The Squashed Man Who Married a Dragon (11 page)

Fancy going to bed with a grandma – that was something I had never ever contemplated. Vicki was ageless, a forever girl. Something about becoming a grandmother was a very desirable state for her; to me it seemed like slippers and cocoa – ugh. When our first grandchild arrived, Robert, the little boy changed my life. From a toddler, we played cowboys and injuns, constantly rolling over on the floor, fighting pesky Indians – who ambushed us – causing dramatic wounds. We pulled arrows out of each other's chests, all day long. This was the bonding of young and old.

Robert became my protector, helper and buddy. It was great to be the one he wanted to sit next to, the selected one to feed him, and whatever else. He stuck up for me so well, that one day in the car, when wicked grandma had said some cruel and harsh words to me – he chirped up ‘Grandma, if you say nasty things to grandpa you'll go to prison for a very long time!' Such sound judgement from someone so young; and a stickler for the truth too. Around the age of four he told his teacher that his mother was a test pilot for BAE systems and that she played football for Manchester United at the weekends. Obviously, Angela is her mother's daughter alright.

Which makes me wonder – does Angela's Neil – who I know to be a model husband – does he suffer similar vicious outbursts –to those I endure? I think there must be a bit of genuine affectionate bonding here – plus I think his Irish charm will carry him through.

I had heard that being a grandma – might mellow the woman – it didn't. She acted just the same – no softening that I could see. Except one day she found a grey hair. She decreed that she would go grey gracefully. I can't remember what exactly changed her mind but she went blonde instead, hey! A new blonde playmate, what a great decision and what a fantastic effect. Maybe this seasoned warrior, breathing pain and destruction won't be so bad after all.

This could be hunker down in the bunker day. The omens are not looking good…. I could ask for a sick note……. but I don't think it would work; it's going to be grin and bear it!

The National Trust – is the badge of the retired, mobile and two old for Disneyland brigade. It vacuums up those with time and cash to spare, the car badge and handbook suggest an air of understated culture. So we joined like most of our friends. Quiet and safe – a stress free pastime. The only one downside for me is that I love the smaller stately homes, ones I can imagine living in. These impress me so much so – when I get home I want to put a match to our miniature castle, only Vicki's restraining hand and the damage that I could inflict on our very kind neighbours next door stop me.

Off we go for another cultural embalming – not quite accurate, although whenever we go out on a jaunt there's always a N. T. place on every planned route, like a McDonalds or a BP petrol station. When we arrive the car park is a good half mile or more from the house itself. Often the day is clouding over, distant rain threatens, as a courteous, forward thinking soul. I ask ‘do you want your coat?' ‘No' – she snaps…. . ‘Your brolly?' ‘I've said no' snarls the ‘gentle one'; so off we go hand in hand. A couple of hours later, it's dropped a few degrees, rain is starting – then and only then ‘beloved' says ‘IF you're going to the car, would you………. '

In order to degrade me even more – she's taken to increased criticism of my driving. Me, who first instructed her in the art of synchronising in and out foot movement, in order to change gear! Parking is one of her nitpicking favourites, acknowledged as one of the world's best parkers, a man who could park a high topped long wheel base Master van in a space a Fiat 500 had just vacated doesn't count any more.

She does exaggerated foot brake movements, hands held in front of her face, sometimes she adopts the air-line safety crash position – all for show and quite unnecessary just to spook me and sap my confidence. Didn't you see that car – she screams – psycho style. There was no panic – no near do. All so the faithful servant can be harassed and humiliated. Now when she drives and she is good, competent and competitive too – but when we come to a stressful situation she talks it to death – what are you doing Mr Green Audi, if that bus would move over, stupid man, I could get through there – you too blue sports car…. . None of the cool, unruffled driving of the master.

Opinions she has in droves, strong, ballistic and delivered like the Daughter of Genghis Kahn especially when I'm driving – and when choices need to be made, a commitment to which route, it's like the arid desert not a peep. There's a choice of direction up ahead – I need to know – left or right, I ask, this is ignored or parried – which way do we go -which way do you want to go she murmurs. I can get an inkling of preference – nearly at the junction – ‘left or right' this is desperation stakes – so after fainting to the left – swerving to the right and lurch back again to the left. It's a nano second later after continuing up the motorway – she says ‘Why are we going this way?' followed by ‘I don't know why you chose this way' and ‘I would have gone the other route…through the Trossachs and by-passing Llandudno!' Hindsight – it's another gift that many women have, but in Vicki's case it comes in bucketfuls.

Thursday, Black Thursday – another supermarket shopping day. Why did I say yes? It wasn't really a question – when she said ‘Are you coming with me?' It's more a dare – if you know what's good for you – THIS IS NO CHOICE! Into slave mode – meek and servile – I drive us to the supermarket, park in the wrong place – ‘Over there, it's a lot nearer' – restart the car – ‘Never mind', she says in that bitter, withering way that women have.

I run and get the trolley – so she's not hanging around holding stuff, why not wait until I get back with the trolley first before starting? ‘What have you been doing?' she snarls. It's taken me twenty seven seconds and a snatched ‘How are you doing?' to someone. Now it's fetch and carry time. Sprinting across ten aisles to the water storage area and back with two large six-bottle water packs – ‘We only need one today' okay.

Back again for milk, dozens of cartons of pasteurised semi-skimmed milk, the green one with the cow on…so it goes, fetch this, get that, while she, like a programmed robot, dredges up and down every aisle. They don't stock take as thoroughly as she inspects each and every one of the shelves.

The movement of people has carried me over, like the tide moving flotsam, and dropped me on the wines and spirits shore. Here tottering around are a couple of beaten men, like bedraggled seabirds leaving the oil slick to stagger up the beach. Alive – but only just! We stand together in the shelter of Riojas and London Dry gin – too destroyed to speak more than a grunted greeting. For a brief interval we feel the solace of mutual pain, before some fire-breathing spouse with laden trolley claims one of us. Life in the supermarket jungle grinds slowly on.

After several days we reach the checkout tills – standing in line, each man chained to his trolley, mutely and submissively awaiting the final task. For some reason this has to be done at breakneck speed, packing designated items into bags, which are designated only to receive those special grouped designated items. Got it!

God it's awful – my wife; Dracula's sister, carries fifty six shopping bags in the boot of the car –many we take into the store, plus several secret fold out ones she has hidden about her. This is too much for me, I put the wrong things in the wrong bag – ‘that's fruit not veg', ‘no, frozen goes in the freezer box!' orders are barked at me – confidence flies from me.

Sometimes in a supermarket at the cash-out till – when a cruel woman's thoughtless words cut a man to the quick – there passes between men a despairing look, a sneaked glance that flashes a bonding sign in the fraternity of the down trodden. This sympathetic recognition is stronger than a poisoned verbal lashing or nagging, jagged edge of a down-turned mouth. This is the knowledge, men – that you are not on your own…. never.

I do try to keep on the right side of all females, but in Lola's case, it's a joy and a pleasure to sprint the extra mile. When she comes to stay, I take her into town…. to make her purchases, in my clean and polished car. As a courteous and well trained chauffeur, I open the rear door and pass things to her. In town, I change to a doting grandpa. We walk hand in hand to the sweetie shop, for her to choose a selection of strange favourites. Weird colours and oddly named delights these we buy by the bag full, priced by guesswork or weight, I am happy to pay whatever it comes to!

Then on to the market, fruit stalls first, ‘Oh look, grandpa, strawberries'. Do you like strawberries?'……. silly question really. We purchase a punnet, then guess what! round the corner, are cherries, these are Lola's ‘all time favourite fruit'. I dive in anxious to fill a bag as fast and full as possible. ‘No grandpa… you don't do it like that' says a beautiful, polite, and gentle voice. She takes the bag, puts her hand in, turns it inside out, covers the cherries, and in an expertly done way, ends up with the bag, now filled with the best, choicest cherries.

The market shoppers, all women, chorus ‘there you are grandpa…. now you know how it's done'. I'm just proud and glad to be of assistance. We might go to Dawsons, our department store, to search out a bargain or two, then hand in hand back to my limousine, for the chauffeured drive home . This is shopping at its very, very best, I just love it!

Drifting back in time, at my junior school in 1949, we used to change in the afternoon to play football. A changing room of thirty or so, nine year old boys need supervision, and lucky us, this came in the form of Miss Briggs. Young, friendly, attractive, almost an older sister. Many people take off one article of clothing at a time, say a shirt and replace it with something else, same with trousers, and sit or crouch down to change from shoes to soccer boots, a piecemeal exchange of things.

Not Miller and I, we stripped off down to the buff, in seconds, passing unnecessarily backwards and forewords in front of Miss Briggs. All the boys loved her, just Miller and I let it show a bit more! What impression and infatuation we had for our live pin-up girl, we never knew. In total control, without any rancour or heavy handedness she worked her charm. ‘Blackie and Miller……. I can see you…. . now get some clothes on quick'.

All most the same control at bath night (once a week with over 30 boys ), only six baths in the bath room, in and out in less than three minutes, no play time here, using the same water for six or seven boys. The worst bit was hair washing, one huge enamel jug, filled with what looked and felt like cold green slime. Our ‘favourite' and another matron, would pour some slime over our heads, after thermal shock and vigorous high speed no nonsense massaging of the scalp. My head going all over the place, neck nearly broken, followed by jug after jug of cool rinsing water. Last of all may be a thirty lucky seconds or so chat with the wonderful Miss Briggs. It was here that the spell was broken, telling me that she could see the future and that one day, I would grow up to be short, bald and round, that did it! I would never be that…never!

About fifty five years ago I met two women, one I never saw her face at all, and the other I never even spoke to, yet both sometimes surface in lost moments of reverie. When I was a young budding salesman, I was dispatched to Geordie Land, this was when Tyne Tees TV was just starting up. The firm I worked for was launching a new ‘up market' pork luncheon meat. Everywhere I walked on foot, and Gateshead is a very large place for a young salesman with a heavy sample case and an almost empty order book.

Long before the spread of supermarkets, there was a grocers shop on every corner. The one I was in, appeared to have no customers and no owner . In all these shops, the door behind the counter lead straight into a living room. I waited around for a bit, rehearsing in my mind, the magical sales spiel that assured success, ultimately realising we had a stalemate of silence. There came at last a woman's voice ‘am not comin out pet, cause if I do, I might buy sum ut.' This was not in the school for salesmans script, not giving an eager young salesman a sporting chance to shine.

Whether she had glimpsed my new charcoal grey, pin striped suit, or my cut away collar and Windsor knot or perhaps my boyish quiff, is any body's guess. Something had thrown her confidence! Success doesn't come easy in the commercial world for a boy trying to show promise.

Almost minutes later, I had my ‘Road to Damascus' moment, when I saw close up, my first and real live Goddess. The clacking of her white high heels, came before she rounded the corner. This was just before mini skirts and hot pants hit the streets, when a flash of thigh (or more) was far more electrifying than a permanent leg show. I remember the bee hive hair style and, as she walked down the street towards me, her skirt, a very short ‘horizontal' crimplene, petticoat creation that rocked backwards and forewords, exhibiting the most perfect, heart-crushing, beautiful bare legs I'd ever seen. I hugged the wall, knees like water, unable to speak. She powered past me, a golden tsunami of pure heaven, out of the side of her mouth came ‘cat got your tongue pet' in a knowing Geordie way, my meltdown was complete.