incoming invitations. I was up every day in time for the postman. No invitations slipped by me and the days were slipping away.
The next Wednesday came round and I feigned a cold so I could stay off school. I’d arranged with Dave that he should feign a cold also. But Dave felt that feigning a cold was for homos and so he feigned the Black Death, was given a good smacked-bottom by his mum and sent to school.
Dave bunked off school at lunchtime and came round to my house. I slipped quietly out of my bed of feigned pain and joined him across the street.
“The Daddy is getting all dressed up,” I said to Dave. “He’s getting ready for the wake.”
“Then we’ll follow him, commando-fashion.”
“What is commando-fashion?” I asked.
“Mostly camouflage,” said Dave. “Green is the new black this year.”
We hid behind a dustbin.
At a little after two, the Daddy left our house and swaggered up the street wearing his Sunday suit. My mother wasn’t with him. “Wakes are men’s business,” my father had said.
The Daddy swaggered up our street, turned left into Albany Road, right into Moby Dick Terrace, swaggered past the hut of Mother Demdike, then past the Memorial Park, turned right at the Memorial Library and eventually swaggered into the Butts Estate, where all the posh people of Brentford lived. Dave and I occasionally went into the Butts to throw stones at rich people’s windows and get chased away by their manservants, but we didn’t really know much about the place.
It had been built in Regency times with the money earned from the slave trade and the importation of tea and carpets and strange drugs. The houses were big and well dug in. There was that feeling of permanence that only comes with wealth. The poor might appear to be settled right where they are. But they’re only waiting to be moved on.
The Daddy swaggered up to a particularly fine-looking house, one with a Grimshaw-style front door and Fotheringay window staunchions, and knocked heartily upon the Basilicanesque knocker.
I was very impressed when the door was opened and he was actually let inside. It confirmed, I suppose, that he actually
had
known Mr Penrose.
“What now, then?” I asked Dave.
“Why are you asking me?”
“How do you think we’re going to get in?”
“We’re not,” said Dave. “Well, not yet at least.”
“Not yet?”
Dave shook his head. “It’s a wake. Which is to say, as you know, a party. For a dead man. But a party. People will drink lots of booze. And then they’ll get drunk and then they’ll come and go. And they’ll leave the front door open and we can sneak in.”
“You are wise,” I said to Dave. “We’ll wait, then.”
So we waited.
And we waited.
And then we waited some more.
“I’m getting fed up with all this waiting,” said Dave. “Hang on, someone’s coming out.”
But they weren’t.
So we waited some more, some more.
“Do you think they’re drunk by now?” I asked.
“Must be,” said Dave.
“Then let’s just knock. They’ll let us in.”
“Yes, of course they will.”
We knocked.
A pinch-faced woman opened the door. “What do you want?” she asked.
“My daddy’s inside,” said Dave. “At the wake. I’ve a message for him from my mummy.”
“Tell it to me,” said the pinch-faced woman. “I’ll pass it on.”
“It’s in Dutch,” said Dave. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it properly.”
“Wah!” went the pinch-faced woman.
“Not even close,” said Dave.
“No! Wah!” The pinch-faced woman turned away and the distinctive sound of a hand smacking a face was to be heard.
“That’s a bit harsh,” said a man’s voice. “I didn’t mean to touch your bum – I tripped on the door mat.”
“Rapist!” screamed the pinch-faced woman, leaving the door ajar.
“Let’s slip in,” said Dave.
And so the two of us slipped in.
It was a very big house. Much bigger on the inside than on the outside. But so many houses are.
The next Wednesday came round and I feigned a cold so I could stay off school. I’d arranged with Dave that he should feign a cold also. But Dave felt that feigning a cold was for homos and so he feigned the Black Death, was given a good smacked-bottom by his mum and sent to school.
Dave bunked off school at lunchtime and came round to my house. I slipped quietly out of my bed of feigned pain and joined him across the street.
“The Daddy is getting all dressed up,” I said to Dave. “He’s getting ready for the wake.”
“Then we’ll follow him, commando-fashion.”
“What is commando-fashion?” I asked.
“Mostly camouflage,” said Dave. “Green is the new black this year.”
We hid behind a dustbin.
At a little after two, the Daddy left our house and swaggered up the street wearing his Sunday suit. My mother wasn’t with him. “Wakes are men’s business,” my father had said.
The Daddy swaggered up our street, turned left into Albany Road, right into Moby Dick Terrace, swaggered past the hut of Mother Demdike, then past the Memorial Park, turned right at the Memorial Library and eventually swaggered into the Butts Estate, where all the posh people of Brentford lived. Dave and I occasionally went into the Butts to throw stones at rich people’s windows and get chased away by their manservants, but we didn’t really know much about the place.
It had been built in Regency times with the money earned from the slave trade and the importation of tea and carpets and strange drugs. The houses were big and well dug in. There was that feeling of permanence that only comes with wealth. The poor might appear to be settled right where they are. But they’re only waiting to be moved on.
The Daddy swaggered up to a particularly fine-looking house, one with a Grimshaw-style front door and Fotheringay window staunchions, and knocked heartily upon the Basilicanesque knocker.
I was very impressed when the door was opened and he was actually let inside. It confirmed, I suppose, that he actually
had
known Mr Penrose.
“What now, then?” I asked Dave.
“Why are you asking me?”
“How do you think we’re going to get in?”
“We’re not,” said Dave. “Well, not yet at least.”
“Not yet?”
Dave shook his head. “It’s a wake. Which is to say, as you know, a party. For a dead man. But a party. People will drink lots of booze. And then they’ll get drunk and then they’ll come and go. And they’ll leave the front door open and we can sneak in.”
“You are wise,” I said to Dave. “We’ll wait, then.”
So we waited.
And we waited.
And then we waited some more.
“I’m getting fed up with all this waiting,” said Dave. “Hang on, someone’s coming out.”
But they weren’t.
So we waited some more, some more.
“Do you think they’re drunk by now?” I asked.
“Must be,” said Dave.
“Then let’s just knock. They’ll let us in.”
“Yes, of course they will.”
We knocked.
A pinch-faced woman opened the door. “What do you want?” she asked.
“My daddy’s inside,” said Dave. “At the wake. I’ve a message for him from my mummy.”
“Tell it to me,” said the pinch-faced woman. “I’ll pass it on.”
“It’s in Dutch,” said Dave. “You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it properly.”
“Wah!” went the pinch-faced woman.
“Not even close,” said Dave.
“No! Wah!” The pinch-faced woman turned away and the distinctive sound of a hand smacking a face was to be heard.
“That’s a bit harsh,” said a man’s voice. “I didn’t mean to touch your bum – I tripped on the door mat.”
“Rapist!” screamed the pinch-faced woman, leaving the door ajar.
“Let’s slip in,” said Dave.
And so the two of us slipped in.
It was a very big house. Much bigger on the inside than on the outside. But so many houses are.
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