Fifty - Nine

Following the funeral of their father and the house clearance trauma, both Nicky and Vanessa became immune to any further stress and accepted the move from their house in Tunbridge Wells to Crowborough with resigned indifference. But two days after the move, as they enjoyed a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast with their mother, Nigel came storming into the kitchen.

‘I can’t concentrate,’ he yelled. ‘That radio’s so loud it’s distorted. Can’t you hear it?’

They looked up at him expressionlessly and he seethed because he thought this was passive aggression and all three were ganging up on him.

‘I don’t believe it!’ he ranted. ‘Am I the only one who can hear how distorted this racket is?’

Vanessa caught her sister’s eye and they sniggered. Nigel glowered at them and his face burned.

‘Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny. Some of us have got some work to do.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nicky. ‘We weren’t laughing at you. It’s just that you sounded like that old bloke on TV, the one who’s always complaining.’

‘I’m not always complaining.’

‘Nicky didn’t say you were, darling,’ said Jackie in her most reasonable tone, which Nigel found so irritating.

He fiddled with the tuning dial of the radio. ‘Look at that! It’s not even tuned in properly. Couldn’t you hear it was out of tune?’

‘No, I couldn’t!’ snapped Jackie.

‘Well I don’t know,’ Nigel muttered to himself and turned the volume down so that it was barely audible.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ said Jackie. ‘It’s Saturday. You must learn to relax more. You’ll have a nervous breakdown if you carry on like this.’

‘I must get these quotations written. The deadline’s at noon on Monday.’

‘And how long will that take?’

‘Most of the weekend, I should think.’

‘What!’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It’s what I do for a living.’

‘You won’t remain living for very long if you carry on like this. You’re overdoing it. At fifty six you need to slow down a bit.’

Vanessa and Nicky watched this exchange with mild interest. Nigel suddenly ran out of steam.

‘It’s all right for you,’ he mumbled lamely.

Jackie’s lips tightened. ‘Do I take that to mean because I’m not working at the moment?’

‘Of course not. I like having you at home. You know I do.’

With the edge of her knife Jackie pushed the crust of her toast to the side of her plate with a positive clatter. ‘I think we ought to get one thing straight...’ she began.

Nigel waved his hands about with frustration. ‘Please! I’d like to have a lengthy discussion about your duties, but I don’t have time.’

Jackie looked horrified. ‘Duties!’

‘Yes, duties. After all, if I’m to be the provider, working all hours God sends, then I hope it’s not too much to expect you to fulfil certain housewifely obligations.’

Jackie stared at him, her face set in an expression of numbed disbelief.

‘And another thing,’ Nigel continued, ‘I’m not having you dictate to me who cuts my hair. Mike cuts it the way I like it and I’m going to give him a ring.’

Nigel felt this was a good exit line and marched out of the kitchen. Jackie started as he slammed his office door closed. She looked helplessly at Vanessa and Nicky, hoping for sympathy, but they both stared at her accusingly, as if to say: “We told you so.”

Nicky suddenly laughed nervously and said, ‘Shall I turn the radio up a bit?’

Jackie sighed and shook her head. ‘No. Better not.’

***

As Ted hurried along Church Road past Trinity Theatre, where he always looked longingly at the posters, hoping one day they might present a decent Shakespeare play, he went over the lottery numbers in his head. He had been doing them independently of Marjorie for several months now, and had chosen the numbers from his favourite works of the bard of Avon in the chronological order of when they were supposedly written.

He had ten minutes to spare until he was due to arrive at the station for his shift and he hurried into the newsagent’s in Mount Pleasant to place his bet. He knew the odds were stacked against him but keeping it a secret from Marjorie gave him a vicarious thrill, and if he won just ten pounds one day, the sweetness of the deception would make him feel empowered. Just three of his numbers. That was all he craved. A modest little win. But it would be a major triumph.

***

Craig dreaded visiting his sister but it had to be done. He went around the side of the house and was relieved to find his niece and nephew were playing quietly in the garden, building some sort of toy village in one of the flowerbeds. He called out to them in passing but for once they were so engrossed that they just gave him a cursory wave.

He crossed the patio, rapped his knuckle on the sliding glass door, and went into the house. Maggie was in the kitchen drinking coffee, her face blotchy and her eyes watery and bloodshot. As Craig entered, her eyes flitted, darting to and fro, lost and unnerved by his sudden entrance, as if she needed time to prepare herself. He could see the panic in her disposition, the fear of being confronted by the hard-hitting truth of her behaviour. Her voice was sombre when she spoke, knowing why he was here.

‘Hi, Craig!’

On the way over, Craig had thought about the ice-breaking way of saying what he wanted to say, but now he was confronted by the devastating sight of his sister, suffering from yet another hangover and amnesia from her terrible behaviour in the wine bar, he went straight to the point.

‘Maggie, this has got to stop. Right now!.’

Her eyes blazed as she swung round to face him. ‘What the hell are you talking about, little brother.’

‘Your behaviour. You and Mike. Having it off under the table in the wine bar.’

She frowned and her eyes looked distant.

‘You don’t remember, do you? You were both so pissed, you were at each other under the table. Don’t you remember?’

She turned and glared at him. ‘We were just having a bit of fun. Deliberately having a laugh with the customers. Pub games, that’s all it was.’

‘Oh, come on, Maggie. You were both out of it.’

Maggie picked up her coffee mug angrily, then slammed it down again onto the work surface. ‘Now look, Craig, keep out of it. It’s none of your bloody business.’

Craig’s mouth opened and closed several times before he was able to speak. ‘It is my business. You’re forgetting I’m a partner in the wine bar. I sold the chippie to come into this venture with you.’

Maggie’s eyes bulged as she stared at her brother, the veins standing out on her neck. ‘And who gave you the chippie? You were nothing. One of our employees. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be back in prison by now. Where you’ll probably end up.’

Craig was astounded, his mouth wide open as he stared out his sister, unable to speak. She was still very much under the influence of alcohol, he realised, and was not behaving rationally.

‘Where’s Mike?’ he said after a long and uncomfortable silence. ‘Still in bed?’

‘He’s gone on the bus to Crowborough - to do some hair cutting.’

Craig decided it was time to leave. He walked to the door and fed her his parting shot. ‘I pity the poor sod who has Mike to cut his hair today. Unless he’s going for the punk style.’

***

When Ted got home that evening, Marjorie was in the lounge sipping cream sherry. She shushed him as he sank into an easy chair and started to speak. The lotto balls were about to be released. The crowd in the BBC studio applauded and brayed as they tumbled and fell. Then, as a ball rolled into the hole and down the ramp, the crowd whistled and cheered as though they all had the same number and everyone in the studio was a winner.

Marjorie glared at the TV set. ‘The worst week ever,’ she said. ‘Not a single number. Not one.’

She cast a glance in Ted’s direction, then her eyes became glued to his face. He had a strange look in his eyes and a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

‘Ted! What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’

Five of his beloved Shakespeare plays had turned up trumps, and the sixth was a bonus ball. He was a winner at last. But he was not about to tell Marjorie. This little nest egg was his insurance policy. His lifeline.