Odd One Out

At some point in the distant past all the ‘i’s from the Scrabble set had disappeared, and Netta had spent a creative hour cutting and inking squares of polystyrene as substitutes. Apart from a tendency to blow off the board if someone slammed a door they worked quite well, but she found them sinfully easy to avoid when groping in the bag. Glenn, through a combination of bad luck and guilelessness, had accumulated four of them on his rack and was taking even longer than usual to decide where to go. They had been playing for thirty-five minutes, there were two words on the board and Netta had written nearly a page of airmail to Mick.

… it’s not so much that the sofa bed’s got a huge dip in the middle, it’s more that, once we move, I won’t have anywhere of my own to retreat to, unless you count the loo, although since I haven’t eaten a single green vegetable since leaving Glasgow, I

‘Hang on.’ Netta leafed through the giant Chambers’ Dictionary that adjudicated their games. ‘Yes, it’s in here, but it’s an abbreviation of ibidem.’

‘No,’ said Glenn. ‘It would be the thin end of the wedge.’ It was one of the few metaphors he ever used, and Netta could date it precisely to a brief period in his adolescence when he’d collected doorstops.

haven’t been spending quite as much time in there as usual. I just think I’m more appreciative of Mum’s qualities (and she’s a wonderful woman, Mick – I don’t know if you’ve ever realized that) when we get a little bit of time apart. At this very second she’s in the lounge with Coral discussing the autumn show, and Coral’s taking notes so fast there’s practically smoke coming from her pencil and there’s costumes piled all over the room. I think they’re trying to work out an order for the programme and it’s obviously an enormous logistical feat – lots of little girls dancing in lots of different numbers and dashing around backstage needing lots of different costume changes. It’s the sort of thing that Glenn could probably do her a good diagram of, with arrows, but I promise you, Mick, there’s nothing as concrete as that going on next door.

She could hear snatches of the conversation floating through the louvred saloon doors that separated kitchen from lounge, although ‘conversation’ was actually a misnomer, it was more a stream of consciousness with occasional interruptions. ‘So Emily Lane …’ her mother was saying, ‘so Emily Lane and Emma-Jane Shockley are both in “Pink Toothbrush” but Emily’s also a duckling, so before “Splish Splash” we need a seniors number; could Chantalle be ready for “Sugar Plum”? She’d only have “Pink Toothbrush” to change from –’

‘Sorry Bel –’ Coral’s interjection was tentative ‘– but I think it’s Emma-Jane who’s the duckling.’

‘Yes you’re right, Emma-Jane’s the duckling because there was that incident with the umbrella and we had to move her to intermediates. Coral, did you remember to ask Ted about the opening bars of “’S Wonderful”?’

‘I’ll phone him, Bel, you’ve got enough to do. Remind me again what the new choreo–’

‘There should be time for a chassé coupé, chassé coupé, chassé pas de bourée before Eleanor reaches centre stage.’

‘Thank you, Coral. You know, it’ll be such a shame if Eleanor’s skin doesn’t clear up before the show.’

‘Is she? She’s been very moody for the last fortnight. Don’t you think she’s been very moody?’

‘Well … er …’ Coral’s voice took on the tremulous quality it always assumed when she was asked to criticize anything. ‘I hadn’t noticed, but I suppose … at her age …’

‘But if she’s on antibiotics then of course I may be wrong. So –’ Her mother cleared her throat as if about to make an announcement. “‘Pink Toothbrush”. So “Pink Toothbrush”. And then …’

‘“Sugar Plum”,’ she repeated, going over to the saloon doors. ‘You said “Pink Toothbrush” then “Sugar Plum” then “Splish Splash”.’

‘No,’ said her mother, kindly but firmly. ‘No, it can’t have been. Chantalle wouldn’t have time to change after “Rhythm of Life” – it’s just before “Pink Toothbrush”, you see.’

‘OK,’ said Netta, defeated. She sat down at the breakfast bar and picked up the pen again.

I was mentioning about the sofa bed at work, and one of the secretaries said I should phone hospital accommodation and see if they can put me up somewhere. I actually think it’s quite a good idea – the hospital’s only ten minutes’ walk from Mellis Hall, so I could still spend evenings en famille and then just go there to sleep and unwind a bit. The only thing holding me back

‘I think I’ve got one,’ said Glenn. ‘Debt. Thirteen. The “b” is on a triple letter score.’

‘OK.’ Netta watched him fit the consonants around an ‘e’ already on the board and then extract three new tiles from the bag. One of them was made of polystyrene and he arranged it on the rack beside the other four. She sensed a marathon in prospect, and decided to employ cunning.

‘I think I might use this go to swap all my letters,’ she said. ‘They’re really terrible.’

is that the person in charge of all the hospital accommodation is someone I’d rather not beg for favours. Bit of history there – I’ll tell you about him when I see you (three weeks, three days and counting). Anyway, I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. The big move’s

‘Coral’s had an absolutely brilliant idea,’ announced her mother, over the top of the doors.

‘Oh, well, er …’ said Coral self-deprecatingly, as she followed Bel into the kitchen.

‘Look!’ Her mother held up a small sparkly top. ‘“Rhythm of Life”, and now …’ She covered it with a sweatshirt painted to look like a Liquorice Allsort. ‘“Kingdom of the Sweets”! Problem solved; Chantalle can do both numbers one after the other and we can move “Splish Splash” to just before the interval. Brilliant. Glenn, don’t you think Coral’s brilliant?’

Glenn declined to comment. ‘I spy Carmen Miranda,’ said their mother, looking over his shoulder at the letter rack. ‘“I, I, I, I, I, I like you verrrrrrrrry much!” You know, I’ve never seen the point of Scrabble. Have you, Coral?’

‘I think before we make a final decision I’d like to check this combination in the hall mirror. Just in case you can see a little sparkle at the neckline.’ The doors juddered shut behind them.

in three days and packing’s going as well as can be expected, I suppose. After a lot of discussion, and my God, Mick, I mean a lot of discussion, the UN’s been on the phone begging for my services, Glenn’s decided to donate a few of his oldest collections to a charity shop (as a form of recycling), which should free up some much-needed

‘Oh Glenn,’ called their mother reproachfully from the hall, ‘you’re not getting rid of this lovely mug tree, are you?’

‘Mum,’ she hissed, ‘please. Do you know how long it took us to decide what to chuck out?’

‘Yes, but look at the workmanship, Brianetta,’ said her mother, holding it up; it was made of dowling, competently constructed and painted dark green. ‘He was only twelve when he made it, wasn’t he? It really is charming.’

‘And so are the other nineteen,’ said Netta, jerking open the top of a box in demonstration. ‘Glenn won’t just keep one, he’s told me he wants them to stay together. Like a … a legacy to an art gallery. There isn’t as much room in the new flat, something has to go or you won’t be able to get in through the front door. He’s decided to lose the mug trees, the extension leads and the wallpaper-sample books.’

‘Oh yes,’ said her mother, slightly subdued. ‘The wallpaper-sample books.’

‘There were nine boxes of them in the attic. Nine. We’ve only shifted three so far, they’re incredibly heavy, and I don’t want –’

‘Well, of course I haven’t seen the attic in years.’ There was an edge of nostalgia in her voice, as if talking about a seaside resort of her youth.

‘I do, dear.’ She laid a hand on Netta’s arm. ‘It just seems a pity to be so very firm when –’

‘Just the person,’ said her mother, holding up the mug tree. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to keep this lovely thing?’

Their mother looked at Netta with a hint of supplication. ‘It’s only one box,’ she said, ‘and they’d be very useful for presents.’

‘But it’s … oh God … he’d made the decision, you’d made the decision, hadn’t you, Glenn? You’d made the decision to let them go.’ She could hear her voice cracking with angst and she folded her arms and swallowed hard as her brother gazed at the row of cartons that stretched from the front porch to the door of the living room, ready for taking to the jumble sale or to the dump. ‘I think so,’ he said again. He lifted the flaps on the nearest and revealed the vinyl surface of one of the sample books. ‘Although I may have to look through these again tomorrow. I may have to check if I’ll need them in the new flat.’

He stared at the tiles, and Netta listened to the fizzing cascade of irresolution coming from the lounge and felt saturated with her own uselessness. In almost three weeks she had achieved nothing; her suggestions and hints had bounced off the Mum-Glenn juggernaut like so many loose chippings and she could only stand and watch as it swerved erratically into the distance. She picked up the pen and wrote They manage to get along without me most of the time. Somehow I’ve never quite grasped that on Mick’s letter and then crossed it out again. She needed, very urgently, to do something concrete – to notch up an achievement, however minor.

‘Glenn,’ she said, ‘while you’re thinking I might carry on wrapping your pictures. I’ll stick to your system.’

One wall of Glenn’s room had already been cleared, the rows of pictures removed and packed in strict order so that they could be rehung in the new flat in exactly the same sequence. The largest item still on display was a poster illustrating the stages in the life of a moulded glass bottle, from chemical works to supermarket. The second largest, also bottle-related, was a laminated full-page magazine advertisement for Coca-Cola, in which a grinning blond man in a red jacket, his shoulders like the continental shelf, was hefting an entire crate with one hand. All the other pictures, however, were home-framed photographs on a common theme: all of them – snapshots, newspaper clippings, passport duplicates, school portraits – featured Glenn.

Netta cut a sheet of bubble wrap and unhooked the next item, an enlarged shot from the Shadley Oak Mercury, taken about ten years before and showing her brother among a handful of people watching the Lady Mayoress plant an oak sapling in the local park. Everyone else was at least pretending to look at Mrs Hay’s spadework; Glenn was staring straight at the camera, his expression severe. He had liked this particular photo so much that he had bought a print from the newspaper office.

‘I think there’s a just a little bit of the performer in Glenn,’ was how their mother archly ascribed his fondness for appearing in front of the camera. Glenn himself, if pressed, would say, ‘It’s a hobby.’

‘But what in particular do you like about this one?’ Netta had once asked of the Lady Mayoress shot. ‘Is it the way you look in it?’ Silence. ‘Or is there someone in the crowd you’re interested in? Or is it the composition? Or … or do you just like the view of the park? Or … or …’

‘I happen to think it’s a very good photo,’ Glenn had replied eventually, as if that explained everything.

In a way, Netta found the repetitive images reassuring. Her brother, who spent his days being avoided by people, had chosen to surround himself with views of a world in which he was at the centre of every event. If that was how he actually saw his life – and she doubted whether she’d ever really know – then she found it a comforting thought.

She finished wrapping Mrs Hay and the oak tree, and started on a faded shot of a school trip to the York Transport Museum. Amidst the crowd of posing, gurning teenagers, Glenn stood like a disapproving curator.

‘Mimic,’ he said, coming through the bedroom door. ‘Sixteen points. I used a blank for one of the “m”s. It’s your go now.’

‘York,’ he said, looking down at the print. ‘1970. There was a very unpleasant smell in the coach.’

‘There was a breaking-wind contest on the return journey and I complained to Mrs Simms.’

‘Yes. I talked to the driver, who was a friend of mine; we had a shared interest in electrical flex.’

Poor old driver, thought Netta; she had witnessed the desperation in the eyes of those whom Glenn had classified as ‘friends’. They were usually people who, because of their job, were unable to escape when he approached: lollipop ladies, road-diggers, disabled flag-sellers. With perfect politeness, and standing a good five feet away, Glenn would talk to them for as long as his schedule permitted. ‘Oh, he’s such a chatterer,’ their mother would say, ‘chitty chitty chat chat’ – ignoring the fact that ‘chat’ was normally a two-way procedure.

‘Hey Glenn,’ she said, pointing to a big white head that loomed like a full moon at the back of the group shot, ‘do you remember him?’

‘Which was inaccurate, because “spack” is an abbreviation of spastic so he meant that I have cerebral palsy, which I don’t. He was a very ignorant person. He should have called me “Prob Man”.’

‘Because that would be short for “Probably falls within the autistic spectrum”.’

‘Oh, because you’re priceless sometimes,’ she said, affectionately, ‘as in “no one could possibly afford to buy you because you’re worth too much”.’

‘That’s not the case,’ said Glenn. ‘The average human body contains chemicals to the value of only eighty-five pence.’

‘You know what? I actually met Craig at the hospital a couple of weeks ago. He still looks the same.’

‘He could also have called you “Glenn”,’ she said hotly. For a fraction of a second her brother’s eyes met hers and then slid away again.

‘And “Scrote Features”, which is short for “Scrotum Features”, which is also not an accurate term because the scrotum doesn’t have any features. And also “Quasimodo” because you said his legs weren’t in the correct proportion to his body. That was quite popular, a lot of people called him “Quasimodo” after you did but they shortened it to “Quasi”. And you called him “Trenchmouth” because his teeth were quite yellow. And “Brillohead” and “Frizzo”. And you also said that he looked like a Neanderthal throwback and you photocopied a picture of an orang-utan from Nuffield Science Volume One and enlarged it and put it on the noticeboard of Hut 3 with a label with his name on. Your face is going red.’

Netta bent over the picture and began to wrap it hastily. She had somehow forgotten the degree to which she’d managed to even the score with Craig.

The doorbell rang when Glenn was halfway down the stairs; answering it was one of his preferred household tasks and Netta cocked an ear for his idiosyncratic greeting, used to friends and strangers alike: ‘Hello, who is it you wish to see?’

‘Just a minute, Glenn.’ She was down the stairs in seconds. ‘Hello. Have you found my suitcase?’

‘Not yet, no, I just wanted to drop something by. And I wanted to ask you something.’ Constable Whittaker jerked a thumb towards a police car parked at the bottom of the drive. ‘We were on patrol in the area.’

‘Sorry?’ He was feeling about in his pocket. ‘Here we go.’ He handed her an orange leaflet. ‘It’s the victim-support one,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find it when you came into the station.’

‘No. But I’ve er …’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘put on just over half a kilo.’

‘Very good.’ He still looked about as hearty as a tent-pole, his shirt hanging slack against his chest.

‘Oh yeah, it’s about nutrition. Is it better to eat a banana before or after a meal?’

‘And what about – I wanted to check, because I eat quite a lot of them – what about beans?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ryan, seemingly undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. ‘Baked beans. I mean, are they good for you?’

‘Oh.’ Ryan looked at her brother, clearly pleased to widen his audience. ‘Crosse and Blackwell, I think. I’m not fussed really, I sometimes eat two tins a –’

‘Crosse and Blackwell beans tins are actually manufactured in an identical way to Heinz beans tins,’ said Glenn, ‘in that they’re both constructed of three separate pieces of tinplate, which is actually formed by the electrical deposition of tin onto a thin steel strip.’

‘Tins of drink, on the other hand,’ continued Glenn, ‘don’t contain the element tin at all since they’re made of aluminium, together with trace amounts of magnesium, manganese, copper and silicon. It would be more correct to call them “aluminiums” of drink or even “amalgams” of drink, if you use the secondary definition of amalgam rather than the primary definition which means an alloy containing mercury. Unlike tinplate, which is wholly recyclable any number of times without any deterioration in quality, aluminium …’

Her mother was in the kitchen, arranging cheese curls on a plate. ‘Coral and I have taken on board your criticism of the title,’ she said.

‘Of the show. Don’t you remember, you asked how “Camptown Races” fitted in with the title?’

‘Well, we’re thinking of calling it “Rosettes and Champagne” instead of “Roses and Champagne”, which I think is an improvement. Don’t you?’

‘Definitely,’ said Netta, with enough conviction to forestall further discussion.

‘And we may need you in a minute, to try on a headdress. You have the same sort of hair as Kerry Pritchett.’

‘Yes, and rather coarse. Although your head’s much wider than hers so we shall have to take that into account.’ She picked up the plate and, still talking, began to move towards the lounge. ‘Did I tell you that Chloe MacPherson’s come down with something and her mother says she can’t possibly allow her to attend rehearsals until she’s discovered whether it’s infectious and of course Chloe is lead rabbit –’ the swing doors closed behind her ‘– in “Run Rabbit Run”. Coral, I’m just telling Brianetta about Chloe …’ Netta looked down at the leaflet she’d been given by Constable Whittaker. ‘SOMETIMES WE ALL NEED HELP,’ it read, in white letters on orange. ‘DON’T BE AFRAID TO ASK.’ She thought of the possibility of a nice little hospital room, with its very own, fully locking, door, and she wondered where she might possibly have put Craig Gebbard’s business card.