‘Oh, it’s work, is it? So, how does she pay you?’
‘Cheque.’
‘Cheque! Nobody uses cheques any more,’ scoffed Brian. ‘I hope you’re not going to leave this crap lying around.’
‘I’m taking most of it to Oxfam.’
Brian laughed. Well, if Eva thinks she’ll be helping the poor by donating her old knickers, let her. The rest of us know that the so-called “charity” bosses drive around Mogadishu in Lamborghinis, chucking a few handfuls of rice at the destitute and starving.’
Alexander said, ‘I would hate to be you, man. Your heart must look like them ugly pickled walnuts they sell at Christmas.
‘I’m one of the most compassionate men I know,’ said Brian. ‘Every month the sum of ten pounds is taken out of my bank account by direct debit, which enables an African family to feed and care for two water buffalo. It shouldn’t be too long before they’re exporting Fair Trade mozzarella. And if you think that by affecting a West Indian patois I will be intimidated by you, you’re wrong. I’ve got a pal called Azizi – he’s African, but he’s a good chap.’
Alexander queried, “‘But” he’s a good chap? Think about it. And I’m trilingual. I spoke like dis until I was adopted, man. Then I slowly learned to speak like this,’ he said, affecting an exaggerated form of received pronunciation.
Brian eyed Alexander’s muscled torso and bulging triceps, and wished that he too could wear a tight white T- shirt. He was anxious to reduce the increasing heat of their confrontation. He cast about for something innocuous to say. ‘I don’t need to think about it, Azizi
Alexander changed the subject. While we’re talking about mozzarella, who’s in charge of feeding Eva?’
‘Eva thinks the people will provide – very biblical, isn’t it? But until that miracle happens it’s down to my mother, her mother and muggins here.’
He put a lump of lard in a frying pan and watched it melt. Before it got hot, he threw two slices of white bread in.
Alexander burst out, ‘No, man! Let the fat get hot first!’
Brian quickly turned the bread over and cracked an egg in the gap between the slices. Before the white of the egg had set, he slid the eggy mess on to a cold white plate. He ate standing up at the counter.
Alexander watched him in disgust. Each one of Alexander’s meals was an occasion. Those eating must be seated, there must be a tablecloth and proper cutlery, children under ten were not allowed free access to the sauce bottles, and hands must be washed. Children were required to ask permission to leave the table. It was Alexander’s contention that food cooked without love was bad food.
Brian had fallen on the slimy mess like a starving dog. When it was gone, he wiped his mouth and put the plate and the fork he’d used into the dishwasher.
Alexander sighed. ‘Sit down, man. I’m gonna cook that again. Watch and learn.’
Brian, who was still hungry, sat down.
20
Ruby came the next morning with Eva and Brian’s washing. It was ironed and folded so immaculately in a raffia laundry basket that Alexander, who had arrived ten minutes earlier to remove the carpet in Eva’s bedroom, was touched almost to tears at the trouble she’d taken.
When Ruby asked, ‘Kids at school?’ he could hardly answer.
He had spent the first ten years of his life in dirt and chaos, getting up early enough to sift through the piles of clothes on the bedroom floor so that he could wear the least dirty items to school.
When Ruby hobbled upstairs, Alexander laid his face on the laundry and breathed in.
After manoeuvring Eva’s bed around the room with her in it, Alexander almost lost his patience, but all he said to her was, ‘It would be so much easier if you got out of bed.’
She said, ‘If you can’t do it alone, shall I ask Brian to help when he comes home from work?’
‘No,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
Eventually, after a lot of encouragement from Eva, he managed to roll the carpet up, tie it securely and throw it out of the window. He went downstairs and stuck a Post-it note under the string holding it together.
It said: ‘PLEASE HELP YOURSELF.’
By the time he’d made tea and toast and gone to the doorstep with an empty milk bottle, the carpet was gone.
On the reverse of the note was written in biro: ‘THANK YOU SO MUCH. YOU’VE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS TO ME.’
While Alexander sanded down the old floorboards, Eva knelt on the bed and looked out over the open sash window. She was wearing an industrial respirator, which soon led to a rumour in the area – spread by Mrs Barthi, the newsagent’s wife – that Brian had contaminated his wife with some kind of moon bacteria, and that she had been confined to her room by the authorities.
Later that afternoon, Brian was mystified when the queue in the newsagent’s melted away as he joined it.
Mr Barthi covered his nose with a handkerchief and said, ‘Sir, you should not be out in our community spreading your unearthly moon germ s.’
Brian spent so long explaining the situation at home to Mr Barthi that the newsagent grew bored and longed for the bearded customer to leave the shop. But then, to his dismay, Dr Beaver gave a lengthy dissertation about the lack of germs on the moon, which somehow led to a monologue on the moon’s lack of atmosphere.
Eventually, after many hints, which included yawning in Brian’s face, Mr Barthi closed the shop early. ‘It was the only thing I could do to make him go away,’ he told his wife.
She turned the OPEN sign to face the street again and said, ‘So, why do you have tears on your face, you big fat booby?’
Mr Barthi said, ‘I know you will mock me, Sita, but I was actually bored to tears. The next time he comes into the shop you can serve him.’
Later, Brian came out of the butcher’s, where he had been buying a piece of rump steak for himself and eight chipolata sausages for Eva. He saw the lights in the newsagent’s flicker back on. He crossed the road and headed towards the shop. Mr Barthi saw Brian approaching, and had just enough time to turn the sign over and slide the bolt.
Brian banged on the door and shouted, ‘Mr Barthi! Are you there? I forgot my
Mr Barthi was crouching behind the counter.
Brian shouted through the letter box, ‘Barthi, open the door, I know you’re there!’
When there was no response, Brian aimed one kick at the door, then turned away and walked back without his magazine to face the chaos at home.
Mr Barthi only raised his head when five minutes had passed.
Brian told Eva later that night that, in future, he would have his scientific journals posted directly to the house. He said, ‘Barthi is cracking up. He yawned in my face and then started to cry. He doesn’t deserve our patronage.’
Eva nodded, though she wasn’t really listening. She was thinking about Brian Junior and Brianne.
They knew she didn’t answer the phone any more, but there were other forms of communication.
Ho was in his room, writing to his parents using notepaper and a pen. He could not email them such news, they must be slightly prepared – when they saw the letter in his handwriting, they would know that he had something serious to tell them. He wrote:
