just engaged. We knew Mr Dodd wouldn’t make a very good husband for our mother (he was a teacher, her worst type of person, plus a bit of a sissy), but we needed to do something to cheer her up and he did have a sweet face, being Spanish on his mother’s side, and linguistic skills. And we needed a rehearsal in the run-up for the attempt on the very nice and pony-loving Phil Oliphant.
Dear Mr Dodd,
Please would you come and talk to me about Little Jack’s stammer. I gather there’s not much to be done except to be patientand not get angry, but I want to make absolutely sure I’m doing all I can as his only visible parent. It is imperative to help all we can.
Please come one evening and we can discuss over a drink of wine, whisky or squash (your choice).
Yours,
Elizabeth Vogel
Mr Dodd called in later that week and the visit went much better than we’d dared to hope. After a brief chat about speech therapy, and two glasses of whisky plus the availability of a plate of cheeselets – which they didn’t touch – they seemed to have sex in our mother’s sitting room in front of the fire. We peeped through the French windows. Mr Dodd definitely had his trousers at least down and maybe right off.
It turned out badly, though, in the long run because he only wanted to do it the once and she kept pestering him – by telephone – to come round again and became very upset when he didn’t and wrote a play about it. Not the usual one act, but a whole long drama in the Rattigan mould. Poignant and cringe-making.
Mr Ladd: I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.
Adele: You gave me the impression that you were a nice person.
Mr Ladd: I’m engaged to be married.
Adele: You didn’t mind being engaged on Friday evening.
Mr Ladd: I couldn’t resist your beauty after you’d given me all that whisky.
Adele: I’m a bit worried about Little Jack’s stammer.
Mr Ladd: Jack doesn’t have a stammer.
Adele: What? You think I invented my own son’s speech impediment?
Mr Ladd: I don’t know.
Adele: (
calls loudly
) Jack,
Jack
, come in here, will you?
It was disappointing that Mr Dodd – who was meant to prevent the writing of the play – caused such a concerted bout of writing. But it taught us an important lesson and we never again had anything to do with teachers.
Soon afterwards, just as our mother was beginning to feel better about Mr Dodd not wanting to have sex with her again, our gardener, Mr Gummo, came to speak to her in confidence. He’d heard some ‘nasty rumours’ and didn’t feel comfortable with knowing and not telling her about them etc. Mr Gummo was one of those people who always have to do the right thing – however brutal and upsetting. And then, as if to make up for it, he created a beautiful rockery to cover an unsightly manhole in our front garden that she’d been asking him to do for ages and he’d always refused, for sensible reasons. He planted miniature alpine saxifrage and thrift among a scattering of craggy rocks and said it was meant to resemble Switzerland in the springtime. Our mother was utterly thrilled with it and said it was worthy of Chelsea.
It went against Mr Gummo’s better judgement – to cover a mains drain like that – and he made it clear to us that access might be needed at some point in the future and that would mean hurriedly removing it and we all accepted the fact. Our mother gave him a pay rise for doing the rockery, for overruling common sense in the name of beauty and, I suppose, for telling her about the nasty rumours and not minding. We added him to the list.
Part II
CHARLIE BATES
10
The summer eventually came and we at last had some warm days and were just beginning to plan our approach on Mr Phil Oliphant when suddenly, one afternoon, when the heat had shimmered above the slabs and our mother had roasted all day on her two-position recliner, a man arrived. A man not on the list, not from our village, unbidden by letter and
Dear Mr Dodd,
Please would you come and talk to me about Little Jack’s stammer. I gather there’s not much to be done except to be patientand not get angry, but I want to make absolutely sure I’m doing all I can as his only visible parent. It is imperative to help all we can.
Please come one evening and we can discuss over a drink of wine, whisky or squash (your choice).
Yours,
Elizabeth Vogel
Mr Dodd called in later that week and the visit went much better than we’d dared to hope. After a brief chat about speech therapy, and two glasses of whisky plus the availability of a plate of cheeselets – which they didn’t touch – they seemed to have sex in our mother’s sitting room in front of the fire. We peeped through the French windows. Mr Dodd definitely had his trousers at least down and maybe right off.
It turned out badly, though, in the long run because he only wanted to do it the once and she kept pestering him – by telephone – to come round again and became very upset when he didn’t and wrote a play about it. Not the usual one act, but a whole long drama in the Rattigan mould. Poignant and cringe-making.
Mr Ladd: I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression.
Adele: You gave me the impression that you were a nice person.
Mr Ladd: I’m engaged to be married.
Adele: You didn’t mind being engaged on Friday evening.
Mr Ladd: I couldn’t resist your beauty after you’d given me all that whisky.
Adele: I’m a bit worried about Little Jack’s stammer.
Mr Ladd: Jack doesn’t have a stammer.
Adele: What? You think I invented my own son’s speech impediment?
Mr Ladd: I don’t know.
Adele: (
calls loudly
) Jack,
Jack
, come in here, will you?
It was disappointing that Mr Dodd – who was meant to prevent the writing of the play – caused such a concerted bout of writing. But it taught us an important lesson and we never again had anything to do with teachers.
Soon afterwards, just as our mother was beginning to feel better about Mr Dodd not wanting to have sex with her again, our gardener, Mr Gummo, came to speak to her in confidence. He’d heard some ‘nasty rumours’ and didn’t feel comfortable with knowing and not telling her about them etc. Mr Gummo was one of those people who always have to do the right thing – however brutal and upsetting. And then, as if to make up for it, he created a beautiful rockery to cover an unsightly manhole in our front garden that she’d been asking him to do for ages and he’d always refused, for sensible reasons. He planted miniature alpine saxifrage and thrift among a scattering of craggy rocks and said it was meant to resemble Switzerland in the springtime. Our mother was utterly thrilled with it and said it was worthy of Chelsea.
It went against Mr Gummo’s better judgement – to cover a mains drain like that – and he made it clear to us that access might be needed at some point in the future and that would mean hurriedly removing it and we all accepted the fact. Our mother gave him a pay rise for doing the rockery, for overruling common sense in the name of beauty and, I suppose, for telling her about the nasty rumours and not minding. We added him to the list.
Part II
CHARLIE BATES
10
The summer eventually came and we at last had some warm days and were just beginning to plan our approach on Mr Phil Oliphant when suddenly, one afternoon, when the heat had shimmered above the slabs and our mother had roasted all day on her two-position recliner, a man arrived. A man not on the list, not from our village, unbidden by letter and
Similar Books
