Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate

‘No soundee like Chinese lady,’ says Dad.

‘I no am Chinese lady, that’s why,’ says the bird in a very upper class drawl. ‘My husband and I have lived at Stockwell for three and a half years now. We’re practically natives.’

‘You’re not like most of the natives you see round here,’ says Dad. ‘Do you want a hand with the grub? I hope you don’t expect me to eat with those joss sticks. I have enough trouble with a spoon. I find the bean shoots get stuck between my dentures. Do you have –?’

Listening to Dad is like wanting to cry out when you are having a nightmare. You can see all the terrible things that are happening but when you open your mouth, nothing comes out. Fortunately, Rosie does not have my problems when it comes to basic communication.

‘Really, father!’ she says. ‘How can you be so stupid? Surely it’s obvious that Imogen and Crispin have nothing to do with the meal. They’re guests, like you.’

It occurs to me that Imogen is not a guest like Dad, and Crispin, when he comes into the room bears even less resemblance to my father – or anyone else’s father for that matter. He is wearing a kind of silk tank top with puff shoulders and sleeves and a chiffon scarf that comes down to his knee breeches. These are fastened by a diamanté buckle as are his black shiny shoes. It is a dead cert that he is not a New Zealand rugby player.

He stops in front of Dad and claps his hands together.

‘How quaint!’ he says. ‘I’ve never seen it done better.’

‘Your friends may be able to say the same about you,’ says Dad menacingly. ‘What are you on about?’

‘Look at those clothes, darling,’ pipes Crispin. ‘They’re so authentic, aren’t they? I wonder if his trousers are held up with string?’

‘Crispin’s terribly well known as an interior decorator,’ explains Rosie.

This news does not surprise me. I have no difficulty at all in imagining the creep decorating interiors. What does surprise me is that Rosie should fancy someone like that. It is because he is artistic, I suppose. She always reckons that she is a bit starved in that direction having Sid as a husband.

Crispin is still staring at Dad’s suit. ‘Where did you get it from?’ he croons. ‘Do you have pull at the Salvation Army?’

Actually, I think Crispin is being a bit unkind. Dad’s best suit is no worse than any other old geezer’s clobber. The stains round the front of the trousers aren’t very nice but the half inch of grey woollen underpant protruding above the belt and giving way to the frayed ends of the waistcoat dangling temptingly above it seems to have been with me since childhood. Maybe that is it. I am too used to Dad. Either that, or his cap is creating the wrong impression. I saw Mum trying to take it off him when they came through the front door but he wasn’t having any.

‘And that lovely dress,’ says Mrs Fletcher, turning to Mum. ‘Did you knit it yourself?’

‘No,’ says Mum with a funny half curtsey – I can understand why she does it. Imogen Fletcher does make you think that you are in the presence of royalty – ‘I got it at Marks and Spencers. I get all my stuff there. All my clothes, that is.’

‘They are marvellous, aren’t they?’ says Mrs F brightly. ‘I noticed they had avocados there the other day.’

‘Oh really?’ says Mum. ‘That is nice.’

‘What would you fancy to drink?’ says Sid.

Mrs Fletcher orders and turns to me. ‘You must be young Timothy,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Nothing too terrible, I hope,’ I simper. Mrs Fletcher is the kind of poised upper-class bird who reduces me to a shapeless, mumbling twit. There are tiny little valleys at the corners of her lovely soft cakehole and when she twitches her lips it is as if somebody has pulled a bit of string tied round my Willy Wonker. I nearly ice my birthday cake.

‘Quite the reverse,’ says the lady. ‘I believe you’ve been a tower of support to Sidders in his many business ventures.’

For a moment, I wonder what she is talking about. Then I get it. She means Sid. The upper classes are always messing about with names, aren’t they? Ronny is acceptable but with Ron you have practically kicked the bucket – or gone beyond the pail, as the nobs say.

‘I’ve done what I can,’ I say. ‘Tell me, how do you know Sid and Rosie?’

Mrs F accepts a drink and gestures me towards the settee. ‘It’s all to do with Crispin,’ she says, draping herself gracefully across the scuffed leather. ‘He had a hand in your sister’s venture.’

I am surprised at her coming out with it just like that but some of these posh bints don’t care what they say. That’s what makes them so exciting. On the surface all pure and untouchable, underneath raring to cop a snatchful of steaming hampton straight between the thighs. What does come as a bit of a shock is that Crispin is a furburger fan. I had reckoned him as being a bit of a ginger on the noisy. Just shows how you can’t make sweeping judgements about people.

‘Yes,’ continues Mrs F. ‘He was in at the start of the boutiques and did all the decor for the wine bars.’

‘Oh,’ I say as it occurs to me that I may have misunderstood the lady. ‘You mean the sawdust and that?’

‘Inspirational, wasn’t it?’ says Mrs Fletcher proudly.

‘Definitely,’ I say. ‘I know that Sid uses a lot of it for the kiddies’ ferrets.’ I see a look of doubt coming into Imogen’s eyes. ‘The sawdust, I mean,’ I say hurriedly.

‘Of yes,’ Mrs Fletcher looks round and then places one of her elegant, beautifully manicured Germans on top of mine. ‘Do you think you could coax a teensy weensy bit more gin into my glass? I’m a rather greedy girl, I’m afraid.’ The way she looks at me when she speaks, I would walk barefoot across a sea of white hot coals to fetch her a Kleenex. I stand up and she touches my jacket. ‘Some ice would be fantastic too.’ She winks at me and I have fallen in love. To think I was really not looking forward to this evening. The best things always happen when you least expect them.

I have just wrenched the stupid bird-motif measuring device off the top of the gin bottle and poured Imogen Fletcher a generous slug when Sid moves to my side.

‘Where’s the ice, Sid?’ I ask.

‘It’s in the – fuck!’ Everybody stops talking and Sid examines the front of his jacket. He had tipped up the gin bottle without looking at it and copped the rebound from the bottom of the glass he was filling. ‘Uxbridge!’ shouts Sid, ‘Just beyond the traffic lights. You can’t miss it.’ The threads of conversation are picked up again and Sid turns to me. ‘Did you do that, you stupid berk?’ he hisses.

‘Sorry, Sid,’ I say. ‘It pours so slow with that thing in it.’

‘That’s the idea, you prat! Just leave things alone.’

‘Just tell me where the ice is,’ I plead.

‘I didn’t get any out – I didn’t have time with you arriving an hour early!’

‘I’ll try the fridge,’ I say.

Mrs Fletcher gives me a melting look that would see off any lump of ice I had in my hand and I sear towards the kitchen. Crispin Fletcher tries to catch my eye as I speed past and, rejected, turns back to Dad. ‘That really is very interesting,’ I hear him say.

‘That’s just some of the stuff we get in,’ says Dad. ‘Then there’s walking sticks and shooting sticks and umbrellas – oh yes, we get a lot of umbrellas. The last time we counted we had –’

I whip into the kitchen and close the door behind me. It does not half have a lot of gadgets. When you look around, you can see that Rosie is doing all right. I don’t reckon that Sid bought too much of this lot. I have just opened the fridge and knocked a tub of cream over three storeys of food when Rosie rushes in.

‘It hasn’t come!’ she storms. ‘Little perishers. They promised it by eight.’

‘Oh, the food,’ I say, cottoning on to what she is rabbiting about. ‘Can’t you give them a ring?’

‘I don’t have the number. I called in on the way home.’

‘They must be in the book,’ I say.

‘I can’t remember the name. You know what they’re like: Hing Pong, Flung Dung – it could be anything.’

‘If you had a classified you could find out from the address.’

‘But I don’t!’ Rosie faces me angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you an undercover agent for the GPO or something?’

‘Calm yourself,’ I say. ‘We all have our problems. Where’s the ice?’