My Nasty Neighbours (8 page)

A
nd then a terrible thing happened. The TV controls went missing. We searched the whole room for them, flinging the bean bags about so that the beans from the torn one flew in all directions, but we couldn’t find the controls.

I challenged Psycho Phil who had turned up because he thought Helen would be home. ‘You’ve taken the controls,’ I said.

‘Controls? What controls?’

‘What controls? The supersonic jet controls. The border controls. The self controls. The TV controls, of course, you idiot.’ I looked at Psycho. He was tall, but I’ve seen more muscle on a gerbil. I guessed that he weighed less than ten stone.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘Try this. Stand up straight.’ I got behind him but he swivelled round. ‘No, stand that way,’ I instructed, turning him back.
‘Now, I’m going to catch you. Fall backwards.’

He didn’t move.

‘Just relax and fall backwards,’ I repeated. I waited, ready to catch him. For a moment nothing happened. Then he crumpled to the floor in a faint.

Just then Ian walked in. He was strangely different. Gone was the razor blade in his left ear-lobe, back was the cherub-like expression. Stepping over Psycho, he headed towards the piano.

‘Welcome home!’ I said. ‘Know what’s wrong with the fire?’

But he just sat at the piano and started playing some intricate composition.

And still the fire wouldn’t light properly. Joe didn’t come round any more. Abbas did, but mainly to supply domestic advice from his mum. She couldn’t speak much English so stayed indoors a lot. I’d come to think of her, sitting inside, a Goddess of Domestic Science, waiting to hand out advice to me when I needed it. Abbas decided to consult her and report back.

It was bad news. ‘She says how often do you clean it out?’ he said.

‘Clean it out? What do you mean “clean it out?” Coal burns, doesn’t it?’

‘Coal burns into ash,’ Abbas pointed out, grinning. He pulled the front away from the fire grate. It was packed thick with ash.

‘How do we get rid of this?’ I asked Helen, who’d just entered the front room.

‘No idea,’ she said sharply. She was carrying a blouse. ‘All this washing,’ she moaned.

Mum still washed all my clothes at no 10, but she refused to do Helen’s.

‘You seem a bit ruffled today,’ I said to her, grinning. ‘In fact, you look positively unironed.’

Helen glowered. ‘Friends round again,’ she commented.

‘At least my friends don’t annoy the neighbours,’ I retorted. We’d received another spidery note that morning written on the back of a ‘Get Well’ card.

We could read only two words: ‘car’ and ‘blockage’. Helen had a new boyfriend, ‘new’ but not ‘young’.

‘If your boyfriends get any older, they’ll be 
parking their Zimmer frames in the hall,’ I commented.

Abbas looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ll go and get something to pick up the ash,’ he offered, and sped off.

He returned with a small shovel that his mum said could be used for ashes.

I shovelled the ashes out from under the grate and into a plastic bag. The cinders left in the fire immediately began to glow red. But when I was carrying the bag of ashes out to dump them in the back garden, a funny thing happened. The plastic bag shrivelled to nothing and a mound of grey ash landed on the carpet.

‘You idiot,’ shrieked Helen. ‘Look what you’ve done. Quick, quick! It’ll burn the carpet.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do–’ I began, but when Abbas started shouting, ‘Where’s the vacuum cleaner?’ I realised there was a real danger of fire and I went in search of a vacuum cleaner too.

But we didn’t have a vacuum cleaner. We had a grand piano and a TV set as big as a Punch and Judy booth, but no vacuum cleaner.

‘Get Mum’s!’ I shouted.

Helen ran next door. I kicked at the ash to
stop it burning through the carpet. It was smouldering by now and some of the ash stuck like glue to the sole of my right shoe, which started to smoke.

I was just wiping that off on another bit of carpet when Helen returned with Mum. Mum had a bucket of water with her which she threw over the ash. There was a sizzle and then everything went silent.

Except Mum. ‘Fancy even thinking of using a vacuum cleaner to suck up hot ashes,’ she yelled. ‘What did you think would happen when the fire met the electric current?’ She was really livid. ‘Or haven’t you two heard of electricity?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘It was his idea,’ said Helen, pointing to Abbas.

‘Don’t drag David’s friends into this,’ snapped Mum. ‘You’re meant to know what you’re doing, remember?’

I did. Now look at Helen: she was the oldest, supposedly the most responsible of us, and she couldn’t even organise this little place. I stared round the room. It was dismal. The ash had settled on every flat surface, adding an extra inch or
two to the dust already there.

‘This house is getting disgusting,’ I complained.

Helen lifted her gaze from the wet ash and looked at Mum beseechingly. ‘Mum?’ she said.

Mum smiled in quiet triumph. ‘This is nothing to do with us, is it?’ she said sweetly to Abbas. ‘Let’s leave those who know how to run their own lives to it, shall we? Would you like a piece of oaty date cake, dear? Or would you prefer datey oat cake?’ I heard her saying as she led Abbas out towards her back door. Since Mum got rid of her three children, she had the time to bake so many cakes that you’d think she was trying to compete with Mr Kipling.

Then I considered. ‘Got rid of her three children’ was pretty accurate.

I set about scraping up the soggy grey ash. Helen and Ian always went on about wanting more independence, but I didn’t. Twelve years old and abandoned, I thought bitterly. Left to fend for myself with a sister intent on electrocuting the lot of us and a manic depressive brother.

The letterbox clicked. I picked up the card.
On one side was a picture of two squirrels and a poem:

On the other side was a scrawled message: ‘Will call police if you park car in alley.’

Mum and Dad had a lot to answer for, I thought gloomily as I mounted the stairs to my cold, bleak bedroom.

The smell of burning lingered on the stairs and on the landing. That, and the realisation of my parents’ criminal irresponsibility, made me feel sick.

A
fter a restless sleep full of nightmares involving marshmallows, ash and fire, I woke and was sick.

‘Helen!’ I called feebly. I could hear the movement of jars and aerosols in the bathroom that signalled the beginning of Helen’s day.

‘Helen,’ I shrieked, trying to combine feebleness with volume. ‘I’m being sick.’

But Helen didn’t reply. I felt so ill that I couldn’t even waste energy on being resentful. Helen would be a dead loss as a nurse anyway. My head ached and my stomach heaved. I started thumping on the wall, hoping that Mum and Dad would hear. Nothing.

‘Ian,’ I tried. From the direction of Ian’s bedroom came a sound that would have surprised me if I hadn’t been preoccupied with my own sickness. It was the once familiar strains
of Ian’s violin. He was playing a beautiful melody, a lingering mournful tune. But I was being sick again.

Drastic action was necessary. I wrapped my dressing-gown around me and staggered down the stairs. My only hope was to reach no 10. There I would surrender myself to Mum and Dad’s care and sympathy.

I pushed my way through the wet clothes and boots that blocked the back doorway. So much for Helen’s ideas about uncluttered decor.

The cold air struck me as I slid on the encrusted snow. Despair hit me when I found the back door locked. Had Mum and Dad gone out? I had no idea what time it was. Perhaps they hadn’t unlocked the house yet. I pushed my right shoulder against the door in a move similar to one that had crushed many an opponent on the rugby field, but in my weak state, the door seemed to push back at me. Silver sat snugly inside on the kitchen window sill, pretending that he didn’t see me.

‘Open this door!’ I yelled. At last I heard the beautiful sound of the door being unlocked.

‘David.’ Dad stood there in his pyjamas,
looking shocked at my appearance. I barged into the kitchen and slumped at the table.

‘Dad, I feel awful,’ I complained.

Mum came downstairs and the Stirling Care and Rescue Service moved into action. I was led gently away to the spare bedroom, given lots of hot drinks and advice about how to get better. Even the advice was welcome after Helen and Ian’s cruel indifference.

I’ve left a mess next door, I thought and smiled to myself as I slipped into sleep between the clean, well-ironed sheets.

O
ver the next few days, while the snow melted, I was recovering from whatever it was I’d had.

‘You could’ve picked up any number of germs in those … unsanitary conditions,’ said Mum with a shudder. ‘When I went round to clean up your room, I saw some very strange mould in the sitting-room. It was pinky-grey with lumps …’

‘They’ll have the Environmental Health Officer round next,’ said Dad, winking at me, ‘though a little untidiness is not a bad thing.’

Both Dad and Mum showered me with attention. Must be great, being an only child, I thought to myself. Here, in no 10, everything was cleanliness and order. There was a routine
for everything, from lighting the fire to meal-times. For instance, I realised how a blazing fire was regularly achieved. Every morning Mum would rake out the ashes, then put firelighters on crumpled-up newspaper in the grate, so the fire was ready to light later. She’d even put wooden fire screens in front of the fire, so everything was neat and tidy. Dream on, Helen!

I was unenthusiastic about returning to no 8. Ian and Helen were no fun to live with. By Saturday I was well enough to go next door and collect some of my belongings. I walked back into no 10 carrying a load of clothes and Great Uncle Albert’s tall boy.

When Mum saw the statue she smiled. ‘Come to stay then?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘It’s much better here,’ I told her.

A visitor was sitting at the kitchen table, sampling the cakes.

‘Here’s someone we haven’t seen for ages,’ said Mum, delighted. ‘Young Philip.’ She sat down at the table and helped herself to a rum baba. ‘I used to drive you to school when you were just this high,’ she explained to Psycho
Phil.

Like he’s going to be impressed, I said to myself. Mum was treating him as if he’d been in Australia for ten years. She didn’t seem to realise this was Psycho Phil who’d been dossing down next door and harassing her daughter. With my mum all you needed to do to get away with anything is to prove that you were once seven years old.

‘So what are you doing now, Philip?’ Mum asked brightly. Points, Leaving Cert, qualifications – parents’ favourite topics were about to be discussed.

‘I’m taking a year off,’ grunted Psycho.

‘Before university?’ Mum guessed.

‘No, between serial murders,’ I said softly.

But Mum was off. ‘Are you still interested in dinosaurs?’ she asked.

‘Every seven-year-old is interested in dinosaurs,’ I pointed out, reaching for a butterfly cake. The way Psycho was putting the cakes away, there would be none left for me.

‘I’ve decided to spend Great Uncle Albert’s money,’ I told Mum, hoping to get her attention. ‘I’m going shopping, I’m going to buy a camera
tripod.’

But Mum was too deep in discussion about Jurassic Park to hear me. I grabbed another cake and left her to fuss over Psycho Phil.

I called into Abbas and we made our way to the shops. The tripod cost a mint, but it’d be worth it. I was going to make sure that from now on there would be records of our family’s greatest moments.

On our way home we took a short-cut through a lane full of antique shops. As we passed one called Flanigan’s I saw something in the window that made me stop and stare.

‘Great Uncle Albert’s ship!’ I cried, pointing at the glass case in the centre of the window.

‘What?’ said Abbas, staring at the ship, but I couldn’t wait. I was half-way into the shop, with Abbas muttering behind me, ‘This place looks pricey.’

The antique dealer came out from a back room. He looked disappointed when he saw us. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked with exaggerated politeness.

‘That ship, in the window,’ I began. ‘How much is it?’

‘Ah yes, Venetian glass.’ He didn’t seem able to answer my question. He carried the dome out of the window and placed it on his desk.

I looked at it closely, remembering those times when I’d had to strain to look up at the ship on Great Uncle Albert’s mantelpiece. ‘There were tiny bubbles, I remember,’ I said more to myself than anyone else, then explained, ‘In my great-uncle’s. He had one like this.’

The antique dealer began to look more sympathetic. ‘Ah bubbles. Then that one was quite old. This one was made in – oh, probably about 1930.’

If it wasn’t very old, it wouldn’t be too expensive, I hoped. ‘How much?’ I asked again.

‘Two hundred pounds,’ he answered, without looking up.

‘Two hundred pounds,’ echoed Abbas. ‘Well, that’s that!’

I took out the rest of my money and counted it out as the antique dealer and Abbas watched. ‘Why do you want this if your uncle’s got one like it?’ Abbas asked, realising I was serious about buying it.

‘That one disintegrated,’ I explained. ‘It was
the best possession my great uncle had, apart from his medal.’

‘A medal! What did he do to win that?’ asked Abbas.

‘I don’t know. Nobody ever bothered to ask him,’ I said indignantly. ‘It was the George Cross,’ I added.

The antique dealer looked up sharply. ‘The George Cross – very impressive. Did you know that only a hundred or so were ever awarded?’

‘What were they given for?’ asked Abbas.

‘For valour. A civilian would have to do something for which there was a ninety percent chance of his being killed to be awarded the cross,’ he told us.

‘You know,’ he added, and his tone had changed, he was sounding quite human, ‘I couldn’t go below a hundred and fifty pounds for the ship. That’s what I paid for it.’

‘Well, would you keep it for me if I gave you this?’ I held out the rest of my money. One hundred and ten pounds in crinkled ten-pound notes.

‘Hang on.’ Abbas held out seven pounds. ‘You can have this towards it.’

I looked away, not sure what to say. He was a good friend, Abbas. He was the same on the rugby field: he gave one hundred percent.

‘Thanks,’ I managed.

The antique dealer took over. I suppose the sight of money had given him extra energy. ‘Let’s say, if I take this …’ he took the ten-pound notes, and ignored Abbas’s proferred seven pounds, ‘… that you owe me thirty pounds. I’ll keep the ship for you as long as you like.’

‘A deal,’ I smiled. I was getting the ship for one hundred and forty pounds. Abbas and I examined the glass ship as the antique dealer slowly and carefully wrote out a receipt for the money I’d paid him.

‘They’ve got such detail,’ said Abbas admiringly, pointing to the sailor-figures climbing up the glass rigging.

‘And the colour,’ I added. As far as I could remember every detail was identical to the original.

‘And,’ the antique dealer handed me my receipt, ‘what happened to your relative’s medal?’

‘Lost,’ I replied.

‘A pity. A George Cross would fetch quite a
sum at auction.’

‘How much?’ Abbas asked eagerly.

‘Well,’ the reluctance to say anything definite seemed to have returned. ‘It depends on the citation of course, but one sold at Sotheby’s for in excess of …’

We waited.

‘… ten thousand pounds.’

‘Phew! Are you sure it’s lost?’ Abbas demanded.

‘Sure,’ I said. That the medal was worth a lot of money only confirmed what I had known anyway – that it was valuable. I felt that familiar sense of disappointment with my family. Why couldn’t they be bothered to find out what Great Uncle Albert had done?

But then I looked at the glass ship which was, in effect, mine, and that had been unexpectedly restored to me. I cheered up.

The antique dealer accompanied us to the door, seeing us out with a smile. ‘Keep the receipt,’ he advised with a friendly wave.

‘He changed his tune,’ commented Abbas as we walked idly towards Highfield Road.

‘Money talks,’ I replied. I felt pleased with my
shopping, even though all I was taking home was the tripod.

‘Come back to my place for tea,’ I suggested to Abbas as we reached the hill.

He looked uneasy. ‘Your place?’

‘Not no 8,’ I assured him. ‘That’s turned into a right dump. No 10, Mum’s probably spent the day baking. We’ll have a choice of about ten different types of cake.’

We hurried up the hill towards Highfield Road. ‘I think I’ll write to Great Uncle Albert’s neighbour, see if she can tell me what he won the medal for,’ I said.

I was thinking about this as Abbas and I entered the kitchen of no 10, just in time to see Mum hurling a cream meringue at Dad’s retreating back.

Abbas muttered an excuse about getting home for tea and left, while I stared accusingly at Mum.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked, putting down the tripod.

‘Your father’s infuriating,’ yelled Mum, picking up cups and plates from the table and just thumping them down again in a different spot.

‘What’s he done?’

‘I’ve told him a thousand times to put the spoon on the dish marked “spoon”,’ she continued.

‘What spoon?’ I asked.

‘The spoon he stirs his tea with, of course,’ answered Mum. ‘And have you noticed the way he stirs his tea? Round and round and round. Anti-clockwise,’ she added, as if anticlockwise was a crime.

‘Really,’ I said, reaching for my shopping. ‘How terrible, anticlockwise.’

Mum sat at the kitchen table, staring miserably at the cakes. ‘Oh, David, I know it’s silly,’ she wailed, ‘but he’s getting on my nerves.’

I had a strong feeling that I didn’t want to hear this. ‘He never used to,’ I said sullenly.

‘I know,’ answered Mum. She’d started eating a meringue in a mournful sort of way. ‘Dear Uncle Albert,’ she said. ‘He told me it was the same during the war.’

‘The same as what?’ I asked. She was definitely rambling and she was starting on another meringue.

‘People were united during the war,’ Mum replied. ‘Like your dad and I used to be. And for
the same reason, don’t you see? Because we had a common enemy.’

I stared. ‘You three,’ Mum explained. ‘Your dad and I never argued when we had you three to battle with!’

Charming! I thought as I dragged my tripod up to my room. Nobody was interested in hearing what I’d bought. The common enemy!

Over twelve years of tolerance and unselfishness and that was my reward?