Something About Trevor

Chapter 1-4

Driving to

Thommo’s, Paul was glad he’d made the

effort to apologise to Trevor. Sandy had been right, he wasn’t such

a bad bloke once you got to know him. He had been surprised at

Trevor’s knowledge of history, particularly the industrial

revolution as it pertained to their part of Yorkshire.

He’d been in stitches by

the end of their second drink. Trevor had told a very risqué story

about a visit the church choir Trevor was a member of, had made to

a song festival in Manchester. Trevor was such a keen observer of

humanity, pointing out the quirks and oddities in his fellow man.

Paul had actually been disappointed when their drinks were

finished.

He’d offered to buy Trevor

a third, saying he’d have something non-alcoholic as he was

driving.

Trevor had let out a

shrill girly laugh, making Paul cringe. “I won’t be responsible for

my actions if I have another.”

Paul had nodded. “Yeah. I

best get going myself. Better see what state Thommo’s house is

in.”

Trevor looked like he had been

going to say something, but must have decided not to.

Arriving at Thommo’s, Paul

moved a collection of empty lager cans from the coffee table and a

pile of dirty clothes from the sofa. “See you tidied up for my

arrival.”

“Piss off,” Thommo said,

sorting through the clothes, no doubt deciding if he could get

another day’s wear out of any of them.

“Got any food?” Paul

realised he was hungry.

“Didn’t you have anything

at the King’s Head?”

“Huh? How—”

“Baz saw you at the

bar.”

“But, uh, why,

how.”

Paul worried Baz had seen

him with Trevor. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think Thommo would

be the most tolerant of people. Then he mentally slapped himself.

He’d only gone out for a bloody drink with Trevor, he wasn’t his

boyfriend or anything.

“Baz rang me and happened

to mention he’d seen you. What’s wrong? You look like summut’s

spooked ya.”

“Don’t know what you mean,

and no, I didn’t have anything to eat at the pub. Thought my new

housemate would have been slaving over a hot stove to make a meal

for me, especially as he doesn’t have anything else to do all

day.”

“Piss off. There’s some

pizza from yesterday in the fridge if you want that.”

Paul knew Thommo was a

stranger to the workings of his kitchen appliances. He existed on a

diet of take out meals whenever he was between

girlfriends.

Going into the kitchen,

Paul noted the pile of unwashed crockery overflowing the sink and

spilling onto the worktop. Opening the fridge he spied the pizza

box on the top shelf. The only other items in the fridge were cans

of lager, and something green and unpleasant lurking at the back of

the bottom shelf. Paul didn’t feel brave enough to investigate. He

hoped whatever it once was hadn’t poisoned the pizza.

Picking his way back to

Thommo’s living room, narrowly avoiding tripping over various

bicycle parts, a broken ironing board and a partially dismantled

home gym, Paul knew he couldn’t stay there for more than a couple

of nights.

“So, your place a total

disaster area, then?” Thommo asked before turning on his TV. The

huge plasma screen set was the only concession Thommo had made to

modernity.

Paul bit back his first

thought. “Yeah. f*****g take months to get it sorted.”

He settled himself on the

sofa, its springs twanging. Thommo had wisely headed for the

armchair.

“Told you you shouldn’t

have bought a house on a flood plain.” Thommo had seen a programme

on the Discovery channel about house building, and ever since

considered himself an expert on the subject.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Pizza okay?”

Thommo always got

anchovies, Paul hated anchovies. He picked them off the pizza, but

the thing still tasted of salty fish.

“Want a drink?” Thommo

asked, getting to his feet.

Paul hesitated. He’d had a

hard day, but knew Thommo would want to drink until one or the both

of them passed out. Unlike Thommo, Paul had work in the

morning.

“Nah, better

not.”

“Suit yourself.” Thommo

ambled toward his kitchen. Twenty seconds or so later Paul heard a

can being opened, Thommo soon emerging with lager in hand. “More

for me, then. Good idea of Baz’s going down to France. This little

lot will last me a couple of months easy.”

Paul winced. Thommo had

filled two large supermarket trolleys full of cases of lager. He

was amazed the customs let him through with it all. But Thommo’s

comment about how he was hosting a stag party for a mate seemed to

satisfy the official and they were waved through. Paul knew none of

them were getting married, but wisely kept his trap

shut.

* * * *

An insistent bleeping

brought Paul out of unconsciousness. He

opened his eyes, only to snap them shut again. The sunlight was too

bright. He turned his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He let

out a piteous moan. “Jesus.”

Rolling carefully off the

sofa and landing on his hands and knees, Paul immediately clutched

at his head and groaned. “Why do I get myself into these

situations?”

The previous night he had

watched Thommo sink a couple of cold ones before his resolve broke

and he asked if he could have one. One led to two, then three, Paul

losing count after five.

Needing to piss something

fierce, he used the sofa to help him climb to his feet. The room

swayed, making Paul close his eyes. “Never again,” he croaked. His

mouth had the texture of a wrestler’s jockstrap, not that he had

any personal knowledge of such a garment.

He was reminded of his

need to piss. Walking quickly to the bathroom, he kicked aside the

empty drink cans that lay in his wake.

* * * *

“You don’t look at all

well.”

“Uh!” Paul grunted,

lifting his head from his folded arms and opening his eyes. He’d no

idea how he’d got through the first hour of work. Somehow he’d

survived on sheer will power as well as about a gallon of black

coffee.

“I said you don’t look at

all well,” Trevor repeated.

Paul bit back a sarcastic

comment as he looked at the red and green loose fitting smock

Trevor was wearing. “Too loud.” Paul wasn’t sure if he was

referring to Trevor’s clothes, or his voice.

Trevor laughed. “You taken

anything for your headache?” he added in a softer tone.

“Don’t have anything,”

Paul mumbled, resting his head back on his arms. Maybe he should go

home sick. Then he realised he didn’t have a home.

“Be right back. Don’t go

anywhere.”

Paul sighed. He sent up a

prayer to be delivered from his world of hurt.

He was almost asleep when

someone touched his shoulder.

“Here, drink

this.”

“Huh?” Paul lifted his

head, slowly. Trevor swam into focus, he was holding out a glass

filled with a greyish coloured liquid. “What is it?”

“Something that’ll make

you feel better. Though I warn you, doesn’t taste too nice, so best

drink it down in one go.”

Paul wasn’t sure, but

Trevor looked determined. Accepting the glass he wondered at how

he’d spoken more with Trevor over the past couple of days than in

the previous three years.

Not having the energy to

argue, Paul downed the whole thing in a couple of swallows. “Oh

fuck.” He burped and thought he was going to throw up.

“Try and keep it down,”

Trevor said before mincing off. Paul was so concentrated on not

vomiting that he didn’t wonder at why Trevor had shown up in the

first place.

* * * *

Lunchtime, and Paul was at

his usual table. Sandy sat to his left,

as usual, eating her usual rabbit food. “I’m surprised you don’t

grow long ears, eating all that lettuce.”

Sandy looked down her nose

at him. “Sooner eat this than the carnivorous poison you insist on

putting in your body. Do you know that minced beef will remain in

your gut for eight hours?” She pointed an accusatory stick of

celery at his plate.

They’d had this discussion

many times. Paul wasn’t going to give up his meat pies, and he knew

Sandy wouldn’t stop eating her salads.

“And I’m surprised you’re

able to face anything given the state you were in earlier,” she

said before chewing on a carrot stick.

“I feel fine. Must be all

the nutritious meat I eat. Makes a man out of me.”

Sandy rolled her eyes.

Paul spotted Trevor

leaving the serving line. He wanted, needed to show Sandy he wasn’t

the arse-hole he’d behaved like the day before. “Hey, Trevor, over

here.” Paul saw Trevor had opted for the chicken curry. “I need

reinforcements against the vegan vigilante here.”

Trevor smiled and set down

his plate. Paul got an odd look from Sandy which he pointedly

ignored.

“Feeling any better?”

Trevor asked.

“Yes thanks, much

better.”

“I knew mum’s secret

recipe would do the trick. Never fails.”

“Oh?” Sandy said. Paul

cringed.

“I saw Paul looking under

the weather this morning, and—”

“More like he’d been

brought through a hedge backward,” Sandy put in.

“Yes well. He was looking

poorly so I decided to mix him up one of mum’s old cures. They’ve

been handed down from mother to daughter for generations in my

family.”

Paul schooled his

features. There was no way he was going to comment.

“But I’m an only child, so

my mum had no choice but to pass it on to me,” Trevor added with a

wink.

“Oh right.” Sandy started

in on her sliced cucumber. “So what’s in this secret recipe?

Wouldn’t be minced lambs kidney or anything like that?”

“Huh?” Trevor gave Sandy

an odd look.

“Ignore her. She’s

on another of her meat is

murder tirades.”

Trevor looked confused,

but didn’t comment. The three of them settled down to their meals,

exchanging brief remarks about the morning and their respective

workloads. Paul felt comfortable in Trevor’s presence, much more

than he thought he would. Sandy had been right, but there was no

way he was going to tell her that. He’d never hear the end of

it.

* * * *

It was no good.

He couldn’t find a place anywhere. In-between

his various work-related tasks, Paul spent the afternoon ringing

round his mates, trying to find somewhere to stay.

He’d been offered the

spare room at Simon’s, but that would mean living with Sylvia,

Simon’s ball and chain. Paul could only stand Sylvia for short

periods. He knew if he had to go live with her, he’d soon be hauled

off to prison for grievous bodily harm. Either prison or a mental

hospital. How Simon stood her constant nagging and whining he’d

never know. Simon once admitted it was worth it because Sylvia was

a tigress between the sheets. Somehow Paul couldn’t picture the

stuck up, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth Sylvia so much as

allowing Simon to sleep in the same bed as her, let alone…Paul

shook his head. Imagining the s*x lives of his mates was a sure

sign he needed to get laid.

He’d even called a couple

of local hotels. They had room, but he balked at the prices they

were asking. A call to his insurance company confirmed what he’d

already suspected. He wasn’t covered for the cost of hotel

accommodation. He determined to change insurers when the policy was

up for renewal.

* * * *

“You putting in some

overtime, then?”

“Huh?” Paul tore his

attention away from a dry as dust report on the need for more car

parking spaces in the town centre. “June, sorry, I was miles away.”

Looking at his watch, Paul saw it was a quarter-past

five.

“Cause it’s not like you

to stay later than you need.”

“Uh, no. Had a lot on

today and got behind.”

June was fat, frumpy and

fifty. She was the unofficial office mother-hen. Paul knew the

woman meant well, though he was always careful never to put himself

in a position of having to hold a long conversation with

her.

“Still no luck finding

anywhere?” June was well-connected to the office bush

telegraph.

“No, not really. Most of

my mates either don’t have room, or I can’t stand their other

halves, or they live in pig sties.”

June laughed. “I’d offer

you our spare room, but our Sammy and Gail often come to stay at

weekends.” June was proud of her two grand-daughters and lost no

opportunity to tell people about them at great length.

Fearing she was about to

launch herself into a monologue about their latest exploits, Paul

intervened. “Have you read this rubbish?”

“I typed it.”

“Oh, sorry.”

She smiled. Paul knew he

hadn’t offended her.

“Why don’t you take Trevor

up on his offer?” June was adept at going straight for the

jugular.

“Well, uh. I turned him

down yesterday, it, uh, wouldn’t sound right me asking him

now.”

June waved away his

protests. “He’d be glad to put you up. Though he hides it well, I

know he’s rather lonely. I was only telling our Jill the

other—”

“I’ll think about it. But

given the time, I better get going, and I’m sure your Bert will be

wanting his tea.”

June nodded. “I’ll see you

tomorrow, then. And think about what I said about Trevor.” June

went on her way.

Paul decided he’d take the

report back to Thommo’s and write up his recommendations

there.

* * * *

Paul was the chief

planning officer for Leadstone Borough

Council. When most town and borough councils were absorbed into

large metropolitan district authorities in the early 1970s,

Leadstone managed to remain unscathed. The Council had jurisdiction

over Leadstone itself, as well as all the villages in the Lea

Valley.