Alan stopped still for a few seconds, not wanting to walk back up the street and return to that stupid shop with all those nosy buggers watching him, judging him. Perhaps they’d heard the slander too? Perhaps she’d told the whole town? No, it was time to sort madam and her nonsense out. He would just calmly point out that she couldn’t go around telling lies and expect to get away with it. It didn’t work like that.
He turned around again and walked purposefully back down the street towards the road that Lettie had disappeared into. Only the face red with rage and clenched fists stopped him looking like any other thirty-seven-year-old man waiting for a break in the traffic.
Collecting himself, he walked calmly along the narrow street, his stride swift and confident. He quickly reached Lettie’s front door and taking a deep breath knocked sharply on it. No answer was received after three seconds and so he knocked again. “Lettie!” he shouted through the letterbox. “Open the door. I know you are in there, open the door, we need to talk about this; get it sorted.” He stood back, still nothing. “For God’s sake, Lettie, you can’t avoid me for ever – or would you rather hear from my solicitor? Come on, you bitch, open the door.” As he spoke he moved to kick the lower wooden panel.
Immediately his toe connected with the wood, the door was wrenched open and instead of the frightened Lettie that he had expected, a tall burly-armed man stood there, his arms folded tight, his face fixed into a penetrating glare. “Oh, sorry mate,” said Alan, a small smile on his face, “I was just after Lettie; I just wanted to have a chat.” The arms unfolded and a fist hit Alan squarely on the nose almost before he even saw it move. Strengthened by years of heavy manual work, hardened by distress caused to the woman the fist’s owner loved and fired by a hatred of tax accounts, it carried immense power and before Alan could even think of dodging it, he was lying flat out in the street, a puddle soaking into his fine Burberry coat and the blood pouring from his splattered nose.
He opened his eyes and started spluttering, hauling himself onto his elbows. “Wha’?” he gurgled, trying to ascertain the damage done. The burly man had been joined by a large black, growling dog. The man alternately rubbed his knuckles and then held the dog’s collar. They stepped down into the street and stood above Alan, looking down at him, the man’s eyes glaring. Alan flinched into a roll as the man bobbed down beside him. “Don’t…for God’s sake… my nose! What the fuck did you do that for?” spluttered Alan, angry, but also very scared.
“I’m Dougie. That was from Lettie,” said Doug quietly. “Hurt Lettie again, shout at her in the street again – even talk to her again, and I’ll come and find you and then it’ll really hurt. OK?” Alan flinched and then nodded pitifully, his hands covering his face as if he were going to get punched again.
“OK?” repeated Doug loudly, and Alan whimpered an “OK”, his fighting spirit as broken as his nose. Dougie walked off, adding, “Now, sod off,” as he dismissively kicked Alan’s feet, slowly climbed the two small steps to the house and slammed the front door.
Alan lay a few seconds longer, stunned by the happening as well as the blow. He rolled slowly onto his side and gently assessed the damage with his hand. Sitting up, he leant forward and tried to stem the flow of blood onto his coat. He reached into his wet pocket and fumbled for his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, whimpering in pain as he attempted to stop the throbbing that filled his whole head. He sat for a few minutes, oblivious to the rain that was being absorbed into his clothes, trying to gather his thoughts, fuming with temper, but dreading that the door should open again.
An elderly couple walked around the corner, huddled together under a large umbrella. They didn’t see Alan until they were almost upon him and the silvery haired lady clutched at her husband’s arm as he worked out what the bundle in the road was.
“Oh!” she shrieked in surprise, “oh dear, are you alright? Edward, Edward, see if he is all right; have you been hurt, young man?”
The would be good Samaritan was rewarded by a loud, “Oh, just piss off will you,” and the bundle scrambled awkwardly to his feet and still clutching the bloody hankie to his distorted face, he stalked off up the street, his heels clattering less rhythmically than usual on the wet road.
Meanwhile, the happenings inside the house were a confusion of jubilation and tears. Lettie was still shaking and crying, but also laughing between hiccoughs. “I’m not sure you should have done that, Doug – but I am so glad you did!” she sobbed, burying her face into his shoulders and hugging him around the waist.
Doug had his arms around Lettie’s shoulders and was flexing the fingers of his right hand. “I’ve not done that before – always wanted to, mind,” he grinned, his temper now gone. “Oh well, poor Alan, eh? Well, I think he had that coming; it was really only a matter of time.”
Rizzo was bouncing around him like an excited child. “That was fantastic, Doug, hell of a punch! Did you see him fly? Absolutely superb, well done, Doug!” He was now rather regretting having only watched the show from the window; if he’d answered the door, it would be him that everyone was congratulating. (But, within two days, he was right behind Doug as the back up, so it didn’t really matter.)
Lisa was standing in the kitchen doorway, her hands over her face, her eyes peeping through her fingers. “I can’t believe you just did that! Oh, Lettie – how romantic! I wish someone would punch somebody’s lights out for me!” she squealed, not holding any real hopes of Malcolm buffing up his armour and dusting off his white charger in defence of her honour…
Chapter 75
The Banquet
Lettie, Doug, Alex, Rich, Lisa, Malcolm and Rizzo were all packed into Lettie’s sitting room on the Sunday before Christmas to watch the Christmas Special “Rags to Riches”. A couple of bottles of wine had been opened and sat on the hearth.
A new wooden coffee table stood, pride of place, in the centre of the room. It had been made from driftwood, polished by the sea and then carved and oiled lovingly by Doug for Lettie’s birthday and was now piled high, although not too high as to shield the screen, with quiet nibbles. “No crisps, no wrappers and nothing that crunches,” had been the rule, respected by everyone who had contributed to the feast. Beers sat in a bucket of iced water, so that no one had to move more than an arm’s stretch from their chair to be replenished.
Alex, Rich and Dougie had one sofa. Alex’s legs were thrown over Rich’s as he absentmindedly stroked the denim covering her thighs with one hand and held her socked foot with the other, breaking his grip only to take a swig of the beer that rested precariously between Alex’s knees or to take a handful of peanuts from the bowl she held in her hand. Lettie sat on the floor between Dougie’s knees, one arm wrapped around his shin as she slowly investigated under the cuff of his woollen sock. He in turn twiddled the ends of her thick hair that she had allowed to grow longer just for him, and tickled the back of her neck with the softest finger of his rough hands.
Doug’s beer rested on a small shelf beside a plate of goat’s cheese, dandelion leaves and lemongrass mayonnaise sandwiches on hand-made granary with a garnish of split cherry tomatoes, provided by Rizzo. Rizzo unfortunately sat on the other side of the room, alone, on a hard, wooden chair. The only thing within easy reach being the catering pack of frozen sausage rolls that Malcolm had provided and which fell apart into a shower of crumbs onto Rizzo’s fisherman’s Guernsey with every bite that he took.
The smaller sofa was occupied by Malcolm and Lisa. Lisa was stretched out, her foot dangling over the arm, far too near to Rizzo and it took all his willpower not to take it into his hands and caress the fluffy pink slipper sock and then gently, gently remove it, cautiously pulling each toe in turn into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, making her swoon with pleasure and surely begging him to go further…
Instead, Lisa rested her head on Malcolm’s lap, but there was no hand playing gently with her hair, which she had spread in a fan over his legs. No arm resting over her collarbone, which wo
uld have been an obvious resting place. Instead Malcolm sat awkwardly, one arm along the back of the sofa and the other resting on the wing, close to his glass of wine and a plate of Aunty Betty’s Welsh cakes. How provincial, he thought grandly, not imagining his London friends relishing such a combination, as he shovelled a third one in, trying to find the one with the most raisins.
The events of the week surrounding the “Great Storm” had galvanised a subtle change in Rizzo. He had been a bit dippy and quiet for a while, but it hadn’t been in a depressed way, Lettie had told Doug; it was more as if he had found his peace. His parents had rung the very evening they had received a copy of the paper, heatedly speaking at the same time from different telephone extensions. He had been pleased by his mother’s almost tearful hysterics and his father’s gruff, “Well, I am glad you are all right”s. It looked like he hadn’t needed to be actually swept to his death after all.
Their offer to reinstate his allowance was politely refused and, although he was slightly saddened by their lack of insistence, Rizzo felt that he finally had the independence that he had prostituted for so many years.
As for his relationship with Lisa, well, they had played the hypothermia game on many occasions since; Lisa creeping naked into a dazed Rizzo’s bed so that she could warm him bare flesh to bare flesh, Rizzo trying desperately to find a place to bring feeling into his poor, cold hands. He had been delighted when he read in a Mountain Rescue handbook that a good position for two cold people to warm each other was with their faces in each other’s crotches (usually with clothes on, though he couldn’t see why), but they saved this game for when Lettie was away as it tended to get a bit noisy.
Lisa justified such nocturnal activities as revenge on an inattentive Malcolm. She had explained to Rizzo that, although Malcolm was right for her at the moment, her plan was to move on to her soulmate in the next few months, so it didn’t make sense to tie herself down too early. Rizzo listened intently to her reasons, but really didn’t care why, or for what purpose she was playing games; as long as he was able to warm his poor, cold face on that beautiful, soft torso, he was happy.
The dogs had been banished to the kitchen, having feasted on something long dead, the repercussions of which were not suited to polite society.
“Quick, quick, here we are!” shouted Lettie over the banter that had been circulating around the room. More beers were grasped and the wine bottle was passed around again – although unfortunately there was only a dribble left for Rizzo by the time it reached him.
“Never mind, Riz?” snorted Lisa, “you’re only used to an inch and a half anyway, eh?” Malcolm looked skywards in the face of such unsophisticated schoolgirl humour, the like of which Jill would never have deigned to utter. Loud “hushes” were issued as Alex turned up the volume to the sounds of Topol singing, “If I Were a Rich Man”.
Lettie could feel Dougie’s helpless giggling and she turned to him, “You know something, you do. Come on, out with it!” But Dougie just shook his head and bent over to plant a kiss in her hair.
There were cackles of laughter as Mr and Mrs Pryce were introduced. She was wearing two cardigans, a skirt that skimmed her knees and sandals that showed the perfect tan of a woman who usually wears wellington boots. He wore his usual high-waisted trousers and a pale yellow hand-knitted tank top over a whiteish shirt with faint grey pinstripes. Both Pryces had that fluffy look that suggested that the tin bath had been out the night before. He carried a battered old trilby that went on and off as he entered and exited the house, as if two minutes outside without it in that bitterly warm summer weather would give him a chill. It was Lisa that pointed out the tan line on his head that proved that this was always the case, and Rizzo that spotted Mrs Pryce’s welly boot ‘n’ skirt version.
More laughter accompanied the shot of the kitchen sink with Mr and Mrs Pryce on either side, both turning on a tap to prove that no water came out. “They were included in the price of the sink,” explained Mrs Pryce, “so we thought we might as well keep them. Look funny without them, wouldn’t it?” and she looked at Matt who just had to agree with her.
Mr Pryce took an old lantern hanging from the door, put his hat on and indicated for the camera to follow him down the stony path to the tŷ bach.
“He’s got a torch!” yelled Dougie with delight. “A bloody great thing that would light up the whole area! He doesn’t poach with a lantern!” The camera nosed into the tŷ bach, taking in the wooden seat that had been polished by a thousand backsides, with the small pile of Farmer’s Weekly to one side.
“They’re for the wife,” Mr Pryce chuckled; “she likes to take her time! See,” he continued, “it’s got a lovely view in the summer,” and the camera panned to a shot of deciduous woodland and obligingly a rabbit popped into view. Mr Pryce stiffened. “I’ll have that bastard later,” he growled, “I reckon that’s the one that’s been in the veg patch.” The swearing was bleeped over, but the weeping audience understood the sentiment well.
“Mind, in the winter,” he concluded, walking back up the path, his television persona regained, “well, you don’t want to hang around in there looking at the view. It’s straight in, do your business and straight back out.” The camera caught Matt’s wince perfectly at the excess of information, and the editor had allowed the comment to remain.
The rest of the tour progressed with occasional commentary from Dougie pointing out the tree he fell out of when he was ten, the area where he learnt to train dogs and the rough work table in the shade of the outhouse where they skinned, plucked and gutted their prey and where the selection of knives hung under the corrugated tin lean-to roof.
Then the screen fuzzed and the video diary started. “Sh, sh,” cried Dougie, “this is the good bit!”
In fairness to John Haskins, he had listened well to Bri’s instructions about the video camera and he had set it firmly in place, checked the light conditions and had removed the ever-present Jack Russell whose relentless sniffing could be picked up over the other voices.
The picture showed John returning to his seat and then he and Mr and Mrs Pryce sat looking serious around the large, empty kitchen table – the teapot and pile of unopened post having been moved for the occasion. John nodded to Mr Pryce who sat stony faced, newsreader style, with a piece of paper in front of him that he continuously moved about, but had no need to read from.
“Hello,” he said and then continued in his slow sure voice. “As you will know by now, I am Idris Pryce and this is my wife, Heulwen. That means ‘white sun’ in Welsh,” and Mrs Pryce smiled accordingly. “Well, when we had our drawing done in the park that night, for which we still haven’t thanked that nice young lady from Dorset – so if she is watching tonight, ‘Thank You.’”
(Back in Glan Llanfair, Councillor Ted Hansford spat out his mouthful of roast potato. “Dorset?” he roared to his wife, “DORSET?”
“What’s that, love?” said his wife coming into the room still wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Get me the bloody phone. What’s Geoff Rogers’ number? That bloody John Haskins has done it again. Got one of his English bloody mates to win that picture competition. Oh, heads are going to roll over this one, I can tell you…”)
More nods were received from Mrs Pryce as Lettie squealed in delight.
“We had no idea of what it would lead to, had we, Mother?” Her head shook, her hands fidgeting as if ready for a cup of tea that wasn’t going to appear. “Well, so much has happened since then that we have to be thankful for, that we have been quite overwhelmed and this money from the kind television company is wonderful at our time of life, with our family all now flown the nest.” More nods from Mother. “Now, we have lived here for forty-four years, since we were first married and have been very happy here. But, like we said to our boys, how we lived when we first arrived was fine for us – so on which precise day did it stop being fine?”
At this point Mr Pryce paused for effect and then looked directly into the camera.
“Now, we were given this here contract,” and a small wad of paper was pushed towards him by a mystery hand, “and we have looked at it long and hard. So did our friend John here, and so did his legal friend. And we can see no clause whereby it says that the money has to be spent here – only on what kind of things”. At this point Dougie erupted into laughter, banging his legs with his hands.
“The wily old buggers!” he laughed. “They got them completely sussed!”
“So, now,” continued Mr Pryce gravely, “we would like to introduce our family.” Four large men aged between their late twenties and early forties walked shyly into the camera view. “These are our boys and we are very proud of them, aren’t we, Mother?”
“Oh, yes, yes.” She nodded and the oldest put his giant hand on her petite shoulder in silent support.
“Now, our boys are all married, so we also have four lovely new daughters, don’t we girls – come on in!” he said, beckoning his hand and now beginning to enjoy himself. Four women giggled their way into what was now a crowded stage and stood by their respective partners. “Now, these fine people all live around here too and although they work hard, they don’t earn much money and so their houses are none too good neither.”
There were more howls of laughter as the penny began to drop not just in Lyme Regis, but all around the country.
“Elwyn and Sue here had no heating. Calfyn and Nerys had a cracked bath upstairs and an outside toilet downstairs. Jon and Beth, well, their kitchen was in a right state – nearly falling down, and Huw and Ann had their two sleeping in the same room as them – and that’s no good for a married couple is it, love?” And he nudged Mrs Pryce who giggled like a schoolgirl.
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 35