stroke.
My grandma graciously offered my mother some pudding, guests
first, of course, making it clear that Mum would never really be family. As always,
my mother smiled weakly and said, 'Oh, just a bit for me, please.' This is what
she had said when offered the roast lamb and the packet oxtail soup before it. It
was what she said to everything. Just a little bit, just a little one, don't bother
about me, I'll make do with this. No, really.
Grandpa stood up (at first I thought he was going to the loo)
and shouted at her: 'Oh, for Christ's sake, woman, have some more. There's bloody
heaps of it. Take as much as you want.'
Then he sat down calmly and waited for Grandma to pass him his.
My mum was horrified. She turned her eyes away from him and obediently handed her
plate back to Grandma who spooned some more thin, evaporated milk rice pudding onto
it and then served the rest of us. It was actually quite frightening but I also
wanted to laugh. What was really so funny was to hear Grandpa say 'bloody'. We ate
in silence and fled soon after, leaving the old bugger vacuuming angrily under his
rear passenger seat.
In the car on the way home my mother took a tattered paper tissue
from the sleeve of her cardigan and began to sob. My dad quickly put his arm round
her during a straight stretch of road and muttered something about Grandpa not meaning
it, not being himself.
'Oh, I know he can't help it,' my mother sniffled, 'old people
get like that, especially after what has happened to him. It just took me by surprise,
that's all. It was a bit of shock, I'm not used to being shouted at like that.'
David is talking to me across Farrah. 'Sorry?' I say.
'I was just asking what line of business you're in.'
What line of business? Pissing about in an office and skiving
off to watch a rich woman shop.
'I'm in media sales,' I say instead, trying to make it sound
like a serious, heavyweight profession.
'Space,' says David. 'Er, yeah.'
'Friend of mine did that for two years. Then he went into media
buying. You know, gamekeeper turned poacher. He's making a packet, huge basic plus
commission, must be on £120K by now.'
'Who's that?' Farrah asks sweetly.
'Rob,' David says quickly to her. 'And he does consultancy work
now as well. I wouldn't be surprised if he sets up on his own soon.'
'Great,' I say without enthusiasm. 'What about you? What do you
do?'
It sounds really aimless and studenty, as if I'm expecting him
to say that he is travelling a bit before starting teacher training.
'At the moment I've got a number of projects on the go,' he says,
swallowing, obviously glad I've asked. 'I deal in old cars. Not vintage ones, you
know, not London to Brighton crap but sporty little numbers from the fifties - Aston
Martins, Panthers and the like. There's an incredible market for them down here.
My dad and my brother pick them up for next to nothing up in the North East, we
drive them down, I've got a couple of lads who check them over and do them up and
then we flog 'em. Amazing what they go for.'
'Brilliant.' Part of me is, I'm afraid to say, genuinely impressed
but mainly I'm amazed, as usual, at how easy it all sounds.
'They're such beautiful cars,' says Farrah with an almost pained
look on her face. 'And my brother in New York is going to help him import American
ones as well - Buicks, Cadillacs and stuff.'
David cuts her off, 'Also me and my mate are opening a club in
South London next month and we're going to use these cars to ferry the VIP guests
to and fro. Emma Bunton and that bloke from EastEnders - what's his name? - are
doing the opening night. I'll get you and Marion on the guest list. You can use
the VIP suite.'
'Oh, right, thanks.' Yeah, thanks, but somehow I don't think
so, you flash tosser. Emma Bunton and EastEnders!
That's the kind of thing that would impress most of the people
in my office but I think I can aim higher than that now. I look round at Marion
who is listening to the French boys and grinning.
My grandma graciously offered my mother some pudding, guests
first, of course, making it clear that Mum would never really be family. As always,
my mother smiled weakly and said, 'Oh, just a bit for me, please.' This is what
she had said when offered the roast lamb and the packet oxtail soup before it. It
was what she said to everything. Just a little bit, just a little one, don't bother
about me, I'll make do with this. No, really.
Grandpa stood up (at first I thought he was going to the loo)
and shouted at her: 'Oh, for Christ's sake, woman, have some more. There's bloody
heaps of it. Take as much as you want.'
Then he sat down calmly and waited for Grandma to pass him his.
My mum was horrified. She turned her eyes away from him and obediently handed her
plate back to Grandma who spooned some more thin, evaporated milk rice pudding onto
it and then served the rest of us. It was actually quite frightening but I also
wanted to laugh. What was really so funny was to hear Grandpa say 'bloody'. We ate
in silence and fled soon after, leaving the old bugger vacuuming angrily under his
rear passenger seat.
In the car on the way home my mother took a tattered paper tissue
from the sleeve of her cardigan and began to sob. My dad quickly put his arm round
her during a straight stretch of road and muttered something about Grandpa not meaning
it, not being himself.
'Oh, I know he can't help it,' my mother sniffled, 'old people
get like that, especially after what has happened to him. It just took me by surprise,
that's all. It was a bit of shock, I'm not used to being shouted at like that.'
David is talking to me across Farrah. 'Sorry?' I say.
'I was just asking what line of business you're in.'
What line of business? Pissing about in an office and skiving
off to watch a rich woman shop.
'I'm in media sales,' I say instead, trying to make it sound
like a serious, heavyweight profession.
'Space,' says David. 'Er, yeah.'
'Friend of mine did that for two years. Then he went into media
buying. You know, gamekeeper turned poacher. He's making a packet, huge basic plus
commission, must be on £120K by now.'
'Who's that?' Farrah asks sweetly.
'Rob,' David says quickly to her. 'And he does consultancy work
now as well. I wouldn't be surprised if he sets up on his own soon.'
'Great,' I say without enthusiasm. 'What about you? What do you
do?'
It sounds really aimless and studenty, as if I'm expecting him
to say that he is travelling a bit before starting teacher training.
'At the moment I've got a number of projects on the go,' he says,
swallowing, obviously glad I've asked. 'I deal in old cars. Not vintage ones, you
know, not London to Brighton crap but sporty little numbers from the fifties - Aston
Martins, Panthers and the like. There's an incredible market for them down here.
My dad and my brother pick them up for next to nothing up in the North East, we
drive them down, I've got a couple of lads who check them over and do them up and
then we flog 'em. Amazing what they go for.'
'Brilliant.' Part of me is, I'm afraid to say, genuinely impressed
but mainly I'm amazed, as usual, at how easy it all sounds.
'They're such beautiful cars,' says Farrah with an almost pained
look on her face. 'And my brother in New York is going to help him import American
ones as well - Buicks, Cadillacs and stuff.'
David cuts her off, 'Also me and my mate are opening a club in
South London next month and we're going to use these cars to ferry the VIP guests
to and fro. Emma Bunton and that bloke from EastEnders - what's his name? - are
doing the opening night. I'll get you and Marion on the guest list. You can use
the VIP suite.'
'Oh, right, thanks.' Yeah, thanks, but somehow I don't think
so, you flash tosser. Emma Bunton and EastEnders!
That's the kind of thing that would impress most of the people
in my office but I think I can aim higher than that now. I look round at Marion
who is listening to the French boys and grinning.
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