Winterton Blue (14 page)

Would you care for a drink, Anna? he asks, lifting his own, full glass in salute, I'm afraid we started without you.

Like a pair of fire-dogs, says Anna, No thanks, Vernon, I'll wait until dinner.

What
is
for dinner? asks her mother, suddenly alert to a new idea.

Should I be making dinner? Anna cries, in a panic. It occurs to her that perhaps it's been mentioned at some point, and she's forgotten, or misunderstood. It's easily done, the way these two meander in their talk.

Of course not, says Vernon, Not unless you want to, that is. I usually make dinner at the weekends. We're having Welsh rarebit. You can just
relax.

I'm not here to
relax,
Vernon, she says, aping his tone, I've come to help my mother. Apparently. So perhaps we can discuss what I should be doing, now we're all together. I wouldn't like to get in the way.

Her mother makes a waving motion in the air.

Oh, Deanna, give it a rest! Tell her, Cabbage, tell her to cheer up. You don't have to do anything. Just keep me company.

You've got Vernon for company, argues Anna, and sees out of the corner of her eye Vernon's head doing a satisfied wobble as she says it.

I want you
here,
says her mother, pressing her finger into the arm of her chair, As I was just saying to Cabbage, it's not as if you've got anything to go back to. Not as if you've got a
boyfriend.

Her mother makes to get up, and then, remembering her infirmity, sits back again and pats the seat beside her. Close up, the bruises on her face are more livid, blossomed from the gin and heat of the fire.

And? asks Anna.

And? And so, while you're here, enjoy yourself. We worry about you, you know. Down there in London, all lonely. Who knows, you might even meet someone. A nice divorcé, or a widower. You can't be looking for unmarried men at your age. Bound to be something wrong with them.

Anna glances over to Vernon, who seems totally absorbed with the olive in his glass.

We can go out together, Anna, finishes her mother,
On the pull.

As she says it, she starts to giggle. It's clear that her mother is already quite drunk, and that it won't be long before the
conversation reverts to its inevitable template; first the reminiscences, closely followed by regrets, then tears. Anna understands the kind of drunk her mother is, and how quickly it all goes bad.

That's a great idea, says Anna, Let's go on the pull. We can hang out round the clock tower, get a few bottles of cider down us, and go for a
spin
with the local lads. We might land ourselves a real catch.

Anna's mother shoots Vernon a look.

You see? She's terribly stuck-up. Always has been. I think she must have got it from her father. He was such an awful snoot, my Len. Do you know, Cabbage, he wouldn't call me Rita in company?

Vernon shakes his head in wonder at this revelation.

He'd call me Darling. How silly is that? He said Rita sounded common. And serviettes were napkins, the toilet was the lavatory. What a rotten snob!

I think you've had enough, mum, says Anna, appalled at hearing this, and in front of Vernon, who strikes Anna as the biggest snob she's ever met.

He used to say that too. You're a proper little chip off the old block, Deanna. Sour-faced killjoy . . .

Her glass tips gently to one side, the gin splashing over the rim, then spilling in a long line onto the carpet. Her face takes on the same vacant look Anna saw earlier.

Time for a snooze, I think, says Vernon, leaning forward to save the glass. They both help her up to a standing position, but she squirms away from them.

Don't manhandle me, she says, I can manage!

Anna holds her mother's elbow as she inches her way up the stairs, lifting her right leg with her free hand, positioning it on the next tread, before easing herself up on her left.

Like Jake the bloody Peg, her mother says, cackling into her shoulder, You should let me do it my way!

Your way? asks Anna, raising an eyebrow, Go on then.

Her mother nudges Anna out of her way, and bending over, puts her weight on her hands. She crawls up the flight on all fours, stopping to catch her breath at the top of the landing.

Howzat! she cries, triumphant.

Just as well there aren't any guests, says Anna, stepping up behind her, You look like a bat.

An old bat, says her mother, That's right, you be cruel. See if I care.

Once Anna has got her mother to lie down, she makes her way back to the Nelson Suite. A close darkness has settled in the hall and the dining-room, giving the house a gloomy feel. Now, she could have that drink.

I don't know what to do for the best, Vernon, she says, as a way of beginning.

He's standing in front of her, fingering the pockets of his waistcoat like a naughty child: she's not at all clear of how she will phrase what she has to say, only that something needs to be said. He sits back down, gesturing to Anna to take the other chair.

I'm clueless, he agrees, frowning at a piece of fluff he's found, But all ears. Fire away.

I don't think it's such a great idea, the drinking. Do you? she asks, It can't be good for her. Especially with the medication she's on.

Vernon puts his chin on his chest and takes a deep breath. He starts to say one thing, then stops himself, running his hand over his head to flatten the stray hairs.

We always have a sherbet or two in the p.m., he says, in a piqued tone, Oils the engine, you know. We find it quite acceptable.

Anna stares at him. It's not so much his appearance she dislikes, it's this way he has of talking, as if he's auditioning for a part in a play.

But she's not well, is she? She should be taking it easy. She should be resting.

Not too much excitement for the old girl, is that it? A trip to the shops, a couple of gins—it could kill her! he says, his eyes wide and mocking.

Well, yes, says Anna, finding her way through his antagonism, Why go to the shops today? It's freezing cold out there—it's blowing a gale.

We would have asked you to come with us, says Vernon, smiling oddly, She wanted you to. But you'd gone out on your own, vanished into thin air.

He says it with a rising tone, as if he could make it happen simply by conjuring the right voice. Anna recognizes his petulance: she's being called on to explain herself.

I've come here—I've been summoned here, to look after her—

Vernon cuts the air with his finger,

No one
summoned
you, Anna, the choice was yours, was it not? I merely thought you would like to be kept informed of her state of health. Perhaps your conscience is playing tricks on you.

I don't have a guilty conscience, she says, feeling the heat of the lie, I just want to do what's right. And for that, I need some support.

Leaning across to switch on the table-lamp, Vernon is calm again, his voice low.

And your mother needed new glasses, he says, straightening up, She can't see a thing without them. Bumps into the furniture. Or did you not notice that small detail?

Anna understands that this gesture—the switching on of a lamp—is something he automatically does, as does anyone in their own home: an action that requires no thought. It isn't meant as a slight, but his proprietorial air makes her furious. Vernon knows all there is to know about this house and her mother, what she likes to do, and when. It has the precision and regulation of a life
well-oiled,
and she is fluttering around
behind them. Behind
him.
And now, because she has mismanaged the whole conversation, he's on the attack.

I have been looking after your mother—Vernon continues—And she me, let's not forget that, she has looked after me, too, for nearly ten years. I think we've managed pretty well so far.

Do you pay my mother rent, Vernon?

Slowly, he eases himself out of the chair, looking up from his brogues and directly into her face. Stage left, she thinks. Here's the big speech.

It's probably none of your business, he says, mildly, But as a matter of fact, I do. Anything else?

Else?

Anything else you'd like to know, only I usually take a nap myself before dinner—if that meets with your approval.

Anna blinks hard. Is there anything else? She's finding it difficult now to fathom what it was she wanted to say. She didn't start out to make an enemy, but she can't see a way back.

Are you two an item? she asks, sounding ridiculous. Even Vernon laughs at this.

Ah, he says, You'd like that, wouldn't you? Another stick to beat her with. That's not really any of your business either, is it? But we have been thinking of a holiday, if that makes us an
item.
You gave her the idea, you know; she's very taken with your suggestion of a short break. Just not very taken with being cooped up in your flat.

Vernon pauses, staring at her with a round-eyed, innocent look.

Then I'll go with her, says Anna, As I've apparently nothing better to do.

He bends down behind the chair and pulls up the stash of brochures. Holding them out to her, he smiles broadly.

We so hoped you would, he says, Somewhere warm, we thought—for her arthritis. We picked up the brochures today, only you seemed in such a brown study earlier, Rita said not
to mention it. I've marked the places. We thought Crete might be nice at this time of year.

He pauses at the door, turning to deliver his final line, before leaving her alone.

Rita will absolutely love it. An excursion
en famille
.

Sur mon corps,
whispers Anna, to the empty room.

At the booth inside the Fun Palace on Yarmouth promenade, Lewis gets ten pounds' worth of change. His skin smells of hostel, and a greasy slick coats the roof of his mouth. He shouldn't have had that breakfast; he can feel the fat bubbling in his stomach, and the taste of burnt coffee on his tongue. He thinks he knows what will cure him. The coins in his hands are warm and sweaty, the thought of what he will do with them makes his jaw set tight. This is how it feels at the beginning—a magnesium flare in his blood; at this point, the end is never a consideration. He positions himself in front of the Super Sweeper penny-falls, and rolls the two-pence pieces into the slot, mechanically, one after the other until his hand is empty. He hasn't lost the technique; he believes the faster he gets rid of the coins, the more chance he has of winning. After a while, the automatic gesture becomes part of him again, like blinking, like taking a breath.

Lewis graduates his gambling: two-pence, ten-pence, fifty, a pound, working up from the penny-falls to the whirling, flashing fruit machines. He began to play seriously as a teenager, him and his brother Wayne bunking off school and getting the train to Barry Island, where they were less likely to be seen by anyone they knew. Wayne would initiate the trip, and then spoil the day; wanting to pick up some girls, or chance their luck in a pub, or get into a fight. And it was
Wayne who insisted that they should take his mate Carl with them, show him how to work the machines.

As Lewis pumps the coins into the slot, it's not Carl Finn he's thinking of, but his brother. It's Wayne he's remembering, and Wayne he's trying to forget: the green eyes lit up in the flickering glass are his brother's eyes, and the sound of the coins falling in a rush into the tray below is his sudden, mocking laughter.

That face will get you into bother, she said, so that Lewis could almost believe she was flirting with him. She was Miss Hepple, and he was in love; and Wayne had to go and spoil it.

She wore long tasselled skirts and embroidered blouses with the top two buttons undone. According to the other boys, she smoked hooky cigarettes in the store-cupboard. She was the art teacher, and the first time Lewis saw her, she had a tidemark of purple paint, from wrist to elbow, that he couldn't take his eyes off. Every time she raised her hand to write something on the board, or smooth back her long brown hair, he saw it. He needed to keep checking after that, and was pleased to find that she almost always had marks of various colours halfway up her arms. Wayne said her first name was Valerie; she'd told him so herself. Lewis could believe this was true. Although he looked much older than his brother, a foot taller, nearly, and broad to Wayne's narrow frame, it was Wayne who was blessed with charm. Lewis had inherited features he presumed belonged to his father: a downward, brooding curve to his mouth, a suggestion of surliness. Wayne, thirty minutes younger, was fairer skinned from birth and remained so, and his mouth was wide, laughing, full of crooked teeth, just like his mother. The boys shared their father's eyes, she'd told them once; green with irregular hazel flecks. According to her, they had inherited other traits from their mysterious father: Wayne had words at his disposal, many of them, and was quick with his hands, despite the tremor. That wasn't
inherited, she said; that was down to lack of oxygen. Lewis had taken up too much space in the womb, and too much time being born. He gathered from this that he had inherited his father's selfishness.