Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

Mrs Fletcher sticks her mitt in the jar and – ‘Oh!’ We both look down to see that her delicate digits are grasping what looks like a cube of parmesan cheese. Oh my gawd! In my confusion I must have tipped the ice cubes into the cheese jar. ‘How frightfully original,’ says Mrs F.

Rosie appears at my side. ‘You didn’t touch the –’ She takes a butcher’s at the object between Imogen’s fingers and squeaks.

‘I think, if you don’t mind –’ says the love of my life.

‘I’m very sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean –’

Rosie snatches the jar out of my hand. ‘Are you mad?!’ she says. ‘Are you stark raving mad?’

Before I can say any more, the front door bell rings. ‘It must be the nosh – I mean, food,’ I say. ‘I’ll let them in.’

As I head for the door, I hear Rosie explaining that both Sid and I have been under a lot of strain lately. It is noticeable that when she talks to the Fletchers her voice is a lot more refined than it is when she is parleying to the family.

‘– a hundred and forty-five with broken spokes. Of course, with them it’s touch and go as to whether they were lost or abandoned. That’s something only experience will tell you –’ Dad’s voice is still droning on as I open the front door.

‘Solly about delay. Go to wong address. Very tlying.’ The little bloke with the pile of containers is behind me before he has finished his sentence. I look out into the street in case there is any one else but there is only a large black cat running as fast as its legs will carry it. ‘Where you want?’

‘Well, I think everybody’s quite hungry now,’ says Rosie looking at Dad anxiously. ‘Can you lay it out on the table, please?’

‘Chinese food? How lovely!’ Imogen Fletcher drops the cheese-covered ice cube into an ashtray and rises to her feet.

‘Those cats were Kung Fu fighting,’ croons Dad. ‘I don’t reckon it myself, you know. I mean, look at him. He doesn’t come up to my chest.’

‘Neither does anyone else if they got any sense,’ says Mum. ‘Come on, Walter. Get a grip on yourself.’

The Chinese bloke is laying out lots of little cardboard boxes full of grub and taking no notice of Dad.

‘You hear what I say, Chinky Chops?’ goads Dad. ‘Show us a bit of the old martial arts. Bamboo stalk that bend in wind no support mighty pagoda. You savvy words of Oriental wisdom?’

‘You savvy punch up throat?’ says the small Chinese gentleman.

‘Stop it, Dad!’ says Mum. ‘Can’t you see you’re embarrassing everybody?’

Dad starts swaying and bobbing – he has been swaying for most of the evening. ‘Those cats were Kung Fu fighting,’ he chants. ‘Oh, it was most exciting – Come on, Ping Ling. Show us your muscles!’

The Chinaman places both hands together and bows towards Sid. ‘Food laid out,’ he says.

‘You know what you are?’ says Dad. ‘You’re yellow! All you Chinks are the same. You can’t even get a proper Chinaman to play one of you. That bloke in Kung Fu , he’s not Chinese. They pull his eyes back with sellotape.’ WHAM! CRASH! BANG! Dad turns a couple of somersaults – it may have been three, it happens so fast – and lands in an untidy heap on the settee.

The Chinaman gives Sid another bow. ‘Honourable gentleman laid out,’ he says.

‘Do something!’ screams Dad, scrambling to his feet and trying to hide behind Mum. ‘Don’t let him get away with it. Coming in here and assaulting innocent people. Ring for the police!’

‘Do shut up, Walter,’ says Mum. ‘You had it coming to you.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ says Sid. ‘Belt up!’

The Chinaman goes out and Dad immediately advances to the drinks tray and empties the remains of a bottle of brandy into a tumbler. ‘Soon saw him off, didn’t I?’ he says. ‘Didn’t take him long to see which way the wind was blowing. He could see what was going to happen – one carrotty chop on a vital nerve point and – pouf!’ – Crispin looks up sharply. ‘All the way back to Gerrard Street in a wheelbarrow.’

‘Talking of carrotty chops,’ says Sid, indicating the nosh. ‘We’d better get stuck into this lot before it gets cold.’

In fact, it is cold. And there is not much worse than cold Chinese food – though this stuff would probably run it close when it was hot. Crispin and Imogen send out a series of polite squeaks but Dad is blunt in his attitude to the fare provided. ‘I don’t mind the vinegar,’ he says. ‘That’s got more taste than the rest of it put together. I reckon it’s why they’re so small, these Chinks. You can’t build a man up on this, can you? It’s not like the roast beef of old England.’

‘The Roast Beef of Old England doesn’t seem to have got us very far at the moment, does it?’ says Crispin, carefully picking a bean shoot off his blouse.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ says Dad. ‘Don’t you fancy this country, then? Are you one of those knockers who’s always saying we’re not the greatest nation living on Earth?’

‘We will be living on earth if we go on at this rate,’ says Crispin.

‘Oh yes, darling. Very good,’ says the lovely Imogen.

‘What do you mean, very good?!’ says Dad ferociously. ‘That’s not very good, that’s bleeding awful! Are you a foreigner? Come over here to load yourself up with free specs and dentures on the National Health?!’

Oh dear. I can see that the demon liquor has once again unhinged Dad’s feeble mind. He always becomes unpleasant when he has had a few.

‘Dad –!’ says Sid.

‘Not so much of the Dad, sonny! Your relationship to me is one of marriage, not blood. You never sprung from my loins.’

‘He would if he had to get anywhere near them,’ sniffs Mum.

‘You shut your face!’ says Dad.

‘Really!’ bristles Imogen. ‘I think you’re the most unpleasant old man I’ve ever met!’

‘That’s because I’m a patriot!’ rants Dad. ‘Because I won’t stand to see my country run down by shameless hussies who want to show off their tits and inflame men’s natural appetites! If you’re so proud of them, let’s all see them!’ So saying, he lunges for the front of Imogen’s dress, loses his footing, and collapses on the imitation sheepskin rug.

‘That’s it!’ snaps Rosie. ‘I want him out of my house! I don’t care if he is my father. I never want to see him again!’

Mum stops hitting Dad over the bonce with her shoe. ‘What do you mean if? Of course he’s your father! You mind what you’re saying, my girl!’

‘Out!’ screams Rosie. ‘ Out! ’

Imogen Fletcher rises to her feet, her hand draped elegantly against her forehead. ‘Please don’t disturb your father,’ she says. ‘I think it’s better if I leave. I’m not feeling very well. Crispin –’

‘But you can’t leave yet,’ says Sid. ‘You’ve hardly touched your sweet and sour pork. Anyway, there’s something I want to talk to you both about. It’s been at the back of my mind for a long time.’

‘Well, I think if – er, Imogen isn’t feeling herself –’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ says Dad from the floor. ‘Feeling herself, I mean.’

‘Shut up!’ Sid kicks Dad in the stomach and it is obvious that the evening is on the verge of boiling over into unpleasantness. ‘You stay, Crispin,’ begs Sid. ‘If Imogen doesn’t feel up to it, Timmy can drive her home. It won’t take a minute. I’ve got an idea I want to talk to you about.’

‘Er – well?’ Crispin looks at Imogen and I can see that he is about as keen to stay as he would be to substitute his cock for a piece of cheese in a rat trap. To my surprise, Imogen seems prepared to look upon the idea with less than total disfavour.