EPISODE ONE-HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR
Following the funeral
of their father and the house clearance trauma,
both Nicky and Vanessa became immune to any further stress and accepted
the move from their house in Tunbridge Wells to Crowborough with resigned indifference.
But two days after the move, as they enjoyed a leisurely Saturday
morning breakfast with their mother,
Nigel came storming into the kitchen.
‘I can’t concentrate,’ he yelled. ‘That
radio’s so loud it’s distorted. Can’t
you hear it?’
They looked up at him expressionlessly and he seethed because he thought this
was passive aggression and all three were ganging up on him.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he ranted. ‘Am I
the only one who can hear how distorted this racket is?’
Vanessa caught her sister’s eye and they sniggered. Nigel glowered at them and his face burned.
‘Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny.
Some of us have got some work to do.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicky. ‘We weren’t
laughing at you. It’s just that you
sounded like that old bloke on TV, the one who’s always complaining.’
‘I’m not always complaining.’
‘Nicky didn’t say you were, darling,’ said Jackie in her most reasonable tone,
which Nigel found so irritating.
He fiddled with the tuning dial of the radio.
‘Look at that! It’s not even
tuned in properly. Couldn’t you hear it
was out of tune?’
‘No, I couldn’t!’ snapped Jackie.
‘Well I don’t know,’ Nigel muttered to himself and turned the volume down so
that it was barely audible.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ said Jackie.
‘It’s Saturday. You must learn to
relax more. You’ll have a nervous
breakdown if you carry on like this.’
‘I must get these quotations written.
The deadline’s at noon on Monday.’
‘And how long will that take?’
‘Most of the weekend, I should think.’
‘What!’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s what I do for a living.’
‘You won’t remain living for very long if you carry on like this. You’re overdoing it. At fifty six you need to slow down a bit.’
Vanessa and Nicky watched this exchange with mild interest. Nigel suddenly ran out of steam.
‘It’s all right for you,’ he mumbled lamely.
Jackie’s lips tightened. ‘Do I take that
to mean because I’m not working at the moment?’
‘Of course not. I like having you at
home. You know I do.’
With the edge of her knife Jackie pushed the crust of her toast to the side of
her plate with a positive clatter. ‘I
think we ought to get one thing straight...’ she began.
Nigel waved his hands about frustratedly. ‘Please! I’d like to have a lengthy discussion about
your duties. But I don’t have time.’
Jackie looked horrified. ‘Duties!’
‘Yes, duties. After all, if I’m to be
the provider, working all hours God sends, then I hope it’s not too much to
expect you to fulfil certain housewifely obligations.’
Jackie stared at him, her face set in an expression of numbed disbelief.
‘And another thing,’ Nigel continued, ‘I’m not having you dictate to me who
cuts my hair. Mike cuts it the way I
like it and I’m going to give him a ring.’
Nigel felt this was a good exit line and marched out of the kitchen. Jackie started as he slammed his office door
closed. She looked helplessly at Vanessa
and Nicky, hoping for sympathy. But they both stared at her accusingly, as if
to say: “We told you so.”
Nicky suddenly laughed nervously and said,
‘Shall I turn the radio up a bit?’
Jackie sighed and shook her head.
‘No. Better not.’
*
As Ted hurried along Church Road past Trinity Theatre, where he always looked longingly
at the posters, hoping one day they might present a decent Shakespeare play, he
went over the lottery numbers in his head.
He had been doing them independently of Marjorie for several months now,
and had chosen the numbers from his favourite works of the bard of Avon in the chronological order of when they were supposedly
written.
He had ten minutes to spare until he was due to arrive at the station for his
shift and he hurried into the newsagent’s in Mount Pleasant to place his bet.
He knew the odds were stacked against him but keeping it a secret from
Marjorie gave him a vicarious thrill, and if he won just ten pounds one day,
the sweetness of the deception would make him feel empowered. Just three of his numbers. That was all he craved. A modest little win. But it would be a major triumph.
*
Craig dreaded visiting his sister but it had to be done. He went around the side of the house and was
relieved to find his niece and nephew were playing quietly in the garden,
building some sort of toy village in one of the flowerbeds. He called out to them in passing but for once
they were so engrossed that they just gave him a cursory wave.
He crossed the patio, rapped his knuckle on the sliding glass door, and went
into the house. Maggie was in the
kitchen drinking coffee, her face blotchy and her eyes watery and bloodshot. As Craig entered, her eyes flitted, darting
to and fro, lost and unnerved by his sudden entrance, as if she needed time to
prepare herself. He could see the panic in her disposition, the fear of being
confronted by the hard-hitting truth of her behaviour. Her voice was sombre when she spoke, knowing
why he was here.
‘Hi, Craig!’
On the way over, Craig had thought about the ice-breaking way of saying what he
wanted to say, but now he was confronted by the devastating sight of his
sister, suffering from yet another hangover and amnesia from her terrible
behaviour in the wine bar, he went straight to the point.
‘Maggie, this has got to stop. Right
now!.’
Her eyes blazed as she swung round to face him.
‘What the hell are you talking about, little brother.’
‘Your behaviour. You and Mike. Having it off under the table in the wine
bar.’
She frowned and her eyes looked distant.
‘You don’t remember, do you? You were
both so pissed, you were at each other under the table. Don’t you remember?’
She turned and glared at him. ‘We were
just having a bit of fun. Deliberately
having a laugh with the customers. Pub
games, that’s all it was.’
‘Oh, come on, Maggie. You were both out
of it.’
Maggie picked up her coffee mug angrily, then slammed it down again onto the
work surface. ‘Now look, Craig, keep out
of it. It’s none of your bloody
business.’
Craig’s mouth opened and closed several times before he was able to speak. ‘It
is my business. You’re forgetting I’m a
partner in the wine bar. I sold the
chippie to come into this venture with you.’
Maggie’s eyes bulged as she stared at her brother, the veins standing out on
her neck. ‘And who gave you the
chippie? You were nothing. One of our employees. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be back in prison
by now. Where you’ll probably end up.’
Craig was astounded, his mouth wide open as he stared out his sister, unable to
speak. She was still very much under the
influence of alcohol, he realised, and was not behaving rationally.
‘Where’s Mike?’ he said after a long and uncomfortable silence. ‘Still in bed?’
‘He’s gone on the bus to Crowborough - to do some hair cutting.’
Craig decided it was time to leave. He
walked to the door and fed her his parting shot. ‘I pity the poor sod who has Mike cut his
hair today. Unless he’s going for the
punk style.’
*
When Ted got home that evening, Marjorie was in the lounge sipping cream
sherry. She shushed him as he sank into
an easy chair and started to speak. The
lotto balls were about to be released. The
crowd in the BBC studio applauded and brayed as they tumbled and fell. Then, as a ball rolled into the hole and down
the ramp, the crowd whistled and cheered as though they all had the same number
and everyone in the studio was a winner.
Marjorie glared at the TV set. ‘The
worst week ever,’ she said. ‘Not a
single number. Not one.’
She cast a glance in Ted’s direction, then her eyes became glued to his
face. He had a strange look in his eyes
and a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
‘Ted! What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’
Five of his beloved Shakespeare plays had turned up trumps, and the sixth was a
bonus ball. He was a winner at
last. But he was not about to tell
Marjorie. This little nest egg was his
insurance policy. His lifeline.
IN EPISODE 125
Mary goes to court to bear witness against her ex.