Divorced and Deadly

As for Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, he’s a walking disaster! Remember how he accidentally on purpose put his groping hand up that girl’s skirt, and then discovered it wasn’t a girl at all? Well, according to him, he has now found himself a ‘proper girl’, and he’s absolutely besotted. ‘You’ve got to meet her,’ he came running down the street at me. ‘Her name is Leonora, and she’s so good looking, it’s unbelievable. And she really likes me!’ (I told him not to get too excited, because I know how easily excitement can turn to horror. But would he listen? Of course not.)

‘Good. I’m pleased for you.’ As always I did my best to humour him. ‘But don’t go rushing it or you’ll frighten her off.’

He drooled and gabbled all the way down the street. ‘She’s got a friend,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Georgie and she’s looking for someone. We could all go out on a date. So? What d’you think?’

I told him what I thought, in no uncertain terms. ‘You know what a frightening time I’ve been through…and am still going through,’ I reminded him, ‘so, what makes you think I need to mess my life up even more. I hope you’re not up to your old tricks again.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Dickie looked put out.

‘I mean…“she” is not a “he”…is she?’ I queried.

Blushing bright crimson, he took the hump. ‘I knew you’d never let me live that down!’ he declared sulkily. ‘I’ll have to remember not to confide in you any more. Anyway you’re barking up the wrong tree as usual. Her name is really Georgina. They just call her Georgie for short.’

We walked on in silence.

Poppy was waiting for me as I got off the train. ‘Oh, Ben, I’m so excited. I’ve had a birth; six boys and a girl!’

‘Well done,’ I told her. ‘As you haven’t even got a boyfriend, that’s an amazing achievement.’

She giggled in away that made me want to cuddle her. ‘No, silly! It’s Dizzy, the dog…she belongs to that old man who’s gone away for three weeks. He’s due back next Friday.’

‘Timed it well, didn’t he?’ It’s happened before. Some irresponsible owner lets the dog out; the local big boy cocks his leg over and before you know it, things are a stirring. The owner doesn’t want the mess and worry, so he dumps the pregnant bitch at the kennels and conveniently forgets to tell us there’s a happy event due any minute. Poppy protested, ‘we could see she was about to drop the puppies, but we couldn’t turn them away could we?’

‘Come on then.’ Spurring myself into a run, I went into the kennel and there, all curled up round their haggard mummy, was a clutch of the most darling little runts you can imagine. ‘I’m sorry, Poppy, but they’ll have to go!’ At times like this, I had to be hard.

Poppy started wailing and crying. (A girl in floods of tears always turns me to jelly.)

‘All right, STOP THAT!’ That’s the way to treat them.

‘So, can we keep them then?’ She pleaded.

‘Absolutely not!’ I held firm.

‘Please?’

‘Oh, all right then. But only until the owner gets back. This is not a nursery. The old fox must have known she was about to drop a bundle, and he never said a word.’

‘He may not have known.’ Poppy can be so gullible at times.

‘Whether he knew or not, they’re here and we need him to collect them. Oh, and you can add another ten per cent onto the bill.’

‘But they’re not costing us anything!’ Poppy wailed.

‘Who’s the boss here?’ I demanded.

There was a sniff. ‘You are.’

‘Too right. And I will not have these kennels being used as a nursery for randy animals. My answer is final, and that’s that.’

‘Don’t do it, Ben! He’s just an old pensioner, and that’s so cruel.’ I could see the tears welling again.

‘Oh, all right then…make it five per cent.’ What am I like?

Something has got to change. It seems like I’m always painting myself into a corner.

I have this theory that in order to assert my authority at work, I need to have a stable and worry free home life. And to do that, I need to start looking for a rented place. But because I can’t afford to do that on my own, I might need to find a flatmate.

For one heart-stopping minute there, I thought of Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants.

What a nightmare that would be!

BEDFORD OCTOBER, SATURDAY (#ulink_19bb73b0-41f1-5d43-9c92-3f61a7150649)

I think my mother has finally flipped.

All day she couldn’t do enough for me. ‘Would you like another cup of tea, Ben darling?’

‘No, thanks all the same, Mother.’

‘Well, I made us a Madeira cake last night, how about a slice of that?’

‘I’m not hungry, Mother. That stew you made filled me up to the eyes. But thanks all the same.’

‘Right, well, I’m off to the shops now. I’ve seen a lovely blue shirt in Jackson’s window. I’ll buy it for you, shall I?’

‘I don’t need a shirt, Mother.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I bought two new ones last week, don’t you remember? It was you who told me where to find the best bargains.’

‘Did I?’ She’s got this irritating habit of frantically scratching her head until her hair stands on end. She did it then, ‘I think you must be mistaken, dear.’

‘No, I’m not. Why don’t you ask Dad? He’ll tell you.’

‘Dad?’ Isn’t it strange how parents call each other Mum and Dad when they’ve got children? It’s like the kids have stolen their identity.

That settles it! I am never going to have kids!

My name is Ben. Not husband, or father or Dad. It’s Ben, and that’s that!

Dad looked up from his beloved newspaper. ‘Yes, Mother, what is it?’ (Why does he call her his mother…she’s not his mother, she’s his wife. Has he forgotten her name, or what?)

‘Did I send our Ben to Jackson’s shop last week to buy two shirts?’ She demanded.

‘You did, yes.’ Dad sounded resigned.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum wasn’t about to let it go.