by David Nobbs
She rushed upstairs and put on a dress. The doorbell rang. She opened Jocasta’s bedroom window and shouted out, ‘I’m coming,’ and then she recognized Jimmy’s rusty old car and her heart missed a beat.
She opened the door to him. She was bare-footed and barelegged. Jimmy looked older.
‘Hullo. Long time no see,’ he said.
‘Come in,’ she said.
He came in.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got round to things yet.’
Jimmy sat down on the sofa. Linda sat on the chaise longue.
‘Fact is,’ Jimmy said. ‘Bit of a cock-up on the catering front.’
‘Would you like some coffee?’ said Linda.
‘Please,’ said Jimmy.
He followed her into the kitchen. She glanced at his trousers. They were bulging. She put the coffee on. Her hands were shaking.
‘It’s only instant,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Jimmy.
The kitchen was large and looked out over a handsome garden, with beds of rare shrubs round the lawn. At the bottom of the garden was Tom’s folly, a little Gothic tower.
Jimmy leant against the fridge. There were rows of stone jars containing spices and herbs, and on the floor there were three large containers in which home-made wines were working. On the top of the pile of dishes in the sink were two little plates with stories in pictures on them.
‘What sort of thing do you want, Jimmy?’ said Linda.
‘Owe you an explanation,’ said Jimmy. ‘Fact is, cock-up. Too old for army. Leaving.’
‘Oh, Jimmy.’
‘Putting money aside. Saving. Got to buy a business, Linda.’
‘I suppose so. What’ll you do?’
‘Don’t know. Thought of canal boats. No idea, really. Not got a lot of money. Give Sheila housekeeping. Spends it. Booze. Always bloody booze. Excuse language. Oh, thank you.’
‘I haven’t sugared it.’
‘Of course you know Sheila’s trouble. Well-known. Easy lay.’
‘Oh, Jimmy!’
‘No. Common knowledge. Few drinks, she’s anybody’s. Poor bitch can’t help it. Excuse language.’
‘Come and sit down, Jimmy.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
They went into the living room. Linda sat on the chaise longue, and moved up to let Jimmy sit beside her, but he sat in a chair.
‘Children not here?’
‘They’ve gone to the seaside.’
‘Tom?’
‘He’s working. We’re all alone, Jimmy.’
‘Anyway, thing is. Sheila’s money gone, mine gone too, mess expenses and what have you, no chow. All alone, eh?’
‘It’s all right, Jimmy. There’s lots I can give you. Yes, all alone.’
‘Thanks. Horrible, having to tell you. Oh, Linda. Linda!’ He rushed over to her and buried his face in her legs. He kissed her just above the knee. ‘Oh, Linda, you’re beautiful. Beautiful. I want you. Oh, Linda, I want you.’
Linda leant forward and kissed the top of his head.
‘You can have me, Jimmy darling,’ she said.
They went upstairs and undressed each other and clambered into the unmade bed. Linda was overwhelmed with tenderness towards Jimmy. It wasn’t love. It was sympathy. Her physical desire was an ache to give pleasure. She even felt at that moment that Tom would approve and the children would approve if they could understand. Mummy’s having sex with Uncle Jimmy because Mummy’s nice. She felt Jimmy on top of her and inside her. She felt his release from a suffering that she herself had also endured on his behalf. He was happy, he told her that he was happy. He was proud, she could feel that he was proud.
Afterwards she felt sick. Here, in Tom’s bed, in her own home, with her uncle. Jimmy lay absolutely still, here in her bed, in the Thames Valley, on Friday morning, when decent housewives were busy buying fish. Linda stroked his hard, leathery, freckle-flecked back very gently. He must never know what she was thinking.
‘Imagined that,’ he mumbled. ‘Never thought, never thought you’d let me. Imagine lots of things, never happen. Imagined telling you you’re beautiful. Never thought I’d hear myself say it.’
‘I’m not beautiful, Jimmy.’
She felt him grow tense.
‘Must go,’ he said. ‘Not right. All wrong.’
‘No, Jimmy,’ said Linda. ‘It wasn’t all wrong.’
They began to dress. All she wanted was to get him out of the house.
‘Jimmy,’ she said. ‘It can’t happen again. It mustn’t. I can’t let it. But I’m glad it’s happened. Truly!’
She forced herself to kiss him, very quickly, on the lips. She could barely repress a shudder of revulsion.
They went downstairs. She gave him eggs, bacon, pheasant paté, Greek bread, a tin of partridge in red wine, half a cold chicken, sausages, butter, jam, baked beans, baked beans with frankfurters, a packet of frozen faggots, a green pepper, and fresh beans.
‘Thank you, Linda. Saved my life,’ he said.
They loaded his car.
‘If you ever need money, please come to us,’ said Linda. ‘Don’t be ashamed. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘No. None of it’s my fault. Fate. Rotten business,’ said Jimmy. ‘Better not kiss you. Someone might see. Well, thanks again. And for the nosh. Well, mustn’t stay. Be in the doghouse.’
‘Bye bye, Jimmy.’
‘Well, thanks again. Cheerio. Toodlepip.’
He got into his car. Linda walked to the white gate in the high box hedge and opened it. Jimmy drove out, and waved good-bye. Linda waved back until his car was a speck.
There were tears in her eyes, for Jimmy and herself.
She shut the gate and walked back to the house. She must change the sheets.
O, Tom, Tom, I do love you. I love you in all your absurdity. I’ll never tell you about this. You’d be abominably hurt. But will you know? Can I conceal it? Does treachery smell?
Oh – pulling off the old sheets – I did it partly at least for the best of motives. Partly. A mish-mash of motives. Also, admit it, a thrill because he was my uncle. Oh God. Oh, Tom – putting on the new striped sheets, Tom will wonder why I’ve changed them – oh, Tom, Tom, Tom, I love you. I do, I do. I will, I will. I must.
The doorbell rang. Who could this be? Not Jimmy again. Let it not be Jimmy again.
A tall man with grey hair and a grey beard stood in the porch. He was wearing a new suit.
‘Hullo,’ said the man.
‘Oh!’ said Linda. ‘Have you come about the boiler?’
‘No,’ said the man.
‘Oh. Was I expecting you?’
‘Definitely not,’ said the man. ‘Most definitely not.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t you know me?’
Linda gave him a searching look. There was something familiar about him.
‘I’m sorry. I can’t place you,’ she said.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said the man.
The shadows cast by small clouds were passing swiftly over the expanse of gravel outside the front door. In the centre of the gravel was a circular bed of small shrubs and ferns.
‘Are you alone?’ said the man.
He looked nervous. It crossed Linda’s mind that he might be a sex maniac. But she would be able to smell it, if he was. She smelt trust from this man. She liked him.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
This may be a bit of a shock,’ he said. ‘It’s me, Linda. Your father.’
She just stood and stared foolishly.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t kill myself.’
Linda felt incapable of any emotion except shock.
‘I saw Jimmy leaving,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He – er – ’
‘He had a cock-up on the catering front?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I come in?’ he said.
‘Yes
, of course. Sorry.’
She led him into the living room. She was numb.
‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess,’ she said.
‘That’s all right,’ he said.
He sat down on the chaise longue. He looked out of place and awkward. She could see now that it was him, but he had changed. He seemed grey and shrunken.
The delayed shock sapped all the strength from her body. She realized with horror that she hadn’t kissed him and hadn’t taken in a word of the story he was unfolding.
‘So that’s it, and here I am,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes.’
‘I want to tell your mother, but I don’t dare. I wondered if you could sort of pave the way,’ he said.
‘I’ll make you some coffee,’ she said.
He followed her into the kitchen.
‘I thought you might be able to make it less of a shock,’ he said. ‘Coming from a woman, I mean.’
‘Yes, all right. I’ll tell her,’ she said.
‘I just can’t,’ he said. ‘I feel such a fool.’
Linda rushed up to him and hugged him. Tears sprang to her eyes. She began to shake. Day after day of routine, then this, in one morning, first Jimmy and then this, one ordinary Friday morning, with the new one-man buses passing the front gate every twenty minutes as usual.
‘Oh by the way,’ he said, as they drank their coffee. ‘I met Tom at Henleaze Ffoliat, when I was posing as Lord Amhurst. He didn’t recognize me.’
He told her how anxious Tom had been to get home to her, and how loving he was. She burst into tears.
‘I understand. It’s a delayed reaction,’ he said, patting her head ineffectually. ‘It’s the shock of seeing me.’
He poured them both a glass of turnip wine.
It was Tuesday before Linda got a chance of seeing Elizabeth, because Elizabeth had gone down to Worthing for a long weekend.
Linda hadn’t told Tom about Reggie. She’d been intending to, but somehow she couldn’t start. Perhaps it was because it had happened so soon after Jimmy.
She sat in the Parker Knoll chair. Elizabeth had made a pot of tea, and there were chocolate biscuits. Her mother looked almost as nervous as she did.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ said Linda.
‘I’ve something to tell you first,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’m going to be married.’
‘What?’ said Linda, standing up abruptly.
‘Don’t look so shocked. It’s only to Henry Possett.’
Linda sat down again.
‘You’re shocked,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You think it’s too soon.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘It would be if it was a stranger. But I knew Henry before I knew Reggie. He’s the only person I could ever marry, after Reggie.’
‘It does seem a bit quick. I mean . . .
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I thought about it a lot before I proposed.’
‘You proposed?’
‘Oh yes. On Worthing pier. He’d never have dared propose to me. We’re keeping it a secret for a while of course. It wouldn’t be seemly to announce it so soon.’
‘I suppose not. Well, congratulations, mother.’
‘Thank you. I hope you’ll feel pleased when you get used to the idea.’
‘I expect I will.’
Linda kissed her mother, and Elizabeth insisted on broaching a bottle of hock.
‘Now,’ she said, when she’d poured out the wine. ‘What was your news?’
‘My news? Oh. Oh yes. Jocasta has two new teeth.’
‘Oh. Marvellous. Oh, by the way, I thought it best – and Henry agrees – and the vicar’s perfectly willing. We’re going to hold a memorial service for Reggie.’
September
‘Oh,’ said Reggie. ‘Well that’s that, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Linda. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I hope she’ll be very happy,’ said Reggie.
‘Yes,’ said Linda.
‘How can she marry somebody with such thin lips,’ said Reggie.
It was Friday morning. The children were back at nursery school, and Reggie had taken the morning off. He was wearing his gardening clothes, so that he could go straight on to the mental home afterwards.
Linda poured him a glass of sultana wine, and they went out into the garden. It was a day of mild September wistfulness.
They sat on the rustic seat, under an apple tree.
‘Cheer up, father,’ said Linda.
‘I love your mother,’ said Reggie.
‘You’ll get over it,’ said Linda.
Reggie picked up a windfall and hurled it savagely into the rare shrubs.
‘They’re holding a memorial service for you,’ said Linda.
‘Good God.’
‘Next Thursday. Your brother’s coming down from Aberdeen.’
‘Good God.’
‘There’s a piece in this morning’s local paper about it.’
‘Good God.’
There were fluffy toys and overturned lorries lying on the lawn.
‘I’ll have to come to that,’ said Reggie.
‘What? You can’t go to your own memorial service,’ said Linda.
‘I should have thought I above all people had a right to be there.’
‘People will recognize you.’
‘No, they won’t. You didn’t. Nobody has. I’m at the bottom of the sea as far as they’re concerned.’
‘I don’t like the idea of your going,’ said Linda.
‘I’m going to be there – and that’s all there is to it,’ said Reggie.
A hedge sparrow was watching them from the roof of the folly.
‘I wonder if I’ll ever marry,’ said Reggie. He stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to see that article. It’s not often I get my name in the paper.’
‘It isn’t exactly your name,’ said Linda.
She led him into the living room and handed him the paper. She poured another glass of sultana wine while he read.
MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR CLIMTHORPE MAN
There is to be a memorial service for the local businessman who was presumed to have drowned himself after his clothes were found piled by the sea on a beach in Dorset in June.
He is Mr Reginald I. Perry, who lived in Coleridge Close, Climthorpe.
He is Mr Reginald I. Perry, who lived piled by the sea on a beach in Dorset in June.
At the time of his death an official of the well-known London firm of Sunshine Desserts stated that Peppin had been ‘over-corked’.
A police spokesman told us today, ‘We have no reason to suppose that Mr Peppin is not deaf, although his body has never been found.’
The memorial service will be piled by the sea on a beach in Dorset in June.
‘It’s a fitting obituary,’ said Reggie.
‘Oh, father!’ said Linda.
A car pulled up on the gravel outside. A door slammed tinnily. There were loud footsteps. The bell rang firmly.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Linda. ‘Whoever it is, I won’t let them in.’
It was Major James Anderson, serving his last month with the Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry.
‘Come in, Jimmy,’ she said.
She led him into the living room. He was in uniform, and wearing his medal. She saw Reggie stiffen with shock. She only hoped Jimmy wouldn’t recognize him.
‘I have the plumber here,’ she said. ‘Uncle Jimmy, this is the plumber. The plumber, this is Uncle Jimmy.’
They shook hands.
‘Watcher, mate,’ said Reggie, and he knocked back the remains of his sultana wine. ‘Yeah – well – I’ll be off then, lady. Ta for the vino. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble in so far as your ballcock. And I’ve cleared your persistent drip. That’ll be six pounds seventy-five. I’d like it in cash if you don’t mind, lady. I don’t declare everything to the tax people, why should I, nobody else does.’
Linda handed her fath
er six pounds seventy-five.
‘I’ll see you out,’ she said.
When she opened the door she could see the sadness in Reggie’s eyes. She wanted to kiss him good-bye, but Jimmy might be surprised if she kissed the plumber.
She returned to the living room, and offered Jimmy a glass of sultana wine.
‘Bit early for me,’ he said. ‘Just a small one.’
She poured out the drink.
‘Do you usually give your plumber sultana wine?’ said Jimmy.
‘You have to give them things these days, if you want to keep them,’ said Linda. ‘My french polisher has smoked salmon sandwiches.’
She sat on the chaise longue. Jimmy sat in the rocking chair. He rocked cautiously, stiffly, regimentally.
‘Just came round, apologize,’ he said.
‘There was no need,’ said Linda.
‘Nonsense. Bad business. Your own uncle. Almost like incest. Chaps cashiered for less.’
‘Really, Jimmy, it’s over and done with,’ said Linda.
Jimmy came over and sat on the chaise longue beside her. He put his hand on her right knee.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’m only apologizing.’
He caressed the smoothness of her leg through a small hole in her tights.
‘I love you,’ he said.
She led the way upstairs, and they made love on the striped sheets. Linda was on fire and Jimmy groaned hoarsely as they reached a marvellous climax together.
Afterwards they dressed in silence and didn’t look at each other.
‘Only came round to apologize,’ said Jimmy. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Linda.
‘Chap comes round to say, “Sorry. Bad show”. Does it again. Shocking show,’ said Jimmy.
‘Well at least let’s try and enjoy it,’ said Linda. ‘Let’s not ruin it with guilt.’
‘Quite right. Sorry. No guilt. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed it very much. Wouldn’t mind doing it again,’ said Jimmy.
‘No,’ said Linda. ‘Now, can I get you some food?’
‘Lord no, didn’t come round for that. Unless you’ve got the odd scraps.’
‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Linda.
‘Last consignment much appreciated. Literally saved our bacon,’ said Jimmy. ‘Top-hole pheasant paté. General verdict – yum-yum.’
Linda gave him cold roast beef, hare terrine, bloaters, instant coffee, a smoked trout, six oranges, half a pound of Cookeen and a damson pie.