Starter For Ten (35 page)

Kettle's boiled.

Mum's in the lounge, drawing deeply on a Rothmans and peering through the net curtains. I hand her the mug of coffee and sit glumly on the sofa, in silence, and I find myself wondering if this is what it feels like to be told by your wife that she wants a divorce.

I notice my Valentine's card on the mantelpiece, a Chagall postcard. 'I see you got a card, then!'

'What? Oh yes. Thank you very much, sweetheart. Very nice.'

'How d'you know it was from me?' I ask, a feeble attempt at lightheartedness.

'Well you wrote "To Mum" on it, so . . .' and she tries a smile, then turns back to the window and blows smoke at the window pane, exhaling so hard that the net curtains move. Finally, she says, 'Brian, your Uncle Des and I are having an . . .' and she's about to say 'affair', but plumps for 'having an ... relationship.'

'For how long?'

'A little while now. Since last October.'

'Since I went away you mean?'

'More or less. He came round for a curry one night, to keep me company, and one thing led to another and well, I was going to tell you Brian, at Christmas, but you weren't around much, and I didn't want to do it over the phone . . .'

'No. No, I can imagine,' I mumble. 'So is it... serious?'

'I think so. Well. . .' and she sucks on her fag again, purses her lips, exhales and says '...as a matter of fact we've been talking about getting married.'

'What?'

'He's asked me to marry him.'

'Uncle Des?'

'Yes.'

'Marry him?'

'Brian . . .'

'And you've said yes?'

'...I know you don't get on, I know you don't like him, but I do, I like Des a lot. He's a good man, and he likes me, and he makes me laugh. And I'm forty-one years old Brian, I know that must seem ancient to you - God knows it feels ancient sometimes - but you'll be forty-one one day, sooner than you think. Anyway, I'm still, I still, well, I still get lonely, Brian, I still like a bit of company every now and then, a bit of . . .' she draws on her cigarette, looks at the floor, '.. . well, I'm sorry, but your dad's been gone a long time now Brian, and Des and I aren't doing anything wrong. I won't be made to feel like we're doing anything wrong . . .'

But I'm still trying to take things in. 'So you are going to marry him?'

'I think so . . .'

'You don't know?'

'Yes! Yes, I am going to marry him!'

'When?'

'Later in the year sometime. We're not in any rush.'

'And then what happens?'

'He's going to move in here, with me. We're thinking . . .'

3O7 and she pauses, nervous again, and I can't imagine what else she could possibly have to tell me'...we're thinking of turning it into a B and B.'

I think I laugh at this, not because I find it funny, or any of this funny in fact, just because I don't have another appropriate response.

'You're joking.'

'No, I'm not.'

'A Bed and Breakfast?'

'Uh-huh.'

'But there's no room!'

'Not for families - for singles, or young couples, businessmen. Des is going to convert the loft' - she glances at me nervously, then back at the net curtains - 'and your room. We thought we'd maybe clear out your room.'

'And what happens to my stuff?'

'We thought you could ...take it with you.'

'You're throwing me out of my room!'

'Not throwing you out, just ...asking you to move your stuff.'

'To university?'

'Yes! Either that or throw it away. It's just a lot of books and comics and model planes, Bri, it's not anything you're going to need. You are a grown-up after all . . .'

'So I am getting thrown out!'

'Don't be daft, of course you're not. You can still stay in the holidays if you really want to, and over the summer . . .'

'But isn't that your peak season ...?'

'Brian . . .'

'Well, that's very good of you and Uncle Des, Mum, but how much do you charge per night?' I can hear my own voice now, high-pitched and wheedling.

'Don't be like this please, Brian . . .' Mum says.

'Well, what d'you expect me to do? I mean, I'm only getting thrown out of my own house.

And then she spins, and turns to me, and jabs at me with the remains of her fag and shouts, 'It's not your house any more, Brian!'

'Oh really!'

'No, I'm sorry, but it's not! You were here, what, one week at Christmas? One week, and even then you couldn't wait to get back to college. You don't come back at weekends, you don't phone for weeks, you certainly don't write to me, so, no, actually, no, this is not your house. It's mine. It's the house I live in by myself, just me, every bloody day, day after day, since your dad died, this is where I've slept every night on my own, and that, that there, that bloody settee, that's where I've sat nearly every night on my own, watching the telly or just staring at the wall, while you're away at college, or if you do deign to stay here you're out with your mates, or hiding in your room because you're so bloody obviously bored of talking to me, your own mother. D'you have any idea what that's like, Brian, being here all by myself, year after year after bloody, bloody year . .. ?' but then her voice starts to crack, and she clasps her face with her hands and starts sobbing, great heavy, wet sobs and once again I realise that I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do.

'Hey, come on, Mum . . .' I say, but she just waves her hand at me, gesturing for me to keep away.

'Leave me alone, please Brian,' she says, and I'm tempted to do as she says, because it would be easier after all.

'...Mum, there's no need to get . . .'

'Leave me alone. Just go away . . .'

What if I pretend I haven't heard any of this? The lounge door's still open after all. I could just go out, come back in an hour or so, let her calm down, just go. After all, that's what she's told me to do, that's what she wants, isn't it?

'Please Mum, please, don't cry. I hate it when you . . .' and I can't finish the sentence because I find that I'm crying myself, and I cross over to her and fold my arms round her and hold onto her as tightly as I can.

QUESTION: Circles of standing stones at Lindholm Hoje near Alborg in Denmark indicate that it was a site for which ancient ritual?

ANSWER: Viking burial.

I meet Tone at two-fifteen in The Black Prince on the sea front. There's no one in apart from a couple of tubercular old geezers nursing the last warm inch of their pints and reading dog-eared copies of the Sun., but it still takes me a moment to notice him because I'm instinctively looking for light-blue denim, not the charcoal single-button suit, white socks and light-grey slip-ons that he's wearing today.

'Bloody hell, Tone, what's happened to your hair?' The Viking look has gone, and instead he's got a neat short-back and-sides with a parting slightly too far to the left. Tone, in a suit, with a parting.

'Had it cut, that's all.' I go to ruffle it, but he karates my hand away, not quite playfully. I want to keep things light-hearted so I say, 'Here, are you wearing gel?'

'A little bit. So what?' he says, then takes a sip from the half-pint of lager in front of him. I don't think I've ever seen Tone holding a half-pint glass, and it's playing tricks with scale, like he's some sort of giant.

'D'you want another drink?' I ask.

T'm all right . . .'

'Another half then?

'I can't . . .'

'Go on, you wuss . . .' I cajole, lightheartedly.

'Can't. I've got to get back to work,' he says.

'Surely you've got time for a . . .'

7 don't want another half, all right?' he snaps. I go and get myself a pint and sit back down.

'So - how's work?'

"S alright. I'm out front on the shop floor now, so that's why . . .' and half apologetically, he tugs on the long thin lapel of his suit.

'Which department?'

'Hi-fi and audio.'

'Great!'

'Yeah, well. It'll do. And there's commission, so . . .'

'Spencer told me about you and the Territorials.'

'Did he? Have a good laugh about it, did you?'

'No, course not . . .'

'I don't suppose you approve.'

'I didn't say that, did I? I mean I am a unilateralist, and I think we should definitely reduce defence spending and plough some of that money into social services, but I still understand the need for some form of . . .' but Tone's looking at his watch, not really interested. 'So have you seen Spencer?' I say.

'Of course I've seen Spencer,' he snaps, and I accept that, for today at least, it's going to be impossible for me to say anything that doesn't piss someone off.

'And how is he?' I ask.

'Well, considering he's been through the windscreen of a Ford Escort, he's pretty good actually.'

'So what happened, Tone?'

'Don't know, exactly. We were down the pub Friday as usual, and after closing he wanted to go on into London, to a club or something so we could keep drinking, and I said no, 'cause I was working the next day, and he was pretty pissed, but he went anyway, took his dad's car. The next thing I knew was two days later when his mum called and said he was in hospital.'

'Was anyone else hurt?'

'No . . .'

'Well thank God for that'

'...just our mate Spencer,' he adds, with a sneer.

'I didn't mean ... I just meant ...And is he in trouble? I mean, legally?'

'Well, he was over the limit, he's only got a provisional licence, it wasn't his car and he wasn't insured, so, yeah, from a legal standpoint, things aren't looking too rosy.'

'And how's he ... feeling?'

'I don't know, Brian, ask him yourself, will you? I've got to get back to work,' and irritably, he drains the rest of his half, takes a packet of mints out of his pocket and pops one in his mouth, without offering me one.

We step outside the pub and walk along the street back towards the pier. The wind's blowing rain in off the estuary, and Tone folds the two thin lapels of his jacket over to protect his shirt and tie as we march on up towards the High Street.

'So you staying over tonight?' he asks, clearly not caring much either way.

'No, can't I'm afraid.' I wonder if I should tell him that I'm on University Challenge tomorrow, but decide against it. 'Got a tutorial tomorrow, first thing, so I'm going back later. But I'll be back at Easter I think, so ... see you then?'

'Yeah, well, whatever.'

'Tone - have I done something to, you know, piss you off?'

He snorts. 'Whatever gave you that impression?'

'Was it something Spence said?' No reply. 'What did he say, Tone?'

Without looking at me, Tone says, 'Spencer told me about coming to see you. It didn't sound as if you were much of a mate to him, Bri. In fact it sounded to me as if you behaved like a bit of a cunt. That's all.'

'Why, what did he say?'

'...doesn't matter . . .'

'I couldn't let him stay any longer, Tone, it was against the rules . . .'

'Oh, well, if it was against the rules, Bri . . .'

'He was the one who started the fight, Tone . . .'

'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.

QUESTION: First isolated by F.W.A. Serturner in 18O6, what is the common name of the narcotic analgesic derived from the unripe seeds of papaver somn/ferum?

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, grey, 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 left-over cake, ding-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 neighbours popping round to check up on Mum. She answers, and I hear starter for ten a voice in the ball that I don't recognise, then Mum's opening the lounge door, dressing gown held dosed 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.

'Alright, Bri?'

I sit up straight on the sofa. 'Alright, Spence?'

'What are you doing?'

'Nothing.'

'Glass of Coke, Spencer?' asks Mum.

'^es, 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 over-emphasise 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, sat on the settee.

'What you watching?'