Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

Sid catches my eye. ‘It’s a disaster, isn’t it?’ I think he is talking about this evening and nod. ‘At least she got out alive, that’s the main thing.’

‘You could look at it like that,’ I say – reckoning that he is talking about my ordeal in the snow. Frankly, his words puzzle me. Having first-hand experience of Shirl’s insatiable appetites I would say that it was I and the other bloke who were lucky to get out alive. Shirl’s survival potential was never in doubt.

‘I mean, what’s a lorry compared to a human life?’

What is Sid on about? There is nothing wrong with Enid. It occurs to me that he may be talking about something else. That would account for him not having thumped me round the earhole the minute I came through the door. Perhaps he doesn’t know anything about the broken glasses. ‘Sid –’ I begin.

‘I must have nudged it out of gear with my backside,’ he says. ‘I’d put the hand brake on I’ll swear to it. I got my head up for a second and there it was, slipping backwards.’

‘Your head?’ I say.

‘No, you berk. The lorry. Thank goodness she could swim.’ Sid shakes his bonce. ‘Oh, I shudder every time I think about it.’

‘Sid,’ I say. ‘I think you imagine I know more than I do. Are you telling me that you were farting about with some bird in the cab of your lorry and managed to shunt the whole bleeding issue into the drink?’

‘Drink?’ says Dad. ‘Your mother and I wouldn’t say no. What are you two talking about?’

‘Where’s Rosie?’ says Mum. ‘She is expecting us, isn’t she? I want to see the children.’

‘Go up if you like,’ says Sid. ‘She won’t mind. She’s just putting on her cheongsam.’

‘Caught her at the awkward time of the month, have we?’ says Mum. ‘Never mind. ‘I’ll pop up and say goodnight to the children. How is Jerome’s bite?’

‘Very painful,’ says Sid. ‘Make sure he doesn’t get the chance to give you one.’ He pours Dad another scotch and turns back to me. ‘I thought you knew,’ he says. ‘It was in the papers.’

‘I didn’t see any papers where I was,’ I tell him. ‘Sid, this is terrible. Is the lorry all right?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Sid. ‘Since it sunk to the bottom of the Thames I haven’t seen it.’

‘Gordon Bennett!’ I say. ‘How did the bird take it?’

‘In the normal way,’ says Sid. ‘As I recall it her feet were wedged against the dashboard and I was –’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ I say. Honestly, Sid is about as sensitive as a cast-iron sheath. ‘How did she react to such an awful experience?’

Sid closes his eyes and winces. ‘The whole thing was horrible. Screaming, fighting, struggling! I can hardly bear to think about it.’

‘But she came round in the end, did she?’

‘That wasn’t her, that was me!’ says Sid. ‘If it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t be here now. She dragged me ashore with her teeth – my teeth as well, we didn’t lose anything.’

‘Except the lorry,’ I say, grimly. ‘At least it makes it easier to tell you my bad news.’

I tell Sid about the glasses and he buries his face in his hands. ‘That’s it!’ he says. ‘We’re ruined. Not to put too fine a point on it, we’re up shit creek without a paddle – in fact, we don’t even have a bleeding canoe!’

It is perhaps fortunate that at that moment Mum and Rosie start to come downstairs.

Dad takes one look at Rosie and puts down his glass. ‘Blimey, girl!’ he says. ‘Have you seen that dress you’re wearing?’

‘Of course I have,’ says Rosie. ‘I didn’t put it on in the dark.’

‘It’s new, is it?’ says Dad.

‘It is actually,’ says Rosie. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘You want to take it back!’ says Dad. ‘It’s got a bleeding great slit up the side. Anyone can see straight up to your fundaments!’

‘Oh Dad!’ Rosie bites her lip in exasperation. ‘You never change, do you? It’s supposed to have a slit up the side. That’s the way the Chinese wear them. It goes with the evening, don’t you see?’

‘That’s right, dear,’ says Mum. ‘You’ve seen it on the telly. You remember that film with William Holden, The World of Suzie Wong ?’

‘He didn’t wear one, did he?’ says Dad. ‘I thought I hadn’t seen much of him lately. That explains it.’

Before there can be any more explanations, the front doorbell rings. ‘That’ll probably be the food,’ says Rosie. ‘Show them in, Sidney, will you? I’ll help myself to a drink. It’s the only way I’ll get one.’

‘I wouldn’t mind another little drop,’ says Mum, putting down her sherry glass and picking up a tumbler.

‘Me neither,’ says Dad.

I can’t help noticing that Mum and Dad are knocking back the booze like there is a prize for it. I do hope that this is not going to lead to any unpleasantness later in the evening.

As Rosie deals with the drinks, the door opens and a really knock-out bird sails in. She is wearing a long black dress that hangs down from just beneath her knockers and touches the floor, and her blonde barnet flops beguilingly over one eye. Dad registers the newcomer and it is easy to see that he is impressed.

‘Blimey very muchee,’ he says. ‘You no lookee likee Chinese lady.’

Rosie looks embarrassed. ‘This is Imogen Fletcher, father,’ she says.

‘No soundee like Chinese lady,’ says Dad.

‘I no am Chinese lady, that’s why,’ says the bird in a very upper class drawl. ‘My husband and I have lived at Stockwell for three and a half years now. We’re practically natives.’

‘You’re not like most of the natives you see round here,’ says Dad. ‘Do you want a hand with the grub? I hope you don’t expect me to eat with those joss sticks. I have enough trouble with a spoon. I find the bean shoots get stuck between my dentures. Do you have –?’

Listening to Dad is like wanting to cry out when you are having a nightmare. You can see all the terrible things that are happening but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Fortunately, Rosie does not have my problems when it comes to basic communication.

‘Really, father!’ she says. ‘How can you be so stupid? Surely it’s obvious that Imogen and Crispin have nothing to do with the meal. They’re guests, like you.’

It occurs to me that Imogen is not a guest like Dad, and Crispin, when he comes into the room bears even less resemblance to my father – or anyone else’s father for that matter. He is wearing a kind of silk tank top with puff shoulders and sleeves and a chiffon scarf that comes down to his knee breeches. These are fastened by a diamanté buckle as are his black shiny shoes. It is a dead cert that he is not a New Zealand rugby player.

He stops in front of Dad and claps his hands together.

‘How quaint!’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen it done better.’

‘Your friends may be able to say the same about you,’ says Dad menacingly. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Look at those clothes, darling,’ pipes Crispin. ‘They’re so authentic, aren’t they? I wonder if his trousers are held up with string?’

‘Crispin’s terribly well known as an interior decorator,’ explains Rosie.

This news does not surprise me. I have no difficulty at all in imagining the creep decorating interiors. What does surprise me is that Rosie should fancy someone like that. It is because he is artistic, I suppose. She always reckons that she is a bit starved in that direction having Sid as a husband.

Crispin is still staring at Dad’s suit. ‘Where did you get it from?’ he croons. ‘Do you have pull at the Salvation Army?’

Actually, I think Crispin is being a bit unkind. Dad’s best suit is no worse than any other old geezer’s clobber. The stains round the front of the trousers aren’t very nice but the half inch of grey woollen underpant protruding above the belt and giving way to the frayed ends of the waistcoat dangling temptingly above it seems to have been with me since childhood. Maybe that is it. I am too used to Dad. Either that, or his cap is creating the wrong impression. I saw Mum trying to take it off him when they came through the front door but he wasn’t having any.