And so the pattern continued and their love strengthened. Skinny would return home and Eve would be waiting. Soon the cardigan buttons were undone and eventually the cardigan removed. His crooning over her substantial bra inspired confidence and nervous shopping trips. Eventually Eve discovered her wanton side and she started waiting to appear at the top of the flat stairs for him in her open dressing gown, displaying her functional slip. The greetings and appreciation she inspired repaid dividends and once she had discovered a catalogue called “Provocation!” there was no stopping her.
The tricks that her peers had been plying since school days were quickly learnt and Skinny would croon in delight as she laid him back on the pillows and slowly unlaced her basque. He would fall delightedly to sleep, nursing on her naked breasts as she inhaled the scent of the pub that lingered in his hair and on his skin and beamed into the darkness.
In return, he suddenly found himself wearing cotton boxer shorts instead of his threadbare Y-Fronts, but the change was barely registered, let alone attributed to anyone but the drunkard’s helpful pixie. Eve had so far been unable to raise any response from within these boxers, but she put this down to her own inexperience rather than his cups and not really knowing what would be a reasonable reaction anyway, she was not particularly disappointed.
Eve’s lack of close friends meant that her side of the story hadn’t really been told, and she was certainly not liberated enough to discuss the true situation with her mother. Skinny was unable to discuss something that he was not fully aware of, and thus the Glan Llanfair grapevine was blissfully ignorant of what should have been the Romance of the Year.
Hence the doctors and nurses at the hospital were not sure of the reasons for Big Eve’s intense concern and were treating Skinny’s predicament with slight flippancy as they registered it formally as a “pissed and fell down”. It was only when a nurse new to the town asked Eve who she was and what relationship she was to the patient, everything was made clear. The others exchanged delighted but sheepish glances around the bed and the news made them yearn for the end of their shift even more than they usually would. Suddenly they were a lot more respectful and as the results of the x-rays came through, it was Eve that the doctor spoke to, before the confused and pain-wracked Peter.
“Right, Eve, Peter has had a nasty fall. He has broken both his ulna and radius bones in both arms, here and here,” she tapped on Eve’s fleshy forearms in order to bring back understanding to the confused eyes. “He has also fractured several of his metacarpals, which are the smaller bones around the wrist.” Doctor Radcliff tried to put out of her mind the arguments she’d previously had with Eve about her alleged big bones that Eve had insisted were the root of her weight problems.
“It’s going to make life very difficult for Peter. He’ll be plastered from the elbow to the fingertips – those bones need to be set still if they are to heal properly.” Eve nodded, already wondering whether she’d put an “x” below her signature on his plaster.
Doctor Radcliff knew Eve well and had treated her niggling chafes, inordinately heavy periods and recurrent thrush for many years. She had respect for the way Eve had dealt with Gloria and she had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Eve to attend the local Carer’s Support Groups and other means by which she might lessen her burden.
“It means that he will be unable to look after himself. He will need someone to wash, feed and dress him and attend to his toilet. I will phone around and we will try and find him somewhere local so that you can still see him…”
“He’s coming home,” interrupted Eve as assertively as she could muster. “I can look after him. He’s coming home. I can manage.” She looked to the floor somewhat sheepishly and added quietly, “I’ve had to do pretty much most of that already.”
Doctor Radcliff looked at her, thinking for a while and then nodded. “Yes, I am sure you can manage, Eve. Peter is very lucky to have you.” Eve beamed back; acknowledgement from such a respected source was important to her.
Doctor Radcliff thought a little longer, looking hard at Eve until Eve was quite self-conscious and felt that she had come out in her night attire after all. “Come with me, Eve; I think we need to have a chat.” Doctor Radcliff smoothed down her crisp grey shirt, picked up her clipboard and motioned Eve out of the ward and into a side room.
Chapter 31
More Tea Vicar?
Lettie woke late in the morning and lay in the beautiful sturdy bed for a while, piecing together the events of the night before. She fetched herself a large mug of coffee and returned, plumping up the pillows and wrapping herself in the old quilt that luckily gave little warmth on the bright summer’s morning. She gazed around her, enjoying the sun’s glow on the peach walls and the little sparrow that perched on the edge of the skylight – a pleasant change from the aggressive seagulls that screeched like pterodactyls through her window at home.
She tried to imagine herself sitting next to Doug in that bed, both sipping coffee from the same green china mug. What would it be like? What would he be like? Would they chatter and laugh together or would she just lean back into what she presumed would be his big strong arms, the hairs on his chest tickling her back? Would it be a naked back, a night shirted back or a seductively-clad back wearing the underwear that filled her drawers but had never really adorned her somewhat self-conscious body? But, as she tried to imagine the scene, an image of Eve’s night attire kept filling her mind and the picture was ruined as a large scratchy lace gown itched on Dougie’s chin.
Lettie gave up and climbed out of bed.
After a leisurely breakfast, a walk in the park with the dogs and forage into the shops for a get-well-soon bunch of grapes and a well-done-for-looking-after-him bara brith, Lettie collected the blanket from the line, dry now after an overnight wash, and set off on the short walk to Eve’s. She knocked cautiously on the door, half expecting the “She-devil” of the night before in her flowing net, which in Lettie’s mind had become fuller, pinker and more ghoulish than ever.
Instead, the clomps down the stairs were quite subdued. The door opened wearily and Eve’s tired face mooned round. “Hello?” she said shyly, not properly recognising Lettie.
“Hello, I’m Lettie – from last night? I just came round to see how you and your patient are and to return the blanket.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much,” Eve took the blanket and then saw the proffered grapes and cake.
“Just a little something to aid the recovery. How is he?”
Eve didn’t receive many visitors and certainly none she hadn’t known most of her life and wasn’t really sure what to do.
“Thank you, thank you. Yes, um, he’s fine. Well, no he’s not really. Er, would you like to come in?”
“Well, if you are not too busy, I will, thank you.” Lettie followed Eve into the wide hall, stepping over the large pile of post addressed to residents that had long since moved away, and closed the heavy door behind her. The hall was dismal, had been decorated in the nineteen seventies when it had still been one dwelling and, apart from attempts to tape wallpaper back up that had slumped down after a burst pipe, had not been touched since.
“That’s the downstairs flat,” said Eve, pointing to a black painted wooden door. “It’s empty at the moment, so there’s only me ‘n’ Peter, oh and Trefor, our flatmate – but we don’t see him much.” Eve was now more relaxed and enjoyed using the word “flatmate”. They clomped up the wooden stairs, and in fairness to Eve, it would be very difficult to do anything but clomp, even in mule slippers. She opened the door to their flat, explaining rather unnecessarily that it was their flat and Lettie followed her in.
Catching the pride in her voice as Eve showed Lettie into the sitting room, Lettie was determined to say it was lovely, no matter what, and Eve beamed. “Come into the kitchen,” said Eve, keen to show off her pride and joy. “Would you like a cup of tea?” This is what she was good at.
Luckily the kitchen was lovely and seeing the paintbrushes
hardening in a jam jar of turps, Lettie was able to guess at the recent handiwork and ask whether Eve remembered what colour the paint was, as it would also look great in her own kitchen at home. With that, Eve felt completely at ease and was quite chatty as she busied herself making the tea, sluicing the brightly striped teapot that was so definitely unlike her mothers, but not being able to resist slicing the bara brith properly and putting it on plates on a tray, just like she had been taught.
So excited was Eve at eventually showing a “friend” of her own age around her new Wendy house, Lettie had to ask twice how Peter was before Eve would get away from the subject of the sale in which she had bought the bouquet of plastic flowers and how she may go back for more when she started on the bathroom.
Eve’s face clouded over and suddenly she looked tired again. She ran her hands through her over-permed hair, leaving a severe parting with wild tufts billowing out either side like the archetypal mad professor. Eve explained his injuries, using Doctor Radcliff’s words rather than her own, and then how he would be coming home to be looked after.
“Oh, poor Peter; his poor arms!” exclaimed Lettie. “So, it looks like a few weeks off work for him then? Well, they say every cloud has a silver lining…” She tried to make light of it, but Eve’s face clouded over further.
“Yes, I went to see his boss this morning – to explain, like, what happened, but he said it was OK that Peter couldn’t come in for a while. They’d miss him of course,” she added quickly, “but they’d manage.”
Eve didn’t go into the detail of the morning’s meeting, as she was still rather perplexed by it. Feeling rather important, she had knocked as loud as she could on the door of the Llew Coch, ignoring the shouts of “We’re closed!” When the cleaner eventually slid back the bolts, Eve rather grandly asked to see Dan D, the landlord, about a business matter.
Kathy, the cleaner, enhanced the grandeur by saying, “Well, Eve, that all sounds very exciting,” and then screeched, “Dan – lady to see you,” and left Eve standing in the doorway suddenly feeling a little awkward.
The bar was a peaceful place at this time of day; chairs and tables were clean and in their correct places. However, although the polish might mask the smell of beer momentarily, the slight tackiness of the carpeted area to Eve’s trainered feet alluded to the ravages of the night before.
Eve very rarely went out to the pubs in town and the one time she had gone to see Peter at work, he had been far too busy to do anything more than briefly acknowledge her presence before he turned back to his work of entertaining the customers and collecting their glasses. Eve had bought herself a glass of Coke and stood sipping it, feeling self-conscious and awkward; her coat over one arm and her handbag and bra strap slipping down the other. Seeing no one she knew well enough to go and speak to, she had gulped her drink down in double time and fled. Staff were obviously discouraged from bringing their girlfriends to their place of work and Eve was all too aware that one shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.
However, the empty pub in the morning was no longer threatening and Eve was interested in looking around and was admiring the old photos on the wall that had somehow survived the great fire and resulting insurance claim of the early nineteen nineties, when Dan D entered the room.
“Hello, Eve,” he said, for he knew her from school. “How is Peter now?”
“Oh, he’s OK, I s’pose,” she said, disappointed that he wasn’t surprised to see her and seemed to already know the news that she had prepared herself to deliver with rich embellishment.
“I hear that he won’t be coming in for a while to, er, help?”
“No, he’s bad and won’t be better for some weeks. How did you know?”
“Oh,” said Dan, “my friend works at the hospital. She told me so that I should, er, arrange cover.”
Dan didn’t mention any more of the interesting half hour he had had on the phone with his old school sweetheart, Sarah Radcliff, who’d encouraged him to join in the task of sobering up Skinny Twat.
“This is probably the only chance he’ll have,” she’d said seriously, very aware that she was breaking a code of conduct in discussing a patient’s affairs, no matter how well known they were anyway throughout the town. “You are obviously aware of Peter’s alcoholism, and please know that I don’t blame you in the least – if you didn’t serve him, someone else would, but I really think we need to pull together now and take this opportunity to help him help himself.”
Dan D was the perfect landlord. Tall and powerfully built, he had been an acclaimed second row player in the Glan Llanfair rugby first team until his late twenties, when a knee injury forced him to quit. This allowed him to retire gracefully with the benefit of knowing everyone in the local rugby world, yet without sliding into the decline of stiff necks and the need to neck pints as part of the team spirit from which many of the older players suffered. Years of boozy away-trips and the rugby playing lifestyle of living and playing hard, tended to mean that poor joints weren’t the only things that the players suffered from in old age. Training sessions were either not tough enough or well attended enough to keep the beer bellies at bay, and, as the years passed, the gaps between the shorts and the stretched tops greatened.
Dan therefore had the benefit of the players’ and supporters’ wallets, without their injuries. Big enough to repel and deal with barroom brawling and intelligent enough not to start it, his pub was popular with all ages and types.
Dan had known Skinny before he became a Twat. Skinny had played on the wing in Dan’s team and his skinniness was then an asset that allowed him to sprint the length of the various pitches and score try after try. Always more than happy to indulge in the after-match antics, when the real cups were won and lost, Skinny took no account of the fact that he was putting away the same amount of beer as the props who weighed twice his rather puny nine and a half stone.
The inevitable, as those who had encouraged it sadly said, eventually happened. Skinny and his girlfriend Teresa had driven home after a memorable match, and an even more memorable slanging match, and her convertible car had crashed. Both were thrown clear of the car, but whereas Skinny’s fall was somewhat broken by a thicket of brambles, Teresa’s stopper was a fine old oak and the jokes that eventually were told about the last thing going through her mind being her arse, were most probably true.
Skinny escaped conviction simply because there was no way of knowing who had been driving and the judge, sensing that she was facing a broken man, let him go free.
The consciences of the whole rugby playing fraternity were triggered as people remembered the relentless ribbing that would be given to anyone who declined another drink or failed to finish their pint. They felt in so many ways that they were partly responsible for Teresa’s death, if not directly, then certainly indirectly. And, if it hadn’t been Teresa, well, it could have easily been one of their own.
So, many paid their respects in the only way that they felt able – by putting money behind the bar to help ease the pain. As the broken man sat at the rickety table with his head in his hands, he too was being killed, but this time slowly and by kindness. Each time he drained a glass, he would look up to see a full one at its side; a hand would gently squeeze his shoulder and then walk away, feeling he wanted to be left alone. But, eventually, the martyr turned into an irritant and eventually a twat, and consciences were eased and memories became hazy.
Dan D had taken a continued interest in Skinny and it had become a little game between them that Skinny would always bring his glass back to the bar, no matter what state he was in. Eventually, he took the initiative and started returning a few others and so a niche was created. And although he was by no means indispensable, it was worth a few pints to Dan to retain the service.
After Skinny had been sacked from his job at the local builder’s yard for his continued poor performance and attendance, his hours at the Llew Coch grew, albeit unfortunately in proportion to everyone else’s irritation with him.
Throughout this time, Dan tried to keep an eye on him, feeding him the occasional meal and letting him sleep it off now and then in the back room.
Therefore, when Doctor Sarah rang, he was more than happy to play his part. “We simply don’t allow any pub in town to serve him,” she said, “and it could be that simple. Eve will be looking after him at home and if she says “No,” I don’t fancy his chances of getting past her – especially with two arms in plaster. He will be on medication to ease the physical symptoms, but we have possibly six weeks to get him over the worst and, after then, it’ll be up to him.”
So, after a few chuckles and “who would have thought it – Skinny and Eve, no wonder he drinks” comments and a few more mild flirtations, Dan agreed to play his part. He was to speak to all the other landlords in town, and in the same way that all the café owners had refused Fat Barny chips with his meals – giving him jacket potatoes instead when he was on his sponsored diet – so the landlords in town made a pact; no beer for Skinny and no trying to steal him as a future customer.
His head slightly bowed beneath the old beams, Dan stood and looked Eve in the eyes for a while, debating whether he could be as honest as he wanted to be. Eventually he took a deep breath and said, “Eve, look, we’ve known each other for a long time, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” muttered Eve, smoothing down her ruffled hair and wishing she hadn’t had that third re-perm.
“And I think we both know that Peter doesn’t really, er, work, here?” Eve looked at where her feet probably were and muttered, “Yes,” very quietly.
Dan sensed her misery and awkwardness and put his hand on her shoulder, trying to give her a boost for her own, and Skinny’s sake.
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 16