Neal Doran - Not What They Were Expecting

‘Would anyone like a cup of tea? Or a sandwich?’

Rebecca and James sat leaning into each other in the middle of the overstuffed sofa in her parents’ living room, watching the grown-ups talk at them; Howard, in one of the big leather armchairs with Penny perched anxiously on the arm rest, Margaret sat across from him on the matching one, and Ben by the window gazing through the net curtains.

‘We’ve just finished dinner, Mum,’ said Rebecca.

‘A piece of cake then? A biscuit?’

‘Don’t think I could even manage that, Penny,’ said James. ‘Overdone it on the Wellington again. It was delicious.’

‘Not generally believed to be named after the warmongering duke, despite public perceptions,’ murmured Ben from the window. ‘It’s a name that really only appeared in the sixties, and was obviously embraced by the social-climbing middle classes for their dinner parties where they wouldn’t want to serve anything too “continental”.’

If James could have reached his dad to kick him in the shins, he would have done.

‘It was fabulous, Penny. A classic,’ he said instead.

‘The secret’s wrapping the beef in a pancake. I saw it on Saturday Kitchen .’

The room went quiet again.

‘So you’ll run an interview in the paper next week then? Respected businessman slandered in police sting,’ said Howard. ‘Hey, maybe PC sting? Police being politically correct and all that?’

‘Tory chief a victim of institutional homophobia,’ said Margaret.

‘These days I’m just an ordinary party member. But I suppose Chief’s a fair description for a headline – they do still look to me to advise on the big stuff. Although I don’t think it’s right I’m a victim…’

‘Top Tory fights prosecution persecution,’ mused Ben.

‘Hey, he’s a smart cookie that husband of yours isn’t he? Wasted on the local rag, he could get a job at the Mail , you know.’

‘He knows people at the Guardian , I keep telling him to call.’

‘He’d run rings around them at the old Grauniad. Say, Lord Beaverbrook, can I offer you a post-prandial cigar?’

‘Oh. I’ve got my own blend thank you,’ said Ben tapping the tobacco tin in his shirt pocket. ‘I prefer the lighter –’

‘What kind are they?’ Margaret interrupted.

‘Montecristos, I believe,’ said Howard.

‘Cuban?’

‘Of course! Viva la revolución! ’

‘I’ll have one with you, Howard. Of all the forms for tobacco, cigars are the least dangerous, personally and environmentally.’

‘Is that so? I’ll get you one, rolled on the thighs of some big hairy old communist.’

‘Of course access to them is still often restricted to men in this fragile phallocentric society.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it a large one. You’re all right there, Penny? You wouldn’t want one of these filthy things…’

‘I’ll just get the dishwasher loaded.’

‘You know,’ said Ben, ‘the idea of rolling cigars on thighs is something of a myth but does have a basis in cultural…’

The last of the parents filed out of the room, leaving Rebecca and James alone with just the Sunday concert on Classic FM to break the silence.

‘What,’ asked James, ‘the fuck. Was that?’

They hadn’t been told his parents would be joining them for lunch. Presumably because her parents had known there was no way they would have shown up if they did, thought Rebecca. Actually, that wasn’t true, she realised. She and James would have been there early, making a concerted effort to ensure the two sets of parents had no opportunity to talk to each other about anything, especially politics after what had happened the last time.

‘Can’t quite believe Mum tried to discuss spring fashions with your mum.’

‘That was a lecture of sweatshops waiting to happen…’

‘What was that joke Dad tried to tell? Where you needed to have worked out the punchline was an anagram of botulism?’

‘I don’t know what was more painful, the silence or the polite laughing. He didn’t seem to notice, though. Naturally.’

‘And it was great being held up like a specimen. The future of humanity, right here under my jumper.’

‘And urgh! The childhood anecdotes.’

‘Actually that bit was quite funny,’ said Rebecca.

‘I didn’t see you laughing when Howard mentioned how you used to do an all-out ballet performance whenever anyone visited the house. Including the guy who was just there to read the meter.’

‘Shut it, bedwetter.’

‘The vision of you running at the poor bastard, who didn’t know he was supposed to catch you as part of the routine…’

‘Are you worried about that? Is it making you feel anxious? Would you feel better if we got a rubberised undersheet for tonight?’

‘Leave it, twinkle-toes,’ he said in his gruffest Sweeney voice.

‘It was a sweet story, that’s all. And now I know why you’re always so keen to keep on top of the laundry.’

Hearing about an entirely forgotten spate of bedwetting when he was six, and not really coping with a shift from living in France to Germany, had been surprising, thought James. But not as surprising as hearing Margaret and Howard rallying behind the same side of one cause. Well, near enough the same side. Margaret must have let Howard get away with declarations that ‘queers’ could do what they wanted with their private lives because she assumed he was reclaiming the term, while when she mentioned ‘your community’ Howard must have assumed she was talking about Neighbourhood Watch and the golf club, rather than a group running the gamut from TV queens to muscle Marys.

‘Your dad and my mum. There may’ve been weirder coalitions, but I can’t think of any,’ he said.

‘I don’t know what the hell he’s doing,’ Rebecca sighed. ‘I don’t think Dad even knows what politically correct means, he just uses it for anything lefties do that he disagrees with. I mean arresting people in toilets was always more of a Tory thing wasn’t it?’

‘Still, there’s always a chance it’ll break down any minute. All it needs is a casual statement on the world as it is from one of them and boom, the truce is off, back in your respective trenches.’

‘What was it last time? Dad and his “say what you like about apartheid, but…” speech?’

‘I thought it was Margaret and her “she’s not your partner she’s your indentured slave” routine,’ said James.

‘Mum…’

There was a clatter from the kitchen as an overly-full tray of dirty pans grudgingly slid into the dishwasher.

‘I should go and give her a hand…’ Rebecca said.

‘I’ll come too.’

‘You stay there, it’ll be a chance for us to have a chat. You could go and join the grown-ups.’

‘Pff, I think I’ll just sit here gently rocking for a while instead. Thanks for the thought though, Becky.’

She gave him an evil stare for using her hated family nickname.

‘I am so putting your little finger in a glass of lukewarm water while you’re asleep tonight.’

Chapter 10

As Rebecca entered the kitchen, Penny had her back to her at the sink, her shoulders heaving. Rebecca had frozen on the spot not knowing whether to go to her mum and give her a hug, or back away and leave her to her tears in private. Then she heard the splash and the clang of the roasting tin as she manoeuvred it in the water to open a new line of attack on grafted-on vegetables and realised it was scrubbing rather than blubbing causing it.

‘Need a hand?’

‘Oh hi, darling, just getting these out of the way while everyone’s busy. Can I get you anything?’ asked Penny.

‘I’m fine.’