After alyson, p.14
After Alyson, page 14
“Hi Mark,” says Alpha and comes and kisses me on the cheek.
“She never did that to me,” says Geo to Jane.
Alpha gives him a dirty look and I laugh.
“Everybody gets used to Geo eventually,” I explain to her.
She’s not interested. She has spotted Matty and introduces herself by a combination of gesture and mime. Matty seems delighted and runs across the lounge to get his less than idyllic rural scene for joint completion with the pretty babysitter with big eyes and a fun smile.
Jayne checks Alp is OK and then we leave together.
Matty waves to me as I’m going. He points upstairs and makes a questioning ‘flash’ sign.
What is it with this kid?
* * *
Why do couples do it? I mean, why do they become couples? Aren’t we brought up to be independently minded or is conditioning so great that we’re forced into joint decisions, joint mistakes, joint holidays and eventually monogrammed matching towelling dressing gowns? What drives the human spirit, that which has journeyed across the globe in search of new lands, that which has discovered electricity or split the atom, moved from the invention of the motor car to space exploration, to decide that bliss is in fact having someone to wake up next to in bed and make a cup of tea for? I have no answer to these questions. None whatsoever.
But once the blockade of sexual activity was lifted, Al and I began the next phase of our journey to joined-at-the-hipness. Over time, we had both begun to earn more money. Al was now a full-time Physio at Sutton Coldfield and I was earning a good salary. The John Major era was giving way to the dawn of the smiling imbecile, also known as Tony Blair, and it was clear that property owning was the way forward. So after a period of time, the decision to buy somewhere wasn’t just a possibility, it became a certainty.
We managed to find one of the few Victorian properties on the Edgbaston-Moseley border that was not gentrified and well within our price range. It required, in estate agents term’s ‘some superficial updating work’. If you were given the details of Stonehenge, an estate agent would probably use the same words. So you know you would be faced with more than a plastering job and putting up new shelves. The potential of the new place was amazing. There was even a massive 120-foot garden that was probably home to several lost tribes of ancient Briton and also contained the sleeping knights of the Round Table. Yet we both loved it, loved the fact that here was a project we could get our teeth into. A property that would become our mark on the world and a property that we could technically get away with calling Edgbaston even if locals knew Massie Road as Moseley. South Edgbaston, maybe?
Everything happened so quickly and there seemed to be a period of constant negotiations between mortgage brokers, estate agents and solicitors. I seemed to be handling most of the calls about this and my working day focussed more on property dealing than managing my team. In the middle of all this, I got yet another phone call.
“Mark Garvey,” I barked, convinced that it would be some other incompetent professional involved in the house purchase industry.
“Hi,” the quiet but familiar voice said, “Long time no speak huh? How are you?”
Patrice and I hadn’t spoken, not since Crewe. She was just a part of my past I wanted to escape.
“Oh hi Patrice,” I said, as flatly and without emotion as I could.
Sensing my lack of commitment to the conversation she moved into probing mode.
“Is now not a good time? I mean I could call back later?”
I was silent. I must have sat with the phone against my ear, wondering what to say for a good 30 or 40 seconds, a symphony of silence for a telephone call already so short.
“You still there?” she asked, the ‘r’ of the there rolling through the phone like distant thunder.
“Yep,” I said. It was too firm a yep, almost a snap.
“Well look,” and then she paused, “can we meet? I mean there’s a game at Tranmere Rovers and there are quite a few nice places to stay in Liverpool.”
And as sharply as the previous affirmative came my negative.
“No way,” I said “No.”
“No?!” she said, like it was some great insult.
“That’s right” I said, determined to keep the conversation to a world record of minimum words possible. Any commentary team would have noticed this as a personal best.
‘Oh and the boy from Birmingham does it again. A whole conversation using only two-word responses. Just where does he manage to get it from?’ the commentary would run.
“But you said there would be another time, a next time.”
“Well – not now.”
“Not now – in the future do you mean?” Patrice asked. I could sense the pleading in the tone.
“Not now, never,” I said quietly.
“Oh well couldn’t we?”
I just put the phone down. There was no point.
‘Fantastic – he finishes on a silent, incomplete sentence. The crowd’s going wild. Oh and it’s a 6.0 from the Russian judge! 5.9 from everybody else! So different, so unlike Garvey’s previous style!’
But there is no commentary team. Nothing. The phone rings again.
“Mr Garvey, it’s Mike Warburton here of Warburton, Challoner and Delaney.”
It had been a skirmish. I was back in the safe territory of incompetent estate agents and expensive solicitors. Perhaps I had escaped the troubles in the North of Ireland too?
* * *
Alpha is crying. Sobbing big sobs. Meanwhile Matty is stood, looking a bit bewildered.
“I think we should call the police,” Says Geo, he’s trying hard to control his anger but it is totally understandable.
Dinner had been going really well. Kalpna and Jane were getting on famously, Geo was obviously smitten too and I was being given the 5-star treatment by Kalpna. So a good evening was well underway. We had just sat down to our main course when the phone rang. Kalpna decided to leave it on the answer machine which is how we heard Alpha’s voice sobbing down the phone.
“Hi…it’s me, are you all there. Can you pick up…please! Pick up! Pick the fucking phone up!”
Kalpna ran across to the phone and Geo and Jane seemed to freeze. He told me in the car that he thought something terrible had happened to Matty, so the fact that it hadn’t was a relief. Not much of a relief under the circumstances, but a relief anyway.
I hadn’t even heard the message clearly until Alpha started to swear. So I listened to it again whilst everybody grabbed jackets and turned ovens off. At this point, none of us knew exactly what the problem was, other than that Matty and Alp were OK, but she was totally freaking out by something that had happened. The drive between Hampton View and Drake normally took a couple of minutes. That evening, with Geo driving, we managed it in about 45 seconds.
It took about 5 minutes to establish what the problem was. It had started when Matty had got up to use the loo and had come downstairs to Alpha making the flash sign. He dragged her back upstairs; Alpha hadn’t a clue what was going on. She watched Matty stand over the loo to have a pee and then it happened.
From the piping in the corner there was a flash, similar to that which you get from a camera.
At first Alpha thought she had imagined it, but Matty made the flash sign and sure enough she knew. The very thought had made Alpha’s stomach cramp. She sent Matty to his room for a moment whilst she investigated but as she moved across the bathroom floor in the direction where the flash came from, the thing started flashing away.
Geo had been up to investigate after hearing, between massive sobs, a tear-punctuated version of the story. He had found, lodged behind a flat, black, Perspex glass screen that covered the end of the bathroom plumbing, a small camera. It wasn’t clear how this was working, but the implications were obvious. Somebody had been taking photos. First of Matty and then of Alpha. Geo was now insisting that the police be called
Kalpna was the first to respond.
“What are the police going to do?”
“Investigate the pervert who put the thing there!” said Jane, as if Kalpna had taken all leave of her senses. I too thought Geo was right. This made no sense whatsoever, but keeping it away from the police also seemed bizarre.
“Jane’s right,” I said quietly to Kalpna. But she seemed tense. Perhaps she just had an instinctive disliking of the police but it struck me that they really where the only people that could get to the bottom of this.
Alpha began to cry again.
“Oh Mum, I just want to go home.” I mouthed to Kalpna ‘shock’.
Jane turned to Alpha. “It must be horrible for you. Go on go home.”
“Won’t the police want a statement from her?” says Geo. But Jane gives him another one of her looks, less sharp, but one which indicates ‘give the kid a break’.
Alpha seems to sob even more after Giovanni’s comment but her mum is already leading her to the door.
“We’ll walk back up to Hampton view,” she says.
Jane interrupts.
“Can I come with you? I mean, God knows how many more of those things there are around the place. I certainly don’t want Matty to risk any more photos.”
Kalpna nods, understandingly.
Jane sweeps Matty up into her arms. He is rubbing his eyes with the back of his knuckles, a sign that once again sleep is catching up with him. A few whispers between Jane and Geo takes place. Geo tenderly kisses Matty on the head and smiles at him weakly. He signs, puzzled and a bit distressed.
“Matty bad??”
I sign to him “No! Matty Good. Flash bad. Go stay with Aunty Kalpna.”
Matty doesn’t seem entirely convinced by any of this but then nor would I be if nobody had bothered to explain to me what was going on. Then Geo hands Jane the car keys.
“We’ll walk back up,” he explains to Jane, and then, almost for confirmation, he turns away and speaks to me. “We could be here a while – it’s best that Jane has the car.”
As they leave I pick up the phone in the hallway and dial 999. I ask for the police, explain the situation and then we wait.
I join Geo in the kitchen. He has poured two large whiskies, straight. He offers me one as I enter.
“Grim, grim stuff,” he says.
I nod firmly, not sure if he is referring to the whisky or the events of the evening. I sip from the glass, tasting it as it slides across my tongue. Indeed it is grim, in every sense.
I look out of the window across the town of Hope Cove. It has suddenly become less of a picture postcard and much, much more sinister, more threatening. I glance towards the top end of the town and see on the horizon the flashing blue light of an approaching police car making its way towards Drake. I am filled with a sense of foreboding. A deep sense of unease. I know that something has changed that will forever alter my relationship with Drake House, Hope Cove and many of the people who I thought I could trust. Grim, in every sense.
* * *
I’m not sure whose idea the party was. I think it was Al’s. Initially it was planned as a break from the tedium of renovating the house. We had both failed to realise how long it would take to get even the simplest things done, like having a wall plastered. Winter was drawing in and the central heating radiators all seemed to not give off enough heat and we had gradually begun to realise that maybe we had taken on something more than we could afford. Al was miserable and I was miserable.
I’d also become concerned about my job for the first time in ages. Maybe it was a symptom of moving from tenant to homeowner status, but a planned re-organisation – resulting from the retirement of an existing AD – had all of us worried. There were sleepless nights, long fractious team meetings, dreaming of the possibilities for the future and then realising that the future could be awful – bloody awful.
So at the time the party seemed a good idea. I went mad with invitations – everyone from casual support workers through to Geoff. Then there were friends from far and wide, with people like Geo mixed in. Add to this the combination of half the Physiotherapists in a 50-mile radius, more Oz exiles than there were Australians in Sydney and the combination was set for a wild and fantastic evening.
On the afternoon of the party, Joy came over to help sort out the food. She argued with us about food fascism when we told her that everything was going to be veggie.
“That’s so unfair!” she whinged. “Like, you know, people have needs!”
“Not in my home. They’re guests. Full stop.”
Al, sensing a row brewing, moved us on.
“Come on you two – huh? And Joy, Mark is right – this is our home, not a public conference.”
It was the first time I had seen Al ever disagree with Joy in front of me and it felt like a small but significant victory.
“Whatever!” said Joy, dismissing the affair with a wave of a hand but a look that suggested she wasn’t really in agreement with us.
This seemed to inflame Al even more.
“Whatever?! Whatever! Hey, you don’t have to stay you know. But if you are – show some fucking respect!”
Now I was blown over. Al was becoming a tiger with Joy. Needless to say, Joy was given an incentive that may have explained her behaviour later that night.
By party time, we were at that point of frenzy that only comes when the party is your own. That dawning realisation that this was a stupid idea, that we needed more drink, that we didn’t know who the fuck was coming, and that Al and I were both already a tiny bit pissed. Everybody seems to occupy this space. Psychologists must have a name for it but I think I would call it pre-event-whose-stupid-dumb-ass-idea-was-this-syndrome. The only cure for this is alcohol, so that when the invited but unwanted guest arrive you are so happy, or pissed that they will mistake this for genuine evidence that you are in fact pleased you invited them, when you were secretly hoping they would be killed in a motorway pile up whilst en route.
By midnight this was all forgotten. The place was rocking. From the disco in the basement to the debauchery taking place in various rooms, everything was fantastic. Geo, unaccompanied by Jane, was having a whale of a time – flirting with care workers, talking about politics, telling jokes and so on. At one point, Geoff and I were arguing about the Baggies and what was needed for the remainder of the season to get promotion when he just stopped.
“Fuck it!” he said.
“What???”
“Nah, look I’m sorry, I can’t say.”
“No, go on.”
“I want you as AD.”
I blinked, wiped the froth of the top of the new bottle of Czech Bud I had just opened, thought ‘he’s pissed’ but checked anyway.
“You’re taking the piss huh?”
“Fuck off I’m not! The leader wants you for it, the boss sees your strengths and I think they’re all right. Come on. Do it.”
“Seriously?” It was all too surreal, being encouraged to move up to the next stage of my career whilst pissed, the smell of spliffs wafting down the hallway and the odd person passing in various states of undress. Life shouldn’t happen this way.
I was about to respond when Joy brushed between us.
“You two still arguing about West Brom?” she asked.
This inspired Geoff to start chanting. “Baggies! Bageeees!” he started yelling.
“Ask him about the Crewe game,” she said.
Geoff missed the point and started rambling on about Bob Taylor and what have you. Joy moved on, throwing a look at me that immediately told me she was here to cause trouble.
Before I could follow her, I was interrupted by Geo.
“Fantastic party matey!” he said “All these women!”
By the time I’d introduced Geoff to Geo – and Geo had explained that, no, he was in fact English but had no interest in the Baggies – Joy had taken cover back in the undergrowth of the party.
I had a need to go and find Al to make sure that nothing had already been said and then my alcohol-pickled brain couldn’t remember if my liberal hospitality had included stuttering Keith of the non-trip to Crewe. Fuck!!! Was he here? Was he downstairs somewhere?
“Geoff,” I said in a half panic, “you haven’t seen Keith have you?”
“K-K-K-Keith,” he responded unnecessarily, “N-N-O!”
I didn’t need this playground humour but left him laughing at his own bad taste joke, whilst Geo looked on, none the wiser.
I spent an hour looking high and low for a person at a party who I may or may not have invited. I found various people in various states but none had seen Keith. I even interrupted Gemma in mid-coitus to ask her if she’d seen him.
“What!!” she asked, making no attempt to stop with whoever was underneath her.
“Keith!” I asked
“Fuck off Mark! Can’t you see I’m busy?” I was amazed. We could have been arguing over photocopying and I made a mental note that at some point I should get to know Gemma better. But not now, there was too much at stake.
Becoming more sober as time went on, I realised that he probably wasn’t about. Things were getting calmer, anyway. I still hadn’t run into either Al or Joy. Eventually I made my way back down to the music and the cellar. Everything was mellow, less frantic. A chill-out album was playing and a few people were doing slowies together. I noticed Reeta dancing with a new conquest, a bigger more rotund woman than Kat had been. Reeta smiled at me and gestured with her thumb across to the corner.
The light was dim in that part of the room. I thought I could make out Joy and I thought she was snogging somebody. Somebody in a black t-shirt, somebody in a tight miniskirt, just the sort of thing Al was planning to wear. And then Joy pulled back and I blinked.
How long do these things take to register? The bass notes of the music playing seemed to be all I could register and then Joy, turning to look over her shoulder as, Al buried her hands in her face. Joy smiled, a vicious nasty smile at me, and mouthed one word.
I guess I stood there for only a few seconds but for a moment it felt like the world was falling apart. Here was the woman I loved kissing somebody else and that somebody else seemed to look like she not only knew what she was doing but knew what the woman I loved liked.
