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.