Decade

by Roberto Rabaiotti

  ‘Hi Mario, Beryl. Everything okay?’

  Mario turned round from the cooker where he was grilling some sausages. ‘Oh, hi Rhys. Everything’s fine, no problems. We might be running a bit short of butter but I think we can manage. Beryl can always pop down the supermarket to get some if we need to.’

  Rhys smiled and left the kitchen. In fact, he left the Supreme altogether to go upstairs to change, happy in the knowledge he had staff he could trust. The café was doing well and making enough money for Rhys to consider expansion. Before changing, he went into the living room to telephone the agent. While waiting on the line, he looked around him with pride, not so much at room itself, but at Vicki, who had added tasteful little touches here and there as she had done elsewhere in the flat.

  After making his offer, which the agent believed would be accepted, Rhys replaced the receiver and sat down for a moment. He was feeling tired, having stayed up until three o’clock in the morning with Vicki. He was so looking forward to their wedding at St Peter & St Paul’s in Godalming, though there was no definite date set yet as it depended on when Vicki’s decree absolute would come through and that might even mean the following year. Not that you would think it? Rhys chuckled, shaking his head, for the way Vicki and her mother were talking, anyone would think the wedding was imminent. They were already making arrangements, which he tried desperately to keep out of, for, if he didn’t, he would never find time to do anything else. Ian would be the best man but there was currently a stand-off between Vicki and Karen about the latter being a bridesmaid as the two girls disagreed passionately about Karen’s desire to retain her punk rocker look. She would wear the correct dress and shoes, of course, but Karen refused to alter her make-up or remove any safety-pins. Accordingly, they were not speaking at present, but Rhys knew it would all blow over soon enough though Vicki was not so certain. ‘Women!’

  As Rhys smiled to himself, he tilted his head right back onto the top of the back of the sofa and looked directly up at the ceiling before shutting his eyes. He was so tired, he wished he could stay in this position all day. He would allow himself ten minutes, he decided, though it did concern him he might fall asleep. He recalled the easy conversation he’d had with Vicki’s mother the previous evening on the telephone as they threw around ideas for the style of suits and flowers for buttonholes the gentlemen would wear. It gave him the greatest pleasure to know how well liked he was now by Vicki’s parents. They had seen how committed he was to their daughter and how much he loved her and, after the disaster of Vicki’s marriage to Tommy Slater, they were desperate for her to find happiness and fulfilment with someone else. They also knew how deep-rooted Vicki’s love was for Rhys and, ultimately, that was the most important thing to them. It helped, of course, that their prospective son-in-law was making a success of his life and they were pleasantly surprised at how much Rhys had matured and changed beyond recognition over the years. They never doubted for one second that he would care and look after their daughter for the rest of her life and that comforting knowledge created a warm feeling inside them.

  In fact, their main worry now was Fiona, who seemed to have a different boyfriend every week. When Rhys had been with Vicki and her family one evening in Godalming, her mother had argued with Fiona about her settling down like her sister ‘with a nice young man like Rhys’. When Rhys heard these words it finally dawned on him conclusively that he had been accepted by Vicki’s family. With a lump in his throat, he turned his head and looked at Vicki who, stroking his hand, smiled back.

  Even Tommy Slater’s intransigence over the divorce would soon be a thing of the past for, in August, he and Vicki would have been living apart for two years. Her father’s excellent solicitor would push for the decree nisi and decree absolute to come through as quickly as possible but he warned everyone to be patient for there was no knowing exactly how long it would take. Not that Vicki and her mother were listening!

  With his eyes shut tight and head still resting on the back of the sofa, Rhys’s demeanour turned more severe as the image of Tommy Slater suddenly appeared in his head. If he possessed just one ounce of decency in his bones, rather than a body full of spite, he might well be married to Vicki by now, he mused. Slater had made life very difficult for her and Rhys’s eyes burned with anger when remembering the article in The Sun newspaper which implied that Vicki had been seeing a number of men behind Slater’s back during their marriage and making her out to be some cheap tart. Rhys’s usual mild manner had exploded like a firecracker when reading this and he had ranted and raved about wanting to do something about it, not that he had the slightest idea what. Vicki had managed to calm him down and implored him to ignore it, which, in her view, was the best way of dealing with these things. Rhys knew she was right but he had found it very difficult to do so.

  On another occasion, Slater had managed to get through to Vicki by phone in work on the premise of discussing the divorce, but, instead, he ended up bawling her out and calling her every disgusting name under the sun, or, as Vicki put it to Rhys later, singing along to Simon & Garfunkel, “With words you never read in the Bible”. Rhys grinned and admired the calm way Vicki was handling everything but he despised Slater for his disgraceful attitude.

  The ten minutes’ rest quickly turned into half an hour. He was just so tired. Despite this, his mind remained active as all these memories, good and bad, flooded back. Anyway, Mario and the girls were more than capable of running the café by themselves. Yes, Tommy Slater, he was a right piece of shit, Rhys concluded, but, thankfully, he would soon be out of their lives for good. He suddenly woke with a start. Rhys had dozed off, but, looking at the clock next to the telephone, it had only been for five minutes. He finally stirred himself and stood up, his limbs feeling stiff.

  ‘God, I’m turning into an old man. I’ve got to find time to do some exercise and lose some weight and I must buy that bike I keep going on about. After all, I am the wrong side of thirty now.’ Saying it made him feel better not that he was convinced he would live up to his words.

  After stretching his arms high above his head, he strolled into the kitchen and switched on the radio. Rod Stewart was singing Maggie Mae. Rhys groaned. Life was wonderful; he had his own business and a second one on the way; he owned his flat; he had a gorgeous girlfriend he loved beyond words and whom he would soon marry; he had kind, loving parents he adored; he had money in the bank and a group of close friends. And yet, today, deep down, he felt miserable and the song reminded him exactly why, for Margaret Thatcher had led the Tories to victory in the General Election the previous day and his beloved Labour were out of government. Despite Mr Partridge believing this would be good for businessmen, Rhys was not so sure. He seemed to have done pretty well under Labour, he argued back.

  No, he thought Thatcher would be divisive and that working class communities like Pontypridd would suffer badly. Hopefully, she’d only last the one term, if that. The policies she was proposing would get her kicked out next time, he was certain, once everyone could see what a terrible effect they were having on the country. Let’s hope she doesn’t get involved in an easy war somewhere for victory was always good for sitting governments, Rhys mulled. He chuckled at the crazy thought for it was hardly likely. Vicki did not care for Thatcher, either, but she gave her great credit for having the strength of character to become the first female Prime Minister of the country, and, as they snuggled up on the sofa the previous night watching the election results, even Rhys had conceded her that … but only just!

  Switching off the radio, Rhys left the kitchen. Just as he was about to go into the bedroom, he stopped to observe himself in the hallway mirror. The beginning of a double chin was clearly in evidence, which made him puff out his cheeks in disappointment, and he was not so sure about his Bee Gee look either, with long hair swept back and neatly trimmed beard, flecked with grey. Vicki liked it, though, comparing him to the handsome Barry Gibb. Rhys thought he looked more like Jesus Christ.

  ‘Well,
could be worse, I suppose,’ he muttered, smiling to himself, before entering the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket, which he placed over the back of a chair, and unbuttoned his shirt, which he flung onto the floor ready for the laundry basket. After unbuckling his belt and tossing it onto the bed, he began to slip off his trousers. It was while doing this that he heard the noise of a key turning in the front door lock. This startled him and he looked instinctively in the direction of the sound though he could not see the front door itself. Only Vicki possessed another key and she was at work. Decidedly perplexed, he took a few paces to the bedroom door before exiting. At once, he saw Vicki approach him.

  ‘Hey, Vicki, you gave me a surprise. How come you’re home?’

  She did not answer the question. ‘I popped in downstairs to see if you were there but they said you’d gone up.’ The tone of her voice was nervy and her face carried an expression that was part smile, part serious.

  ‘Yeah. I was just changing,’ Rhys replied as they met in the hallway, exchanging a kiss. ‘It went really well at the bank. Mr Partridge will lend me the money and I’ve put an offer in. Fingers crossed!’

  ‘That’s great!’

  ‘But how come you’re home?’

  ‘Oh, I just had a doctor’s appointment, that’s all. I’ll be going back to the office in a minute.’

  ‘Doctor’s appointment? Anything wrong? They going to amputate something?’ Rhys replied half in jest, half in concern.

  Looking down at the carpet but then straight back up again into his eyes and holding his forearm lightly, Vicki hit Rhys with it. ‘No, nothing like that. I’m pregnant.’

  Rhys went as rigid as a statue, his mouth half open, his brain trying to come to terms with this unexpected piece of news. He would never forget this moment nor, with a smile, how he was dressed for such a momentous occasion as he stood in his short, faded grey socks, a small hole starting over the big toe of one of them, and his amber and black y-fronts, his belly and fleshy handlebars all floppy and squidgy around his middle. But it only took a brief second for the news to strike home and his face, initially so full of shock, soon changed to one of beaming delight. Seeing his face light up so much triggered the same reaction in Vicki and they hugged each other more tightly than a boa constrictor would its prey, as if they were trying to merge their bodies into one. Rhys didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. Feeling his tear on her cheek told Vicki everything.

  October 1979

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘Cheers, Tommy.’ Bill Smith took a swig of his lager and the ex-captain of West Ham and England did the same opposite him. They were sitting at a heavily stained table in a corner of the Pontefract Castle pub in Wigmore Street in the West End of London, the flickering lights of the fruit machine nearby standing out brightly against the more sombre dark-wooded surrounds.

  The chief football correspondent of The Sun newspaper had arrived early and the battered and scratched ashtray in the centre of the table already contained four of his cigarette butts, their fleshy colour protruding from a small mountain of grey-white ash. An open red, white and gold packet of Embassy and green and white Holiday Inn book of matches lay alongside. Tommy glimpsed disapprovingly over the rim of his pint at the cigarettes, for he hated smoking, but he was in no position to upset Smith as he sought the information only the football hack could provide.

  It was late morning and the pub was still relatively empty, in a lull before the storm of lunchtime drinkers thronged in from the offices around. They had met up at the same time and at the same table several times before and were relaxed that no one would be able to overhear them. It helped that the music in the background was louder than usual today with Kate Bush, as Cathy, imploring at that particular moment for Heathcliff to come home now.

  ‘Ah, that’s better,’ Smith sighed, wiping his mouth uncouthly with the back of his sleeve. ‘So, how you doing, Tommy? Still mulling over that move to Southend?’

  ‘Yeah, I am. No one else has come in for me yet, so, at the moment, it’s my only option. I’ll leave it a bit, though. You never know, there’s still a chance I might get a call from United or Cloughie, with a bit of luck?’ They both sniggered but Smith’s was full of irony. Even if Tommy could not bring himself to accept it, Smith knew that he was finished as a top-class footballer and that he was lucky that even a lower league club like Southend United was interested in him. ‘Don’t worry, Smithy, you’ll be the first to know what happens.’

  ‘Cheers, Tommy. Appreciate it.’

  As the conversation died, they grabbed their pints simultaneously and took further swigs of their lagers, Smith following up with a loud belch and a long, slow drag on his cigarette.

  ‘So, Bill, anything new happening?’ Tommy finally asked impatiently.

  Smith knew precisely what Tommy was referring to. For the best part of two years, on and off, he had been keeping tabs on Vicki for him, well not actually Smith himself, but a young reporter he had taken under his wing. Tommy had been careful to explain the reasons why at the beginning. He had lied to Smith by telling him that Vicki was planning to grab every penny she could get her hands on in the divorce and asked him to dig up anything which might help him in a likely court case. He had given Smith the story about Vicki being promiscuous during their marriage, which The Sun had run without question, and Smith had ordered his reporter to find out if she was still putting it about a bit, as he so eloquently put it. Smith could see how highlighting Vicki’s penchant for the opposite sex during and after her marriage could be construed in court as her never having been fully committed to Tommy and that, in essence, she was a slut and a money-grabber.

  Initially, Smith thought he had struck gold when Tim, his reporter, discovered that Vicki had returned to her previous long-term boyfriend and had subsequently moved into a flat with him in Battersea only a few weeks after leaving Tommy. He believed Tommy would be pleased to hear this for a case could be made in court that Vicki had never been in love with him in the first place and had only married him for his money all along which she planned to share with her true love afterwards. How could a judge not be sympathetic to Tommy in these circumstances? But, to Smith’s surprise, Tommy had been furious when he relayed this news, slamming his fist into the table, his face turning puce. It was clear to Smith that Tommy still had feelings for Vicki even if he did keep calling her by disgusting names. What was equally surprising to Smith was Tommy’s incandescent reaction to information Smith did not believe to be important like Vicki restarting her old job and subsequent promotion.

  ‘Fucking old bag. She should be at home like normal tarts, looking after their blokes and dropping sprogs, rather than thinking she’s so high and mighty. Who the fuck does she think she is, slag?’ Being from the old school, Smith had some sympathy with Tommy’s views, though he would not have expressed them in quite the same way.

  As Tommy waited for Smith’s reply, the latter scrunched his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly drew another from its packet, making Tommy roll his eyes in annoyance and further impatience. Smith was delaying his response because, after much consideration, he had decided to tell Tommy that he was pulling Tim off the case for he had nearly been found out on a couple of occasions and, worse still, had been shouted down by a female colleague of Vicki’s recently in a pub across the road from their work who recognised him chatting up one of the young secretaries, digging for information. It was the same female colleague who had rumbled him in Harrods and Tim had been forced to shift himself smartly from the pub for there was no messing with Brenda, the veritable iron fist clad in cashmere, when she got angry.

  But this was not the only reason Smith was pulling Tim off the job. He had begun to suspect that Tommy possessed some other sinister motive for wanting information on Vicki. Smith had not thought anything of it, at first, but Tommy was obsessed in knowing any regular, routine patterns of movement Vicki observed, like timings to and from work, to and from her local supermarket or anything similar. Ti
m had provided as much information as he could. However, Smith had become increasingly puzzled how any of it could be significant or relevant in a divorce case. He never asked Tommy why he needed it … he did not want to know the answer.

  ‘I’ve got a bit more news, Tommy, but I think we’re coming to the end now,’ Smith finally replied. ‘We’re scraping the barrel, to be honest. Her movements haven’t changed much, if at all, since the last time and Tim’s getting fed up traipsing around after Vicki as if he were her shadow. Her work’s got wind of him as well so I think he’s done.’

  Tommy took a sip of his lager and looked sternly at Smith. He was probably right, he concluded. He had all the information he needed, truth be told. Now, he could just calmly go away and ponder what to do.

  ‘Yeah, suppose you’re right, Bill. Tim’s done a great job. Tell him I appreciate it and here’s another monkey for the two of you.’ Tommy handed Smith an envelope full of fivers and tenners and took another swig of his drink. ‘You said you had a bit more info, though?’

  ‘Cheers for that, Tommy,’ Smith replied, stuffing the envelope into his coat pocket. ‘That’s right. When Tim was chatting up one of the birds from Vicki’s work in the pub the other day …’

  ‘Did he pull her, Bill?’ Tommy cut in with a smirk.

  ‘No chance! I’m sure he would’ve done ’cos Tim’ll shag anything but he got rumbled and had to scarper. Before then, though, he learnt a couple of nuggets you might find interesting.’

  ‘So, what’s that?’ Tommy was all ears, holding his pint glass close to his lips but waiting for an answer before taking a drink.

  Smith dragged long and hard on his cigarette and looked Tommy directly in the eye. He knew he was not going to like it. Nevertheless, he decided not to beat about the bush and so hit him with it straight. ‘Vicki’s expecting a baby in the New Year and they’re planning on getting married shortly afterwards.’ Quickly taking a swig to finish his lager but this time finding himself unable to keep looking Tommy in the eye, Smith waited for his reaction. The initial one surprised him for Tommy did not move a muscle and appeared relatively calm. But then, Smith looked up and saw a trickle of perspiration run down one of his temples. At the same time, Tommy’s stomach and chest began to heave. All of a sudden, Tommy exploded from his seat like a stick of dynamite and pushed over the table they were sitting at violently, prompting Smith to take evasive action. His packet of cigarettes and book of matches shot away and his pint glass smashed on the floor where the ashtray ran round on its rim a short distance, strewing its contents everywhere.