.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll see to it that you aren’t cremated then. And since we’re on the subject, where exactly do you want to be buried? Not that I hope it is any time soon, Uncle dear.”
“Hmm, you must think I was born yesterday. I know you have a very good reason for coming to visit me…damned if I can work out what it is, though. God knows, I haven’t got two pennies to rub together. But I’ve been thinking about this and I want to be buried in Kenya, where I was born and brought up.”
“But that’s in Africa! It would cost a fortune to get you there…and anyway it’s too far for the family to visit.”
“As though I care! Not one of them has visited me for years and years while I’m still alive. What could it possibly matter once I’m dead?”
“Well, I must say, that’s not a very nice thing to say and anyway it’s not even true,” protested Lady Clarissa. “I come all the way down here, week after week, and where would that leave me if you were buried in Kenya? I’d have nothing local to visit. You’re being very ungrateful, if you don’t mind my saying so, and after I’ve found you a really good nursing home too.”
“Possibly,” said the old man. “Though you could have found one with a more cheerful name.”
“Well, if you don’t like it there I’ll try to find somewhere else,” she sighed. After kissing her uncle on his forehead she left him there, still muttering bitterly.
∗
“I’m more than ready to go back to the hotel,” Lady Clarissa told Eva as they went out to the car park together. “Uncle isn’t the easiest person to deal with. And I’m so delighted you can join me there for lunch, my dear. Why not come in my car?”
They got into her Jaguar and drove to the Black Bear in silence.
“I think I’ll have a nice sherry,” Eva said when Lady Clarissa asked her what she’d like as an aperitif. Instead of her usual sweet sherry, though, she was given a Tio Pepe while Lady Clarissa had a very large dry martini.
“That’s better,” she sighed as she took a great gulp of her drink and settled back in a chair. “Now then, last week Miss Clancy at the day centre mentioned that your husband lectures at Fenland University so I suppose he must be a very good teacher. Do you know which university he went to himself?”
“Cambridge,” said Eva, who actually had no idea.
“Mmrara. You wouldn’t happen to know which college, would you?”
“I didn’t know him then but he’s spoken about one called Porterhouse.”
“But that’s marvellous! My husband was there too so he’ll be delighted to have a fellow Old Porterthusian up at the Hall. Someone for him to talk to. I’m afraid he gets terribly lonely.”
“Now, Eva my dear, what I want to know is whether you think your husband might be prepared to tutor my son Edward in history to A-level standard? You see, I’m determined to get him into Cambridge, and preferably Porterhouse.”
“I’m sure he would,” Eva said with a demure smile. “In fact, I know it.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Of course Edward should have been taught much better at his laughably named public school – I can’t think of anything less public given that it costs an absolute fortune and schools like that are usually miles and miles from anywhere! The one we sent him to near Lidlow was useless. He has yet to pass history despite sitting it three times. The place cost us a fortune, my dear,” she repeated, signalling to the wine waiter. “Another dry martini – and this time use Tanqueray fifty per cent and less Noilly Prat. I could hardly taste the gin in the last one, it was all vermouth. And another fino for my guest.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d better,” said Eva, who’d never had a dry sherry before and hadn’t liked it either. “You see, I’ve got to drive this afternoon and I don’t want to lose my driving licence.”
“My dear, two finos aren’t going to put you over the limit,” Lady Clarissa told her.
Under the influence of the previous sherry and an obviously rich woman who called her ‘my dear’ and treated her as an equal, Eva relented.
“I do wish you’d let me pay for this round,” she said but, fortunately, Lady Clarissa waved the offer away.
“It goes on my room bill. I always stay down here and do some shopping when I visit Uncle.” She lit a cigarette. “In any case, my husband pays for everything. Such a sweet man.”
“But what happens when you drive home? I mean, if the police breathalyse you.”
“You don’t seriously think I’m going to drive? I have a chauffeur. Actually he’s the local garage man but he doubles as a chauffeur. I gave him the morning off but he’ll be lurking somewhere, ready to take me back. Of course, I never drive over the limit at home either, but then the police there never stop me. That’s one of the advantages of being married to George. You see, he’s a JP,” said Lady Clarissa, and, realising that Eva still didn’t understand, continued, “Well, actually, if he’d been more ambitious he would almost certainly have been a QC by now but he’s too lazy. We live virtually separate lives.” She finished her gin and modicum of Noilly Prat and got to her feet. “Let’s go through and have lunch.”
Eva, whose knowledge of acronyms was virtually non-existent, especially those beginning with a ‘J’, and who had even less of an idea what a ‘QC might be, was only too glad to move on. She left her sherry and followed Lady Clarissa into the dining room. By the time they’d finished lunch, with which Eva had been persuaded to have a glass of white wine, she was in a decidedly good mood. With coffee Lady Clarissa, who had finished the bottle of white burgundy they’d had with the meal, ordered two Armagnacs and insisted Eva try one. She sipped at it but Clarissa ordered her to drink it all.
“Down the hatch,” she said, and drained her own glass. “You’ll find it a perfect digestif.”
Eva did as she was told and wished she hadn’t. Only then did the subject of Wilt’s salary for tutoring Lady Clarissa’s son come up.
“We’re prepared to pay your husband fifteen hundred pounds a week and all found. If he can get Edward into Porterhouse there’ll be a bonus of five thousand pounds. I mean, the summer holidays last two months so there’s plenty of time. I realise this is frightfully short notice and you might already have a holiday planned…”
“The Lake District,” said Eva, with some difficulty, “we g
o every year.” The spirit had gone to her head. And the thought of a £5,000 bonus made it reel even more.
“Well, you can cancel and come to us instead. There’s a furnished cottage in the grounds you are welcome to use, rent-free. And we’re not far from a delightfully sandy beach. I’m sure you’ll love the Estate too.” She paused for a moment. “I suppose you’ll have to discuss the idea with your husband, and I must meet him too.”
Eva hurriedly stopped any suggestion of that. The notion horrified her. Wilt wouldn’t make the right impression at all.
“I’m afraid he’s gone down to see his mother this weekend. She’s not been at all well lately.”
“Oh, I am sorry. Still, I’m coming down again next weekend to get my wretched uncle into the nursing home. He really is a curmudgeonly old man! I do everything for him and nothing seems to please him. Perhaps I’ll be able to meet your husband then?”
Eva gave a small nod which could have been interpreted either way. She would have to rehearse Wilt endlessly if he weren’t to go and spoil everything.
Lady Clarissa stood up. “Time for a catnap before I head off. It’s been a great pleasure talking to you, my dear. And I am so glad that you’re a fairly normal size.”
She left a puzzled Eva still sitting at the table wondering what on earth her size had to do with anything. Perhaps the boy was a dwarf or height-impaired or whatever you had to call it nowadays. But then Lady Clarissa would surely have asked about Wilt’s size and not hers? How very strange the whole lunch had been…and, come to think of it, how very strange she herself felt after all that alcohol. She went out and took a taxi, abandoning her car at the day centre. Once back home she took an unplanned catnap of her own, waking up several hours later on the floor of the sitting room with no clear memory of how she’d got there. Thank God Henry hadn’t come back and found her! she thought as she groggily came to.
She needn’t have worried. Several hours later the supper she had hastily prepared for him was still uneaten. Thinking of the difference Lady Clarissa’s money would make, she hummed happily to herself as she took Wilt’s steak and broccoli out of the warming oven and put it in the fridge. After that she sat in front of the TV for a little longer, watching a movie, but finally gave up waiting. She turned out the light and went to bed, hoping Henry had a front-door key. She was sure now he’d been in a pub all evening and would be drunk when he came home.
∗
Wilt was. He’d switched from double whiskies to pints of strong bitter. Even more ominously, when he and Braintree had left the Hangman’s Arms they’d found themselves unable to see a thing as the street lights in that part of Ipford were out. As a result he’d stumbled down several wrong turnings before retracing his steps and, eventually locating the one that led to the bridge across the river, finally finding his way home. Here at least the street lights were on though the house was in darkness. It took him some time to find his front-door key and, after several attempts, to manage to insert it into what he supposed was the lock. It was the wrong one. Eva had become so terrified of burglars she had installed a second lock, much stronger than the first, the previous month. The useless key dropped to the ground.
“Shit!” Wilt slurred, and groped around for it, but before he could find it the pressing need of his bladder had to be answered. He stepped on to the small front lawn and was in the process of peeing when a light came on in a house on the other side of the road, revealing Mrs Fox peering out of her window. Wilt promptly swung round – or would have done if he hadn’t been so drunk. Instead he tripped over his own feet and fell face down on a most unpleasantly wet patch of grass. He lay there with the consoling thought that at least Mrs Fox couldn’t see him now for the low hedge bordering the front garden.
He might almost have drifted off to sleep were it not for the sound of the phone ringing inside the house, followed by the bedroom light coming on above him and Eva clumping down the stairs. Wilt tried to think. Even in his drunken stupor he realised what had happened: Mrs Fox had phoned Eva to say that someone was trying to break into their house. He struggled to get to his feet and failed, so crawled over to the front door and pleaded through the letter box to be let in.
“It’s only me,” he squawked. But Eva wasn’t listening. She was too interested in discussing whether or not to call the police. Wilt tried to hear what she was saying. The only words he caught were, “No, not the police. I’ll double bolt the door.” And: “Thanks for calling. Yes, I’ll definitely tell my husband.”
She put down the receiver and waited. Like Eva herself, Mrs Fox had a phobia about burglars. She took her time over going back to bed and turning off the light. Eva wasn’t about to admit it to a neighbour but, having heard the cursing at the front door, she was certain she knew the identity of the ‘intruder’.
Wilt resumed his pleas.
“It’s only me. For goodness’ sake, let me in. I’m soaking wet and if I’m out here much longer…” He was about to say he’d go down with pneumonia but Eva had had a flash of inspiration and interrupted him there. She was going to get her own back for his rudeness the night before.
“Who is ‘me’ exactly?” she asked, to prolong Wilt’s agony.
“Oh, for God’s sake, you know who I am! Your bloody husband, Henry.”
“You don’t sound like him. And whoever you are, you’re obviously drunk.”
“I don’t give a tuppenny damn what I sound like, I’m soaking wet! And, all right, I’m sloshed.”
“If you’re who you say you are, you must have a key on you,” said Eva, determined to prolong his misery. “Why don’t you use it?”
“Because I’ve dropped the bloody thing!” Wilt shouted through the letter box. “Why did you turn off the outside light? I can’t see a bleeding thing out here. It’s pitch dark.”
Eva considered turning the light back on and decided on another tactic.
“I’ll call the police…” she began, noisily putting the door chain on.
“Are you off your rocker? That’s the last thing we need.”
Even Eva had to agree with that. The notion of having police cars arriving, with sirens almost certainly blaring, and giving the whole street something to gossip about, did not appeal. All the same, she wanted to extend Wilt’s misery just a little longer. She turned the overhead light on and, keeping the chain in place, opened the door a few inches and peered out. Wilt had mud all over his face and looked awful.
“You’re not my husband,” she insisted. “You look nothing like him.”
“I’ve had enough of this, Eva. I’ll break the bloody door down!” shouted Wilt. “If you don’t open it this minute, I’m going to go straight across the fucking street and pee through Mrs fucking Fox’s letter box. Then see what the damned neighbours have to say.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to let you in,” Eva hastily decided, and shut the door slightly before undoing the chain. By the time she’d opened it again Wilt had slid to the ground and was being sick into a flower bed.
“All right, you can come in,” she went on when he’d finished vomiting.
Wilt tried to get to his feet and failed. Instead he crawled across the doormat while Eva, with a smile of satisfaction, went outside in her dressing gown and found his key. Back inside, she locked the door and regarded her husband with disgust. She’d never seen him quite so drunk before and was looking forward to his hangover next morning. He’d be in no condition to oppose her plan for him then.
“You go upstairs straightaway and have a shower. Then you can sleep in the spare room. You’re definitely not sleeping next to me.”
And she went back to bed, leaving Wilt to drag himself upstairs.
Half an hour later, after he’d tried to take a shower only to fall in the bath twice, a bruised and bitter Wilt crawled into the spare room feeling like death warmed over and fell asleep.
∗
Next morning he phoned the ‘University’ to say he was in bed with some bug and wouldn’t be coming i
n. No one answered the phone.
“It’s Saturday,” said Eva. “Of course you aren’t going in. No one does at weekends.”
Wilt thanked God and went back to bed. Presently he was woken by Eva who had learned more from her treatment at the hands of her Auntie Joan the previous summer than she had realised. She’d been turned out of the Starfighter Mansion in Wilma, Tennessee by Auntie Joan – kicked out would be the more strictly accurate expression – and as a result her own attitude had hardened. She had endured years of Henry’s drunkenness and obscenity. Auntie Joan’s style of retaliation was an example she intended to follow. It was about time she stood up for herself.
“Now, you listen to me,” she snapped when she’d shaken Wilt awake and dragged the bedclothes off him. “You’re going to do exactly what I say.”
She looked down at his naked body with disgust.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Wilt moaned. “Do you want me to freeze to death?”
“It’s a hot day. If you’re cold, it’s your own fault. You came home last night drunker than I’ve ever seen you.”
“All right, so I did. I’d been celebrating with Peter.”
“Celebrating what?”
“It’s a long damned story. Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t.”
“Well, if you really want to know, I haven’t been made redundant. That’s what we were celebrating.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Eva. She was about to leave then but changed her mind. She knew her Henry and he lied whenever it suited him. She wasn’t going to be hoodwinked this time.
“Who said you were going to be made redundant? And I don’t care if it is a long story, I want the truth.”
Wilt stared up at her with blood-shot eyes and wished to God she’d never been to America to visit her aunt. Previously she always used to leave him alone with his hangovers, and he wasn’t sure he could cope with a newly assertive Eva, particularly not in this state.
“Give me back the bedclothes and I’ll tell you,” he whimpered.