by Hatch, Ben
‘What else did you do when you were a little boy?’ asks Phoebe.
‘We always played Monopoly on Sunday afternoons after my mum’s roast beef. Monopoly’s a board game like Tummy Ache, Phoebe. My dad made the loser do a forfeit.’
‘What’s a forfeit?’
‘If we lost all our money in the game, my daddy made us do something silly. Something to make everyone else laugh.’
One forfeit I remember was standing in the middle of the road about where we’re parked now in my pyjamas and having to sing ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’ at the top of my voice while the family watched from the doorstep, Dad laughing and shouting, ‘Louder, we can’t hear you. How many bags full?’
‘Maybe we should play Family Monopoly,’ I say.
‘And do forfeits?’ says Phoebe.
‘Yeah.’
‘Although maybe not ones in the road,’ says Dinah.
Our first attraction of the day is the Chester City Sightseeing bus. We love City Sightseeing buses for two reasons, a) because they give a great overview of a city, allowing you to work out where everything is in relation to everything else, and b) because the kids are always gifted a packet of Haribo sweets when they board and we get to sit down for five minutes while they eat them.
On the bus the commentator mixes historical context with tittle-tattle about, for example, the planned House of Fraser that will increase the city’s retail pull. He tells us about the Airbus A380 super jumbo that flies low over the city and that it was while visiting a cottage called Nowhere near City Road, where
The Beatles played at the Royalty Theatre in 1963, that John Lennon was inspired to write ‘Nowhere Man’. We exit the bus outside St John the Baptist church. The Norman church, which used to be the city’s cathedral, is where Dinah and I tied the knot on 8 December 2001, the rationale being it was the nearest nice place to her hometown of Widnes.
‘Fancy a peep?’ says Dinah.
‘We can’t really not.’
Inside Charlie shrugs off his Ben 10 rucksack, pours out its contents and begins constructing a circular rail track. Every time we stop now, even for just a couple of minutes, off comes his rucksack and Charlie lays rails.
‘Bless him!’ says Dinah.
‘Any chance he gets.’
The church is empty and, walking down the nave, I can vividly remember the moment I saw Dinah at the back of the church on her dad’s arm, her white dress merging with the sunlight. There hadn’t been as much traffic on the Runcorn Bridge as her mum suspected and for the first time in her life Dinah had been early, catching the organist out. Phoebe lies down on the stone floor and starts colouring beneath the altar and I can remember walking from the vestry after signing the register trying not to stand on Dinah’s train, the confetti being thrown as we’d stepped into the Roller, and the conversation we had after we pulled away.
‘It was shit. I wish I ’adn’t gone through with it,’ she’d told me.
‘It was a sham,’ I said.
‘We don’t love each other.’
‘We’ll get divorced now.’
‘What do you think of my dress?’
‘I prefer you in pyjamas.’
‘And the terrible thing is you mean that.’
Driving home the next morning, I’d kept wanting to hold her hand across the front seat of the car as we discussed whose was the best speech, who was best dressed. That afternoon before setting off for Heathrow we’d unwrapped the presents and rifled through our cards hoping for vouchers.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing. “To Dinah and Ben, wishing all the happiness in the world, hope you have a wonderful day,” etc. Sue and Pete. What’s in there?’
‘The same. “Always knew it would work out. Have a wonderful life together now and for always,” blah blah, no vouchers.’
Dinah had blagged two weeks in Mauritius in exchange for an article she was writing for Business Traveller magazine and at the BA check-in desk her travel connection got us upgraded.
‘I don’t have to tell you how clever you are, do I?’ I’d said, as we sat down.
‘No, but do it anyway.’
‘You’re so clever. I’m so excited.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything.’
‘The flight?’ she asked.
‘No, everything. Being married, the honeymoon, the flight.’
‘We’ll have a glass of champagne before take-off.’
‘Great idea.’
In that business cabin we fiddled with everything.
‘Look how far back the seats go.’
‘Have you seen the lumbar position?’
‘Look, I’ve put my socks on already!’
‘Let’s see the film choices.’
‘Could the cabin crew take their stations for take-off.’
‘Oh Dinah, I’m not ready for take-off. There’s too much to sort out.’
‘We don’t want to take off,’ said Dinah.
‘I really am so happy to be married.’
And Dinah had kissed me, then leant forward and kissed me again before making notes about the Butler’s Secret cheese on the menu for her article. And waking up from a micro snooze a short while later my wedding ring had knocked against the meal tray, instantly reminding me what had happened, that I was married to Dinah now, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy in my life.
We pass under the city’s famous Eastgate Clock on our way to the Dewa Roman Experience on Bridge Street, where, according to the blue file, kids can fire Roman catapults, build hypocausts and sit in a recreated Roman galley. But there’s a problem. The Northwest Regional Development Agency hasn’t cleared our visit and now the museum’s too full of school parties. Dinah’s response to conflict is to out-polite people. This passive-aggressive stance unfortunately rarely succeeds because nobody apart from me (and often not even me) can detect her voice rising half an octave, the only aggressive bit of her passive-heavy passive-aggressiveness.
‘That’s fine,’ she informs the ticket booth man. ‘We’ll come back later. Come on, kids.’
‘I can’t guarantee it’ll be any better later,’ he says. ‘You’re not on the list.’
I try to explain we should be on the list and, when this fails, I ask if he perhaps could ring the Northwest Regional Development Agency. Or let me ring them and pass the phone to him.
‘Or maybe you could speak to your manager,’ I say. ‘And check with him.’
Dinah holds my arm.
‘Ben!’ Dinah says. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says again to the man. ‘Come on, kids,’ and her voice now raising a tiny fraction, ‘Let’s go to the park where we’ll try to find something to write about.’
Walking to Grosvenor Park I try to explain to Dinah, who’s now angry with me, that I have different responses to conflict.
‘I tried politeness, this failed so I changed strategy and employed curtness. We’d probably have got in if you’d backed me up…’
‘Asking the name of his boss. You sounded like an arsehole, Ben.’
‘I asked if he could call his boss. And at least I didn’t thank him to death.’
‘You threatened him, that was your tone.’
‘I was goading him into being helpful. My strategy matched the situation.’
‘And asking if he was Welsh and then firing an imaginary arrow at him.’
‘He didn’t see that. I did that round the corner. You have to stand up for yourself once in a while.’
We’ve been told there’s a miniature railway in Grosvenor Park and when we can’t find it, I ask a litter picker by the fountain where it is. He shrugs and picks up a Calypso wrapper, and Dinah says ‘Good strategy, Ben’ like I’ve rubbed him up the wrong way as well. On our picnic I’m accused of being ‘on edge’ because I feel uncomfortable around the crazed squirrels here that approach us fearlessly on their hind legs looking to swipe the kids’ Hula Hoops.
‘They might have rabies, love.’
‘They’re
squirrels, darling. Calm down.’
Part of our City Sightseeing pass includes a thirty-minute pootle along the River Dee on the Mississippi-style paddle steamer, the Mark Twain, that starts near the suspension bridge close to the park, and cruises up to the Earl’s Eye along the Meadows. There’s on-board commentary and it’s quite relaxing until we reach the spot where witches were rolled in barrels into the water to see if they floated. Here Phoebe announces she wants back one of her rabbit pictures she completed in St John the Baptist church and had asked me to look after. My pockets are permanently filled with dirty feathers, flower petals, leaves and stones that Phoebe likes the look of, and also her rabbit pictures. At any one time I’ve dozens on me. From time to time, at great personal risk, I initiate a cull.
‘Daddy, can I see my rabbit picture?’
I rootle through my pockets, find a rabbit picture and hand it over.
‘Not that one, Daddy, the one with the ears.’
I stand up, check my pockets and find another.
‘That’s not a rabbit. That’s a puppy, Daddy.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course, rabbits don’t have long tails, Daddy.’
‘You’re right. Sorry.’
I pull out another.
Phoebe shakes her head.
I try to interest her in Carlton Villa, a house the boat is passing that the commentator’s talking about, but she’s too canny for that.
‘Daddy, I want my rabbit picture.’
‘I know, I know, and I will find it.’
She starts going through my pockets herself, reaching down into my jeans and yanking out her hand, scattering feathers, flowers, ticket stubs and coins on the deck. She spins me round to reach the other pocket. ‘Oh, you’ve lost it,’ she keeps repeating, as more detritus lands on the deck. ‘My favourite picture in the whole world.’
‘What’s that, Phoebe?’
She stares where I’m pointing.
‘It’s a cormorant. Did you see that? It was a cormorant.’ And, when that doesn’t interest her, I pretend I’ve seen a Nemo fish, ‘Look, floating by – a Nemo fish.’
‘Let me see your shirt pocket, Daddy.’
‘I’m serious, look! A Nemo fish. Did you see it? There!’
Phoebe stares over the railing as an orange crisp packet washes past.
‘Oh, yeah! I seen it!’ she shouts. ‘I seen it! Charlie, I seen a Nemo fish.’
‘You see?’ I tell Dinah, as the kids point and shout at the crisp packet. ‘What you do is apply the right strategy for the right situation.’
After the boat trip I insist we return to the Dewa.
‘You’ll make another scene.’
‘I didn’t make a scene last time, love.’
‘No, if we’re going, I’ll do it,’ she says.
‘You’ll be passive-aggressive and he won’t even know you’re angry.’
‘You had your go, Ben. It’s my turn.’
I’m taking photos of the eighteenth-century gilt-faced Eastgate Clock, according to our Northwest Regional Development Agency pack the second most photographed clock in Britain, when Dinah returns. Despite her triumphant face, I know straightaway it’s actually bad news. For me, anyway. And I’m right. There was a different man on the till, she explains. The manager this time.
‘Well?’
‘We’re barred, my love.’
‘What?’
‘After what you said. So much for there not being a scene. Maybe you’ll listen to me next time.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘They won’t tolerate verbal abuse. We’re barred.’
Except, as I point out to Dinah, I didn’t swear at Dewa man.
I cursed around the corner from Dewa man, not at Dewa man. And I cursed the unfortunate situation. Not Dewa man himself. But Dinah’s made up her mind. I was jumpy and cross. I’ve been jumpy and cross all day, and somehow I transferred this jumpy crossness to the ticket man and made him jumpy and cross as well. I probably made Phoebe jumpy and cross on the boat about her rabbit picture. Maybe the squirrels, too.
‘That’s outrageous. I need to talk to him.’
‘You’re not going to talk to him.’
‘I didn’t swear at him.’
‘You’ll make it worse.’
‘You saw. I didn’t swear at him, did I?’
‘Can we leave it?’
‘No.’
‘Ben, from how angry he was I wouldn’t be surprised if the Northwest Regional Development Agency’s been informed.’
‘Ooh, the Northwest Regional Development Agency’s after me, is it? I’m really bricking it now. What are they going to do? Rescind our family pass to the Ellesmere Port aquarium? Recall the brochure they sent us on the Manchester Ship Canal?’
‘Believe it or not I stuck up for you.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘I did, actually. And have you thought what you’re going to do if this gets back to Frommer’s?’
‘That little shit. He probably panicked because he hadn’t let us in and we’re journalists, so to cover his arse he made out I swore at him.’
The NCP car park costs a whopping £9 for the few hours we’ve been here, which I pay very unjumpily and very uncrossly and it’s actually Dinah, in Tesco, who decides we need a magnum of Pinot this evening.
Working our way through it with nibbles at our cottage in Helsby later, Dinah tells me her theory about my jumpiness: ‘Today reminded you of your wedding day nerves, Ben. You were nervous because you weren’t sure about marrying me because I wanted children. After what happened after your mum died. Now you realise if I’d listened to you we wouldn’t have Charlie and Phoebe and that would devastate you. You were a huge idiot – you still are in many ways – but I forgive you. Now pass me the Frazzles you curt little shit.’
I pass her the Frazzles.
CHAPTER 13
Draft Copy for Guidebook: A big push by Visit Wales to attract tourists to the ‘land of song’ recently saw a series of ads featuring the fictitious Drake family engaging in wholesome family activities such as horse riding in the Brecon Beacons and camping in Snowdonia, all set against the backdrop of Sweet Baboo, a Welsh artist, singing ‘How I’d Like to Live My Life’. Gravel-voiced TV comedian Rhod Gilbert starred in it, too, highlighting little-known facts about the country of his birth (‘Who knew there was wine made in Wales?’). We must confess that prior to this research we had little experience of Wales. The first time my wife came, she and her brother and sister all contracted impetigo from filthy bed linen in the caravan they rented in Rhyl (Who knew there was impetigo in Wales?). Her second time, in Prestatyn, aged sixteen, she was clouted round her (thankfully tightly permed) head with a 1,000-megawatt torch by her dad after she returned to their static caravan post-midnight smelling of Lambert & Butler cigarettes with ‘borstal boy Lee’. My own Welsh memories hinge on a week camping in the Brecon Beacons aged eight, where I was forced to amuse myself in an empty field with just a peacock
feather and the prospect of my dad’s proffered 25p reward for finding a four-leaf clover (a plant I now realise doesn’t exist). We now know, of course, that Wales has much more to offer than non-existent plants from the leguminous pea family and highly contagious bacterial skin infections. You can, for instance, descend 140 feet into a coal mine in Torfaen, hear a male voice choir in St David’s, and see paintings at Cyfarthfa Castle Museum & Art Gallery in Merthyr Tydfil that are by a small, curly black-haired man prone to playing the wobble board and singing about being one of two little boys who had two little toys (have you guessed who it is yet?). Yes, of course, we’re talking about Rolf Harris, whose grandfather (doesn’t it all make sense now you picture him?) was Welsh. Elsewhere you can visit the town with the longest name in the world,
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch,
visit a Baked Bean Museum of Excellence and have fun channelling T. E. Lawrence at Merthyr Mawr sand dunes where the famous David L
ean biopic was made: So long as the toddlers fight toddler against toddler, so long will they be a little people, a silly people – greedy, barbarous and cruel.
Crossing into North Wales all we’ve learnt to regard as the truth about our surroundings is surrendered within less than a mile of leaving Chester. Just as the radio reception scrambles into the Welsh voice of a man from the Friendly Garden Association talking excitably about a UFO spotted over Newport, we’re bombarded with confusingly insistent signs in ever larger white bold writing on the road saying something like ‘Cadwch Eich Peleter!’
‘What the hell’s cadwch?’
‘I don’t know. What’s Peleter?’ asks Dinah.
‘Can you see any signs in English?’
‘No. I’m looking.’
‘It’s the eich that worries me. We’re going to have to eich something soon. Jesus! Look at that one!’
The signs cross the entire road now, each letter 10 foot wide. It’s sort of like how you shout increasingly loud instructions in English to a foreigner hoping he’ll understand, only it’s being done with white paint on a B-road.
‘Pull over,’ says Dinah.
‘Maybe cadwch eich peleter means don’t pull over.’
But then as quickly as they materialised they disappear. More strange now is that in the space of a few seconds we’ve gone from day to night. Moments before, it was morning in Chester. Now it’s dark, already evening in Wales.
‘Are we in Wales?’ says Phoebe.
‘We think so.’
‘Why is Wales so dark, Daddy?’
‘We don’t really know, Phoebe.’
‘Whales?’ says Charlie, making a swimming motion with his hand.
‘Not whales,’ says Phoebe. ‘Wales, Charlie. There’s Wales the country and whales in the sea. We’re in Wales, the country.’