‘And Mum?’
‘You’re not touching your wine, dear. As for your mum, she done the rounds a bit and then settled down with Tony Odgers. Then he’s gone and got a seven for demanding with menaces. Teddy Ambrose come out at last and she’s took up with him. Then Teddy’s got cut to pieces in a ruck outside the World Upside Down. Your mum’s played the field a bit, then she’s pulled herself together and for a time she’s made a go of it with Ian Thorogood. Then he gets himself choked in a headlock whilst in police custody. Things was going not bad between your mum and Frank Purdom. Then Nick Odgers come out, for about a week, but long enough to do Frank Purdom, and your mum’s back to her old tricks. Keith Room was very good with her till he pulled a twelve, and then she’ve raised eyebrows by shacking up with Thelonius Curtly. And when he gets hisself topped she’s let herself down, many thought, by throwing in her lot with Lon Chang You. But she was on the drink and worse by then. To be perfectly frank with you, Cora, her reputation was beginning to suffer. They was calling her Khyber Kath by the end. Funny kind of name, that. I never did learn how she come by the “Kath” bit of it. How you feeling, dear?’
‘Oh, tolerably well.’
‘You’re a hard girl, Cora. You’ve had to be. You frighten even me sometimes — what I seen in you. Now okay, your dad weren’t the best of fathers, but he was your father. Your natural father, dear. Damon done what he done. Damon was Damon. He messed with you, and there ain’t no excuse for that. But you was still a family. And Mick Meo, by his overly hasty behaviour … Now if I know my Cora Susan she’s not going to bend over for that. She’s going to want to hurt somebody. And there’s only one of them left. Uncle Xan.’
‘Uncle Xan.’
‘I give him a smack meself the other day. About something nothing whatsoever to do with the Susans.’
‘Oh?’
‘He fucking grassed me up. Then he’s gone to the papers saying he never! And he called me a mad prick …’ Joseph Andrews shook his head and gave a smile of yokellish incredulity. On the table before them lay a green folder. He reached for it. ‘Here: “… whoever did me in October or had me done … they think I’ve been telling tales to the Old Bill. And that is something I would never do … They can stick red-hot pokers up my arse … whoever did me I tell him, you come down and …” Now that’s game, that is,’ he added with unqualified admiration. ‘No less than he should have said, of course. But these days that’s game. There’s Mick in him, Cora. And there’s Mick in you and all.’
‘And the money.’
‘And the money. Hebe’s money. Skinned you out of it. You’re going back for the funeral, of course? … Have a read of that. And the other matter?’
‘Beyond all expectation.’
‘Gaw, I got to pinch meself with the price we’re getting on this one. Talk about a thrust.’ He brought his clawed hands together. ‘The double play. I tell you, darling, if it all goes through all right you can have my end of it. I give it to you, dear. Jesus, the satisfaction. It’s beautiful. Cora? We done them sweet.’
The green file went in the straw bag and Cora Susan kissed Joseph Andrews and walked away across the coarse sward. Moving with an air of dreamy purpose — always one step behind, one step beyond.
3. Denizen
About twenty miles to the north-east Clint Smoker was settling into his half of a cabana in the grounds of a Moorish mansion known locally as the Ponderosa. In Clint’s quarters, as in everybody else’s, there was a large and lavish reproduction of Michelangelo’s ‘The Creation’ on the wall facing the picture window. Clint typed:
Chief: Got here all right. The hotel’s gorgeous. My companion, Kate, is particularly taken with the oiled dwarves who line the driveway day and night. Shop. You’ve got your gagging order and I hope you’re happy.
Yeah, thought Clint. According to Jeff Strite, Heaf was summoned, not to Downing Street, but to a sweltering basement at the FPA — along with every other e-zine and nude-mag chancer in the British Isles. A man from the Palace with a double-barrelled name came on and told them that the material on the Princess was a fake and a fiction, and would they please shut up about it. Heaf returned to the Lark shedding tears of pride.
I think you’re experiencing an accounting problem in the marble department, but that’s me: cynical. Still, we can pursue related and parallel themes on little Vicky. I have an idea or two. Here as promised is the revisionist editorial on the Walthamstow Wanker:
Over the past month, a tragedy has unfolded in the heart of Essex.
For two days and two nights, an innocent and injured man — and we’re proud to call him a Lark reader — languished without treatment in a Rotherhithe nick before being released on bail.
He now faces charges of public indecency.
And for what?
Health boffins have long agreed that a regular visit to Thumb Street is crucial to masculine well-being.
Every man-jack of us knows that a decent toss reduces tension, setting you up for the rest of the day.
And there’s nothing better for a good night’s sleep.
Imagine.
In the seclusion of an unoccupied area of a public baths, this stainless individual was seeking relief over his daily edition of the paper you now hold in your hand.
But who should burst in on him but some old boiler with a bucket and mop.
Congratulations, darling!
You f**ked that one up!
In his confusion, and sadly impeded by his clothing, he slipped on the damp stone steps, incurring serious injury.
Little did he know that his tribulation — yes, his martyrdom — was yet to begin.
We say to this man that he has not been forgotten.
We say to this man that we are with him and will stay by his side.
We say: fist your mister for the Walthamstow One.
Clint had briefly admired his bathroom but had not yet used it. Now he lifted the ox-collar; he bestrid the bowl. After a few seconds, he found he was undergoing a sense of gradual depersonalisation, as if about to receive the introductory chords and colours of a lifechanging illness. His stare moved to the left. The basin: how small it was. His stare moved to the right. The bogroll-holder, the actual gauge of the tissue: scaled down. And the can he straddled: like a potty. When you wiped yourself it looked … Yes, there was definitely a gain in contrast. And every little helped.
Strollingly he returned to his studio. Shower and change in a minute: off with the aeroplane-wear (the radiant trainers, the aerodynamic shell suit) and on with something smart. An inaugural drinks party was scheduled for half past five. Meet your fellow — clients? inmates? guests? What did the brochure call them: residents? No, denizens. Denizens of the San Sebastiano Academy for Men of Compact Intromission … The reproduction on the wall facing the picture window. Whew, the state of that Adam. Come on, you’ve got to fit him up a bit better than that. You can’t send him out there with that cashew between his legs.
Was Michelangelo taking the piss — taking the michael? Was God?
4. At Ewelme
‘Qi? Q, i? No no no. You can’t have a q without a u. Now if you let that stand I shall most certainly challenge … Challenge! … Where are we. Q, i, indeed. What does it mean? Ah, do you see, all the q’s have u’s after them. Hello, that’s very odd. “An individual person’s life-force, the free flow of which within the body is believed to ensure physical and spiritual health.” … Well God help us. What happens now? I get docked the points. Bother. And you’ve done it twice: two qis and an if. On the triple word.’