by Matthew Ross
As promised, I’d dropped off the t-shirts and groceries at his flat: he likes to think that because it’s over an estate agent it adds a bit of grandeur, but it is what it is, a grotty flat in lower Gillingham. He still managed to whinge though that I’d got the wrong brand of teabags and no biscuits on his march towards my kitchen to raid my larder.
If there’s one thing Uncle Bern knows, it’s the value of a pound. Uncle Bern hoards every penny he gets to fund his semi-retirement in the sun. His only luxuries when here are a few pints a couple of times a week at the Palm Cottage, and maybe a few home games at Gillingham depending on how well they’re doing at the time.
Sometimes Auntie Val comes too, but that’s always struck me as a marriage of convenience because usually when he’s in Spain she’s here and vice versa. She’s an odd one Auntie Val, one of those women that find a look that suits them and they then keep it for the rest of their lives. Val found her look a long time ago, she modelled herself entirely on the blonde one from ABBA – well, up until he grew his beard. But no, she really did look like the blonde woman from ABBA. The only problem is she still looks like the blonde one from ABBA forty years on with the blue eyeshadow, long boots, floaty skirts and berets. I’ve no idea what the blonde one from ABBA looks like now, but I’ll bet it’s not like Auntie Val.
None of Tommy’s unfinished works seemed particularly difficult and I’d made a shortlist of jobs that would be comfortably within Uncle Bern’s abilities. It was a very short shortlist.
Tommy, Disco and myself, we’d all been apprentice trained, we were professional trades. Uncle Bern was what you’d call a handyman, he’d had no formal training in anything, but when pushed he was able to turn his hand with varying success to a number of different tasks.
Even he should manage fine with what I was giving him to do, but true to form, faced with the prospect of doing some proper work Uncle Bern did what he does best – he panicked – and I was starting to lose patience. All I’d done was tell him I wanted him to check in on the Two Ronnies every other day to make sure they were getting on okay, you’d think I’d just told him he’d been put in charge of Brexit negotiations.
‘I can’t do that. You can’t expect me to climb up and down scaffolds, not with my knees, and then there’s my vertigo, I can’t go up there, I’ll get all giddy, it’s not safe.’
‘Oh, calm down. It’s only a basic painting job, there’s nothing to it, just relax.’
‘But I don’t know anything about painting, they’re the pros, why would they listen to me?’
‘Because we’re in charge of the money, that’s why.’ I’d hoped that would reassure him but he stood there blinking behind his thick glasses like a bemused weasel. ‘Look, if you don’t want to go up the ladder here’s an old trick I saw a clerk of works pull years ago.’ He nodded in eager anticipation, any trick to make life easier was always popular with Uncle Bern.
‘The scope says rub down all the joinery then prime, undercoat and two coats of gloss, understand?’ Nod nod, eager nod. ‘So, tell them to mix a drop of red paint into the primer. That way when you turn up it’s easy, you can stay on the ground and look up, if the timber’s pink they’ve primed it. Then next time you visit, if it’s all gone back to white they’ve undercoated it, and then next time you go after that, if it’s all shiny then they’ve glossed it – understand?’
Uncle Bern pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and nodded, causing them to slide back down again, and a confused expression settled on his face. ‘So, that’s how to spot if they’ve done the timber, but what about the stone work? How can you tell if they’ve done that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know! I suppose it’ll be clean of pigeon shit. So, are you happy, know what you’re doing?’
‘Yep, got it, make it pink and no pigeon shit,’ said Uncle Bern, looking for praise and a pat on the head. He didn’t get either. It’s not fair, what did I do to deserve being saddled with an idiot for an uncle?
‘Okay, fine, got it,’ said Uncle Bern, nodding his head then pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Every time he comes back from Viva España he looks a little bit older, the hair a little wispier, the face a little heavier. I suppose with my own parents gone he’s my only yardstick to chart the progress of generations passing. I always remember my mum to have been quite glamorous, she must have got the good genes because there’s something of the mole about Bern. I guess, thinking about it now, him and Val must have made quite a strange pairing back in the day – her a tall, attractive, Eurovision blonde, him the short, dark mole man. Mind you it was the early 70s, Dustin Hoffman was quite the heartthrob back then, I blame Hoffman, I’m sure Val does now.
I handed the keys of my van over to him and watched him fiddle with all the knobs and buttons, twiddle with the mirror and disturb and disrupt everything else to get comfortable. With a downturned mouth and a shrug of the shoulders, I was given the grateful praise, ‘It’ll do.’ You’re welcome Bern.
I bid him adieu and he rolled away, only to slam on the anchors about a hundred metres away, then came flying backwards at about forty miles an hour in a manner that’d give the ‘Fast and The Furious’ second thoughts. I asked him what he thought he was doing with some particularly fruity swears that I’d learnt from Disco added in for flavour.
‘Forgot to say, Harpo wants to meet up with you, got a bit of work for you, I’ll call you later with the details, toodle-oo.’ And with a crunching of gears that made my wallet wince he sped off like Lewis Hamilton with his arse on fire.
Uncle Bern arranged for us to meet Harpo at lunchtime in a pub in Wigmore, a well-heeled corner of the Medway Towns largely populated by bungalows that are being picked off for loft conversions and rebuilds at an alarming rate. The pub had recently been refurbished. Disco wasn’t impressed.
‘What have they done here?’ he said, wandering around getting a full look at the place. They’d removed every internal wall, knocking the bars and dining areas into one long narrow space with hard surfaces, hard floors and low ceilings. ‘It feels like one of those pubs you get in Heathrow Airport. You know, where everyone’s knocking back gin at six in the morning. They’ve given this place the same soulless charm.’
Disco was right. I honestly think in twenty or thirty years people will look back on the present and think it was a terrible time for pubs. They’re closing down every day and those that survive get this sort of treatment. Why is virtually every pub nowadays decked out with pale hardwood floors and hard plaster wall finishes so that the noise ricochets off every surface making it too loud for comfortable talking? And why is every available space filled with a huge tv screen that never gets turned off despite nobody ever watching it? But it wasn’t my fault so I didn’t feel the need to defend the pub’s refurb, I just shrugged.
‘They’re all much of a muchness round here now.’
Disco ordered us a round – soft drinks only, I’ve had it drummed into me for so long now that alcohol and building sites don’t mix that I’ve got out of the habit of drinking at lunchtime. Disco whinged and moaned a bit, but I’d already lost someone working for me this week so I think he understood why I was being a bit touchy about health and safety. He ordered for himself some brightly coloured energy drink that smelt foul and began rolling a fag.
‘I got a taste for it in Thailand, although it tastes better with rum.’
He poked his fag behind his ear for later, and then loudly, probably more loudly than was necessary, informed me and the rest of the bar he was going for a piss.
I was standing there trying to overlay this miserable barn of a place against the pub I remember it used to be when I spotted the disgusting but familiar face in the corner.
‘Hello Mark,’ said Duncan Harper, for it was he. He put his phone face down on the table, and pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with a pudgy finger.
‘Beard looks good, Harpo’ I said. It didn’t. ‘Really suits you.’ It didn’t. It was a nasty
patchy yellow-and-brown mess but Harpo seemed to like the compliment.
When Harpo smiled his face looked as if it was being devoured by wasps, jeez it was horrible. Clean shaven he was no lady killer but bearded he looked like a child killer. It was vile. He looked like he should be living rough out of a skip, less hipster, more dumpster. What is this fascination everyone has with beards? There’s a reason why they went out of fashion before, they should be consigned to history, things done in the 70s, and should never be seen again, like brynylon sweaters and home-done abortions.
Harpo was the man you went to if you needed the unusual, obsolete or odd. He had a large sprawling yard full of what he called architectural salvage but everyone else called old shit – however, if you needed a Bakelite door knob or a single Victorian encaustic tile, he was always the man who could help you out.
‘I understand you’ve been looking for me, Harpo,’ I said, pulling out a stool and settling opposite him.
‘And here I am looking at you.’ The thing about Harpo is that he can be a pedantic sod when he wants to, which is most of the time. ‘I’m glad you’re here Mark, I require your help.’
Great, someone else’s problems, as if I haven’t got enough of my own, I’m now importing them.
Harpo looked straight at me and smiled. ‘There’s a fox living in my yard. The problem is he’s not paying any rent but he keeps on turning on all the lights.’ He grinned, thinking himself a great wit, his revolting beard rolled and rippled like a doormat with worms. ‘As you will no doubt recall, you installed the lights so I need you to put them right.’
‘Lights? But? That was what four, five years ago Harpo?’
‘Five in May.’ Pedantic, see, told you so. ‘What about my warranty?’
‘Warranty? For a couple of halogen lamps? You’re joking?’
Harpo looked affronted, his grin fell away, like pissed off roadkill, ‘I thought you were an honest trader Mark, your Uncle Bern says –’
Uncle Bern! Back in the country five minutes and he’s already costing me money. For the sake of a quiet life I agreed to go over to Harpo’s yard in the next day or two, causing Harpo to sit back in his chair grinning like a smug merkin thinking he’d chalked up a win. I bid him farewell and returned to Disco who was now back from his ablutions.
‘Jesus, is that Harpo?’ said Disco looking over my shoulder. ‘Hey Harpo,’ he shouted, the entire bar stopped and turned. ‘Did you know there’s a squirrel trying to shag your chin?’
The bar seemed to hold its breath for a second, Harpo fixed Disco with a stare and then raised the middle fingers on both hands simultaneously, giving it to his friendly tormentor with both barrels.
19
Disco and I rolled into Queen Mary’s and parked on the opposite side of the car park, deciding it best not to face the wrath of Old John again.
As we walked towards the entrance, I gestured to Disco the blue VW Golf we’d seen yesterday.
‘Looks like she’s back.’
‘Why does everyone have these?’ said Disco, pointing at a Baby on Board sticker in the car’s back window. I shrugged and walked past into the lobby beckoning him to keep up with me.
The same haughty attitude was waiting for us in Reception, and our return was met with as much contempt as our previous visit although the Receptionist did this time at least call the Manager. She had that special knack of letting us know it was the greatest inconvenience imaginable for her without saying a word.
We were made to wait in the lobby, more people than I’d expected, until several minutes later we were met by a woman who clearly regarded herself far too busy and important to waste her time with the likes of us. She seemed to expect us to be grateful and doff our caps to her for merely granting an audience. Another one that thinks simply because they wear a suit they’re better than us in dirty boots.
‘Hello, I’m Kate Fuller. I understand you wanted to see me,’ she said in a tone that made perfectly clear that she didn’t want to see me.
‘Hello Kate, how do you do?’ She bristled at the casual use of her first name, that amused me. ‘You owe us quite a bit of money. Can we talk about your unpaid bills?’
She seemed uncomfortable when people began looking at the poor workmen who hadn’t been paid.
‘This way,’ she said, ushering us towards an adjacent corridor, I find you can never beat the threat of airing dirty secrets in public to get a reaction. Disco left to roll a fag outside, so I followed her alone.
Overall, she gave me the impression of someone trying too hard to keep it all together, and failing. Her grey woollen suit pulled tightly in places where it shouldn’t and the way she stomped along the corridor on heels that were too high and too thick put me in mind of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her lank, greasy hair was tied back with an elastic band.
She led me to a large untidy open-plan office area, and off that to a private room formed by glazed partitions. We entered, and she closed the door behind her. It rattled noisily in its frame. From the certificates on the wall I knew this was her office. As well as the certificates, the walls were decorated with motivational slogans.
‘Now then, you claim we owe you money. I’ve never heard of you,’ she said.
I laid out the Quentin purchase orders on her desk and explained I was there on behalf of Tommy. She glanced at Tommy’s name and address at the top of the orders.
‘I’ve never heard of him either.’
‘You must have, you’ve paid him enough times. Check and you’ll see,’ I said, trying very hard to keep my voice level because whilst I didn’t believe her, I could see the benefit of diplomacy.
She took one of the purchase orders, and began pecking away at her keyboard.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘here’s his account, although…’ she paused and squinted at her screen. ‘He’s been paid by handwritten cheque.’
‘Yes, and?’ I didn’t understand the dithering.
‘He’s been paid by cheque nine, ten, no eleven times. That’s very odd. Regular contractors and suppliers go on our system and are paid electronically. We normally only bother with cheques for one-offs.’
She tapped on the glass wall beside her and a young man’s face popped up; she beckoned him into her office. The phone on her desk rang loudly and she jabbed at a button to answer it on speaker.
‘Yes, what, I’m in a meeting.’
‘Sorry to interrupt, but it’s the dealership returning your call, shall I tell them to call back?’
‘No, put them through,’ Fuller demanded.
I noticed there was no acknowledgement towards me, clearly my time didn’t matter. The young man from the other office entered and gently squeezed the door closed behind him to minimise any noise just as the voice on the phone began apologising for being late returning her car. The young man was dressed a lot more casually than his manager, a wooden beaded necklace dangled in the gap of the open collar of his white linen shirt. As the voice on the phone promised to have the car ready in a few days he waved a loose and languid friendly greeting towards me.
‘It’s not good enough, you didn’t have this attitude when you sold me the bloody car so don’t think you can get away with it now. I haven’t paid you all that money for you to dick around doing nothing, I want that car back and I want it tomorrow –’
The young man gave an exaggerated grimace and rolled his eyes that I took to mean ‘Awkward’. The poor sap on the phone got a pasting, and the young man kept fiddling with the leather bracelets around his wrist as we waited. After a few minutes of hurling demands at the phone she was finished. The person at the dealership deserved a round of applause for remaining civil at the end of it, most people would have lost their tempers by now, I know I would have.
‘Idiots!’ she said upon cutting the call. ‘Bloody useless the lot of them. I’ll never buy another Merc from those people, I’m going to go back to Audi when this lease is up, nothing but problems with that firm.’
She rubbed her temples, g
ave a sigh and then turned to face me, at last acknowledging I was still in the room.
‘This is our director.’
She gestured to the young man who had flopped into a visitor chair. Director? I’ve always been a great believer in first impressions, but director, really? From the body language, from the communication, I’d have said he was deferential to her, she was the boss, I didn’t get it.
‘Charles Quentin,’ he said holding out a floppy hand for a limp handshake.
‘Quentin, as in…?’
He bobbed his head and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture I think was meant to signal embarrassment but came across as gormless.
‘Yeah, one of the family I’m afraid, but I’m just Charlie, call me Charlie,’ he said.
Now I got it.
‘This man says we owe him money, and has come in with these,’ she said, pointing at the orders and sneering on the ‘these’. ‘The system says there’s an account history, all paid by cheque. Do you know anything about them?’ And then addressing me directly, ‘Only a company director has authority to sign cheques.’
‘Oh, yeah, think so, but, where’s Tommy?’
I explained to him that Tommy was dead. He gripped the chair to steady himself, pulled his fingers through his hair, rubbed his face, rocked back and forth muttering, ‘Oh my god, that’s awful, awful.’
His histrionics were, to be honest, a bit embarrassing so I thought it better for all concerned to get us back on track. ‘Mrs Fuller…’ I began but was cut off.
‘Ms, it’s Ms,’ she said. ‘I haven’t worked all my life, I didn’t get a first at Cambridge, just to be judged by my marital status.’
I’d seen the gold band on her finger, but clearly, I’d assumed wrong. It was then I actually read the motivational signs decorating the walls: ‘Behind every successful woman is herself’ said the one nearest to me, a small print showed a 40s factory girl in spotted headscarf and overalls rolling her sleeves up with a speech bubble saying ‘What exactly can you do for me that I can’t do for myself?’ Clearly, I’d assumed very wrongly indeed, she was more than a woman succeeding, this was a woman in competition with the rest of the world.