Two hands rise towards the sky as if two late night partygoers thought they saw a taxi light in the distance.
‘Mind yer cigarettes, this is a new carpet’ Bob quips.
‘Stay in character!’ Marie continued in the same vain.
‘I am, I’m pretending those fags are real’, Bob hands a cold tin of Tennents to his mate on the sofa.
‘Cheers bud’ said Cllr Frank Bresner, aka Spiv aka Simon Deuchar, of Camdean, Rosyth, as the newspaper had stated when he was done for GBH in his late teens. His girlfriend was sitting at his lap, kneeling comfortably on the floor, chest heaving through fifties negligee.
‘Pam, you wantin owt?’
‘No thanks Bob, I’ve an essay to write up tomorrow’, Dorothea Pandrop aka Pamela Watters looked out of place – an 18 yr old in the midst of some late twenty-early thirty something’s.
Marie rolled her eyes. ‘In… character….Bob.’
‘I’m no fuckin Bob then, am I.’ He pushed his face towards the pretty maid. Its Gerald Ratzen frigger to you!’ The deep red lining of his jacket flashed as he turned quickly and guffawed in a deliberate, insulting tone. All part of the game. Marie threw him daggers that he could feel in his spine but he didn’t care. He was the host, the life of the party and feeling mighty fine and plenty drunk.
Bob staggered through towards the kitchen for more beers passing an army general at the door. The General touched his arm whispering, ‘Tell ye what, your wife’s patter is murder…’ He smirked and swigged his beer. Cigar rounding the near empty can.
Elias Godfrey, the general, played by Tom McAndrew kept his eye on Spiv's new tart, ogling her fine breasts before catching the glare of his wife. Her disapproving look was not unusual. She knew what he was like. A ladies’ man if ever there was one.
‘I say, forthwith and wherewithal, I think I’ve got it!’
Wallace Squaregut, under normal circumstances known as Aidrian Burgess, rose from his seat. He was a rotund fellow, his policeman outfit being a little on the small side.
‘I think I might have done it!’
The doorbell rang. Saturday morning.
‘Dad, can I answer the door’, sang 8 year old Ellie.
‘Hmmph’ Aidrian lay in his pit. Saturday mornings were blissful. Kids could dress and wash and feed themselves now. Only their fighting over MTV v CITV kept him awake.
Last nights sleep had been full of angst. Worry about work, worry about Monica, worry about the kids. Work should be an easy one, but he was having difficulties. Working long hours wasn’t helping at home, but then the money had to be found to pay for the mortgage or they could lose the house… and how could he face telling Mon that?
The door clicked open.
‘It’s the postie’
The postie? What’s Monica been buying now? He thought. It’ll be something incredibly useful from E-bay, a new dress that she won’t wear or something he was meant to have bought last weekend up the town. Not a dash or sprint, but a slounge from the side of the bed and into navy slippers, he headed towards the bedroom door.
Monica had left to take Stephen to his football match, and then she had 2 appointments before lunch. Her hairdressing kept her out of the house much of the time that Aidrian was at home. What was the point of money if there was no time to spend it?
The out-dated carpet on the stairs led him down to the front door where an eager Ellie waited impatiently, guarding the house from the stranger, but keen to learn what the package contained.
‘Morning dad’
‘Morning’
‘Just this package here and here’s your mail’. The postie handed Aidrian a clipboard to sign off. No clever quips. Just straightforward duty to sign off, hand back, cheers and cheerio. The door closed.
‘What are we going to do today dad?’ Sleep? Aidrian looked at the cuckoo clock on the wall. The cuckoo had died after a couple of days when he had allowed Stephen to ‘play’ with it. But the hands still worked and, through bleary eyes, he could see it was coming on 10.
‘Don’t know darling, what do you want to do?’ He put the package down on the sideboard and ambled through to the kitchen without looking, switching the sound down on the telly as he passed it. The kitchen was a good size. When they had bought this place, he and Monica were well pleased. They were the first out of his mates to buy a place and, instead of living in the council estate, they had moved to the new houses behind the woods – a place they had dreamed of moving to when they were younger.
He leafed through the mail.
The kitchen was bright with a breakfasting corner and a huge dining area to the back, with patio doors leading to their greenery beyond. A south facing garden with no properties overlooking. The thrill was so great for the couple when they got the keys that they put Stephen down and stripped off, making love on the newly laid turf.
Now he was lucky if he was able to paw playfully at Monica at all. They hardly spoke and when they did it usually ended up in an argument of some sort.
Mr Aidrian Burgess. A Rust coloured envelope.
Ms Monica Delaney. Another Rust coloured envelope.
‘Dad.’
