‘But …’
‘Any more protests and you’ll finish the whole lot in front of you.’ Don’s tone was mockingly stern. Everyone started to laugh. ‘No showing of teeth!’ Everyone stopped laughing. Ian gulped down half his pint, making sure he was well past the mid-point so that he would not be picked up again by Weights & Measures.
‘Oh, dear me,’ Don sighed, shaking his head. ‘Didn’t I specifically request left-handed drinking only?’ Once again everyone nodded, including Rhys, who knew nothing about it. They all wore rueful expressions at Ian’s misdemeanour.
‘When did you say that?’ Ian argued.
‘Please moderate your tone,’ the chairman cautioned. ‘It must have been when you were absent from the table. This is your responsibility. Finish it.’
‘But …’
‘FINISH IT!’
Ian took a deep breath and downed his pint, tipping the glass over his head to show that it was empty and hoping that his punishment was finally over. He burped hard, twice.
Just as Don was about to start the game, Howell raised his hand.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Chairman, it has been brought to my attention that a grievous offence has taken place.’
‘Oh, and what may that be?’
‘It is an offence worthy of the most severe punishment.’
‘Please explain.’
‘I have been made aware that the reason for the delay in the game was because Rhys was in the living room … I can hardly believe or bring myself to say the word … FORNICATING with a young lady.’
Everyone gasped in astonishment and shook their heads in disgust. Their mouths remained open in mock horror as they stared at Rhys.
‘Is this true, Rhys?’ Don carried on from Howell, his tone full of incredulity. ‘You were fornicating with a woman even though the boys were waiting to start a game of Buzz?’
‘Well, Mr Chairman, I would hardly call it fornicating. I was just talking to her.’
‘So you admit it! This is indeed a grievous offence, a heinous crime in fact.’ Don looked at the other participants with the gravity of a judge about to place a black cap onto his head. They all shook theirs in disbelief. ‘The penalty can only be the most severe. The whole pint, down in one.’
‘But …’
‘DOWN IN ONE!’
Rhys had already consumed a great deal of alcohol, but, in the spirit of the game, he steadied himself and sank the pint in four seconds flat, which drew a muted round of applause and nods of approval all round. He followed up with a gut-wrenching burp, tipped the empty glass over his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Right …’ But before Don could continue, Howell interrupted him once again, living up to his name of Chief Sneak.
‘Mr Chairman, it is with great displeasure and utter disbelief that I have to raise yet another point of order with you. You see, Rhys’s offence is minor when compared to the information I have just received, information so startling it can scarcely be believed.’ Howell looked at Rhys with an expression of total dismay which led the others to do the same.
‘Wha’? Wha’ve I done now?’ Rhys was baffled.
Mark sensed what was coming and filled Rhys’s glass up to the brim, drawing a look of sheer horror from Rhys’s face. After a theatrical pause, the Chief Sneak carried on. ‘Not only was Rhys fornicating with this young lady but I’ve discovered that this young lady is …’ Another theatrical pause followed, but this time much longer than the first, as Howell looked each of the participants in the eye, before revealing, ‘… from ENGLAND!’
Howls of disgust rang out around the room accompanied by a flinging back of arms and shaking of heads in utter contempt.
‘ENGLAND! Is this true, Rhys? Are our girls not good enough for you anymore?’ The chairman could hardly believe his ears and sought a denial. But none was forthcoming.
‘Well, she could possibly be, like, you know, from England,’ Rhys blustered.
The chairman had heard enough. ‘The whole pint down in one,’ he proclaimed dismissively with a flick of his hand.
This time, Rhys did not bother to plead mitigation, took another deep breath and sank his pint as quickly as he could. It took twice as long as the one before and, when finished, he was convinced he needed to spew. To further muted applause and comments of ‘nice one’, he decided to remain seated and allow his stomach to settle. He kept quiet, fearing that opening his mouth would render less-appealing emissions than words. He knew that at this rate, he might well be paralytic by midnight, and the game had not even started yet! He was determined to try and stay as sober as possible, as he wished to be in a reasonable state for when he met up with Vicki later. She had never left his mind for one single second and he craved to see her again.
CHAPTER 2
‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’
The bellowing voice was unmistakable to Rhys’s ears though muffled in sound; it was unmistakable because it was the voice of his mother and muffled because a pillow lay across his head, clasped tightly in place by his hands.
‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ his mother repeated in a second attempt to elicit a response from her son. But, as before, Rhys did not move a muscle and his mother smiled in a resigned manner before gently patting him on the back of the shoulder. She decided to let him sleep a little longer and was secretly grateful to leave the bedroom that stunk of booze and farts.
Happy New Year? Rhys’s brain finally cranked into a smidgen of life. He was sure this was the first time he’d heard anyone say it. But hadn’t he been at a party the night before? He was certain he had. Hadn’t he seen in the New Year then? He must have done. How come he was in his bed? How did he get home? He couldn’t remember a thing. His throat was parched and his tongue licked incessantly at his lips, the distinct taste of whisky making him shudder. Why was the taste so evident? What had he got up to? He tried hard to think back to the night before. Thankfully, the fog in his head gradually began to disperse as brightly coloured pictures filtered their way through.
‘That’s right; I was at Don’s party with the boys.’ He paused before straining to remember more. It crossed his mind that the words he had just croaked were his first of the decade. Or were they? ‘What time did I get home? I can’t remember a thing.’
His head was throbbing and he continued to lick at his lips. He was desperate for a drink of water but dared not budge an inch from his comfortable position in bed for fear of bringing on some searing pain. ‘Why this taste of whisky?’ he whispered to himself. He screwed up his face and concentrated as hard as he could to recollect what had happened at the party. ‘That’s right; we were playing Buzz.’ He recalled Ian bursting away from the table, hand over mouth, in need of a chunder. This drew a smile from his lips, his first of the decade. Or was it? He strained further to remember whether Ian had made it to the toilet in time but his brain was a blank. The whisky, he pondered once more. Oh, that’s right, I remember now. Don got us all to toast the New Year with it at the end of the game just before midnight and then another to toast the new decade. Rhys grimaced at the memory of the fiery taste hitting the back of his throat. And then Ian, the pisshead, got us to toast the year just gone. He must have had a good spew earlier ’cos there’s no way he would have done that otherwise. Rhys grinned and wished that he’d gone for a puke himself beforehand. Oh, and Howell then got us to toast the decade just gone and another for Brian Jones. The memory of the recently deceased Rolling Stone saddened Rhys and he shook his head at the waste of such a great talent.
After a few silent seconds, Rhys blew out his cheeks. Unfortunately, this only served to make his stomach heave and he urged himself to remain as still as possible to settle it down. At the same time, he tried to stop thinking about the night before as the effort only accentuated the pounding in his head like a jackhammer on Tarmac. How he wished to relax and fall asleep, but this desire eluded him. Instead, he felt hot, clammy and irritable, finding it impossible to stay still for more than a few m
inutes at a time. Eventually, he turned round in his bed and cast off the pillow with a flourish. The bright sunlight that streamed through the gap in the curtains lasered in on his eyes and made him groan.
‘Why do I do it?’ he asked himself with a sigh for the first time in the decade, in the definite knowledge it would not be the last. He fidgeted uneasily, trying to rediscover his most comfortable position, and ventured another tentative opening of his eyes. He resisted the pain and, through narrow, flinty slits, gazed to his right to check the time. Ten-forty, displayed the tinny, round-faced alarm clock with two small bells on top. Thank God he hadn’t set it to wake him up. The bells were so loud that in his present state his head would have exploded. Ten-forty, he mused. Is that early or late? Usually it was the latter but, on days off, perhaps it was the former. It’s sort of in-between, he mulled, sitting on the fence, which only added to his state of unease as he was unsure whether he should be getting up or not. He kept his eyes open and observed the black patch in a corner angle where two of the walls met the ceiling. The aqua-green wallpaper had started to peel away quite markedly and the ugly black and yellow stain lower down suggested that more would soon be following. The black patch was definitely getting bigger, he thought, like a cancer spreading.
‘I must do something about it,’ he muttered decisively. ‘One of my New Year resolutions,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘My only New Year resolution,’ he followed up with a raised eyebrow, Roger Moore-like. But almost as quickly as he had said it, he let out a deep sigh in resignation, knowing that this resolution would probably fall by the wayside like all the others in previous years, and one in particular. ‘I must get out of Ponty and find myself a better job.’ He had said this every New Year’s Day for the past five years since leaving school. ‘Look where I am, still stuck here with no prospect of getting out.’ He sighed again, feeling trapped, and he fidgeted once more in his bed. He continued to stare at the damp patch in the corner and realised that there was an additional incentive for him to do something about it for, at this rate, his poster of the exquisite Raquel Welch wearing only a fur bikini was likely to come down at the same time as the rest of the wallpaper. The thought brought the biggest smile to his face that decade. Or was it?
‘VICKI!’ From nowhere, Rhys shouted out her name. Her radiant smile suddenly appeared to him like the sun after an aeroplane exits the clouds at take-off. ‘Vicki,’ he repeated, this time more quietly. He was now wide awake, his head seemingly no longer throbbing and his throat not quite so dry. ‘Vicki,’ he repeated once more as if his brain no longer had the capacity to say any other word. He slumped back deeper into his bed. What happened? Where is she? I was meant to see in the New Year with her. A queue of questions hit his brain, one after the other. What have I done? His state of excitement quickly turned to one of distress. ‘I’ve fucked up again,’ he admonished himself angrily. ‘Fucking drink has ruined everything. Am I ever gonna learn? She was absolutely gorgeous and I messed up.’ So intense were his feelings that he didn’t realise he was thinking aloud. ‘Fuck knows what happened, but even if she did see me after Buzz, I was so out of it she would have probably buggered off with someone else anyway. And who can blame her? What a start to the year? Just typical!’
He turned his head to the side and pulled up the sheet and blankets to cover his shoulders. The shiny pale orange bed cover, full of stains, had already fallen to the floor in his agitation. He noticed that one of the doors of the second-hand wardrobe he had recently bought was hanging loose. Everything seemed to be falling apart in his life, he thought, feeling sorry for himself.
‘Vicki,’ he whispered one more time, shaking his head. He lay still, deflated and disappointed, but then his spirits surged as he remembered the way she had said how good looking he was and how she had so obviously liked to be in his company. He recalled how she never recoiled once from the slight touches he gave her. But then his optimism drained away as he wondered whether this was just a consequence of her kind nature and if she did the same with everyone she met. Who knows? Anyway, I’m never likely to find out now, he concluded with a heavy heart and a fierce ache in his stomach. So agitated did he feel, he turned round once more in his bed, but then he suddenly became energised by some powerful flows of determination coursing through his veins. ‘Come on, let’s not give up. With a bit of luck I can still get hold of her number from Jen via her friend, Karen, I think she said her name was.’ Saying the words emboldened him and it quickly crossed his mind whether he had in fact already obtained her number. He tore from his bed, flinging the sheet and blankets to all corners, and shot over to his Levi’s which were lying neatly over the back of a scuffed and sagging leather armchair. It never failed to amaze him how, even when steaming drunk, he always managed to undress himself and put his things away tidily. He dug deep into each of the five pockets, but, other than a scrunched-up betting slip with another loser scribbled on it, there were no other bits of paper to be found. Decidedly flustered, he tossed his jeans back onto the armchair and grabbed his wallet from the bedside table. It was empty, not even a pound note or two to gladden his heart, which drew a rueful expression from him. He took two paces to the fawn-coloured duffel coat that was hanging from the back of the door. Like his jeans, the pockets were empty. ‘Shit,’ he muttered sotto voce, sitting down on the edge of the bed, the picture of dejection. ‘I suppose Jen’s my only hope,’ he said without conviction. But his inherent dejection only served to release a sense of realism within him. ‘Come on, who am I kidding? She’s obviously clever, going to uni and all that, and her family sounds pretty rich to me. Where did she say she lived? Some place near Guildford and her uni’s in Exeter if I remember right?’ Guildford and Exeter sounded so far away that she may as well have said Timbuktu as far as he was concerned. He shook his head, resigned to the fact that he would never see her again. ‘And let’s be honest, why would someone like her be interested in someone like me? What can I offer her? Nothing.’
Rhys’s dejection turned to depression as he considered his plight. To make matters worse, the headache returned as did the taste of whisky. ‘Where am I going with my life?’ He had no answer. A moment later, the door of the bedroom creaked open and his mother shuffled in with a wide smile on her face. She was wearing an ancient, nylon dressing gown that had once been a deep shade of red but which was now a faded pink. So see-through were the dressing gown and thin cotton nightdress underneath that they barely covered up her private parts and Rhys quickly had to avert his eyes out of embarrassment. She was holding a cigarette, unsurprisingly, for Rhys never saw her without one, and the fingers of her right hand were stained nicotine yellow. She was barefoot, her toes arrowing in on each other and her bunions crusty. But her smile was kind, warm and loving.
‘Happy New Year,’ she pronounced as she sat down next to him, putting an arm around his back. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Rhys returned with a sorry grin. ‘Happy New Year to you too.’ He placed an affectionate kiss on her cheek and held her hand, squeezing it lightly. ‘Let’s all hope for a good one.’ His mother smiled back and leaned her head into his.
‘How was the party? You didn’t half make a racket when you came in last night. You woke us up.’
‘Sorry about that. I didn’t mean it. Was Dad okay?’
‘Oh, God, yes. Don’t worry about him. He loves you dearly, you know that?’
‘Course I do. And I love you both too.’
Rhys’s mother squeezed his hand and looked down at the floor, red-cheeked, before taking another drag on her cigarette. ‘Must have been a good party; you didn’t come in until three.’
‘Really!’ Rhys went quiet for a moment, wondering what he had got up to in all that time. ‘It was great. Don always puts on a good do and everyone was in a happy mood as you can imagine. I must admit, I was a bit out of it, though, and I’m ashamed to say I can’t remember midnight or much after.’
‘You do surprise me!’ Rhys smiled ruef
ully and patted his mother’s hand. ‘Any nice girls there?’
‘Oh, come on, Mum, you’re still not trying to marry me off, are you? I’m not twenty-one yet!’
‘Me and your father were already married two years by your age.’
‘Funny how I was born only two months later then,’ Rhys declared with a beaming smile. His mother playfully thumped him on the thigh and they both burst out laughing. Rhys placed his arm around her shoulder and clasped her tightly. ‘No, sorry to disappoint you, Mum, but there weren’t any nice girls around last night. Such would be my luck.’
‘Oh, that’s odd, because a very sweet one with a strange accent rang for you about an hour ago.’
CHAPTER 3
‘Hello Vicki, it’s Rhys.’
‘Oh, hi Rhys, it’s Karen, actually. I’ll go and fetch her. Happy New Year, by the way.’
‘And to you, too, Karen,’ Rhys replied breathlessly.
He had bolted down the stairs from his bedroom in two seconds flat and, as he waited for Vicki to come on the line, he heard his heart pounding hard and fast as if Charlie Watts was hammering away on it with his drumsticks. He picked at some loose hessian threads in the worn carpet with his big toe, trying to stay calm at the same time. His mother plodded slowly down the stairs after him, winked and went into the kitchen. She fussed around nonchalantly, pretending not to listen in on the conversation.
‘Hi Rhys.’
‘Vicki!’ he exclaimed loudly.
‘No, it’s still me. Vicki’s just coming.’ Karen smiled on hearing the excitement in Rhys’s voice.
‘Hello Rhys.’ Finally, an English accent came on the line. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’ The question was followed by a knowing chuckle.
‘Hi Vicki. Thanks for calling earlier and, to answer your question, pretty rough if I’m honest.’
‘I’m not surprised! You certainly had a lot to drink.’
‘Don’t remind me. My head feels like it’s got the whole percussion section of the London Philharmonic Orchestra inside.’ Rhys heard a throaty laugh on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, Happy New Year, by the way.’
Decade Page 2