Tony Parsons - One For My Baby

“You ever think about that night?” I ask him.

“What night?”

“You know. That night in the Shanghai Dragon. The night you got your nose broken. The night I got my ribs smacked.”

“I try not to.”

“I think about it all the time. I can’t quite work out what happened.”

“Surprise attack. Caught me off guard. Pearl Harbor and all that. Fat bastard. Should have called the police.”

“I don’t mean what happened to us. I mean the old man. What happened to him.”

“Nothing happened to him. It was all over by the time he showed up.”

I shake my head.

“That guy-that fat skinhead-was ready to fight anyone. Then the old man turned up. And the skinhead backed down. I didn’t understand it then. I still don’t.”

“There’s no great mystery,” Josh says through a mouthful of curry. “The skinhead probably thought that Charlie Chan had fifty of his relations out the back, all armed with machetes. Come on. I can’t hang about. Eat your curry before it gets cold.”

“That’s not it. At least, I don’t think that’s it. It was just that he was-I don’t know. Perfectly relaxed. You could see it in him. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid of a much younger, much bigger man who was ready to fight anyone. He just wasn’t scared of him. And the skinhead could sense it. There was no fear in him.”

Josh snorts.

“Did you feel a tremor in the Force, Alfie? Did you sense that the Force was strong in the old cook? Were you once more privy to the mysteries of the East?”

“I’m just saying that he wasn’t afraid. That’s all. And he should have been afraid.”

Josh is not listening to me. He is quickly shoveling in his curry and thinking about the blonde, upper-class client who is coming into his office at two. He is thinking about his chances with her. But I still feel the need to explain something to him.

“It just made me think how great that must be-to go through your life without fear. Imagine how liberating that must be, Josh. Imagine how free that must make you feel. If you’re not afraid of anything, then you can’t be hurt, can you?”

“Only if they’ve got a baseball bat,” says Josh. “How’s your old man? Still shacked up with Miss Sweden?”

“Miss Czech Republic. He’s gone for good. I’m pretty sure of it.”

Josh shakes his head. “You’ve got to take your hat off to him. Still getting the shaven haven at his age. It’s not to be sniffed at.”

“I don’t want some old swinger for a father. Nobody does. Everybody admires Hugh Hefner. Everybody likes the old boy who plays around. But nobody wants him for their dad.”

“Not much of a role model, I suppose. Shagging the hired help.”

“He doesn’t have to be a role model. I just want a bit of stability. A bit of peace and quiet. That’s all anybody wants from their parents, isn’t it? That’s the best thing they can give you-a little less embarrassment. I don’t want my dad to be out there chasing young Czech women and trying to pump up his biceps and all the rest of it. I want him to think about other things. He’s had his time. He should understand that. He’s had his time for being young. Nobody wants to get old any more, do they?”

“Not if they can help it.”

“Nobody wants to get out of the way and let the next generation come through. Everybody wants one more chance.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“It makes a mockery of the past. Every time you start again, it diminishes what you’ve had before. Can’t you see that? It chops your life up into these little bite-sized morsels. If you have endless goes at getting it right, then you will never get it right. Not even once. Because constantly starting again turns the best thing in the world into just another takeout. Fast love. Junk love. Love to go.”

“Don’t you want one more chance, Alfie?”

“I’ve had my chance.”

J ACKIE DAY IS IN THE STAFF ROOM when I arrive. She has her bucket in one hand and her copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter in the other. She has all her kit on-the yellow gloves, the blue nylon coat, the flat shoes she cleans in-but she is making no move to go to work. It’s nearly nine o’clock but she still has her face buried in that old paperback.

“How’s Mick?” I ask her. “Still got her dreams?”

“Hello,” she says, not looking up.

Lenny the Lech walks in. Lenny is one of those short, fat men who swaggers around as though he is some kind of tall, thin catch. Like me, Lenny is a former teacher who went out to sell English by the pound in Asia-Manila and Bangkok in Lenny’s case. Something about him spoiled out there. He has that soft, bloated look that Europeans often get when they stay too long in the tropics-or when they stay too long in tropical bars. Lenny got laid a lot more in Asia then he ever did at home and now he looks at women the way that a farmer sizes up his cows. At Churchill’s his lechery is legendary.

“Have you seen that new little Polish number in the Advanced Beginners?” he asks me, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind showing her a bit of solidarity. What do you reckon, Alfie? I wouldn’t mind letting that comrade get her hot little hands on my means of production.”

“I don’t think the Poles are Communists anymore, Lenny.”

“She’s a little red minx, that’s what she is,” says Lenny the Lech. Then he notices Jackie. “Ah, our resident Essex girl. Top of the morning to you, my girl.” He goes over to her and puts a proprietorial arm around her shoulders. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one, darling. Why do Essex girls hate vibrators? Give up? Because-”

Suddenly Jackie is on her feet, her eyes blazing, accidentally kicking her bucket.

“Because they chip our teeth,” she says. “Heard that one already, Lenny. Bit obvious, that one. What else would an Essex girl do with a vibrator but suck on it-right, Lenny? You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Steady on,” says Lenny. “It’s just a joke.”

“And I’ve heard them all,” she says. “Why does an Essex girl wash her hair in the kitchen sink? Because that’s where you wash vegetables. What do Essex girls and beer bottles have in common? Come on, Lenny, come on.”

“I don’t know,” says Lenny, practically scratching his fat head.

“Both empty from the neck up.”

“Now that’s funny,” chuckles Lenny.

But Jackie is not smiling. “Think so? Then you’ll like this one. What do a blonde Essex girl and a plane have in common?”

“They both have a black box,” says Lenny. “I know that one.”

“You do? But I bet you don’t know as many as me. I’ve heard the lot, Lenny. What’s the difference between an Essex girl and a mosquito? A mosquito stops sucking if you hit it on the head. Why do Essex girls wear pants? To keep their ankles warm. How do you make an Essex girl’s eyes sparkle? Shine a torch in her ear.”

Lenny smiles, but it is starting to look a little strained. Jackie is standing in front of him, holding her copy of The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter in one of her yellow-gloved hands, trying to stop her voice from shaking.

“I know all the jokes. And you know what, Lenny? I’m not laughing.”

“Keep your hair on, darling,” Lenny says, quite offended. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I know it’s nothing personal, Lenny. And I even know it’s nothing to do with Essex girls. I know that a man like you thinks all women are stupid whores.”

“I love women!” protests Lenny. He turns to me. “If I can say that without sounding like Julio Iglesias.”

“I don’t think you can,” I say.

“From what I hear around this place,” says Jackie Day, “only one person in this room is a dumb tart. But do you know what, Lenny? It’s certainly not me.”