by Kerrie Noor
She slurped her wine, staring into space.
“Abseiling to him was like peeling a banana. He was in a circus once, you know,” I said.
“Hmmm,” she muttered.
“I mean, I know it’s hard to believe when you look at Rodger now, shacked up with Shifty.”
She nodded.
“But back then he was as straight as you and me, and not only that but mad about Neff . . .”
Helen looked at me. “Doesn’t he paints penises?”
“Well, yes, but there was a time when he painted other things . . . women’s things.”
Helen threw me an as if look.
“And that night he was determined to win Neff back—in a panda suit,” I said.
Helen stopped. “Panda suit?”
“No one noticed at first. He was just a pimple in the distance . . . until the crowd saw him a few feet above the ring, and that’s when he opened his legs—”
She gulped. “You’re taking the piss.”
“—with the Proclaimers on full volume.”
She spluttered. “The Proclaimers? Get out of here.”
I slid a Turkish delight into my mouth, letting the image form in Helen’s mind. She took a nut cluster.
“The codpiece sprang forth like a jeweled jack-in-the-box—” I said.
Helen stopped her glass inches from her lips. “To the Proclaimers?”
“—bobbing with each pelvic thrust.”
Helen almost laughed.
“Neff called it his bugle,” I said.
“No way,” said Helen.
She drained her glass, filled it along with mine, leant across the table, and whispered, “I found it when I was looking for your mum’s glasses.”
She sat back.
“It’s like something out of a Carry On Henry VIII film—if there ever was such a thing.”
“Henry’s codpiece is a mere toothpick compared to this thing in motion; it is the pinnacle of all phallic art,” I said.
Helen slid another nut cluster into her mouth, then pushed the chocolates my way.
“I can’t believe Mum and George have that thing, let alone use it,” I said, curious and yet squeamish at the same time.
“It takes a few gins,” she muttered.
I stopped. “What do you mean?”
“Walked in on them once.”
“Don’t tell me any more,” I said.
“And he wasn’t singing any Proclaimers song.”
She chuckled, then stopped. We stared at each other . . .
Helen pulled a white truffle from the bottom of the box and opened it. I watched her slide the truffle between her lips.
“Follow me,” she said, dragging me and several chocolates to Mum’s bedroom . . .
I had never really seen the codpiece up so close, and there it was: a magnificent piece of contracting and expanding equipment, studded with green and red baubles and a red gem the size of a tennis ball at the tip.
Helen pulled it out.
The codpiece swayed like a jeweled palm tree, expanding and contracting; she flicked a switch and the tip pulsated like a disco light.
Helen put it on, twirled a few times, and finished with a robust pelvic thrust.
She laughed like a schoolgirl.
“When Neff and Rodger split,” I said, “they argued over that . . .”
“No wonder,” she laughed, jerking her pelvis at the mirror.
“Neither wanted it,” I said.
Helen stopped. “Seriously?”
“In the end, Neff donated it to the charity shop.”
“It’s magnificent,” Helen twirled.
The top layer of Mum’s milk tray was now finished, and as I poked about the second layer, Helen sat on the bed, the erect codpiece upright between her legs.
“Henry waited for me outside the hospital. He was standing by his car.”
The codpiece pulsated.
I sat beside her.
“It was like we were still married.”
She shifted; the codpiece wavered back and forth.
“So confusing.” She sighed.
I put my arm around her and hugged her.
“I think I should stop being so angry,” she said. “It’s not helping.”
Later that afternoon, Steven drove into the drive.
Helen and I had finished the wine and were washing up. As I watched Steven ease Baby Bea out of the car, delicious memories of Steven and I came flooding back . . . for the first time in ages I felt like my old self again, desperate for a Steven hug.
Helen stopped.
“Maybe you should borrow it. It might help, you—you know, with getting back on the horse?” She laughed. “I certainly feel like getting on one.”
I waved to Steven; he, with Baby Bea’s hand, waved back.
“Have you seen the video?” he shouted.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Viral
The world’s gone mad.
Amy’s wedding was in two weeks, and Helen was a changed woman. It was like she had deposited her anger at the Taj, along with the towels they’d wrapped around Mum’s bleeding leg, and it was all because of the video.
The Facebook video had gone viral and caused quite a stir. A stir that involved a great amount of attention towards Mum and Helen: attention which Mum didn’t want and took Helen by surprise . . .
Helen and I arrived at the hospital to pick up Mum.
Mum, with an I’ve been ready for a century look, was sitting in her day clothes, polished and pissed off with a small plastic bag at her feet. Her bed was neatly made for the next arrival, and Madge was glaring at her like a dog at a rabbit hole. Madge was the last person you would want staring at you; her white-powdered face, painted-on eyebrows, and lipstick-stained teeth screamed unhinged.
Mum started with “Thank god you’re here,” while the cleaner nabbed Helen.
Mum, unable to move from her chair, had already seen the video; the cleaner had stuck her phone under Mum’s nose with the volume on full.
Mum was still recovering, using the sort of language that would make a porn star blush, as the cleaner, along with Helen, watched the video in rapt awe.
By the third replay, Mum had had enough.
“Stop looking at that pile of puke,” she snapped.
The cleaner looked up. “This woman here”—she gestured to Helen—“saved your bacon.”
Mum huffed.
“A real hero,” said the cleaner.
“Pfff,” said Mum.
Helen blushed.
“You’d be one leg less if wasn’t for her,” said the cleaner.
Helen shifted uncomfortably. “Wouldn’t say that,” she muttered.
Madge, still focused on Mum with a glare that would stop a wild dog, began to shout about her Sunday takeaway and how it was “completely fucked because of her!”
Mum threw her best go shrivel up and die look, and Madge threw her best one back, looking scarily like a mental Bette Davis.
“And as for that Henry” —the cleaner sighed—“amazing . . . he knew what he was doing.”
“He was always good in an emergency,” muttered Helen.
“I’ll not see a jalfrezi for at least a century.” Madge looked at Mum. “And as for a pakora”—she shook her head—“may as well blow smoke up my arse.”
“The Taj is only closed for a week or two,” Mum yelled across the room.
“Aye,” Madge yelled back, “and the rest—” She stopped as a nursing assistant entered wheeling a dilapidated wheelchair.
“Your carriage awaits.” The assistant smiled.
Mum eyed it with suspicion as it squeaked to a halt by her side.
“How can I get about in that?” she said. “I’ve a wedding to go to.”
The assistant’s face fell. “Well . . .” She sniffed. “It was good enough for Lady Campbell.”
“Aye, good enough for Lady Whatsherface,” shouted Madge.
“Lady Campbell is as with it as you are
,” snapped Mum.
“Up your arse,” shouted Madge.
“Up yours,” shouted Mum even louder.
Madge gave Mum the finger and was just in the middle of an up yours gesture when the assistant blocked her with a curt swish of her bed curtains.
Mum silently huffed as she made to sit on the chair.
It was the sort of manual wheelchair that wheeled like a shopping trolley full of cement and, according to Mum, was just as comfortable. It was like pushing through quicksand; by the time I wheeled her to the car, I was puffed and red-faced and Mum was huffing with indignity.
Mum was silent as we headed home, grimly staring at the windscreen. As we pulled into the drive, she looked up at the window with a quiet “have you heard from George?”
Neither of us answered; George was nowhere to be seen.
“He’ll be back,” she said, “within the week.”
Helen joined her ex at Amy’s last pre-wedding “everything is going to plan” meeting.
The meeting was held in the Argyll, the hotel that Shifty owned and Rodger helped run. Rodger served them cordon bleu fish and chips, along with his special reserve, homemade tartar sauce, and the “house” Prosecco.
Helen, as she put it later, tried not to image Rodger in his codpiece, especially when he popped the cork . . .
“Rodger’s codpiece is burnt in my mind,” she said. “In fact, whenever I feel angry, I just close my eyes and chant ‘codpiece’—how can you be angry saying that?”
We were standing on Mum’s drive at the time, making jokes about “high-rise batter” and “Rodger’s bugles,” until Mum wrenched open the window and emptied a tea pot inches from us—
“I can hear every friggin’ word,” she shouted.
—and slammed the window shut.
I guess the last thing Mum wanted to hear was anything about the codpiece . . .
Mum was in a state of shock. She was on the front page of the local newspaper, in an article named “The Poppadum Tapes.”
“The ability of chicken shashlik to spread is incomprehensible,” wrote the reporter, along with many other witty remarks and three photos: one of Tenzam and the elderly gentleman, still in his korma-splattered trousers; one of the chief, pointing to the remains of the fire alarm with his broom; and one of Mum . . . looking like an electrified chicken.
Mum glumly stared at paper and sighed. “In front of that Cocolder, too . . .”
She looked at me.
“I wasn’t always in this friggin’ wheelchair, you know. There was a time when I was like you.”
She eyed me . . . “Well, more your sister.”
“You mean slim,” I said.
“Nineteen-inch waist,” she muttered, tossing the paper into the bin. She huffed. “You know, if George phoned me now, I’d tell him to shove off.”
“I believe you, Mum.”
“I would,” said Mum.
“I said I believe you.”
“I mean, what sort of friend is he in my hour of need?” said Mum.
“Indeed,” I said.
“Everyone is laughing at me.”
“Thought you didn’t care what folk thought of you.”
“Everyone cares, they are just talking bullshit if they say they don’t.”
She stopped.
“Except for Neff—she’s a narcissist.”
“I’ll tell her that,” I muttered.
“You do, cause I’m not going out, not in this friggin’ cheap-as-chips wheelchair, and no amount of lipstick will persuade me otherwise.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Silence
Silence is deadly in an argument.
Every day, Mum moped about the kitchen window looking out onto the drive. Refusing to go out, she sulked; Mum hadn’t heard from George in a week, and it was not like him.
George’s breaks from Mum were always accompanied by daily texting and phone calls. The two of them would banter for hours about who was right, until finally George would arrive like nothing had happened and take Mum to the Aces High Club cards night.
This time there was no texting, just silence; George’s phone went straight to voice mail and Mum looked scared.
“Why don’t you call?” I said, regretting the brutal sound of my voice.
“Who needs him?” she said, feigning an odd smile, and I tried to believe her, until the Aces High Club night.
Mum, posed with her jacket on the back of her chair, waited in the kitchen.
I wanted to say something: that perhaps George may not come, that maybe she should try and apologize instead of leaving messages about how much fun life was without him.
I didn’t. Instead, I told her what Baby Bea was up to until I could see the effort of forcing a smile was waning on Mum.
“Hope you win,” I said, leaving.
She didn’t answer but grimly stared out of the window like he would pull up any minute.
The next day, the jacket was still on the table, along with a bottle of whisky and an empty glass. Mum was nowhere to be seen. Normally she’d be up making coffee, swearing. Today she was still in bed, lying in a small huff in the dark.
“You okay?” I said.
“Leave me alone.”
“Can I get you anything?” I said.
“No,” said Mum.
“Was it a good night last night? Did you win?”
Mum told me, “Shut up.”
I went back to the kitchen. Helen was by the kettle.
“He didn’t come,” whispered Helen. “I saw the light on and went up; there she was, coat ready—”
“I see,” I muttered.
“—and before I had a chance to say anything, she told me to shut my mouth, help her to bed, and ‘don’t tell anyone, not even Sheryl.’”
Mum didn’t come out for days.
No one knew where George was, including his sister, Morag, who blamed Mum and her “verbal abuse.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, the way you treat him,” she said. “He’s a saint, and you just take advantage. Just because you’re in a wheelchair doesn’t mean you can treat folk like . . . well . . . the way you do.”
Mum feebly defended herself. “It’s just banter,” she said.
“Banter? Banter? If what comes out of your mouth is banter, then what comes out of my tap is piss.”
For the first time ever, Mum had no answer. Instead, she glumly listened to George’s sister, a woman who rarely swore, then retired to her room.
It was like all the stuffing had left Mum. Even Baby Bea didn’t cheer her up.
She wanted to be left alone, for everyone to “bugger off,” and as for the wedding . . .
She told me to stuff it in several places, most of which were painful.
At first, the idea of Mum not going to the wedding seemed like bliss: a whole day without Mum and her annoying ways.
Mum was a pain in public; she had a way of introducing me like I was a disappointment. If I was quietly standing, she’d say, “What’s up with you?” If I was on my own, she’d tell me to “Go talk to so and so,” and if I dared to have a glass in my hand it was “Another drink? Are you sure?” And now with Baby Bea, it was even worse . . .
For once, I could spend a day without the constant questions about what she was eating.
Steven was ecstatic. “Thank God,” he said, “you can wear that blue outfit with the cleavage and she’ll not be coming up all night tucking napkins into it.”
“I am not sure I’ll fit into that,” I said. “In fact, I am not sure I want to.”
The blue outfit was a suit along the lines of my getting-married yellow trouser suit, which Mum called my “canary outfit.” She hated them both, claiming that I was “showing too much.” Of what, I had no idea—I mean, it’s a trousers suit—but in Mum’s eye, any hint of chest was the equivalent of going topless.
I, idly wondering if I could fit into the suit, let alone feed Baby Bea in it, muttered something about “wearing a tent.”
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br /> “Why a tent?” said Steven. “Let’s make it a marquee.”
“Oh, ha ha,” I said.
Steven said nothing.
“There’s nowhere for my breasts to hide in that suit,” I said. “They will be out there screaming “feed time.’”
Steven threw me a hardly look. “I take it you’re wearing a bra.”
“Well, yes.”
“So, they’ll be under control . . . more’s the pity.”
“What?” I said.
“I said you’ve got it all under control, and Baby Bea’s eating . . . she loves her food.”
“Mum hates that suit,” I muttered.
“I love it,” said Steven.
Steven and I began to look forward to our day together. Steven almost looked happy. Occasionally he would stretch to touch my hand, and sometimes I let him; I was starting to feel almost normal.
And then, a few days later, he found the codpiece.
Chapter Thirty
The Codpiece
A codpiece by another name still gets a laugh.
Steven walked into kitchen and there it was, snuggled beneath the fruit and veg bag, and I had no idea . . .
After the “I want to be alone” episode, I continued to try and cheer Mum up and visited her every day.
When I finished work, I’d pull into Mum’s drive, stare at the empty kitchen window, help Helen clear out the van, look back at the kitchen window, and usually, with a long sigh, head up.
The thought of going in sapped me.
She didn’t want me there—she didn’t want anyone, it seemed—and yet, for some reason, I felt compelled to go in.
I wanted to help her, give her all the advice and nagging she had given me when I had crumbled, given in to solitude and darkness. But when I saw her sad face, I couldn’t. Her nagging never helped me; if anything, it stirred things up, made me feel worse.
“I want to be alone,” she said, “just me and the BBC.” Apparently their sports channel was way better than Sky.