by Trevor Veale
Tomatoes were plentiful, and at a reasonable price. Their scarlet exuberance made the market look cheerful. The dark contrast of spinach was almost absent, however, while carrots and cauliflowers had vanished. Cabbages held their prominence, though they looked sad and shriveled, and there was an abundance of turnips.
She picked up two or three tomatoes from a stall and asked their price. It was while she was waiting for the stallholder to find some newspaper to wrap them in, that she heard a familiar voice.
“Wotcha, Shaz!”
She turned to see Simpkins. A single glance at him was enough to tell her how far he’d sunk.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Banged up by the fucking Slobodians. It’s a long story. Anyway, that’s in the past. I’m a changed man – I’ve joined the Church Party!”
“Gone religious, have you?”
“Not really. It’s just that they gave me a job, chauffeuring their big-wigs about. I’ll be driving their new presidential candidate soon. It’s all hush-hush at the moment.”
“Oh yeah?”
Sharon, who’d been examining some cabbages, turned toward him. She looked at his face, noticing the bluish tinged skin and the red-veined puffiness of the chronic alcoholic.
“You’ll never guess who it’s gonna be.”
“No, I won’t.”
“It’s King Godfrey!”
“You’re shitting me!” She dropped the cabbage she’d been squeezing and stared open-mouthed. King Godfrey, the father of her child, as a candidate for the presidency of Melloria!
Simpkins hunched his threadbare shoulders and shuffled his feet. “Look, Shaz, whatever you think about the way I fucked you around, can’t we let bygones be bygones? I’ve turned over a new leaf – this job’s gonna be the making of me, you’ll see!”
Without committing herself to a reply, she bought a cabbage and a kilo of turnips from the stallholder and winced at the price. After throwing a handful of hundred-moon bills near the stallholder’s scales, she hefted her bag of vegetables.
“Here,” Simpkins said. “Let me carry that.”
She gave him the bag to carry, watching that his shaking hands didn’t let go of the strings. They walked in silence.
“I got a place near here,” he said. “We could have a coffee.”
She nodded miserably. I must be desperate, she thought. She let him lead the way.
The room was full of cheap knick-knacks and shabby, tasteless furniture. It was the classic Simpkins pad – only worse. As soon as he was in the room he struck a match and lit a cigarette, and she saw from the glow how his face had aged since the last time she’d seen him.
“You look really awful, Sim, “ she said candidly. “Tell me what happened?”
He went to the cabinet where the liquor was kept and took out a bottle of brandy.
“A fucking Slobodian prison!” he said. “I told ‘em I wasn’t gonna do no more drug runs and they let me have it.” He spoke in a rasping whisper.
She watched him go into the tiny kitchen and put a saucepan on the stove. He was going to make coffee the Bedouin way, and also lace it with brandy. At his prompting she went to the sofa and sat in front of the TV.
Soon he joined her, bringing two mugs of coffee. He also brought the brandy.
“What exactly happened in the prison?” she asked.
He took a pair of nailclippers from his pocket and tossed it on the coffee table.
“You can have that,” he said. “I won’t need it any more. They tore my toenails and fingernails off with pliers. Wanna take a look?”
He thrust his hands under her eyes and she glimpsed the raw tender skin where the nails had been. She closed her eyes, wishing she could tell him to put his hands away.
She started telling him about Craig, who’d begun taking singing lessons from his home tutor.
He laughed. “No good asking me to sing – I got a voice like a frog!”
They fell silent. The only sound in the room was the ticking of a cheap clock on the mantel. Simpkins looked at it, then turned his gaze toward Sharon.
“Will you have me back, Sharon?” was all he said.
“What if I say no, what you gonna do – follow me all the way home?”
When they got back, Simpkins went straight to the sofa and began rolling a joint.
“Oh God,” she said. “I don’t believe it!”
Let’s get it over with, he thought. Let’s have a song and dance.
She looked at him in disgust. “Oh God!” she cried. “How could you?”
For a moment he was tempted to try and explain it all. He carried on building the joint.
“I thought you were gonna be a changed man.” She shook her head in denial and sat down heavily. Leaning her forehead on her palm, she began crying.
He looked up and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass china cabinet. He looked like hell. He started to speak.
“I don’t want to hear any more bullshit!” she said.
Simpkins, who had pictured coming back to a warm welcome after his harrowing experience in Slobodia, watched the picture blown sky-high.
He looked at her and waited for her to stop crying. “Just gimme a chance to explain.”
Her face was rigid and lined with tears. “I’ve done that already - this’ll be the millionth time.”
He began to speak.
“Stop it now!” she said. “I want you to go straight.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t.” He lit the joint and took a deep pull. He was aware of her eyes on him. As he smoked, she began to harangue him, slowly at first, then building up to a crescendo. “You’re gonna get busted, sure as eggs are eggs. How can you keep doing this?” she demanded. “You’ll lose that new jobs of yours!”
“I’m doing it to keep the bad memories at bay,” he said lamely. “What can I say?” he puffed on the joint and played with the ashtray.
“You want me to just put up with it? Well, I won’t.” She was standing by the front door.
“Listen, I’m really fried,” he said. “The last thing I want right now is a fucking argument.” He stubbed out the joint and got up to go to the bathroom.
“How long are you staying?” she said flatly.
“Go fuck yourself!” he said. He got up and walked with exaggerated caution across the carpet and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. When he came out, Sharon had gone.
Sharon woke up and looked around her new abode. It was less spacious and more cluttered than she had imagined. You would’ve thought a royal correspondent of a big paper like the Bugle would’ve been earning good money before the revolution, she said to herself. Perhaps she pissed it all away. Anyway, you’d never know it from the look of her place. It had just one tall living room with a spiral staircase and two small bedrooms and looked like an overgrown greenhouse, with plants spilling out of pots to meet vines twisting round the stems of small trees in even larger pots. On every surface where there weren’t plants there were things, an unbelievable number of them. Where she had expected to find sofas and salon chairs, silk tassels and chandeliers, there were knickers and bras, tops and denim pants, dresses hanging on door knobs and shoes scattered across the floor. Didn’t the woman believe in closets? Sharon asked herself as she picked her way to the bathroom.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and didn’t feel any better. An image from the night before came vividly back to her. Simpkins telling her to “go fuck herself” in her own house! She’d walked out on him and after wandering the streets for an hour, called up Arabella on impulse. Together they’d gone back and woken up Craig – Simpkins was lying dead drunk on the couch, reminding her of her father – and now here she was, splashing water on her face in a stranger’s bathroom. Not that Arabella was a stranger… In fact they’d become quite cozy, snuggled up on cushions on Arabella’s Afghan rug. She closed her eyes to recapture some of the conversation they had, but it was mostly a blur – what with her tire
dness and the bottle of wine they finished off. Arabella had assured her that she was trying really hard to find a publication for her story, but it was hard going, since an ex-king’s love child was not as interesting to editors as a reigning king’s love child. She did hold out the hope, however, that if Godfrey agreed to be the leader of the Church Party, the story would become newsworthy again. Sharon could tell that she was torn between pushing to get the story published and helping the campaign to bring Godfrey back to Melloria as presidential candidate.
She showered and shampooed her hair and came back into the living room. Craig was diddling with Arabella’s computer. She looked over his shoulder at what looked like a frenzied chat room, though she didn’t know what they were all chatting about.
“What’s that all about?” she asked.
“Combat gaming,” Craig said, dragging the words out.
Feeling rebuffed, she took note that Arabella’s desk was covered with papers and writing materials, and unopened packages sat on the tiny speakers beside the computer. Typical journalist, she thought. She remembered mentioning to Arabella her strange seduction by Stella Mastoid, and how Arabella had laughed out loud. “She may dress like she’s a hippy sea nymph,” she said, “but Stella’s the biggest dyke bike in the People’s Party”
Sharon wasn’t sure how she now felt about her tussle with Stella. At the time she’d quite liked it. She enjoyed Stella taking the time to pleasure her, rather than just using her the way Simpkins always did. But did that make her a lesbian? She wondered whether to write about it to the Bugle’s advice column, Ask Bella.
She went upstairs to begin packing – she didn’t want to outstay her welcome. It was time to go back to her own home, even if she’d have to kick Simpkins out. A sharp knock at the front door made her almost jump out of her skin. Who the hell could that be? She wondered.
Downstairs, Craig opened the door to Simpkins, who was having a one-sided conversation with him.
“How are you and your mother getting along these days?” he asked.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
He swallowed hard, trying to appear nonchalant. He’d lost the rapport he used to have with Craig, and felt awkward. He knew Craig was capable of pretending their conversation had never taken place, just as he could pretend Simpkins had never existed in his life.
“Well, remember me to Sharon then,” he mumbled, and was about to leave when Sharon came down the stairs and asked “What do you want?” in a sharp voice.
“Craig and me just been having a chat,” he said.
Craig remained silent and Simpkins fidgeted unhappily. He looked like he was about to break out into a sweat.
“I got a favor to ask you, Shaz,” he went on.
“Haven’t you always?”
“Don’t be like that,” he said desperately.
“Well, what d’you want this time?” she said harshly. “And another thing, how did you know I was here?”
“I got my ways,” he said. He lowered his voice, as if worried that Craig might overhear him.
“I’m just thinking that…Oh God, sometimes I just want to top myself!”
He struggled to articulate his feelings, and Craig began to smirk.
“I don’t want you to go away thinking I’m just some shitbag who doesn’t care about you,” he said finally.
“Okay, I won’t,” she said. She’d reached the bottom step and looked at him. He looked different. He’d shaved and spruced himself up, using her father’s old razor and cologne. Craig had recently been shoveling cheesy nachos into his mouth and the smell from Craig’s nachos mingled with Simpkins’s cologne, which was starting to overpower her.
He put a hand on Craig’s shoulder and the boy took a step back.
He didn’t like being touched by adults in general, and Simpkins in particular.
Simpkins noticed his reflex and let his hand drop.
“I got something to ask you…,” he began.
The smell made her want to gag.
“I want to marry you!” he blurted out.
Chapter 49
A Firm Decision
Godfrey, who had stayed alert during his operation and afterwards collapsed into exhausted sleep, woke up to find a slew of visitors in his bedroom. Letitia, Anton, Dawna, Hernia, Hector and Ada were gathered around his bed. Only Catheter – who’d gone to play polo – was missing.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” he said groggily.
Letitia’s eyebrows began to quiver. After two hours of anxious waiting and worrying, she was almost ready to explode. Unable to rein in her emotions, her words came tumbling out in a rush.
“Last night we had a talk over dinner with the new archbishop – frightfully vulgar man, insisted on being called Larry, but very go-ahead - and he made it clear that the Church Party have absolutely no chance of winning the election against Slamil and his brigands unless they have a new leader –“
“Someone the people can relate to,” Dawna said. She glanced at Letitia who nodded, then she turned her lovely eyes back to Godfrey. “The people want you to be their president, Daddy. Mellorians love tradition, and they’re dying for a return to the stability they knew before the revolution.”
“Only without the poverty!” Anton chipped in.
Godfrey furrowed his forehead in thought. Under the filmy mist that had engulfed him, the germ of an idea was forming in his brain. Hector’s contentment with his constitutional monarchy had made him yearn to be back in the seat of power again. The memory of pomp and ceremony came back with a sweet vividness. Maybe, just maybe, if he did get elected president he could bring about a restitution of the monarchy, hand over the reins to Catheter, and then… the tug of responsibility to his country had never left him and it grieved him that its health, like his own, had suffered. Here at last was the opportunity to restore it – and everyone was saying that he was the man for the job.
“One question,” he said at last. “How can a monarch, even without his crown, become an elected president?”
Letitia stroked his head and held his hand. His forehead was damp and his hands were clammy.
“It’s politics, Dear, politics. The archbishop will explain it when you meet with him tomorrow.”
Everyone began speaking at once, and Godfrey decided to speed up the process.
“The doctors say I must stay in bed for a few days, but to hell with that. I’m as fit as a fiddle,” he said briskly. “In any case, I have my meds – I’ve got three sets of tablets to take three times a day – so I’m discharging myself tomorrow. Now as for my running for president in this damn election, I promise you I’ll give it my consideration. I need to sleep on it, so if you’ll all excuse me…”
He closed his eyes and they all tiptoed out of the room, Letitia leaving behind some grapes and a packet of ginger snaps. Before closing the door, she took one last look. Beneath the urine bag attached to the bedrail he looked weak and tired, but that was to be expected. Despite all he had been through, he was as strong as an ox. Just as well, she thought. He’s going to need all his strength in the days to come.
The next day, after discharging himself from the hospital, Godfrey met with Archbishop Lepager and King Hector in the latter’s study. Letitia, Dawna, Anton and Hernia sat in the drawing room, eagerly awaiting the outcome of the meeting.
Seated around a circular table surrounded by oil portraits of more of his ancestors, Hector began the meeting by sharing his ironic view of a constitution. “A necessary evil, in my humble view,” he said, pouring himself a large brandy from the decanter. “Its purpose is to promise the people unlimited freedom in ambiguous language at great length. There should be over five thousand pages of legalese in fine print, with coherence minimized by having a roomful of lawyers write it. That way it will appear in half a dozen styles, all of them obscure, and with repetitions galore. It will have plenty of secondary references to sub-clauses in appendices – that sort of thing.
Lepager
smiled thinly. “But no one will ever be able to read it,” he said.
“Exactly!” Hector took a long swig from the decanter.
Godfrey looked at the decanter longingly; he had been advised by the doctor to lay off alcohol for a few days. “All right, I’m willing to go along with it,” he said.
Hector regarded him with a benign air. “There’s a lot more to it than that, old chap,” he said. “You’ll have to change the way you present yourself.”
Godfrey’s face clouded. “What do you mean?”
“You must replace those courtiers who can’t or won’t change, and appoint people who are not fans of tradition for tradition’s sake.”
“But tradition is the foundation of our country!” Godfrey protested. “It would be suicide to give up one’s heritage.”
Hector finished off his glass. “I said it was about presentation,” he said. “It’s not so much giving up as repackaging your way of life. The old upper class lifestyle – hunting, shooting and fishing – will have to be carried on more discretely, and you must also broaden your interests: start patronizing a few charities, let people know you care.”
Godfrey’s face tightened. The old upper class lifestyle Hector referred to was, in his opinion what made being a king worthwhile.
“You need to get out and press the flesh a bit more,” Hector puffed on, getting into his stride. “Take it from me, the more people meet you, the more they’ll be loyal to you. Meeting a king in the flesh gives people a strange tingling excitement. They’re seeing a face they’ve glimpsed many times, when handling money or sticking on stamps.”
Godfrey’s mind was reeling at the prospect of becoming a constitutional monarch. He watched Hector pour his second glass as Lepager outlined the procedure for his presidential campaign.