Confessions from a Haunted House. Timothy Lea
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Sid is like that. Very human. ‘It’s not a subject I care to dwell on,’ he said with cold dignity, drumming his fingers on the table the while. Actually, he drummed one of them against the marmalade spoon and it jumped in the air and smeared all the way down the front of his tie, but we pretended not to notice. Sid surveyed us all with undisguised loathing. ‘I came round here to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye?’ cried Mum. Where are you going?’
‘My own way,’ said Sid. ‘From this moment on I’m ploughing a lonely furrow.’
‘Farming?’ said Dad. ‘I’ve always thought you had the fingernails for it. But where are you going to farm around here? You’ll have to move out to Croydon or somewhere like that.’
‘I was employing a figure of speech,’ said Sid bitterly. ‘About all I can afford to employ at the moment thanks to laughing boy here.’
‘But what about the business?’ asked Mum. ‘“Emergency Disasters”.’
‘The Noglea Emergency Service,’ hissed Sid through clenched teeth. ‘That is now folded up.’ He laughed hollowly. ‘Not unlike the front half of my mini van.’
I did not say anything. This was another subject that Sid was touchy about. When the flat exploded, the cooker and the fridge went out of the window and landed on the van. It was unfortunate but none of us was spared discomfort. I had to walk home after we had dropped Sid off at the hospital.
‘Are you trying to say that you and Timmy aren’t going to work together any more?’ said Mum.
‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to say,’ said Sid. ‘My legendary patience has finally disappeared up the spout. I have lost count of the wonderful career opportunities on which the dead hand of Lea has put the mockers. From now on we’re finished. F–I–N–’ he started to spell it out and then came to a halt. His spelling was no better than Mum’s.
‘N–’ prompted Mum.
‘There’s only one N in “finish”, you stupid old moo,’ Dad jeered.
‘Blimey, you don’t know nothing about the English Language, do you?’
‘F–I– We’re through!’ shouted Sid.
‘T–H–R–E–W,’ added Mum triumphantly.
At that moment the front door bell rang and Mum went to look through the lace curtains in the front room. Nobody casually chucks their front door open in Scraggs Lane. There might be some suspicious character lurking there. Like a copper.
I must say that Sid’s words took me back a bit. We had been through a lot together – and I am not just talking about birds. Of course we had had our ups and downs – and I am not just talking about birds – but when all was said and done and the water had been passed under the bridge – or against the police station wall – I thought we had a bond between us stronger than anything I would have cared to put into words without a packet of Kleenex handy. Now it seemed that all this was over. The idea took a bit of getting used to. I was so overcome that I remember helping myself to a second cup of tea. Only a warning glance from Dad stopped me from drinking it.
Mum came in holding an airmail letter. ‘It’s from America.’
‘If they want you to support the dollar, they’ve come to the wrong bloke, eh Sid?’ Dad laughed heartily at his little joke while Sid squeezed his teacup so hard that the handle came off.
‘Why didn’t they shove it through the letter box?’ said Dad.
‘Because it was under-stamped,’ Mum explained. ‘The address was wrong as well. It’s been all over the place.’
‘Must be from your sister then,’ said Dad. ‘Mean and stupid. She must have got married again.’
‘She’s only got married twice,’ snapped Mum. ‘That’s nothing in America.’ Mum’s sister Eileen was a G.I. bride. She went to live in Washington at the end of the war – the one that finished in 1945 – and had never been back. Normally we got a Christmas card with news flowing over onto the back, but this was not Christmas.
‘Open it up then,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s see what the old bag’s been up to. Fancy marrying again at her age. Its disgusting.’
‘You don’t know she’s getting married again,’ said Mum, rummaging through her bag for her spectacles. ‘When she last wrote she was very happy with Dwight.’
‘Dwight,’ said Dad, puckering up his mouth. ‘Fancy being called Dwight. It sounds like a plant disease.’
Mum tore the envelope open and made a ‘tcch’ noise. ‘Ooh. This has taken a long time getting here.’ She read on. ‘One of the children is coming over. Harper. Do you remember a Harper, Walter?’
‘No,’ said Dad. ‘Must be a grandchild. What diabolical names they do lumber their kiddies with. Poor little boy.’
I did not say anything. I remembered how they used to take the piss out of me at school because I was called Timothy.
Mum was still reading the letter. ‘She asks if we can put the child up.’
‘Typical!’ grumbled Dad. ‘I don’t know why we don’t turn this place into a guest house and have done with it.’
‘Don’t be unreasonable, Walter,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the first thing she’s ever asked us to do except send the Marmite – Oh no!’
‘What is it? Does she want some more Marmite? It’s out of the question. The postage on the—’
‘The child is arriving today!’ Mum’s voice was panic-striken. ‘Ten o’clock at Heathrow Airport! What are we going to do?’
‘Stupid Twits!’ said Dad. ‘You mean they sent the kiddy off without waiting for a reply?’
‘Eileen says “If everything’s all right, don’t bother to reply”.’
‘I always knew she was a daft ha’p’worth!’
‘That’s neither here nor there,’ said Mum. ‘It’s the child we’ve got to think about. How long will it take to get to Heathrow?’
‘At least an hour unless we get a taxi,’ I chipped in.
‘A taxi?’ I might have asked Dad to fill a petrol drum with his own blood. He turned to Sid. ‘What about your van?’
‘What about my van!!?’ Now Sid started to shout. ‘It was a write-off, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Did the insurance pay up?’
Sid looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, well – er in a manner of speaking, yes. They made a ridiculous offer that I was eventually compelled to accept. Muggins lost out as usual.’ Sid stood up. ‘Right, that’s it. I’ve said what I wanted to say. I will now leave you to grapple with this latest self-inflicted disaster. No doubt we will see each other at Christmas. I don’t know which one but—’
‘What have you done with the insurance money, Sid?’ I asked softly. ‘I mean, I was contributing to the down payments on that van, wasn’t I? It was one of the fringe benefits I was getting instead of a salary.’
At this point Sid began to look uncomfortable and Mum turned her beady eye on him. ‘That old car outside the front door. Who does that belong to?’
‘That is my car,’ said Sid, with a firmness that was almost vicious. ‘Paid for with my money. Taxed and insured with my money – or it will be when I can get around to it.’
‘Where’s my money then?’ I said.
Mum held up a restraining hand. ‘You can talk about that later. Right now I think the least you can do is go and meet little Harper. We can’t have him wandering round London Airport by himself.’
Sid’s