Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘As long as I’m not a pouffe,’ Charlie said sourly, and they all laughed, including, last as always, Charlie.

‘I suppose I’d better be that,’ Billy said, ‘in the circumstances.’

‘Too right,’ Charlie said, and they laughed again, Billy limiting himself to a tight smile.

As Hathaway climbed the steps at the back of the giant slide, he could see Reilly making his slow progress down the pier. A couple of other men joined him fifty yards along and they walked together back to the promenade. Hathaway looked to the pier offices as he stood poised at the top of the helter skelter.

A tall, thin man was standing in the doorway watching Reilly go. A look of utter hate on his face.

On New Year’s morning 1964, Hathaway was in bed with Barbara when his parents came home from Spain. Hathaway was dimly aware of a car pulling up outside, then the front door slamming, but he was otherwise engaged. Only when he heard his father bellowing his name did it register.

‘Bugger,’ he said, rolling off Barbara so abruptly she cried out. Hathaway put his hand over her mouth.

‘It’s my dad.’

Her eyes widened.

‘Get rid of those dancing girls, Johnny boy,’ his father boomed, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. He rapped on the bedroom door. ‘You’ve got about ten seconds to chuck them out the window.’

Hathaway scrambled out of bed and scrabbled for his trousers, his erection still evident. Barbara pulled the blankets over her head.

‘Just a sec, Dad. I’m not decent.’

‘What’s new?’ his father said through the door.

Hathaway looked wildly round the room, saw Barbara’s jewellery on a chair by the window. He started towards it but his father threw the door open.

‘Johnny boy.’

His father strode in, a big grin on his face, looked his son up and down. He wasn’t a tall man – maybe 5’ 9” – but he was big across the shoulders with a barrel chest and his presence took up space. He moved towards Hathaway, scanning the room as he did so. He noticed the jewellery on the chair. He stopped and looked over at the bed.

‘Dad,’ Hathaway said, flushing. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home. Is Mum with you?’

His father ignored him. He looked back at the jewellery. Took a step and picked up Barbara’s necklace. His jaw tightened.

‘Dad, why didn’t you phone?’

His father’s look singed him, then swept to the bed. He took two strides, still holding the necklace, and grabbed the blankets with his other hand.

‘Dad,’ Hathaway said, now more startled than embarrassed.

There was a moment’s resistance, then his father tugged the blankets off Barbara. She lay curled up tight, her head pushed into the pillow, but as the cold air hit her she uncurled and turned to look at Dennis Hathaway. Hathaway could see panic in her eyes but her voice was calm when she said:

‘Hello, Dennis.’

His father’s face was savage.

‘Mr Hathaway to you,’ he said. His voice was ice.

Barbara couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Hathaway tried to calm her but she was having none of it. His father had gone downstairs and was with his mother in the kitchen when Barbara rushed out of the front door. Hathaway rested his head against the door for a moment then went to the kitchen.

He could hear his mother talking then laughing loudly.

‘That Ena Sharples. She’s a one. She bullies Minny Caldwell so.’

‘Mum?’ Hathaway said, coming into the kitchen and finding his mother alone.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said. She was standing by the sink, washing her hands under the taps. No water was running. She laughed. ‘I do like the Beverly Hillbillies, don’t you?’

‘I thought you were with Dad.’

‘Your father’s out in the garden somewhere. It looks lovely in the snow, doesn’t it?’

Hathaway was surprised at his mother talking and laughing to herself, but he was in such turmoil that for the moment he just accepted it.

‘It’s Z Cars later,’ she said. ‘Though I prefer Dixon of Dock Green myself.’

Hathaway hadn’t seen his mother for nearly six months but she gave the impression they’d been together just a moment ago. She was nut-brown and wearing a yellow summer dress underneath her fur coat.

‘Do you want to take your coat off, Mum?’

‘No thanks, Johnny. It’s a bit parky. I’ve been used to exotic climes.’

She said the phrase ‘exotic climes’ proudly, as if it were a foreign expression she’d mastered.

Hathaway stood awkwardly.

‘OK, then,’ he said, unable to think of any other comment that would meet the situation.

Hathaway spent the rest of the morning in his room. At lunchtime his mother called him down.

The family ate in the dining room, looking out over the snowy garden. His mother had cooked a gammon, with all the trimmings. His father sat at the end of the long table – it could seat eight – glowering and monosyllabic. His mother dithered.

At the end of the meal Hathaway’s mother went in the kitchen to do the washing-up. Hathaway had offered to do it but his father said he wanted a word in the living room.

‘Put some Matt Monro on,’ Hathaway’s mother called from the kitchen.

Hathaway’s father did so, then brought over to the sofas a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

‘Canadian Club. The best whisky in the world – according to the adverts.’

‘Dad, about Barbara-’

‘I don’t want to talk about her,’ his father said, the ice back in his voice. ‘I want to talk about you.’

He chinked their glasses.

‘I know I’m not educated,’ his father said, ‘but I’m guessing that the fact you’re hanging around the house all day means you decided not to go on to take your A levels.’

‘It’s the school holidays, Dad.’

‘Oh – that would be it. So you are doing your A levels?’

Hathaway’s cheeks were burning from the whisky, a drink he wasn’t used to.

‘No.’

According to IQ tests at school Hathaway was above average intelligence. He liked learning stuff. And reading.

‘More books,’ his mother would say when he came home with yet another pile. ‘Haven’t you got enough books?’

But he couldn’t settle at school. The teachers drove him potty.

‘So you’re financially dependent on me?’ his father said.

Hathaway put his glass down. The whisky really burned.

‘The group is doing pretty well.’

His father rolled his whisky round in his glass.

‘As I said.’

‘What do you mean?’

Hathaway’s father didn’t seem to hear.

‘Let’s change the subject,’ his father said. ‘I’m afraid your mum’s got worse.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘She’s going through the menopause – her hormones are all over the place. Big change – it can send some people mental.’

‘You’re saying mum’s mental?’

‘Not exactly – and I hope just for the time being.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘He’s given her some tablets. Valium. Brand-new on the market. Tells me it’s a wonder drug.’

‘I heard her talking to herself in the kitchen.’

‘All the brightest people do,’ his father said cheerfully. ‘Usually because they find they’re the only people worth talking to.’

He saw Hathaway’s face.

‘Don’t be worried. She’s fine, just a bit… irregular.’

His father topped up their glasses then gave his son a long look.

‘What?’ Hathaway said.

‘There’s real money to be made in the pop business,’ his father said.

‘If we can hit the top ten,’ Hathaway said.

‘With me, you berk.’ His father saw Hathaway’s look. ‘Yes, a proper job. Have you any idea what I do?’