Shimmy has no idea about the Brighton bombing (poor, old Norman ‘on your bike’ Tebbit carried from that crumbling seafront hotel in his blue and white flannel jim-jams), which is odd (is this part of some strange sub-plot she’s hatching?) considering how he’s got his radio blaring out, full blast, in the kitchen.
He’s called me over because Carla has gone AWOL (something to do with Sorcha and filming (?) Up at Mulberry (?)) and the badgers have been hard at work overnight digging up the giant, rotting corpse of dear old Rogue.
‘Ipish!’ He waves his hand around in front of his face as we gaze down at the mess. ‘Look at mein poor Rogue! A shtik fleish mit tzvei eigen, eh? A piece of meat viz two eyes! Farfoylt! Farshtuken! Vat a shtink!’
I confess to Shimmy that I can’t really smell anything.
‘Ech!’ he exclaims, and gazes heavenward.
I wander off, looking for the shovel, but it isn’t where I left it just thirty seconds before (is this her again?).
Shimmy is in an especially bad mood because of the pains in his legs (I can’t remember the name of his condition offhand, but Carla – the little tart – says it’s neurological. The brain sends his feet and his legs the idea that they’re cramping. There’s some involuntary movement. Sudden spasms. Sometimes a burning sensation. St Anthony’s Fire? Is that it?). As Shimmy oversees my activities he kindly keeps up a sarcastic commentary (in case any of the neighbours, or the birds, or the insects aren’t yet fully aware of what a dick I am).
‘Look at zis fool!’ he mutters (with a bitter laugh) as I search for the shovel. ‘Vandering around like a fart in a barrel!’
‘Did you move the spade?’ I demand.
‘Of course I moved ze spade, schmuck!’
(Dramatic throwing up of hands – I’m hazarding a guess that this is sarcasm.)
‘Well if I can’t find the spade …’ I mutter.
‘Yah, yah: if I don’t come today I come tomorrow, hah?’ he grumbles.
(I’m guessing that this is some kind of an attack on my levels of enthusiasm … which are low – very low, quite frankly.)
‘Are you sure you didn’t …?’ I repeat.
‘Ech! Someone else’s arse iz easier to kick!’ he snorts.
As he speaks, I spot the spade leaned up against the fence directly behind him. I grab it (some quiet muttering – on my part) and start piling the dirt back on to Rogue’s giant body.
‘Leck, shmech!’ Shimmy grumbles.
(I’m guessing that this is an attempt to tell me that my work is slapdash.) I stop what I’m doing. ‘There’s about two foot of soil here and then it’s all solid rock,’ I explain. ‘This is as deep as I could dig the original hole.’
Shimmy shrugs. It’s a shrug that contains two thousand years of unspoken insults.
‘This was the spot you chose,’ I emphasize.
Another shrug.
‘If the corpse wasn’t so bloody huge …’ I grumble.
Another shrug.
‘You said you didn’t want to risk disturbing one of the other animal graves further back in the garden, remember?’
(And there are many of them. As Head Undertaker I should know.)
Another shrug.
‘Well if you think you can find a better spot …’ I mutter, trying (and failing) to disguise my irritation.
Shimmy remains silent. I honestly don’t know how Carla copes with the old bastard. Poor Carla (the little tart. With her flirty ways. And her damn sauna). Maybe she doesn’t?
‘How about I cover him up and then we drag over one of the larger pieces of corrugated iron from behind the sheds,’ I suggest, ‘lay it across the top for a while until the badgers lose interest?’
Shimmy sighs. ‘A pig remains a pig!’ he murmurs. ‘A chazer bleibt a chazer, eh?’ and then, ‘Argh!’ he exclaims, with the very next breath, his face contorting with pain as he bends forward to grab his right leg which suddenly seems to have gone into spasm.
(Good one! A medical emergency! Looks like that loose guttering in Iden isn’t getting dealt with any time soon.) I toss down my spade (and it is my spade. I’m providing my own equipment today because Shimmy’s misplaced the key to the padlock on his main shed) and stride over to support him. I am loaded with insults for my trouble (My pleasure!).
‘Did you take your tablets?’ I ask.
‘I took my tablets, idiot!’ he shouts.
‘Well at least let me help you get back into the house,’ I persist.
After a short (and unsuccessful) attempt at walking himself (a man has his pride, after all. Yes, and – like you – I’m pretty sure that there must be a great Yiddish expression to illustrate this point more colourfully than I’m able to, but for once we are to be spared from it), Shimmy accepts my arm and we stagger into the kitchen together. I settle him down into his favourite red vinyl-covered armchair (which lives there, by the old black fireplace), then turn to grab a low stool (he likes to suspend the foot when it’s troubling him) and he kicks out his leg ‘involuntarily’ and delivers me a hefty swipe on the back of the knee with it.
‘Bloody hell, Shimmy!’ I exclaim, almost collapsing head first into the sink.
‘Forgive me, bubbee,’ he mutters, forlorn, ‘forgive a foolish old man who just lost his best friend in all ze vorld! Mein klein Rogue, eh? Mein klein khaver, eh?’
Next, the waterworks (standard Shimmy), but with the leg constantly kicking out as if it’s playing its own happy little game of football, while the rest of him sobs and grizzles way back in the stands.
I busy myself filling a plastic bowl with cold water and then add some ice to it from a couple of trays in the freezer. After a minute or two he finally calms himself down and the leg stops its kicking and merely twitches. I carefully remove his sandals (Shimmy wears sandals summer or winter, rain or shine, to keep the feet cool) and roll up his trouser-leg, then pull the bowl over, gently place his gnarled old foot into it and do my best to hold it still.
‘You got no idea what it’s like’ – Shimmy is still full of self-pity – ‘mein fis not even mein fis!’
(I’m guessing ‘fis’ might be ‘foot’.)
‘Call zis a life?!’ he adds. ‘Nothing ever mein?! Eh? Not mein war! Not mein country, not meine frau, not meine daughter! No!’ he repeats, with emphasis. ‘Not even mein bubbellah! Not even meine Carla, eh? Eh?!’
I say nothing, just hand him a (slightly dirty) dishcloth to dry his face on.
‘Not even meine Carla!’ he sighs, taking the cloth and patting it over his face, then throwing it back at me. It lands across my shoulder. ‘My poor vife fargvaldikn. By ze Russians! So vat’s your excuse, huh? Huh?’
He suddenly laughs, wryly (I take comfort from the fact that my pathetic record with his daughter seems to provide him with some slight cheer).
‘A mentsh tracht und Gott lacht!’ he observes. ‘Huh? A person plans und Gott laughs! He laughs! Ha ha ha! He finds it hil-a-rious! He finds us hil-a-rious! You und I, eh? Hil-a-rious!’
I say nothing.
He nods. ‘Yah. Ve’re ze same – you und I. Like a jelly. Spineless.’
Still, I say nothing.
‘You gonna let an old man like me kick you up ze arse, heap you wiz insults und still, nothing?! Eh? Gornisht?’
‘Maybe you don’t remember,’ I interject, ‘but I’m actually in a perfectly happy eight-year relationship with … with …’
What’s her name again?
Oh yes. Alice.
‘Pah!’
‘And Carla’s moved on, too,’ I continue. ‘She’s been spending a lot of time with Mr Huff lately by all accounts.’
‘If meine grandmother had baitsim … uh … uh … testicles, eh? – she vould be mein grandfather!’ Shimmy chuckles.
(I guess this means he’s taking this information with a hefty pinch of incredulity.)
‘Okay, fine, go ahead, insult me all you like,’ I mutter, scooping handfuls of the iced water over the arch of his foot (‘Oi! A kitsel! It tickles!’ He chuckles), ‘but give yourself a break, at least,’ I continue. ‘You did the decent thing all those years ago with Else and with Carla. It can’t have been easy for you after the war.’
‘Argh. You sink I vas a happy bunny about it?’ Shimmy demands. ‘My fiancée raped in Berlin? Und she vants to keep ze damn byyby? Of course I’m not happy! Not at all! But did I have ze balls to walk away? Nein. No. You call zat bravery? Eh? A pretend life? A pretend family? A pretend happiness? A big kazab? A big sham?’
‘What choice did you have?’ I scowl.
‘Choice?!’ Shimmy snorts. ‘Kein briere iz oich a breire, yah? Not to have a choice iz also a choice. Always remember zis, bubbee.’
He leans forward, ruffles my hair and then hugs me.
This tender moment is orchestrated by Giorgio Moroder and Philip Oakey’s ‘Together in Electric Dreams’. I wince through an especially terrible guitar solo.
‘Bravery is sometimes only cowardice, huh?’ he mutters. ‘I like you, royt-chik. You’re a langer lucksh. Too damn tall, huh? But still, still, I like you.’
The music fades into the news, the moment passes and we are pushed apart (I thank God for small mercies) by the dog, who shoves his giant head into the washing-up bowl to refresh himself.
‘Feh! Drink your own vater, you big, k’ry chamoole!’
Shimmy swipes at the animal and it dutifully shuffles off, then, ‘Now go! Go!’ Shimmy pronounces. ‘Go bagroben mein Rogue, eh? Cover him up! Zat’s my boy!’
Three seconds pass. The dog has waddled from the room leaving a trail of mud and filth in his wake. We both stand up, in silence, turn, and follow. We find him in his favourite place, flat on his side, panting, blocking the front door with his considerable heft.
Shimmy screws up his eyes and stares at the creature, thoughtfully. Another three seconds pass, and then, ‘A bomb?!’ he explodes. ‘A pitzootz you say?! In Bgriiighton?!’