Kiss My Name (28 page)

ARTHUR – March 2011

Simon Strong had spent the last twenty years irritating the hell out of me and he wasn’t going to stop now. Since Angela, my late wife and Nicky’s mother, had died tragically when Nicky was only seven, I had always played out a scene in my head, picturing the day someone would ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage. Trust Simon to get the whole scene wrong! I could not mask my annoyance!

“Get up off your knee, you bloody fool and do it properly!” I commanded.

“Arthur, you’ve been telling Nicky for about fifteen years that this is what I should be doing and now I finally am, you are still bloody moaning! I don’t know the bloody etiquette, do I? The lads at cricket told me when I asked your permission, I had to go down on one knee too. ”

“They were winding you up, you pillock! This is an important moment, I don’t want to be looking down on your baldy head! Just let go of my hand as well, will you?”

I shook my hand free of his sweaty grip. Simon rose to his feet. He dusted off his jeans. Where did he think he was? His house? I suppose I should have felt guilty about getting annoyed, but the simple fact was, Simon Strong had the capacity to wind me up like no other. He wasn’t a bad man. I just did not want him to be with my daughter. My only daughter. The fact that he had waited sixteen years for this moment to arrive, was plain wrong. The scene I had pictured, when Nicky was a child, involved a good looking young man in an expensive suit, politely requesting my permission in a charming, confident manner. I did not foresee the request coming from a balding muppet, holding my hand whilst sweat dripped off his fat jowels.

“Ask me again,” I firmly requested, “properly this time.”

“Will you…,” he began.

“Yes…”

“..do me the honour..”

“Go on…”

“..of marrying my daughter.”

He was driving me mad!

“For Christ’s sake, Simon, can you not get anything right?”

The idiot hadn’t even realised.

“What have I done now?”

“You just asked me to marr
y your daughter. I’m in my seventies, Simon! Chloe’s eleven!”

“And she’s your granddaughter!”

“Exactly.”

I let out a deep sigh. Maybe, just for Nicky’s sake, I should go a little easier on him.

“Right, Simon. I understand that you’re nervous. Let’s give it one last go and after that, I am going to head down to the allotment.”

Simon straightened himself up and ran his fingers under his collar. Did I enjoy watching him squirm? I am afraid I did.

“Arthur?”

“Yes, Simon?”

“Would you do me the great honour of allowing me to have your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

I must admit, with hindsight, my response was all wrong. I love my daughter like no other and what I said was said purely to antagonise Simon Strong. It was not meant, in any way, to be disrespectful to my daughter.

“Well, I suppose I best had, hadn’t I? No-one else will have her now. Used goods.”

It did have the desired effect though. It antagonised Simon. I was annoyed with Simon, Simon was now annoyed with me, nothing new, either way.

“Arthur, can you not just stop being such a grumpy old sod? You wanted me to ask you, so I’m bloody asking you! Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

I gave him one of my stares.

“Simon, nothing could make me prouder than having you as my son-in-law.”

Somehow, Simon detected I was being sarcastic. I am not saying my tones were not sarcastic, I am just saying it was surprising Simon detected them, because he is thick.

“Piss off, Arthur!”

“Charming!”

“Arthur, I am doing the right thing here! I haven’t asked Nicky first, I’m asking you! That’s what I knew you wanted me to do and although I think you are a patronising old git, for some strange reason, part of me respects you, so I thought it was the right thing to do.”

Even patronising old gits have a conscience.

“I know. To be fair lad, you’ve done things right.”

“And I love her, Arthur. Your daughter means the world to me.”

“And to me.”

“In the last sixteen years, a day hasn’t passed when I haven’t thanked my lucky stars for having Nicky by my side.”

Simon often trotted out this romantic drivel. When he did I would usually reminded him that he was right to be grateful. Nicky was the best catch in the ocean and he had managed to catch her with a lousy plastic rod. It seemed like I had already managed to get his back up though and I wanted to get down to the allotment more than I wanted another argument.

“Alright, alright! I get the message! You love her, she loves you, at long bloody last you’re getting married. Now where are my shoes? I need to get out of here”

I gave him a quick shake of the hand. Simon had that gormless look of surprise on his face.

“Arthur, I was hoping we could go down to the Duke’s for a quick pint,” Simon said a little forlornly.

“With all due respect, I don’t think his bodyguards would let us in.”

“Very funny. The Duke Of York pub, just for a quick one, to celebrate my impending marriage to your daughter.”

In sixteen years, we had never been for a pint together, not just the two of us. This still did not feel like the time to start.

“Simon, I’ve got an allotment to tend to. I have some chitted potatoes to plant. Now if you want to grab a spade…”

“OK. Where are they?”

Give him his due, he was trying.

“Simon, I was only joking. I want to go on my own. When Angela died, I had to adapt to spending large periods of time on my own, like when Nicky was at school or in bed at night or as she grew older, round at friends. I learnt to enjoy the solitude. I grew to appreciate the peace and quiet. Anyway, you’ve already been down there once and when you came, I collapsed. I think we might be tempting to fate to try it again!”

“It wasn’t my fault you collapsed, Arthur. You were bloody lucky I was there.”

Simon had a point. I eased off him a little, but still couldn’t help giving it to him straight.

“Look Simon, I know you make Nicky happy and ultimately, that’s all that really matters to me, but let’s just face facts, we are different people. We are never going to be best friends, so let’s not waste time trying. We are both too old for that.”

“OK.”

The lad seemed to understand. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him. There was no need for us to pretend.

“…one thing I need you to promise me, Arthur.”

Admittedly, I wasn’t really listening.

“I need you to promise me that you’ll come on my Stag Do, Arthur.”

“Yeh, yeh, that’s fine. Now where’s my hat? I need to get a move on. Come on, Simon, I’ll show you out.”

NICKY – March 2011

I hardly ever baked apple pie. Hardly ever baked anything. If truth be known, I’m not much of a cook, children are such a drain on resources both financially and time wise, that I rarely get an opportunity to improve. That Saturday, however, probably inspired by doing the ironing that morning in front of Saturday kitchen and the delightful James Martin, I decided to give it a go. Simon had nipped out on one of his, ‘I’m just popping out for ten minutes’ things, that always took a few hours. The kids were both out too, Chloe had gone around to Lydia’s to practice their dance routines for the following Sunday’s show and Will had headed around to a mates from Runshaw College to watch the footy, so it was just me, my i-pod, Beyonce and the rolling pin.

After eighteen years of family life, every second of ‘me’ time is a complete joy. I had popped the apple pie into the oven, feeling very much like a Stepford wife, then turned the immersion heater on, deciding that I now fully deserved a long soak in the bath. I had barely transferred the i-pod to the landing, turned the taps on and poured in the bubble bath, when I heard the familiar sound of a front door slamming.

“Who is it?” I shouted down.

All three people I shared a house with had form for door slamming.

“Will.”

“Have you had a row with someone?”

“No.”

“Then why are you slamming the door?”

“Don’t know my own strength.”

I looked down at him from the top of the landing. He had scruffy long blond hair, like a hippy from the sixties who was on his way to sing peace songs around a campfire. I had lost count of the amount of times I had asked him to get it cut but eighteen year old boys don’t listen to their mothers.

“Well, it would be nice if you could just close the door rather than slam it.”

“OK mother, calm down.”

Will knew I did not like him referring to me as ‘mother’, he was doing it to wind me up.

“I was very calm before you came in. Why are you back anyway?”

“Beer. We’ve run out of beers over at Mazzas. Can I pinch some of Dad’s from the garage? I’ll replace them.”

“Like you always do!”

“I will this time. Honest!”

“Go on then, you’re too big for me to stop you, but I’m warning you, your Dad’s not going to be happy.”

“Thanks Mum! Don’t worry I can handle the old man.”

Sometimes I think Simon has placed CCTV on his beer. He was probably stationed in some shed across the road and once Will picked up the beer and attempted to make a run for it, he arrived through the front door, armed with a baton and a taser. Well, maybe not a taser and a baton, armed with an incredulous stare anyway!

“Oi! What do you think you’re playing at? Where are you off to with all my beer?”

“Mazzas. We’re watching the Wales-England game. We’ve run out of beer.”

“So you thought you’d take mine.”

“Pretty much. I knew you’d be alright about it. I told the lads you are the best Dad in the world and are cool about such matters.”

“Lying to your mates now too, are you?”

“Come on, Dad. I’ll replace them.”

“I know you will, with empty ones.”

“Very funny, Dad.”

Simon pointed a finger at Will.

“Replace them.”

“I will. Right, I’ve got to go before the second half starts. See you later!”

“You aren’t driving are you?”

“No, Connie is parked up the road.”

“Is she not drinking?”

“It’s a he, Dad. Conrad. He’s only had one so he gave me a lift.”

On the way out, despite having a dozen beers under his right arm, Will still managed to slam the door again!

“I wish he’d stop slamming that bloody door!” I moaned to Simon.

“I wish he’d stop pinching my beer!” Simon replied, heading up the stairs towards me.

“Where’ve you been?” I queried as I went to turn the bath taps off and started to undress.

“Your Dad’s.”

“Bloody hell, you were feeling brave, weren’t you? What did you go there for?”

“I had to ask him something. Wish I hadn’t now, your Dad’s an arsehole!”

Will came back in.

“Who’s an arsehole?” he shouted up the stairs.

“Never you mind! I thought you’d gone out,” I shouted back down.

“I was just putting the first twelve cans in Connie’s car. I can’t carry twenty four.”

I was expecting Simon to fly off the handle, but he didn’t say a word. He was growing accustomed to this habitual theft.

Will disappeared into the garage again and I returned to the landing as he re-emerged with twelve more cans tucked back under his arm.

“Come on guys! Who’s an arsehole?” he asked again.

“Some bloke at my work. You don’t know him,” I shouted.

“Obviously someone I do know then! Whatever people, I’m not really bothered. By the way, I might go into town after the football and possibly clubbing after that. Don’t wait up, I’ve got a key!”

For a third time, Will slammed the door behind him.

“Who’s paying for him to live Oliver Reed’s lifestyle?” Simon enquired.

“Us. Anyway, you were just telling me that my loving father, who brought me up single-handedly following the death of my poor mother, when I was only seven, is an arsehole.”

Simon back tracked a little.

“Well, I know he isn’t an arsehole towards you. I think his problem is that he channels all his kindness towards you and he has only a limited capacity to store the stuff, which means he has to be an arsehole towards everybody else.”

I couldn’t really disagree. I knew how mean Dad was to Sim
on.

“Maybe. Why go round there then?”

“I told you. I needed to ask him something.”

“What?”

Simon paused like his brain had momentarily failed to kick in.

“I needed to ask him if he would lend me a spade.”

“What for?”

”What do you th
ink you use a spade for, Nicky? To do some gardening.”

“Simon, the only things you use our garden for, are barbequ
ing and drinking beer! In fifteen years you’ve not pulled one weed up.”

“Well, I was going to start today,
but because your arsehole of a father wouldn’t lend me a spade, I can’t now.”

I sighed.

“Simon, this may come as a shock to you, but my Dad is not the only person in the world who owns a spade. We have a whole host of neighbours who own spades, in fact, if you look in that wooded contraption at the bottom of the garden, the one you never venture into, you may well find we have a couple of spades we can proudly call our own. You didn’t have to trek two miles down the road in search of one!”

“I’m not in the mood for gardening now anyway, love, the moment’s passed.”

“And won’t be back for another fifteen years,” I muttered to myself as I climbed into the bath.

I intended to soak up the suds and drift off into a world of James Martin smothered in
a chocolate truffle torte but I smelt the sweet aromas of baked apple pie. As always, my plans never came to fruition but at least this time, unusually, it was a most welcome interruption. Cooked to perfection. James would have been so proud of me.