Toff Chav

by Miles Hadley

  The next toast, Henry exclaimed, was, ‘To my fucking birthday!’ They all hugged each other, jumped up and down and repeated the chant ‘Oggy! Oggy! Oggy! Oi! Oi! Oi!’

  Archie noticed that the Italian ladies seemed to be laughing at his group’s drunken antics. It was becoming a rather enjoyable day for him, even if some of the other patrons were looking a bit annoyed. The drinks bill for that champagne bar must have cost another thousand euros.

  Archie and the entourage moved on to more bars, guzzling more champagne and frequenting the gents to snort line after line of quality cocaine. The rest of the day became a blur, culminating in the rendezvous at Club Rialto with the Italian beauties.

  From that point, Archie could only remember snatches of blurred happenings. He was sure that he remembered them licking champagne off one of the Italian’s bodies and that they snorted line after line of cocaine off another, in between dancing to crazy Euro pop.

  Somehow, Archie and the other men managed to struggle into their dinner jackets back at their hotel and get into an exclusive casino. They must have lost tens of thousands between them, for they were all too drunk and high as a kite to even care that the more shrewd gamblers were taking advantage of them.

  Finally, they went back to the hotel. Archie’s room was next to Henry’s and the two of them went into Henry’s room after saying goodnight to everybody else. They drunkenly sat on one of the sofas and talked and reminisced. Henry walked out onto the balcony, clutching a half-drunk bottle of vintage champagne that he had ordered via room service.

  ‘Who are we, Arch?’ he called out to Archie. ‘We’re shit-hot. That’s who we are! We fucking rule the fucking world, Arch.’

  Archie now had his better camera with him and proceeded to take some shots in black and white of Henry, resplendent in dinner jacket, his bow tie loose around his opened winged collar shirt, as he proceeded to balance upon the concrete rail of the balcony – four floors up. He nearly lost his footing and Archie panicked and dropped his camera onto the sofa and grabbed him, pulling him back down onto the balcony floor.

  Archie looked at Henry and gripped him so that he would not try it again. They looked at each other with that old familiarity. There was no way they were going back to their old habits, but Archie laughed and hugged his friend nonetheless.

  ‘Henry,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever do that fucking again, ever.’

  Henry looked up at him, his eyes half closed. ‘I bloody love you, Arch.’

  ‘Love you too, mate,’ Archie said, ruffling his hair before kissing him on the forehead.

  Archie suddenly realised that he had forgotten to give Henry his birthday present. He had taken a portrait of him in the pose of Rex Whistler with a ukulele underneath some trees. It had been taken a few years back and was meant to emulate Beaton.

  Archie rushed to his room, found the wrapped present amongst his luggage, promptly came back, and handed it to him. Henry was overjoyed.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to give that to me!’ he laughed. They kissed and hugged again, before crumpling onto the bed and snoring drunkenly. Archie dreamt vividly of Polly.

  16

  Gary woke up. His head felt like shit. He found himself in a strange room. He was on a couch and there were books everywhere. The room was quite dark, but he could make out the books and old, framed photographs of a woman who, in her time, must have been pretty. He had not been in a room like this before with so many books. He heard the sound of a spoon stirring something. He tried to get up off the couch, but his legs felt like shit. His left arm hurt like fuck as well.

  The man came into the room, holding two mugs with steam coming off them. It was him; with his thick glasses, freaky clothes, and he was smiling right at him. Bollard.

  ‘All right?’ he asked Gary.

  ‘Stay away from me, you fucking paedo,’ Gary responded guardedly as the man approached.

  ‘I’m only offering you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Back off now, you fucking perv! What the fuck have you done to me? You’d better not have touched me.’

  ‘Actually, yes I have…’

  Gary yelled. ‘You fucking pervert! Stay away from me!’

  ‘...but not in the way that you are assuming I have.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Those youths were about to kill you... don’t you remember?’

  ‘I don’t know what you fucking mean.’

  ‘It was quite a battle. They knocked you out. I fended them off as best as I could with my stick, then I dragged you out from the alleyway into our bungalow.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, why are you on our sofa in evident pain? Here... drink this. It will do you good.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A cup of tea. Christine says it solves everything.’

  Gary reluctantly took the tea off him and began to sip it, frowning.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Bollard asked.

  ‘What do you need to know my fucking name for?’

  ‘Because manners maketh the man, and while you’re in our house we will be treated with respect.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that, you fucking shit fucker.’

  ‘Start again,’ Bollard said patiently.

  ‘What do you fucking mean by that?’

  ‘My name is Terry,’ replied Bollard. ‘I would shake you by the hand, but I noticed that your only usable one is presently holding a cup of tea that I made for you. What is your name?’

  ‘What’s it to fucking you what my name is?’

  ‘Please don’t swear in my house. Christine doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I will fucking say what I fucking like. It’s a free country anyway.’

  ‘Not anymore it isn’t. Oh dear, Christine – what are we going to do with him? Well, I probably would give him a clip behind the ear. But I already feel rather sorry for him. Yes, darling... I know I’m soft. But what chance does the young man have? No darling, I couldn’t have just left him out there. They might have killed him.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you fucking talking to?’ said Gary, looking around him.

  ‘My wife, Christine. I might remind you to please refrain from swearing in our house, young man.’

  ‘But there’s no one else fucking here!’

  ‘That’s what he thinks, isn’t it, Christine? Yes... that’s what I was thinking, too! What this young man needs is not only a lesson in manners and etiquette, but also a thorough grounding in history... No! I can’t charge him for it! He’s clearly poor... Yes, I know I’m poor now, too, darling... But it’s quite obvious to me that the lad doesn’t look after himself... Well, let’s just ask him, shall we? Are you looking after yourself, young man?’

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’re a fucking nutter.’

  ‘No, young man. I can assure you that I am perfectly sane... aren’t I, Christine? You have nothing to worry about on that front. Is the tea all right? I’m so sorry, I should have asked you if you wanted any sugar... More milk, perhaps?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Look... I’m afraid that’s impossible. You can barely move and I feel that it is my civic duty to get you back on your feet. Christine would rather that I just left you outside. She really does not abide bad manners – and nor, for that matter, do I – in our household.’

  ‘Well, put me back on the fucking pavement where you found me then!’

  ‘Young man. While my wife does more often than not hold sway in this household with what she says, at the risk of having an argument with her, I have decided to help you, despite your atrocious manners... the reason being that, if I did pop you back... the chances are that you would be killed... Yes, Christine... we’ve gone through that already.’

  ‘So why don’t you ring the fucking authorities, you nutter, and let them deal wit
h it?’

  ‘Because, young man... I believe that you might be in danger with them, also.’

  ‘What do you fucking mean?’

  ‘I mean, that nobody likes the authorities these days. They simply cannot be trusted... isn’t that right, Christine? As soon as you go to them... they will give you a record as long as your arm and probably spy on you forever and ever. We live in Orwellian times, young man, Orwellian times.’

  ‘You are fucking nuts.’

  ‘Young man, as I’ve just said, I am perfectly sane. I, however, must question your sanity. In the words of the great Beckett, “Every mad man thinks other men are mad...” Just what on earth were you thinking? Trying to fight five people?’

  ‘There were three of us.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right... until your yellow-bellied friends left you for dead... Oh, Christine... I was hardly a hero... any other man would have done the same.’

  ‘You are a fucking nutter…’

  ‘As I have just told my good wife, young man... any other man would have done the same in the circumstances. Not mad... not brave... just my civic duty.’

  ‘Hang on a minute...’ said Gary. ‘Are you telling me that you chased off those Death Squad fuckers with your stick?’

  ‘Yes... but in the words of Shakespeare’s Henry V – which, I might add, is most apropos, as I believe the ratio was five to one also – that “the fewer the men, the greater the share of honour”. I believe that was from Act Four, Scene two... Oh, was it, Christine? My apologies, I stand corrected... Scene three... No, I’m not getting carried away, Christine... I’m just trying to teach the young man some Shakespeare, that’s all... Of course, young man... Shakespeare was wildly inaccurate with his speeches, but that is all part of the romance.’

  Bollard paused and looked at Gary with thoughtful, glinting eyes. ‘Do you know what really won the battle, young man?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t fucking give a shit!’ Gary exploded.

  ‘Yes, Christine, I am tempted to wash his mouth out... But we shall let that one pass... Young man, it was actually the English longbow that successfully wiped out the crème de la crème of the French aristocracy.’

  ‘Who fucking cares?’

  ‘Oh, how I could weep for England’s youth,’ said Bollard. ‘I care, young man. We care. Do you know why? Because we’re English. Not only that, but we’re British also. Without knowing these little historical titbits, British unity would have imploded even more than it has done. Without remembering our history, there will be nothing left, and “We, we happy few”, to quote the great Master Shakespeare – incidentally, once again from Henry V – we happy few will cease to be like a band of brothers.’

  ‘What the fuck are you going on about?’

  ‘I’m trying to explain, young man, that I am British, you are British and, as such, we should know and respect our shared history. Otherwise, we will cease to be a band of brothers. Thank you, Christine... Yes, I’ll try and talk some sense into this young man... he clearly is missing his dose of historical medicine and needs to be put right.’

  ‘You are fucking nuts.’

  ‘Oh, young man... is that what it has come to? To be nuts if you love your country?’

  ‘You are having a fucking laugh, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, young man. But, speaking of laughter... do you know what the great Lord Byron thought about it?’

  ‘Oh, fuck off about Lord fucking Byron! I couldn’t give a...’

  ‘He said that laughter is the best form of medicine.’ Bollard leant forward, as if to emphasise a point. ‘And that, young man, was coming from a man who Lady Caroline Lamb managed to put it about was “Mad, bad and dangerous to know”.’

  ‘Where’s my fucking phone?’

  ‘Ah, the noble telephone. Do you know who invented the telephone, which you so probably take for granted?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit.’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue. He was born in Britain. Scotland, to be precise. In 1847. No guesses?’

  ‘Mickey fucking mouse.’

  ‘Oh, you poor chap. You do realise that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? I’ll tell you... it was Alexander Graham Bell.’

  ‘Hoo fucking ray for that,’ said Gary. ‘Now tell me where my phone is.’

  ‘If you really want to know... I think that the gang must have taken it.’

  ‘Let me use your phone.’

  ‘My dear chap. Unfortunately, I don’t have a telephone. I only rely on letters for communication. So much more personal and intimate. Besides, letters can be kept for historical records, while telephone conversations cannot... unless one asks the Government for them, but that is quite a lengthy process and they don’t like us to know that they are listening and recording... so it gets a bit awkward.’

  Gary gave an even deeper and more puzzled frown. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about lack of privacy these days, because the Government will not trust its population,’ replied Bollard.

  ‘No, I mean... why don’t you have a telephone?’

  ‘Well... that’s a long story,’ said Bollard. ‘But to cut it short, I decided that, firstly, I no longer needed a telephone. Secondly, I no longer wanted a stranger listening in on my conversations courtesy of the taxpayer.’

  ‘You are a complete and utter nut job.’

  ‘Now, young man... you can’t have eaten for hours. Christine just mentioned it. We don’t want you to go starving in our house. Would you like us to rustle up some cucumber sandwiches for you?’

  ‘No, I would not like some fucking cucumber sandwiches!’

  ‘All right, young man, a simple “No thank you, Terry” would have sufficed. Perhaps you would prefer corned beef? Maybe another cup of tea? Or a cold drink, like orange squash or Ribena? We even have lime cordial if you would prefer.’

  Gary’s eyes closed and he went to sleep, hoping that everything was a bad dream.

  17

  ‘Poll, I’ve been wondering... It’s shoot season soon. I’d quite like you to come to the Risely one. Would you mind if I invited you?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’

  ‘Oh, you know... it’s a bit traditional. The ladies are generally kept from the men for most of the real action.’

  ‘How sexist,’ said Polly. ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied Archie. ‘It’s tradition.’

  ‘And you would keep that tradition on when the time came?’

  ‘Polly...’ Archie said, as if he was warning Smidgeon or Bella when they were about to do something naughty. He hated it when she gave her liberal progressive spiel, but couldn’t stop loving her for it at the same time.

  ‘Will you be wearing plus fours?’ asked Polly with a smirk.

  ‘Polly...’ Archie repeated in the same warning tone.

  ‘Bet you’re quite dapper in plus fours.’ Archie heard her giggle and give her endearing snort.

  ‘Poll. Will you come?’

  ‘What, and sit with the other “ladies” daintily sipping cups of tea, while the men kill birds that are bred to be riddled with lead shot in the name of “sport”? I don’t think so, Arch. I mean, it does sound rather medieval, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Poll,’ said Archie. ‘The main reason is I’d like you to come and meet Mother.’

  ‘And naturally your father will be too busy riddling birds with shot, along with you and the other “chaps”?’

  ‘Polly...’ Archie said once again, as if he was warning one of his dogs. ‘Will you come?’

  Polly looked at him for moment. ‘Oh… okay. It might provide food for thought for a feminist essay I have to write. It’s called “Did Virginia Woolf drown in societal sexism and do today’s women of Britain still drown?” I’m particularly intrigued by the gender pay gap of today. Hard
ly twenty-first century, is it?’

  ‘Poll...’ began Archie uneasily. ‘Look... have I done something wrong?’

  Archie heard her giggle and give her snort. ‘No...’ she replied. ‘I’m just playing, that’s all. I’d love to come, Archie. I’m very curious about Risely. Razza’s told me lots about it.’

  ***

  It was early morning and mist hung in clumps around the grounds. Archie stood next to his father and Charlie, the gamekeeper, outside the crumbling honey-coloured shooting lodge, ready to receive the six other ‘Guns’. All men were attired in flat caps, shirt and tie, Barbour jackets and tweed. Archie’s father took out a hip flask and passed it to Archie and the gamekeeper, before taking a quick swig of Macallan himself.

  Archie saw the Range Rover of their neighbouring landowner and distant cousin, the elderly and doddery Giles Beaumont, who was dropped off by his driver. He watched as his father greeted him.

  ‘Hello, Giles.’

  ‘Hello, Hodgey. So nice to see you again. How’s Manny? Morning, young man.’ Archie shook Giles by the hand. Giles proceeded to comment, as he did every year, that he was shrinking while Archie was still growing.

  ‘Is the usual rabble coming?’ Giles asked with a twinkle to his blue eyes.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Archie grinned.

  Archie gestured for Giles to step into the shooting lodge, where a stove was giving off welcome heat, and directed him to a table laden with bacon sandwiches. Giles took one from a plate, and a mug of Irish coffee was given to him by William, the home farmer’s son, who doubled up as a waiter at the Risely shoots.

  Archie stayed inside and chatted politely to Giles. Sir Charles Teak, an old Melton friend of his father’s, soon came in and joined in the chat. He was a senior banker and also sat on five company boards as a non-executive Director. They were soon joined by Bryn Wordsley of the Trevelyan estate in the South West. He was another old Meltonian friend of Archie’s father. He, too, had attempted to be a whirling dervish in North Africa and had enjoyed a hippy lifestyle, before ‘reforming’ to take on Trevelyan.