Divorced and Deadly

BEDFORD OCTOBER, SATURDAY

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.

‘Positive.’ Came the reply.

‘I see!’ She gave me one of her looks. ‘All right! Well, if your father says it’s so, then I suppose it must be right. But I’ll buy you another shirt anyway. You can never have enough shirts.’ She punched father’s newspaper. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘For pity’s sake!’ Dad complained. ‘Can’t a man read a paper in peace?’

‘I said…a man can never have enough shirts.’ What is wrong with the woman?

‘If you say so, dear.’ Dad knew when to give in.

‘I do.’ Mother smiled triumphantly.

Dad settled himself in his chair. ‘Then that’s settled. Now, can I please read my paper?’

‘If you must!’

At times like this, sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants looks very tempting.

BEDFORD OCTOBER, SUNDAY

I thought I deserved a lie in as I’d had a hard week at work. On Thursday, two cats almost tore each other to shreds when Poppy accidentally shut them in together. That same afternoon, young Simon took the Great Dane for a walk and it ran off with him. Simon ended up in the duck pond; the dog leaped into the baker’s back garden, flattened a hutch and sent the four rabbits into the undergrowth. He chased them down a hole, and it took three men two hours to retrieve them.

And there’s more! By late afternoon, I’d actually finished extending the puppy run. When Agnes Dovecote arrived with her snappy Dachsund, she somehow managed to fall into the hole, which I’d dug in the wrong place and forgotten to cover. I always believed she was some kind of lady, but I must tell you, I have never heard such shocking language in all my life. After twisting her ankle and laddering her tights (more like flight-path balloons), the old biddy cunningly blackmailed me into letting her ‘darling toots’ have a fortnight’s stay at my expense (I didn’t know who to throttle first…the snappy Dachsund or the old cow!).

And now, what with all that digging, there’s not one inch of my poor body that doesn’t ache.

My Granny’s old alarm clock has taken on a life of its own. Mum should have binned it, but in her great wisdom she gave it to me instead! I’m sure it’s a form of torture.

It’s now seven a.m. on Sunday morning. The damned thing is ringing and ringing and I can’t turn it off. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my shirt and stuffed it under the bedclothes. It was still ringing its head off, but you know what? The vibration was surprisingly pleasant.

Just when I was getting ready to enjoy it, the damned thing stopped. Utter silence! But oh, what bliss! There I was, stretched out like some big, lazy dog with a belly full of best tripe. The curtains were shut; there was no one about. I could dream and laze, and there was not a soul in the whole wide world to disturb me.

‘BEN!’ It was my darling mother. ‘BEN, CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF THAT BED! IT’S NINE O’ CLOCK. TIME FOR SUNDAY MASS!’

‘I’M NOT GOING!’

‘WHY NOT?’

‘I’M SICK!’

‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT! I KNOW YOUR LITTLE GAME. YOU’VE NEVER LIKED GOING TO CHURCH, EVEN WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY!’

‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!’ I was not going to let her win this time. ‘I REALLY AM ILL. I’VE BEEN UP HALF THE NIGHT, BRINGING UP MY DINNER.’

The bedroom door was flung open and there she was, in all her glory: black hat, long black coat and looking for all the world like Darth Vader. ‘So, you’re ill are you?’ Gawd! She’s in my bedroom! Was there no peace in this crazy world?

‘Oh, Mam, leave me alone…I need my sleep.’ I groaned.

‘Is that so?’ She walked across the room and stood by my bed. It’s Hammer Horror all over again.

‘So you need your sleep, do you?’ She said quietly.

‘Yes, please.’ Am I pathetic or what?

‘So, you’ve been throwing up, have you?’ Even quieter.

‘Honestly, Mum, it was awful. Look, it might be best if you go without me. Let me get my rest, eh?’ Groaning, I slid under the covers. ‘I hurt all over, I really do.’

‘Do you now?’ Oh, God! I thought, She’s folded her arms. When my mother folds her arms, it’s war.

‘Please, Mum. I’ll make up for it next Sunday.’ I’m a past master at grovelling. ‘Next week, I promise to be up and dressed before you even come down for breakfast.’

‘So, you’ve had no sleep, you’ve been sick, and you hurt all over?’ She drew back the covers and looked me in the eye (it felt like my last moment on earth). ‘Is that the honest truth, Ben?’

‘Well of course it is! Do you think I’m making it all up?’ (One Christmas, I played Joseph at school; the drama teacher swore I had a future in acting.) ‘Ooh, Mum, I feel terrible.’

I gave a rending groan and made a face like a stripped kipper. Shameful I know, but when confronted by the enemy, what can a man do?

‘Now, I’m not calling you a liar, son, but I can’t understand it.’ Mum had a look in her eye I didn’t like.

‘Why not?’

‘Because your poor father was ill most of the night with shocking wind. I had to get out of the room or faint from the smell. Anyway, I thought he might have woken you, what with all the noise and such. But you were so deep asleep, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’

‘Shh, well…you see…’ (She was on to me.) ‘I must have just got back into bed…’ Give it up, Ben, I told myself. It’s too late; you’ve been well and truly rumbled.

Her tight little face stretched into a sly, knowing smile that would frighten elephants. ‘You must be feeling better now,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’

‘I’M NOT GOING!’ That told her.

‘TEN MINUTES, BEN!’ That told me!

‘I’VE ALREADY SAID…I AM NOT GOING, AND THAT’S FINAL.’ End of! Not up for negotiation! Last word on the subject.

With her good and told, and out of my hair, I sighed, and cuddled up with my Big Ted.

I’ve done it! At long last I’ve put my foot down; both at home and at work, and not before time neither.

What’s more, although I might live to regret it, I have definitely decided to broach the matter of sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. Though it will mean I’ll have to take on his hairy mongrel, whose wind problem is almost as frightening as my father’s.

The day seemed to have ended as well as expected.

The church was cold as usual. I warbled through two hymns I’d never even heard of, but when the organ struck up All Things Bright and Beautiful, I sang my heart out with the best of them.

The collection box got me on the way out. I only had two pence, which I threw in with a grand gesture. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the verger tucked the coin back into my hand, ‘I think you need it more than we do.’ I was miffed. What real man wears a skirt anyway!

As I slunk out, I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. ‘You’re a mean bugger, you are!’

If he wasn’t just three feet high, and sucking a sticky dummy, I might have smacked him one. (Though I did manage to stamp craftily on his foot. It did my heart good to see the shock on his little pink face.)

Ah well, happy days. Tomorrow has to be an improvement. Doesn’t it?

BEDFORD OCTOBER, SATURDAY

Well here we are, diary. After all the doubts and aggravation, today’s the day, and I really hope I’m not about to make the biggest mistake of my entire life (though, Lord knows, I’ve made enough mistakes already to sink a battleship!).

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, with my head in hands and all my pitiful worldly possessions lying round me, consisting of: four pairs of plain brown socks, two ties—one formal for unexpected events, and one bright green with a motif of Donald Duck in the corner. Then there are seven pairs of yellow and blue spotted underpants from Marks and Sparks (Laura bought me those two weeks before she threw me out—is it any wonder our sex life took a nosedive!).

Fraying at the elbow, my black Travolta bomber jacket was lying crumpled on the floor; beside it was a blue windjammer depicting a skier in action; there are my favourite baggy jeans; two pairs of serviceable trousers for work, and my one and only suit for unexpected formal events (which so far number two in total—one was for an aunt’s funeral, and the other ever ready for when the virtual owner of the kennels pays a flying visit, to check that his business is not being run into the ground).

Then there are the usual man’s things, like a baseball cap, an unused cricket bat, a pair of dodgy sunglasses from House of Fraser, oh and a packet of extra-size condoms for unexpected emergencies (also never used how pitiful is that?).

‘How can you be so ungrateful?’ The door was flung open and there she was—every sane man’s worst nightmare! ‘I hope you know you’re breaking my heart.’

‘Oh, Mam! Don’t start all that again!’ Her eyes were redraw from crying, and she was wringing her hands together like she had my neck between them. ‘It’s no use, Mum.’ Oh yes, I can be heartless when tried, ‘I’m leaving and that’s that!’ Before she could persuade me to stay, I began throwing my things into a bag like the ship was going down!

‘Oh, Ben, after what I’ve done for you, I honestly don’t know how you can up and away like this.’ She was so close I could feel the fire of her breath down the back of my shirt collar. ‘I took you in when that witch of a wife threw you out. I’ve loved you and cherished you. I’ve washed your dirty socks and made sure you never go to work without your lunch pack, and when you had the flu, I sat by you day and night and held your hand. I’m your mother, for heaven’s sake. You can’t leave me here with your dad!’

A huge surge of compassion made me forget all the bad things, ‘Aw, Mum, I’m sorry, I really am. I know you sat with me when I was ill, and I know you washed my dirty socks, and I’ll always be grateful to you for taking me back when I had nowhere else to go. And you will never know what it meant to me when you lovingly packed my lunch.’

I tried not to let her see how badly my life had been affected by these things, ‘I promise you this, Mum…if I live to be a hundred I will never forget what you did.’

‘There you are, y’see!’ (She was so puffed with pride I hadn’t the heart to burst her bubble.) ‘Nobody can say I haven’t been a model mother.’

Drawing myself up to my full height, I placed my hands tenderly on her lardy shoulders, and smiling into her pea-like eyes, I tried to soften the blow of my imminent departure. ‘Look, Mum, I know it’s hard for you…oh, and me of course. But I’m not a little boy any more. It’s time I moved on…don’t you think?’

I swear to God I didn’t see it coming. She smiled at me, then before I could scream for help, she had me against the wall, her hands at my throat, ‘YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!’ I could have yelled for my father, but something told me he was probably lying downstairs with his head caved in.

‘Let go of me!’ I gurgled, (though it wasn’t easy with her shovel-like hands flattening my windpipe). ‘I promise…I’ll come back and visit!’

‘Oh, no you don’t! I’m not falling for that old lie! (When she smiled that smile, I knew I had to escape or die.) ‘You’re a liar, just like your useless father. You say you’ll come back and visit, but I know you won’t! I’m sorry, Ben. I did not want it to come to this, but you have to understand. Y’see you are my one and only child, and I can never allow you to leave this house.’

She waggled a key in front of my face, ‘I would not be doing my duty as a mother, if I let you leave! You’re too vulnerable. People take advantage of you. Look at the way Laura treated you! And look at that slip of a girl…what’s her name…Poppy? One of these fine days she’ll have the pants off you and there’ll be a child on the way, you see if I’m not right. Then she’ll leave you and I’ll have to pick up the pieces as usual. Oh, and what about this new idiot you seem to be hanging around with…what’s his name…oh, yes, Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. And why would a man get a nickname like that, eh?’ (When she winked one eye like that, she had a distinct look of Captain Pugwash.)

Suddenly the sound of Dad’s voice calling her made her lose her grip and that was my chance, which I took like a true hero. ‘You come back here!’ she yelled as I grabbed my bag and ran. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet.’ As I half ran half fell down the stairs she was right behind me; it was like being trapped at the foot of an avalanche, like any minute she would fall on top of me and I’d never be seen again.

‘Leave me alone, Mum!’ The terror must have been etched on my face, because when I got to the bottom of the stairs my father leaped aside, shouting, ‘KEEP GOING, SON…IF YOU DON’T GET OUT NOW, YOU NEVER WILL!’

As I ran out the door, my bag fell open and all my underpants fell out on to the pavement. ‘Somebody’s got a colourful ass, that’s for sure!’ That was grumpy old Bob from the corner house. Judging from his long, straggly beard and dirty overcoat, I wouldn’t be surprised if his underpants have never seen the light of day. (That’s if he wears any. Ooh! What a frightful image!)

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