to attain those dizzy heights. The only person heâd ever managed to persuade to join him in the enterprise was Frank, and that was only because Frank felt so sorry for him and worried about him going up and down the stairs in the blocks that were part of Grandpaâs round. It wasnât even a local round. Portswood would probably have been much more lucrative, but that was already somebody elseâs territory. Somehow Grandpa had agreed to do Weston, bloody miles away on the other side of the city, the most easterly part of Southampton, a huge estate washed up on a green no manâs land that dissolved into a pebbly shore.
Frank was often tempted to suggest to Grandpa that they swap BettaKleen for a paper round. It would be less onerous and more lucrative. Grandpa wouldnât even discuss giving up BettaKleen though; he said that he would soon be fit enough to do it by himself again, and if Frank didnât want to help, well, then heâd manage somehow. And of course Grandpa didnât want anyone else to get his round, BettaKleen or a rivalcompany. Oh no, not after he had spent all that time building it up.
It seemed that there was nothing to be done apart from doing it. Frank began to load the catalogues into the tartan trolley that was their trusty BettaKleen companion. And hereâs a few kilos of disappointment, pointlessness and futility, Frank muttered as he put the last few bundles in.
âWhatâs that? Whatâs that?â Grandpa asked.
âNothing Grandpa, just checking we had enough.â If only the world, and especially Posy, could have seen that there was something heroic about lugging that trolley down the steps and into the boot of the car, and then going back to get Grandpa and his carrier bag of things heâd need for the journey, the spare glasses, Spaldings catalogue, packet of Tunes and a half-empty box of tissues in case of emergencies, and the little black vinyl purse which contained Grandpaâs money as he insisted on paying for the toll bridge and then on giving Frank a pound coin, towards, he said, petrol and tobacco. If only this work was rewarded the way being a hospital consultant was, or an accountant, or a systems analyst. If only âBeing Frankâ was considered to be a proper job in itself.
âGoing well is she?â Grandpa asked.
âWhat?â Did he mean Posy?
âThe car. Going well is she?â
âLike a dream,â said Frank. He always forgot that he and Grandpa had to have these manly conversations about how the Parousellisâ car was running. Each time Frank took Grandpa out he resolved to clean the car so that it resembled a more fitting topic of conversation, but every time he forgot. Fortunately Grandpa was too short-sighted to see how dusty and crisp-crumbed the car was, or to notice the Sunmaid raisins (preferred snack of modern middle-class toddlers) that studded the floor and back seats. Frank had no idea why anyone ever bought them. Sure, children liked the cute little boxes, but theynever actually seemed to eat the raisins, just to scatter them in trails wherever they went. Perhaps they were all leaving messages for each other in some sort of toddler raisin morse code: âWhy canât she just be done with it and give me Wotsits and chocolate buttons on car journeys?â âWibbly is a fat pigâ, things like that.
They drove off down Portswood High Street, past Safeway, past Wickes, down into the badlands of Bevois Valley, over the level crossing, past the Saints Stadium, finally onto the Itchen bridge. Off peak fifty pence. To the Parousellis the elegant concrete arch, surely the biggest bridge in the South, with its views up and down the river and out past Ocean Village towards the sea was worth much more than that. Frank always wondered why the sides hadnât been made even higher; a suicide would be able to jump quite easily. Could it be that the bridge made people feel so cheerful
Frank was often tempted to suggest to Grandpa that they swap BettaKleen for a paper round. It would be less onerous and more lucrative. Grandpa wouldnât even discuss giving up BettaKleen though; he said that he would soon be fit enough to do it by himself again, and if Frank didnât want to help, well, then heâd manage somehow. And of course Grandpa didnât want anyone else to get his round, BettaKleen or a rivalcompany. Oh no, not after he had spent all that time building it up.
It seemed that there was nothing to be done apart from doing it. Frank began to load the catalogues into the tartan trolley that was their trusty BettaKleen companion. And hereâs a few kilos of disappointment, pointlessness and futility, Frank muttered as he put the last few bundles in.
âWhatâs that? Whatâs that?â Grandpa asked.
âNothing Grandpa, just checking we had enough.â If only the world, and especially Posy, could have seen that there was something heroic about lugging that trolley down the steps and into the boot of the car, and then going back to get Grandpa and his carrier bag of things heâd need for the journey, the spare glasses, Spaldings catalogue, packet of Tunes and a half-empty box of tissues in case of emergencies, and the little black vinyl purse which contained Grandpaâs money as he insisted on paying for the toll bridge and then on giving Frank a pound coin, towards, he said, petrol and tobacco. If only this work was rewarded the way being a hospital consultant was, or an accountant, or a systems analyst. If only âBeing Frankâ was considered to be a proper job in itself.
âGoing well is she?â Grandpa asked.
âWhat?â Did he mean Posy?
âThe car. Going well is she?â
âLike a dream,â said Frank. He always forgot that he and Grandpa had to have these manly conversations about how the Parousellisâ car was running. Each time Frank took Grandpa out he resolved to clean the car so that it resembled a more fitting topic of conversation, but every time he forgot. Fortunately Grandpa was too short-sighted to see how dusty and crisp-crumbed the car was, or to notice the Sunmaid raisins (preferred snack of modern middle-class toddlers) that studded the floor and back seats. Frank had no idea why anyone ever bought them. Sure, children liked the cute little boxes, but theynever actually seemed to eat the raisins, just to scatter them in trails wherever they went. Perhaps they were all leaving messages for each other in some sort of toddler raisin morse code: âWhy canât she just be done with it and give me Wotsits and chocolate buttons on car journeys?â âWibbly is a fat pigâ, things like that.
They drove off down Portswood High Street, past Safeway, past Wickes, down into the badlands of Bevois Valley, over the level crossing, past the Saints Stadium, finally onto the Itchen bridge. Off peak fifty pence. To the Parousellis the elegant concrete arch, surely the biggest bridge in the South, with its views up and down the river and out past Ocean Village towards the sea was worth much more than that. Frank always wondered why the sides hadnât been made even higher; a suicide would be able to jump quite easily. Could it be that the bridge made people feel so cheerful
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