Heath. Teeth.’
Reggie never understood Mark’s rhyming slang.
‘How’s big fat sis?’ said Mark.
‘Linda? She’s fine.’
He poured a second glass of wine.
‘How’s work?’ he asked.
‘So so.’
‘Auntie Meg wrote and said how good she thought you were in that ad for fish fingers.’
‘Jesus Christ, I can do without praise for bloody adverts!’
‘I know, but you were good. I mean you can be good or bad in an advert just as much as in a play.’
‘Sorry. Can’t eat any more,’ said Mark. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could you be a darling and lend us a few bob – just a quid or two – just to tide me over. Just a fiver. I’m seeing this man on Tuesday, he thinks there’s a real chance of me getting a job with his rep.’
‘Which rep is that?’
Mark looked embarrassed.
‘Wick. It’s a bit off the beaten track but it’s got a fantastic reputation. It’s a fantastic jumping-off ground.’
‘Into the sea?’ said Reggie.
‘I just need a tenner to see me through.’
Reggie hesitated.
‘Please, dad. You couldn’t refuse your own dustbin, could you?’
‘Dustbin?’
‘Dustbin lid. Kid.’
‘Oh. Well how much do you really need?’
‘Well – they’d like me to go up there and suss the joint – say – er – thirty quid. I’ll pay you back.’
‘You haven’t paid the last lot back yet.’
‘No, but I will.’
‘All right. I’ll give you forty. But this really is the last time.’
Ponsonby came in through the French windows and waited for Mark to make a fuss of him. It had gone dull and gloomy outside, and the heat hung even more heavily without the sun.
Reggie wrote out the cheque and Mark stroked Ponsonby.
‘Well, Ponsonby, me old fruit cake,’ he said. ‘What’s my dad been getting up to, then? Keeping a fancy woman upstairs, is he?’
Reggie gulped and Ponsonby miaowed.
‘Look, Mark, here’s the cheque,’ said Reggie. ‘Now the thing is, I have got a bit of work to do, I don’t want you to think I’m turning you out, but . . .’
The doorbell rang. He couldn’t let anyone else in, not with Joan upstairs.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘I suppose so.’
He went reluctantly to the door. It was Elizabeth’s brother Jimmy, otherwise known as Major James Anderson, of the Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry, stationed at Aldershot. He had a ginger moustache and was wearing mufti.
‘Sorry to barge in like this. Fact is, something I want to . . . er . . . oh hullo, Mark,’ said Jimmy, marching into the living room.
‘Hullo, Uncle Jimmy,’ said Mark.
‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ said Jimmy.
‘She’s gone to see your mother,’ said Reggie.
‘Must get down there myself.’
‘Drink, Jimmy?’
‘It’s ten past three. Almost tea time. Whisky, please,’ said Jimmy.
Jimmy parked himself in one of the fluffy white armchairs. He sat stiffly, regimentally. Even Mark sat up a bit in the presence of the military.
‘Cheers,’ said Jimmy, sipping his whisky. ‘Well, Mark, how’s things on the drama front?’
‘Not too bad, Uncle Jimmy.’
‘All the world’s a stage, eh?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘How’s the army?’
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble. Saw you on the idiot box last week. Just caught the end of it. You were all sitting round eating fish fingers and smiling. Nice to see a play with a happy ending for a change.’
‘Yes, it was a good play,’ said Mark. ‘A bit short, but interesting.’ He winked at Reggie, and Reggie felt pleased to be able to enjoy a private joke with Mark.
The sun, which had made another effort to penetrate the cloud, disappeared once again. The room seemed very gloomy now.
‘Look,’ said Jimmy. ‘No beating about the bush. Bit of a cock-up on the catering front. Muddle over shopping. Fact is, right out of food. Just wondered if you’d got anything. Just bread or something. Pay of course.’
‘No, no, Jimmy. I wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Oh, thanks. Decent of you.
Reggie never understood Mark’s rhyming slang.
‘How’s big fat sis?’ said Mark.
‘Linda? She’s fine.’
He poured a second glass of wine.
‘How’s work?’ he asked.
‘So so.’
‘Auntie Meg wrote and said how good she thought you were in that ad for fish fingers.’
‘Jesus Christ, I can do without praise for bloody adverts!’
‘I know, but you were good. I mean you can be good or bad in an advert just as much as in a play.’
‘Sorry. Can’t eat any more,’ said Mark. ‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Could you be a darling and lend us a few bob – just a quid or two – just to tide me over. Just a fiver. I’m seeing this man on Tuesday, he thinks there’s a real chance of me getting a job with his rep.’
‘Which rep is that?’
Mark looked embarrassed.
‘Wick. It’s a bit off the beaten track but it’s got a fantastic reputation. It’s a fantastic jumping-off ground.’
‘Into the sea?’ said Reggie.
‘I just need a tenner to see me through.’
Reggie hesitated.
‘Please, dad. You couldn’t refuse your own dustbin, could you?’
‘Dustbin?’
‘Dustbin lid. Kid.’
‘Oh. Well how much do you really need?’
‘Well – they’d like me to go up there and suss the joint – say – er – thirty quid. I’ll pay you back.’
‘You haven’t paid the last lot back yet.’
‘No, but I will.’
‘All right. I’ll give you forty. But this really is the last time.’
Ponsonby came in through the French windows and waited for Mark to make a fuss of him. It had gone dull and gloomy outside, and the heat hung even more heavily without the sun.
Reggie wrote out the cheque and Mark stroked Ponsonby.
‘Well, Ponsonby, me old fruit cake,’ he said. ‘What’s my dad been getting up to, then? Keeping a fancy woman upstairs, is he?’
Reggie gulped and Ponsonby miaowed.
‘Look, Mark, here’s the cheque,’ said Reggie. ‘Now the thing is, I have got a bit of work to do, I don’t want you to think I’m turning you out, but . . .’
The doorbell rang. He couldn’t let anyone else in, not with Joan upstairs.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘I suppose so.’
He went reluctantly to the door. It was Elizabeth’s brother Jimmy, otherwise known as Major James Anderson, of the Queen’s Own Berkshire Light Infantry, stationed at Aldershot. He had a ginger moustache and was wearing mufti.
‘Sorry to barge in like this. Fact is, something I want to . . . er . . . oh hullo, Mark,’ said Jimmy, marching into the living room.
‘Hullo, Uncle Jimmy,’ said Mark.
‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ said Jimmy.
‘She’s gone to see your mother,’ said Reggie.
‘Must get down there myself.’
‘Drink, Jimmy?’
‘It’s ten past three. Almost tea time. Whisky, please,’ said Jimmy.
Jimmy parked himself in one of the fluffy white armchairs. He sat stiffly, regimentally. Even Mark sat up a bit in the presence of the military.
‘Cheers,’ said Jimmy, sipping his whisky. ‘Well, Mark, how’s things on the drama front?’
‘Not too bad, Uncle Jimmy.’
‘All the world’s a stage, eh?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Jolly good.’
‘How’s the army?’
‘Oh, mustn’t grumble. Saw you on the idiot box last week. Just caught the end of it. You were all sitting round eating fish fingers and smiling. Nice to see a play with a happy ending for a change.’
‘Yes, it was a good play,’ said Mark. ‘A bit short, but interesting.’ He winked at Reggie, and Reggie felt pleased to be able to enjoy a private joke with Mark.
The sun, which had made another effort to penetrate the cloud, disappeared once again. The room seemed very gloomy now.
‘Look,’ said Jimmy. ‘No beating about the bush. Bit of a cock-up on the catering front. Muddle over shopping. Fact is, right out of food. Just wondered if you’d got anything. Just bread or something. Pay of course.’
‘No, no, Jimmy. I wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Oh, thanks. Decent of you.
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