Josephine Cox - Divorced and Deadly

‘So, can we keep them then?’ She pleaded.

‘Absolutely not!’ I held firm.

‘Please?’

‘Oh, all right then. But only until the owner gets back. This is not a nursery. The old fox must have known she was about to drop a bundle, and he never said a word.’

‘He may not have known.’ Poppy can be so gullible at times.

‘Whether he knew or not, they’re here and we need him to collect them. Oh, and you can add another ten per cent onto the bill.’

‘But they’re not costing us anything!’ Poppy wailed.

‘Who’s the boss here?’ I demanded.

There was a sniff. ‘You are.’

‘Too right. And I will not have these kennels being used as a nursery for randy animals. My answer is final, and that’s that.’

‘Don’t do it, Ben! He’s just an old pensioner, and that’s so cruel.’ I could see the tears welling again.

‘Oh, all right then…make it five per cent.’ What am I like?

Something has got to change. It seems like I’m always painting myself into a corner.

I have this theory that in order to assert my authority at work, I need to have a stable and worry free home life. And to do that, I need to start looking for a rented place. But because I can’t afford to do that on my own, I might need to find a flatmate.

For one heart-stopping minute there, I thought of Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants.

What a nightmare that would be!

I think my mother has finally flipped.

All day she couldn’t do enough for me. ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Ben darling?’

‘No, thanks all the same, Mother.’

‘Well, I made us a Madeira cake last night, how about a slice of that?’

‘I’m not hungry, Mother. That stew you made filled me up to the eyes. But thanks all the same.’

‘Right, well, I’m off to the shops now. I’ve seen a lovely blue shirt in Jackson’s window. I’ll buy it for you, shall I?’

‘I don’t need a shirt, Mother.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I bought two new ones last week, don’t you remember? It was you who told me where to find the best bargains.’

‘Did I?’ She’s got this irritating habit of frantically scratching her head until her hair stands on end. She did it then, ‘I think you must be mistaken, dear.’

‘No, I’m not. Why don’t you ask Dad? He’ll tell you.’

‘Dad?’ Isn’t it strange how parents call each other Mum and Dad when they’ve got children? It’s like the kids have stolen their identity.

That settles it! I am never going to have kids!

My name is Ben. Not husband, or father or Dad. It’s Ben, and that’s that!

Dad looked up from his beloved newspaper. ‘Yes, Mother, what is it?’ (Why does he call her his mother…she’s not his mother, she’s his wife. Has he forgotten her name, or what?)

‘Did I send our Ben to Jackson’s shop last week to buy two shirts?’ She demanded.

‘You did, yes.’ Dad sounded resigned.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum wasn’t about to let it go.

‘Positive.’ Came the reply.

‘I see!’ She gave me one of her looks. ‘All right! Well, if your father says it’s so, then I suppose it must be right. But I’ll buy you another shirt anyway. You can never have enough shirts.’ She punched father’s newspaper. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Dad complained. ‘Can’t a man read a paper in peace?’

‘I said…a man can never have enough shirts.’ What is wrong with the woman?

‘If you say so, dear.’ Dad knew when to give in.

‘I do.’ Mother smiled triumphantly.

Dad settled himself in his chair. ‘Then that’s settled. Now, can I please read my paper?’

‘If you must!’

At times like this, sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants looks very tempting.

I thought I deserved a lie in as I’d had a hard week at work. On Thursday, two cats almost tore each other to shreds when Poppy accidentally shut them in together. That same afternoon, young Simon took the Great Dane for a walk and it ran off with him. Simon ended up in the duck pond; the dog leaped into the baker’s back garden, flattened a hutch and sent the four rabbits into the undergrowth. He chased them down a hole, and it took three men two hours to retrieve them.

And there’s more! By late afternoon, I’d actually finished extending the puppy run. When Agnes Dovecote arrived with her snappy Dachsund, she somehow managed to fall into the hole, which I’d dug in the wrong place and forgotten to cover. I always believed she was some kind of lady, but I must tell you, I have never heard such shocking language in all my life. After twisting her ankle and laddering her tights (more like flight-path balloons), the old biddy cunningly blackmailed me into letting her ‘darling toots’ have a fortnight’s stay at my expense (I didn’t know who to throttle first…the snappy Dachsund or the old cow!).

And now, what with all that digging, there’s not one inch of my poor body that doesn’t ache.

My Granny’s old alarm clock has taken on a life of its own. Mum should have binned it, but in her great wisdom she gave it to me instead! I’m sure it’s a form of torture.

It’s now seven a.m. on Sunday morning. The damned thing is ringing and ringing and I can’t turn it off. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my shirt and stuffed it under the bedclothes. It was still ringing its head off, but you know what? The vibration was surprisingly pleasant.

Just when I was getting ready to enjoy it, the damned thing stopped. Utter silence! But oh, what bliss! There I was, stretched out like some big, lazy dog with a belly full of best tripe. The curtains were shut; there was no one about. I could dream and laze, and there was not a soul in the whole wide world to disturb me.

‘BEN!’ It was my darling mother. ‘BEN, CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF THAT BED! IT’S NINE O’ CLOCK. TIME FOR SUNDAY MASS!’

‘I’M NOT GOING!’

‘WHY NOT?’

‘I’M SICK!’

‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT! I KNOW YOUR LITTLE GAME. YOU’VE NEVER LIKED GOING TO CHURCH, EVEN WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY!’

‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!’ I was not going to let her win this time. ‘I REALLY AM ILL. I’VE BEEN UP HALF THE NIGHT, BRINGING UP MY DINNER.’

The bedroom door was flung open and there she was, in all her glory: black hat, long black coat and looking for all the world like Darth Vader. ‘So, you’re ill are you?’ Gawd! She’s in my bedroom! Was there no peace in this crazy world?

‘Oh, Mam, leave me alone…I need my sleep.’ I groaned.

‘Is that so?’ She walked across the room and stood by my bed. It’s Hammer Horror all over again.

‘So you need your sleep, do you?’ She said quietly.

‘Yes, please.’ Am I pathetic or what?

‘So, you’ve been throwing up, have you?’ Even quieter.

‘Honestly, Mum, it was awful. Look, it might be best if you go without me. Let me get my rest, eh?’ Groaning, I slid under the covers. ‘I hurt all over, I really do.’

‘Do you now?’ Oh, God! I thought, She’s folded her arms. When my mother folds her arms, it’s war.

‘Please, Mum. I’ll make up for it next Sunday.’ I’m a past master at grovelling. ‘Next week, I promise to be up and dressed before you even come down for breakfast.’

‘So, you’ve had no sleep, you’ve been sick, and you hurt all over?’ She drew back the covers and looked me in the eye (it felt like my last moment on earth). ‘Is that the honest truth, Ben?’

‘Well of course it is! Do you think I’m making it all up?’ (One Christmas, I played Joseph at school; the drama teacher swore I had a future in acting.) ‘Ooh, Mum, I feel terrible.’