Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

Of course, it turns out that Rosie is being toffee-nosed and referring to supper. She is not the girl she was when we were all living together in Scraggs Lane. The success of the boutiques and wine bars has gone to her head. Now she lives in Vauxhall, or East Westminster as she chooses to call it, she has become all classless and stripped pine. I even saw her with a ‘Vote Liberal’ sticker on her Fiat. Mum and Dad don’t know what to make of her and Sid has his problems. While she has gone from excess to success, he has floundered. None of his recent business ventures has prospered and I reckon that he must have sunk every penny he had in Noggett Transport. My load of glasses being written off could be the last straw. Poor Sid. How am I going to tell him? Well, not while I am by myself for a start. Just in case he turns nasty. It has been known to happen. If I wait till we go to supper then I will have Mum and Dad to back me up, or at least, get in the way if he starts throwing things. Then there is Rosie. She can always be relied upon to side with anyone against Sid. Yes, I will put off the evil moment until the evening.

Mum and Dad are very agitated about the forthcoming event. Dad even takes the day off from work to prepare for it. It is strange because he is always saying what a sponging git-face Sid is, yet, when he gets an invitation to his home, he doesn’t want to go.

‘We’d better take something, I suppose,’ says Mum.

‘Yeah, bicarbonate of soda,’ says Dad.

‘What do you mean?’ says Mum, all worked up. ‘I taught Rosie everything I know about cooking.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ says Dad.

Mum looks at him coldly. ‘I was referring to a gift. You have to take something when you go out to supper with people. It’s manners.’

‘Well, you buy them something,’ says Dad. ‘I can’t afford to. It seems stupid to me. What’s the point of receiving hospitality if you have to pay for it?’

‘Some of those mints,’ says Mum. ‘They’d be nice. I’ve seen them on the telly.’

‘They’re not on the telly now,’ says Dad.

‘I mean, advertised on the telly!’ says Mum. ‘Really, Walter, I don’t know how you hold down that job of yours sometimes.’

Mum keeps on at him and in the end he grumbles off to the newsagent’s. He is gone a long time so I know that he has been having a browse through the girlie magazines. The way his mince pies have gone all pink gives the game away as well.

‘Well, did you get them?’ says Mum, looking at his empty hands expectantly.

Dad dives one of his mitts into his raincoat pocket and produces a roll of mints. ‘Extra strong,’ he says proudly.

‘I didn’t mean them!’ screams Mum. ‘I meant the wafer thin ones. You can’t give those to people!’

‘Well I’ll have them, then,’ says Dad.

By the time six o’clock comes and Mum reckons it is time for us to leave, she is in a right flap. ‘Make sure you go to the toilet before we leave, Walter,’ she says.

‘What are you on about?’ says Dad. ‘They’ve got a toilet there, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, but I’d rather you used this one. I know what you’re like!’

‘Mum, please!’ I say. ‘Do you have to? It’s so embarrassing.’

‘It’s embarrassing for me, too,’ says Mum. ‘I have to clean up after him.’

‘I don’t know why we have to leave now,’ says Dad. ‘It’s not going to take us two hours to get there.’

‘You never know, with the buses the way they are,’ says Mum, pressing shut the studs on her flower-motifed Packy-Macky – it looks like a shower curtain. ‘They travel in convoys. If you miss one you can wait for hours.’

‘It’s them sambos,’ says Dad. ‘They’re all used to living in tribes so they stick together. You never see a white bus conductor, these days.’

‘We want to get there a bit early, anyway,’ says Mum. ‘Eight o’clock is too late for supper. I’m surprised at Rosie.’

‘You’re right,’ says Dad. ‘I’ll think I’ll pop into the kitchen and make a bacon sandwich to tide me over. Do you fancy one, son?’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ says Mum. ‘I’m not having you ruining your appetite and getting your fingers all greasy. I want you to do Rosie’s meal justice.’

Of course, we end up getting a bus almost immediately and arriving on Rosie’s doorstep just after seven. I know that my sister is not going to be very glad to see us but at least it will give me time to sort out my business with Sid.

It is the man himself who wrenches open the front door. ‘Blimey,’ he says. ‘It’s you. I thought it was the food.’

‘The food?’ says Mum.

‘Rosie’s having one of her Chinese evenings,’ says Sid. ‘It’s brought up from Limehouse.’

‘A lot of it’s brought up in Limehouse, so I hear,’ says Dad. ‘Oh dear, I’ve never been very partial to chink nosh. It comes out the way it goes in if you know what I mean.’

‘Walter, please! Don’t let’s have any of your distasteful remarks at this stage of the evening,’ says Mum. ‘Well, Sidney. Are we going to be allowed to cross the threshold?’

Sid steps to one side hurriedly. ‘Of course, Mum. Come inside. I’ll get you a drink.’

‘I must have a word with you,’ I hiss to Sid.

‘Yes I know,’ says Sid. ‘In a minute.’ He follows Mum and Dad into the house, leaving me to wonder how he could have found out my guilty secret so soon.

‘Tell them to put it on the table,’ shouts my sister’s voice from upstairs. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Mum to roll up in a minute. Anything free has them round faster than –’

‘Ah hem!’ hollers Sid. ‘The family are here, dear. I’m just giving them a drink.’

‘I’ll be right down!’ Rosie’s voice changes so that it flows down the stairs like a torrent of treacle.

‘What would you like, Mum?’ says Sid.

‘A sherry would be nice,’ says Mum. ‘I see you still haven’t got the settee covered.’

I knew Mum would pick on that. I have always thought it was strange, myself. I don’t know how they can stand that bare leather. It looks so unfinished.

‘It’s meant to be like that,’ says Sid, handing Mum a glass.

‘That’s not very generous, Sidney,’ says Dad. ‘You might give your mother-in-law a decent tumblerful. It’s not often we’re invited here.’

‘That’s a special sherry glass,’ I say. ‘You have to have it in that.’

‘That’s right,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t you know nothing, Walter? I can always have another one.’ She hands Sid back her now empty glass. ‘Try to develop a little couth, dear.’

‘I’m thinking of you, that’s what I’m doing,’ grumbles Dad. ‘You’re my wife and I’m standing up for you.’

‘You’ve left it a bit late for that,’ sniffs Mum. I am not quite certain what she means by that remark and less than eager to find out.

‘What are you having, Dad? Scotch?’ says Sid.

‘Just a large one,’ says Dad, looking round the room, eager to see everyone laughing at his joke.

‘Why do you always have to say that, Walter?’ says Mum. ‘Why can’t you think of something original?’

‘Being offered a scotch by this geezer is original enough for one evening,’ says Dad.

‘I’ll have a scotch, too,’ I say.

‘I’ve got some light ale in for you.’ Sid nods towards a crate in the corner.

‘No thanks, I’ll still have the scotch.’ I would rather have the light ale but I don’t like the thought of having such unsociable tastes that they have to be specially catered for. I remember how Dad used to grumble about getting a bottle of peppermint cordial in for Gran when she used to spend Christmas with us. I expect she misses it where she has gone.