by Nick Thripp
‘It’s called Bed Sheets.’ She breathed the words heavily.
Neil chipped in, his tone clipped. I imagined he’d been practising what he thought a thrusting business executive would sound like.
‘Something I started; fantastic potential. Selling space in free news sheets, delivered to all the top hotels in London to place in their bedrooms. Next year we start in Manchester, the year after Leeds. A little gold-mine. Best of all, no competition.’
I glanced at Samantha. She was staring into the middle distance.
‘What’s more—’ Neil said.
‘Popping to the loo.’ Samantha stood up.
‘How long have you known her?’ I asked Neil, my eyes lingering on her departing figure.
‘Eight days.’
‘Isn’t screwing the staff a bit of a problem?’ I said, trying to find a rationale to cloak my jealousy. ‘Doesn’t it piss the others off?’
‘There aren’t any others. Besides, it keeps the cost down. I provide board and lodging, so I don’t have to pay her as much.’
‘Quite the hard-headed businessman,’ I said, wondering who was really being screwed. Over Neil’s shoulder, I could see her laughing and tossing her hair as she talked to the two men in shiny suits who had intercepted her on her way to the toilet.
His expression changed. ‘Not really. In fact, I think I’m in love.’
I swallowed hard. Even I knew that Samantha was not a girl to love. She was a girl to have a good time with, to enjoy, to relish and to lose. I wondered whether to warn him, but one look at that bedazzled expression told me there was no point, and we lapsed into an uncomfortable silence which lasted until Samantha sashayed her way back to our table. As though a switch had been thrown, Neil started back into life.
‘You’ll never guess who I’m in contact with again.’ He didn’t pause for an answer. ‘John Beart. He’s an entrepreneur now. In fact, if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have been able to get my business off the ground. He paid in advance for a load of advertising. By strange coincidence, he’s looking for an accountant to do some work for him. I ought to get the two of you together.’
‘No thanks.’
‘He’s changed completely, you know. You wouldn’t recognise him. He owns a posh flat and drives a flash car.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Are you still in touch with him?’
‘Just local gossip.’
I didn’t want to continue the discussion. The mention of his name conjured up the image of his mother in a kimono and brought back some recent memories which had left me in turmoil.
I emerged from my thoughts to find Neil staring at me. For a moment, feeling rather shaky, I wasn’t too sure where I was. Neil had obviously asked me a question and was awaiting an answer. I’d no idea what it was and, in my confusion, said ‘yes’, and gulped a mouthful of scotch, its rough warmth scorching my throat.
After more drinks, we exchanged telephone numbers and I made my way back to Jemima’s.
*
I lay awake all that night, my thoughts filled with Mrs Beart.
Following my mother’s relentless badgering, I’d paid a visit to my parents in Feston. Their house had all the charm of an old folks’ home; overcooked vegetables, suffocating central heating, and a mind-numbingly loud television that was continually on. Having cajoled me into coming, all they did was gaze at the box in the corner while he drank whisky and she played with a small sherry. There came a point on Saturday evening when I couldn’t take a second more of Bruce Forsyth and his woeful Generation Game.
Saying I wanted to stretch my legs, I strolled down towards the sea front, the road taking me past Mrs Beart’s maisonette. As I drew near, I saw the light was on and peered through the brightly-lit window. I was in the shadows when Mrs Beart appeared at the door and threw something into the bushes. She ran back into the front room, where a familiar looking man pushed her onto the sofa. She fell with a shrill scream, then leapt to her feet, yelling abuse. She hurled herself at him, her flailing fists making no impression on his ox-like frame. He pushed her down again, this time even more roughly, stormed out of the room, barged through the front door, which he left open, and jumped into a black Mercedes parked opposite. A few seconds later he was roaring down the road, leaving a grey-blue cloud of exhaust vapour hanging in the night air. I was transfixed by the sight of Mrs Beart lying face down on the sofa, her shoulders heaving. Drawing a deep breath, I tapped on the front door and went in.
‘Are you all right?’
Mrs Beart raised her head, her face wet with tears and her make-up smudged.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, curling up into the foetal position, and closing her eyes.
I dithered in the doorway.
‘Can I make you cup of tea?’ While it seemed a feeble suggestion, even to me, to my surprise she nodded. I righted the standard lamp and tiptoed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
When I returned a few minutes later, she was sitting up.
‘Draw the curtains.’
I perched on the arm of the sofa as we drank our cups of tea. I could sense her steadying herself and trying to control her breathing.
‘What did you see?’
I told her.
‘He’s a brute. I can’t take any more of his violence, or his lying, or his womanising. We’re through, finished—’
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘Years.’ Her voice was dull and flat. ‘Since the beginning really. I’ve always forgiven him before. Not this time. Enough is enough.’ She reached under the sofa and pulled out a battered leather-bound notebook.
‘It’s all in here. I’ve always kept a diary, ever since I was a little girl.’ She gulped loudly as she let it fall open to reveal pages crammed with spidery handwriting.
‘Why did you put up with it?’
‘John.’
‘John made you stay with him?’
‘No, of course not! He paid John’s school fees, then he took him into his firm. Very generous, he was. I couldn’t afford to upset him, so I put up with it, till now.’
Mrs Beart turned away from me and started to sob. I slid onto the sofa and put my arm around her. As her warm body sank against mine, her head turned towards me, our lips met, then our tongues, and we started caressing each other.
*
After making love, we lay curled up and I felt as though we were floating. I nuzzled her neck and breathed in her scent. It reminded me of sweet almonds with the faintest hint of something muskier in the background.
She stroked my hair and kissed my chest.
‘I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for you, you know. I never guessed we’d end up like this though. It’s rather Lady Chatterley, isn’t it?’
I looked hard into her deep violet eyes.
‘I’ve always been in love with you.’
'Silly boy! What nonsense.’
I told her about the portrait, about my crush on her, how I’d wanted to hold her tight and protect her when I’d seen her battered face. She pulled me gently towards her.
‘You darling, you’re so sweet.’ We kissed and I felt a thickening in my loins which gave way to a sudden sense of panic.
‘Shit, my parents’ supper!’
Mrs Beart stared at me.
‘They’ll be waiting for me to get back to eat their soused herrings.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I’ve been gone for hours. My father will go ballistic.’
I struggled into my clothes. Mrs Beart, barefoot and in her pale green kimono, came to the front door with me. I kissed her on the lips and, despite a surge of desire, pulled myself away. I looked back when I was at the gate. She waved, a delicate half-circling of her fine-boned wrist, and I forced a smile.
‘See you tomorrow,’ I shouted as I broke into a jog. I tried to rationalise my
actions as I pounded home. However hard I tried, I couldn’t quell the queasy feeling I’d acted like a prat and all through fear of my father. Those memories of my brother’s heated arguments with my father came back to me; Philip’s face livid with bruises, his nose parallel with his cheek and streaming with blood, one eye blackened and rapidly swelling, my father standing at the top of the stairs and yelling at him, my mother and I huddling together in the lounge. After many indignities, my brother had finally braved the no-holds-barred show-down which had ended with him first in Accident and Emergency and then homeless.
I clenched my fists, determined to be as courageous yet, at the same time, avoid a brawl.
As soon as my key entered the lock my father was at the front door, the smell of whisky heavy on his breath.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Out for a walk.’
‘You liar! Tell me the truth.’
My mother cowered in the sitting-room doorway.
‘You’re drunk.’ I said, straightening up. ‘Still, if you really must know, I’ve been with Mrs Beart.’
He slapped me hard across the right cheek. I breathed deeply, willing him not to strike me again.
‘That harlot? What have you been doing there?’ He pushed his chest up against mine. I was taller but he was much stockier. The veins in his face were purple and there were wisps of iron-grey hair on his cheeks. Even though my arms and legs were trembling, I stood my ground. I spoke slowly, trying to keep my voice low and calm.
‘I’ve been working out a planting plan for her. I’ve got to go back there tomorrow to finish off the details.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. I’m not having my son hanging around with that trollop.’ He took half a step back, his face puce and a globule of spit lodged in the corner of his mouth. ‘In any case, tomorrow we’re going to see Aunt Winifred in Glospool.’ He stubbed his finger into my chest. ‘You included.’
‘I’m not coming.’ My voice wavered and I took a deep breath to steady myself. ‘I’m not a kid any more. You can’t order me around. I’ll do what I want.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ My father turned on his heel.
My mother waited until he’d disappeared, then grabbed my sleeve. ‘I’ve saved your supper for you.’ She looked shaken.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, beset by a wave of nausea.
‘Please come with us tomorrow, dear. He’ll be unbearable if you don’t.’ Her grip on my arm tightened. ‘He’ll only take it out on me. You know what he’s like.’
I didn’t like being reminded that I’d been complicit in appeasing my father over the years, swallowing hard and trying to placate him when he picked on me and looking the other way when he vented his anger on my brother. What made me most angry, though not quite enough to prompt me to intervene, was seeing my father bully my mother. I’d never seen him hit her but I had witnessed him putting her down at every opportunity, belittling her views and criticising her if anything went amiss, whether it was her fault or not.
I looked around for some means of escape. I even thought of bolting back to Mrs Beart’s and asking to spend the night there, and might have done so had my mother not still been holding tightly onto me, a lifetime’s worrying etched into her forehead.
‘Please dear, please, just for me.’
I felt her tremble as my father emerged from the kitchen and stomped upstairs without saying a word to either of us. A tear had formed in the corner of her eye. I couldn’t bear it if she cried.
‘Well, I suppose I could come for a while.’ I pictured my dotty aunt and my spirits sank. Spending any time with her was an ordeal.
‘Thank you, dear.’ My mother’s eyes were misty with relief.
*
Aunt Winifred was in a care home, twenty-five miles away. My father normally set off as early as possible. That day he seemed content to dawdle. He leafed through the Sunday Telegraph over breakfast, reading out articles supporting his contention that economic failure under the Labour Government was inevitable. He chuckled as he predicted widespread civil unrest, followed by an intervention by the army to restore order. Then he went outside, where he checked the car’s oil level and topped up the radiator while engaging in a lengthy conversation with the retired estate agent next door. Sauntering back, he paused to pluck out a few dandelions from the cracks between the crazy paving on the front drive. My mother busied herself cleaning the already gleaming surfaces in the kitchen, while I perched on the edge of a chair in the sitting-room, scanning the sports pages and glancing at the clock every few minutes.
We finally left at 11.30, taking the meandering route through the lanes instead of the A road. We arrived just as the staff were serving lunch and were asked to come back at 2. My father drove us to a nondescript Victorian pub where we ate translucent slices of roast lamb smeared with grey gravy and surrounded by soggy vegetables. He drank three pints of bitter in quick succession while I nursed a half-pint and my mother sipped a sweet sherry. We left for the care home shortly after 2.30.
Aunt Winifred didn’t recognise any of us. She’d been a nurse in the blitz and was busy reliving her experiences.
‘You work on this one doctor, I’ll bandage the little girl,’ she barked, leaping from her chair and darting around the room, mumbling incoherently and shaking her head.
We lasted a couple of hours until the non-sequiturs, stultifying heat and smell of stale urine drove us out. There would just be time to get to Mrs Beart’s if we left now.
‘I think your mother deserves a cream tea, don’t you?’ My father brought the car to a halt outside a small café.
‘Well, actually—’
My mother interrupted.
‘What a treat!’
I dug my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket. Sometimes my mother’s passivity angered me almost as much as my father’s bullying.
The café was full of fat contented cats sprawling across most of the chairs. When, braving my cat allergy, I tried to move a warm bean-bag of a ginger tom so the three of us could sit down, the other customers stared and muttered their disapproval. The service was excruciatingly slow and it took half an hour for our order to be taken.
‘Please don’t do that dear, you’re making the table shake,’ my mother said, glancing down at my feet.
‘Typical,’ my father said. ‘No consideration for others.’
I felt my body tense as I stifled the almost overwhelming urge to respond.
‘Well, this is pleasant.’ My mother looked round the teashop, her gaze settling on a row of Toby Jugs. ‘I do like that one on the end, the one with the blue hat. So much character, so colourful.’ She started humming softly to herself and stared into the middle distance. A few moments passed. I counted the number of people who were still waiting for their food, and noticed that at least one couple had come in after us and had been served already. My mother looked at me again.
‘Please don’t do that either dear. It puts me on edge.’ She stared at my fingers, which were drumming lightly on the table. I slid my hands into my lap. My father glowered. Usually it was his legs that twitched or his fingers that drummed. Of course, she didn’t complain then.
The owners, a brother and sister in their late sixties, continually brought the wrong dishes to everyone. I’d ordered a toasted teacake. A muffin arrived instead. I saw from the grandfather clock in the corner that we’d been waiting for our food for half an hour already, so I reckoned it best to accept it. My father thought otherwise and testily rejected the hot buttered scones brought to him in place of crumpets. The result was confusion and another twenty minutes’ wait.
When the bill arrived, it was wrong by a few pence. My father insisted on its being corrected, citing the error as his reason for not leaving a tip. My mother and I started to sidle towards the door.
‘Hold on.’ My father nodded in the direction of
the toilet. We shuffled back to our chairs and waited for him.
It was getting dark when we finally left, and we set off down a road I didn’t recognise. We were surrounded by fields when the car started juddering. My father and I got out. The front right tyre was punctured and the spare was flat. I trudged back to the teashop to phone for help. It had closed. The village shop was also in darkness. The public phone box nearby wasn’t working and the pub didn’t open until 7 o’clock, so we had to wait.
When the pub opened, I phoned the AA and I tried to obtain Mrs Beart’s number from the operator only to find she was ex-directory. My parents came into the pub. I couldn’t face spending any more time with them so I went back to the car and sat on the back seat picking out, with my index finger, the faint brown stain left by Erica’s virginal blood all those years before. Becoming involved with Mrs Beart might be crazy, but it was better than settling down with someone like Erica. I shuddered. Erica had bored me, and I’d irritated her; we would probably have frittered our lives away watching television and barely speaking to each other, just like my parents.
*
‘You should always check your spare tyre when you do the others,’ the AA man said, a disapproving tone in his voice. ‘The number of avoidable calls we receive; all most cars need is regular care and attention.’
‘I’ll get my father,’ I replied, ‘So you can tell him yourself.’ I went to the pub where my parents were sitting in silence.
‘Quite right,’ my father said on hearing the lecture himself. ‘A regrettable oversight on my part; pressure of work and all that, you know how it is.’ He slipped the AA man a folded pound note.
‘Quite understandable, sir. Perhaps you could delegate some of these routine tasks.’ He looked at me. I stared coldly back at him, and then at my father, whose obsequious smile had broadened into a self-satisfied beam. We got back into the car, my mother humming hymns softly to herself.
We finally arrived back at Feston at 9 o’clock and the last train left at 9.20. I raced in and packed a bag. My father drove me to the station and I made the train by thirty seconds. As I slumped against my seat, sweating heavily, I was acutely conscious I’d failed Mrs Beart. I imagined her looking out of the window, and then at the clock, and then sighing as the evening drew on and she realised the likelihood of my arrival was receding. Troublingly, these thoughts were interspersed with others in which she compared me unfavourably with previous lovers or, even worse, reprimanded herself for a foolish error of judgment which she would never repeat. And then I’d made a complete fool of myself with my unseemly exit. Why hadn’t I ignored my parents for once and done what I wanted? An image of my mother’s careworn face insinuated itself into my thoughts, and I struggled to rid myself of it.