Starter for Ten

by David Nicholls

  “Look, I'm not interested, Bri, that's between you and Spence.”

  “So I suppose it's my fault he decided to get pissed-up and drive into a tree as well?”

  “I didn't say that, did I? Just sort it out, Brian, all right?” and Tone hurries on up the street, head down against the rain, then pauses for a second, half-turns. “And try not to be too much of a twat about it. Yeah?” Then he turns and hurries off back to work, and I find myself wondering if I'll ever see him again.

  36

  QUESTION: First isolated by F. W. A. Serturner in 1806, what is the common name of the narcotic analgesic derived from the unripe seeds of Papaver somniferum?

  ANSWER: Morphine.

  A morning in May 1979, three days after Dad's funeral. I'm lying on the sofa with the curtains still drawn, watching Saturday-morning television in my school uniform. Technically, of course, I don't need to be in school uniform, but I tend to wear it all year round anyway, because it's easier, and I don't really know what else to wear; my concession to the weekend is that I don't put my tie on.

  The relatives have all gone home and it's just Mum and me now. Mum's not at her best, and has taken to sleeping in late, then padding round the house in her dressing gown, leaving a trail of dirty mugs and cigarette ends, or dozing curled up on the sofa all afternoon and on into the evening. The whole house has a hot, gray, sickly aspect, but neither of us can quite find the energy or motivation to draw the curtains and open a window, empty an ashtray, turn the television off, wash up the dishes, cook something other than spaghetti hoops. The fridge is still crammed with leftover cake, cling-wrapped sausage rolls and flat bottles of cola from the wake. I'm eating cheese-and-onion crisps for breakfast. This is pretty much the worst time.

  When the doorbell rings, I assume it's one of the neighbors popping round to check up on Mum. She answers, and I hear a voice in the hall that I don't recognize, then Mum's opening the lounge door, dressing gown held closed for propriety's sake, and putting on the funny “well-spoken” voice she uses for important visitors.

  “There's someone here to see you, Brian!”

  She steps to one side, and Spencer Lewis walks in.

  “All right, Bri?”

  I sit up straight on the sofa. “All right, Spence?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Glass of Coke, Spencer?” asks Mum.

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Jackson.”

  Mum backs discreetly out of the room, and Spencer comes and sits next to me on the sofa.

  It's hard to overemphasize the significance of a visit from Spencer Lewis. It's not like we're even mates or anything; we've barely spoken before—maybe just a bit of name-calling on the football pitch, a nod of recognition in the queue for the ice-cream van. There seems to be no possible explanation as to why someone as cool, popular and hard as Spencer Lewis should come and visit me, the kind of nutter who wears his school uniform on a Saturday. But here he is, sitting on the settee.

  “What you watching?” “Swap Shop.”

  “I bloody hate Swap Shop,” he says. “Yeah, me too.” I sniff sardonically, though secretly I like it. We sit in silence for a moment or two, then he says, “I accidentally called your mum Mrs. Jack

  son. D'you think she minds?” “Nah. She's all right,” I say. And apart from that, he doesn't mention Dad dying at all, or ask about the funeral or “how I'm feeling,” thank God, because that would just be embarrassing—we are twelve-year-old boys, after all. Instead, he sits and drinks flat cola and watches telly with me. He tells me what bands are crap and what bands are good, and I believe him, and agree with everything he says. It feels like a film star's come to visit, or someone better than a film star, someone like Han Solo. And it feels like an act of absolute kindness.

  Spencer's left leg is broken in three places, his right in two. His collarbone has snapped, which is particularly painful because it's impossible to set a collarbone in plaster, so he can't really move the top half of his body. His arms seem to be okay, though there are some cuts on the palms of his hand and his forearm from broken glass. Thankfully there's no damage to the spine or skull, but six of his ribs are fractured where they impacted against the steering wheel. This makes breathing painful and unaided sleep almost impossible, so he's on quite a lot of medication. His nose is broken, red and swollen, and the brow over his right eye is badly split, and contains six thick black stitches. The eye itself is deep black and purple and swollen, and remains half-closed. The top of his head meanwhile is peppered with dark red scabs from the shattered windscreen, clearly visible beneath the still-short hair, and there's more stitches in his left ear where the lobe was partially torn off by the broken glass.

  “But apart from that?”

  “Apart from that I'm actually feeling really good,” says Spencer, and we both laugh for a while, before sinking back into silence.

  “You think I look rough! You should see the tree!” he says, not for the first time, I suspect, and we laugh again, Spencer sniggering and wincing at the same time, because of the pain from his ribs and collarbone. He's on pills, of course. He's not sure what they are exactly, but it's definitely something a bit stronger than aspirin, some kind of opiate, he thinks. And it seems to be doing the trick, because there's an uncharacteristic mirthless smile lurking around the corner of his mouth. Nothing disturbing, not like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, just a strange sort of vaguely inappropriate amusement. His speech, usually so sharp and direct, is groggy and distant, as if a hand were pressed over his mouth.

  “Still, the good news is they've postponed my court case about the dole-fiddling thing.”

  “That's good.”

  “Yeah, almost makes this all worthwhile. Haven't got any fags, have you?”

  “Spencer—I don't smoke.”

  “I'm gasping for a fag. And a pint.”

  “It's a hospital, Spencer.…”

  “I know, but still …”

  “What's the food like?” I ask.

  “Not particularly tasty.”

  “And the nurses?”

  “Not particularly tasty.”

  I smile, and make a noise to show that I'm smiling, because I'm out of his eye line, and he doesn't seem to be able to move his head too well. “And what about all this … ?” I indicate the plaster cast on his legs, his bandaged hands. “Are there going to be any, you know, legal … repercussions?”

  “Don't know yet. Probably.”

  “Bloody hell, Spencer …”

  “All right, Bri, don't start …”

  “… Well, you must have known that something …”

  “You haven't come all this way to tell me off, have you, Bri?”

  “No, of course not, but you have to admit …”

  “… Yeah, I know—don't smoke, don't fight, don't fiddle your dole, don't drink and drive, wear a seat belt, work hard, go to night school, get your qualifications, go on a scheme—you're like a fucking walking public-information film sometimes, Brian.…”

  “… Sorry, I …”

  “… We don't all do the sensible thing all the time, Brian …”

  “… No, I know …”

  “… We can't all be like you …”

  “… Hey, I don't always do the sensible … !”

  “… You know what I mean, though, don't you?”

  And he doesn't shout any of the above, because he can't shout, he just sort of hisses it between his teeth, before lapsing into silence again. There's something I know I have to say, and haven't quite found the words yet, but I'm about to open my mouth to try, when he says, “Pour us some water, will you?” I pour him a plastic cupful, hand it over, and as he strains to sit up straight, I can smell his breath, which is hot and metallic.

  “Anyway …” He sighs, letting his head fall back on the pillow “… How's Alice?”

  “Oh, all right. I stayed over the other night, so …”

  “You're joking—really?
” he says, smiling sincerely, turning his head on the pillow to look at me. “So you're actually going out with her, then?”

  “Well, we're taking it slowly,” I say, a little bashfully. “Really, really slowly, actually, but, yeah, it's good.”

  “Brian Jackson, you dark horse …”

  “Yeah, well, we'll see.” I sense that this is the time to do the proper, adult thing, so I take a deep breath. “Alice said you put a word in for me. At that party.”

  “Did she?” he says, without looking at me.

  “I was a bit of a wanker to you, wasn't I?”

  “No, you weren't.…”

  “I was, Spence, I was a complete wanker.…”

  “Bri, you're fine.…”

  “I don't set out to be a wanker, you know, it just sort of happens.…”

  “… Let's just forget it, yeah?”

  “No, but still …”

  “All right, if it makes you happier, Bri, then yes, you were a complete wanker. Now can we forget about it?”

  “But how are you feeling, though … ?”

  “What about … ?”

  “… About, you know, things?”

  “In general, you mean? Don't know. To be honest, I'm just really tired. Tired and a little bit scared, Bri.” He says this very quietly, and I have to lean forward in my chair to hear him, and notice that his eyes are red and wet. He senses me looking at him, and puts both hands vertically over his face, pressing his eyes hard with his fingertips, exhaling slowly and deeply, and I feel twelve years old again, sad, embarrassed, with no idea what to do now—some sort of act of kindness, I suppose, but what? Maybe put my arm around him? But I feel awkward about getting up out of my chair, anxious about the other people in the ward seeing, so I stay where I am.

  “It's meant to be scary, though, isn't it?” I say. “You know, life, this bit of it. That's what people say.…”

  “Yeah. S'pose so …”

  “It gets better.…”

  “Does it?” he says, his eyes still covered. “'Cause it seems like I've just fucked everything up, Bri.…”

  “Rubbish! You're fine, mate, you're going to be absolutely fine,” and I reach across, and put my hand on his shoulder, and squeeze it. The gesture feels clumsy and self-conscious, leaning forward in my chair with my arm outstretched, but I stay like that for as long as I can, until his shoulders stop shaking. Eventually he takes the hands away from his eyes.

  “Sorry—it's these painkillers,” he says, wiping his eyes with his cuffs.

  Shortly afterwards, we run out of things to say, and even though I've got plenty of time, I stand up and grab my coat.

  “Hey, I better run, or I'll miss my last connection.”

  “Thanks for coming, mate …”

  “Pleasure, mate …”

  “Well, not a pleasure …”

  “Well, no, but, you know …”

  “Hey, aren't you going to sign my plaster cast first?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” and I go to the end of the bed, grab a Bic from one of the clipboards and find a blank space to write. There are a lot of “Best wishes” and names I don't recognize, and a “Serves you right, you twat” and “The Zep Rule!” from Tone. I think for a moment, and write, “Dear Spence. Apologies and Thanks. Break a leg! Ha-Ha! Loads of love, your mate, Bri.”

  “What have you written then?”

  “Oh—break a leg …”

  “‘Break a leg'! …”

  “You know—good luck. It's a theatrical term …”

  And Spencer looks at the ceiling, laughs through his teeth and says slowly, “You know, Brian, you really can be the most unbelievable prick sometimes.”

  “Yeah, Spence, I know, mate. I know.”

  37

  QUESTION: Which third-century Christian martyr, either identified as a Roman priest and physician who died during the persecution of Christians by the emperor Claudius II Gothicus, or as the bishop of Terni, also martyred in Rome, has, since the fourteenth century, had a feast day in his name allocated specifically as a festival for lovers?

  ANSWER: Saint Valentine.

  Whenever I hear Edith Piaf sing “Non, je ne regrette rien”—which is more often than I'd like, now that I'm at university—I can't help thinking, What the hell is she talking about? I regret pretty much everything. I'm aware that the transition into adulthood is a difficult and sometimes painful one. I'm familiar with the conventions of the rites of passage, I know what the literary term Bildungsroman means, I realize that it's inevitable that I'll look back at things that happened in my youth and give a wry, knowing smile. But surely there's no reason why I should be embarrassed and ashamed about things that happened thirty seconds ago? No reason why life just should be this endless rolling panorama of botched friendships, fumbled opportunities, fatuous conversations, wasted days, idiotic remarks and ill-judged, unfunny jokes that just lie on the floor in front of me, flipping about like dying fish?

  Well, not anymore. I've decided that enough is enough. On the train home, contemplating the latest round of incredible fuck-ups, I resolve that I'm going to have to change my life. Generally speaking, I resolve to change my life on average maybe thirty to forty times a week, usually at about 2:00 a.m., drunk, or early the next morning, hungover, but this one is a big one, I'm going to live life well from now on. Being Cool and Aloof clearly isn't working for me, and probably never will, so instead I'm going to concentrate on living a life based on the central tenets of Wisdom, Kindness and Courage.

  When the train finally pulls into the station, I make a start on my wiser, kinder, braver life. I find a call box on the platform, check that I have enough change, and dial the number. Des answers; now it's out in the open, I suppose there's no reason why he shouldn't.

  “Hello?” he says.

  “Hi! Des, it's Brian here!” I say, bright as a button, then realize that I've unconsciously called him Des, not Uncle Des, though whether this is a symptom of my more mature attitude to life, or a Freudian response to the fact that he's having sex with my mother, I'm not entirely sure.

  “Oh. Hello there,” he says, bizarrely sounding scared of me, though God knows why, since Des weighs about fourteen stone, and besides it's not as if I can punch him down the phone line. There's a pause as he readjusts the receiver. “Sorry about, you know, flashing my fella at you this morning. Obviously we were going to tell you, about me and your mum …”

  “Des, really, it's fine, completely fine,” I assure him, and catch sight of my reflection in the call box glass, grinning like a circus clown. “Is Mum there?” I ask, which is a pretty stupid question really, considering it's her house.

  “'Course. I'll pass you over,” and I hear a rustle as he puts his hand over the receiver, mumbles something, and then Mum picks up.

  “Hello?” she says warily, the receiver not quite near her mouth.

  “Hi, Mum.”

  “Hello, Brian. Did you get back home all right?” she asks, overenunciating slightly, which means she's drunk.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, and there's a silence, and I have a fleeting desire to hang up. But then I remember my new watchwords, Wisdom, Kindness, Courage, so I swallow hard and start speaking.

  “Look, hi, I just wanted to say …”—what do I want to say?—“I just wanted to say I've thought about it and I'm really, really pleased about you and Des, and I think it's fine that you're getting married, really I do. In fact I think it's a great idea, and he's a really nice bloke, and I'm sorry if … well, it was a shock, that's all …”

  “Oh, Brian …”

  “And I'm okay about the B and B too. I'll come down in the Easter break and clear out my stuff and then it's all yours. Like you said, it's only a load of model planes, after all. So what I'm saying, what I mean to say, is that I think it's a good thing. I'm … pleased you're happy.” There's no reply from the other end of the line, just the sound of Mum's breathing, shifting the receiver from one hand to the other. “As long as you don't expect me to call him �
�Dad,'that's all!” I say, as lightheartedly as I can manage. “Of course not, Brian …”And she's about to say something, then de cides not to, stops. “Well, that's it really. You're still coming tomorrow?”

  “'Course I am—wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  “And you're sure you can afford it, the train fare and everything?”

  “Brian, don't worry about that.…”

  “The ticket will be on the door, in your name.…”

  “Oh, and Brian? There's one other thing …”The pips are going and even though I can feel the weight of the loose change in my pocket, it feels as if I've said all I need to say. “Got to go now, Mum, out of money.…”

  “Brian, I need to ask you something else.…”

  “Go on then, quick.…”

  “Can Des come, too?”and then the line goes dead. I stand in the phone box with the receiver in my hand. The fact is I'd always expected Dad to be there. Not literally, obviously, not with him being dead and everything, but in my head, it had been Dad sitting in the audience, next to Mum, smiling, clapping, putting two thumbs up, and Mum must have known this too, otherwise she wouldn't have been so nervous about asking. And now it's not Dad, but Des, some bloke called Des, who I don't really know and I don't really like, and …

  I take change from my pocket, pick up the phone, dial the number, and Mum picks up almost immediately. “Mum?”

  “Oh, yes, Brian, I was just going to ask …”

  “I heard you, Mum. Of course you can bring Des.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “I'll sort out the ticket tomorrow.”

  “Oh. Okay then, Brian. If you're sure …”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Bye then.”

  “Bye then.”

  And I hang up.

  I stay in the phone box for a while after that, standing, thinking, well, it's early days but the Wisdom, Kindness, Courage policy seems to be working out pretty well, so far. I think I might even have done something good for once. And even though I should go home to work out what to wear for the filming tomorrow and get a good night's sleep and everything, I decide to go and see Alice, because it is Valentine's Day, after all, and she'll have read my poem by now.