You won’t get any dresses out of him.”
“I told you, to leave him alone Dad. Sid is saving up for the down payment on one of those new flats up by the common. He hasn’t got the money to keep you in booze.”
“I don’t want champagne and caviar. I just ask to be remembered, that’s all. A bit of common civility – that’s all I ask for. Bugger me, he isn’t bankrupting himself, the rent he’s paying to stay here.”
“Give over, Dad” says Mum. “You’ve already said all that. You know Sid is doing his best.”
“That’s what he tells me” says Dad, who is probably the most boring old git in the world when he puts his mind to it. “I haven’t seen any evidence of it – not even a single solitary bottle of brown ale.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” explodes Sid, “I can’t stand any more of this. I’m going to bed. Look, here’s some money. Go and buy your own bloody brown ale.” And he chucks two bob down at dad’s feet and slams out. Immediately everybody starts shouting and it’s all turning into another typical evening at the Lea’s. Rosie throws a tizzie and has to be comforted by Mum and they both turn on Dad while Peter West tells us it all depends on the result of the formation dancing. Dad is in a spot because you can see he wants to pocket the two bob but knows that if he does the women will really start riding him. He solves that one by picking the money up and resting it casually on the arm of his chair as if he was frightened that someone might trip over it. Rosie is ranting about how they both might as well get out because Dad has never liked Sid and Mum is trying to quieten her down, saying things like “ssh, think about the neighbours”.
She’s very neighbour-conscious is Mum. It nearly broke her heart when Mr Ngobla moved in next door with the five little Ngoblas. She’s dead keen that nothing untoward should take place which might make the Ngoblas suspect that they aren’t a great deal less refined than we are. “Is that really his wife?” Mum keeps saying. “I’d never have recognised her. They all look the same to me. No, of course I didn’t mean to give offence. I thought it was one of his – you know – one of his other ones.”
Dad is much more tolerant than Mum. He’s always leaning over the wall and explaining to them that many of our ways must strike them as being a bit strange and that a few years ago we had some pretty primitive customs ourselves. You can see them looking at each other when he’s talking.
Anyway, that’s nothing to do with this evening’s caper which ends with Central London winning by one point and Mum going off to make a cup of Ovaltine. Dad, choosing his moment well, pockets the two bob and shuffles off to bed. Rosie is still snivelling and showing no interest in professional wrestling from the Winter Gardens, Morecambe, which shows how serious things are. I turn the set off and for a few minutes we have to get used to the strange sound of our voices unaccompanied by the background noise of the telly.
“I should have married Rory,” sniffs Rosie, “that would have made Dad happy.”
Rory was a big silent slob who worked in a garage and used to leave greasemarks all over the settee. He and Rosie were very close for a while and it was a union Dad would have smiled upon since Rory’s old man owned the garage. They even went on holiday once. Rory and Rosie I mean, not his old man. A few months after that Rosie faints down at the palais and tongues start wagging backwards and forwards like wedding bells. They’ve got it a bit wrong though, for it’s about that time that Sid rolls up and Rosie falls like a pair of lead knickers. She nips off to see a friend of a friend one evening and comes back looking pale but relieved. A couple of weeks later they’re calling the banns. Rory is very cut up about it and saying how he’s going to smash Sid’s face in, but he never does anything. How much Sid knows about it all I’ve never found out.
“I saw Rory the other day,” I say. “He was asking after you.”
Now this is a complete lie and I don’t know why I say it but I just have the feeling that I might be doing myself a bit of good. Rosie looks really agitated.
“What did he say?”
“Said how about having a drink.”
“What me?”
“No, no. Me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said fine.”
“Did he say anything else?”
I’m thinking very fast now. Rosie is obviously dead worried that Rory is going to start blabbing his mouth off. She also has a lot of influence over Sid. More than he’d care to let on. This might be what I’m looking for.
“Oh, he started saying there were a few things he’d like to tell Sid. He was a bit pissed, you couldn’t take him seriously.”
“I don’t want him near Sid.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about. He didn’t say he was going to glass him or anything.”
“No, well I still think its better that they don’t meet. Let bygones be bygones.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. Trouble is, Rory was talking about a job up at the garage and you know what Dad’s been like lately. I was thinking of taking it.”
It’s a fact that Dad has had the dead needle with me ever since I got back from Bentworth, and I usually get more of it than Sid. This evening’s little interchange has not been typical.
The reference to the job with Rory is obviously a master-stroke and I can see Rosie wriggling.
“It’s a bit difficult isn’t it,” I go on, “I mean, I’ve got to get a job and the garage seems favourite but I can understand your feelings about Rory. It would be difficult to stop him coming round here.”
“I haven’t got any feelings about Rory” she snaps, “I just don’t want him telling Sid a lot of lies about me.”
‘No, of course not.” I shake my head understandingly and then my face lights up as an idea suddenly comes to me. “I’ve just thought,” I say, “Sid was telling me that the old window cleaning lark was picking up a treat. Perhaps I could go in with him? Keep it in the family and all that. I’ve heard him saying he’s got more work than he can handle.”
I’m holding my breath and crossing my fingers and, by Christ, it works.
“That’s a good idea,” she says. “Why don’t you have a word with him about it?”
“I would but – you know – it’s his business, and what with him living here and me being family, I don’t want him to feel that I’m pushing it too much. You know what I mean? I think it would be much better if you could mention it to him first. Might make things easier with Dad too.” I soon learn that I’m overplaying my hand there.
“Dad can get stuffed,” she says, “he’s always had it in for Sid and now he’s beginning to do alright for himself he’s getting jealous.” He’s not the only one I think.
“Yes, you’re probably right. Well, if you could have a word with Sid and see if there’s anything going, I’d be very grateful, Rosie. I’m supposed to be seeing Rory tomorrow and he was pushing me for an answer so maybe I can say ‘no go’ and warn him off, so to speak.”
“I’ll
