A Spot Of Bother Part 3

"Are you funny?" asked Jacob.

"I think the general opinion would be that I'm not funny."

The door opened again and Ray's head appeared.

"Sorry, George. The nipper slipped the leash."

"That's OK. We were talking, weren't we, Jacob."

It felt good squaring up to his prospective son-in-law in one of Ray's acknowledged areas of expertise.

But then it was not so good because Ray came into the room and sat on the end of the bed. On his and Jean's bed.

"Seems like you blokes have got the right idea. Keeping your heads down."

Ray lay on the bed.

And this was where the children problem overlapped with the Ray problem. You got the impression, sometimes, that parts of his brain were actually missing, that he could quite easily wander into the bathroom looking for a towel while you were on the toilet and have no clue as to why this might be inappropriate.

Jacob scrambled to his feet. "Let's play ring-a-roses."

And here it was. The test. You started a benign conversation about Heffalumps and before you knew it you had been shoehorned into some mortifying charade.

"OK," said Ray getting onto his knees.

Sweet mother of G.o.d, thought George. Surely this wasn't going to involve him?

"George?"

It was.

He got up onto his knees. Jacob took hold of his left hand and Ray took hold of his right. He hoped sincerely that Jean or Katie did not come into the room whilst this was taking place.

Jacob began bouncing up and down. "Ring-a-ring-a-roses..."

Ray joined in. "A pocket full of noses."

George moved his shoulders up and down in time with the song.

"A-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down."

Jacob leapt into the air and fell shrieking onto the duvet with Ray. George, having given up hope of escaping with any dignity, slumped backward onto his pillow.

Jacob was laughing. Ray was laughing. And it occurred to George that if he could find the handle he might be able to open up the secret door and slide down that long chute all the way back to childhood and someone would take care of him and he would be safe.

"Again," shouted Jacob, clambering to his feet. "Again, again, again, again, again..."

9.

Jamie dunked his jacket onto the back of the chair, loosened his tie and, because no one was watching, did a little pirouette across the floor of the kitchen, ending up in front of the fridge. "Oh yes." onto the back of the chair, loosened his tie and, because no one was watching, did a little pirouette across the floor of the kitchen, ending up in front of the fridge. "Oh yes."

He took out a bottle of Corona, closed the fridge, removed the Silk Cut from the drawer under the toaster, went through the French windows, sat on the bench and lit up.

It had been a good day. Contracts exchanged on the Miller house. And the Owens were going to bite. You could see it in their eyes. Well, you could see it in hers. And she quite clearly wore the trousers. Plus, Carl was still off work on account of his broken ankle, so Jamie had been dealing with the Cohens and very publicly not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it up. Unlike Carl.

The garden was looking great. No cat s.h.i.+t for starters. Maybe the lion dung pellets were working. It'd rained on the way home so the big pebbles were clean and dark and s.h.i.+ny. The chunky railway sleepers round the raised beds. Forsythia, bay, hosta. G.o.d knows why people planted gra.s.s. Wasn't the point of having a garden to sit in it and do nothing?

He could hear the faint strains of reggae from a few gardens away. Loud enough for that lazy summer feeling. Not so loud you wanted them to turn it down.

He took a swig of lager.

A weird orange blister appeared on the gable of the house opposite. It turned slowly into a hot-air balloon and floated westward behind the branches of the cherry. A second balloon appeared, red this time, in the shape of a giant fire extinguisher. One by one the sky filled with balloons.

He blew out a little cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it drift sideways, keeping its shape until it spilled over the top of the barbecue.

Life was pretty much perfect. He had the house. He had the garden. Elderly lady in rude health to the left. Christians to the right (you could say what you liked about Christians, but they didn't yodel during s.e.x like the Germans who'd lived there before). Gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tony round three nights a week.

He took another drag on the cigarette.

There was birdsong, too, along with the reggae. He'd have recognized the species at ten. He had no idea now. Not that it mattered. It was a good noise. Natural. Soothing.

Tony would be here in half an hour. They'd go down to the Carpenters' for something to eat. Pick up a DVD from Blockbuster on the way back. If Tony wasn't too knackered, he might get a s.h.a.g.

In a nearby garden a child kicked a football against a wall. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink. Doink.

Everything seemed suspended in some kind of balance. Obviously someone would come along and f.u.c.k it up, because that's what other people did. But for now...

He felt a little peckish and wondered whether there were any Pringles left. He stood up and went inside.

10.

Katie sometimes wondered whether Mum chose her opinions just to wind her up. whether Mum chose her opinions just to wind her up.

Clearly she'd rather the wedding didn't go ahead. But if it did she wanted it to be a grand and public celebration. Katie pointed out that it was a second wedding. Mum said they didn't want to seem cheap. Katie said that some restaurants were very expensive indeed. Her mother suggested a church blessing. Katie asked why. Her mother said it would be nice. Katie pointed out that nice was not the point of religion. Her mother said she should arrange to have a dress made. Katie said she didn't do frocks. Her mother told her not to be ridiculous. And Katie began to realize they should have tied the knot in Las Vegas and told everyone afterward.

The following day Katie was watching Brookside Brookside on telly while Ray and Jacob made some kind of rudimentary shelter out of two dining chairs and the picnic blanket. She asked what they were doing and Jacob said they were making a tent. "For the wedding." And Katie thought, "Sod it." She was getting married to Ray. Her parents were going to have a party. They were simply going to do these things simultaneously. on telly while Ray and Jacob made some kind of rudimentary shelter out of two dining chairs and the picnic blanket. She asked what they were doing and Jacob said they were making a tent. "For the wedding." And Katie thought, "Sod it." She was getting married to Ray. Her parents were going to have a party. They were simply going to do these things simultaneously.

She rang her mother and suggested a compromise. Her mother got the marquee and the flowers and the cake. Katie got the civil ceremony, no blessing and a dress off-the-peg.

The following Sat.u.r.day Ray and Jacob went to get a new exhaust fitted while Katie met Mona in town to buy an outfit before Mum changed her mind.

She bought herself a long silk strapless dress in sky blue from Whistles. You couldn't run in it (Katie made a point of never buying anything you couldn't run in) but if the register office caught fire she reckoned Ray could sling her over his shoulder. She bought a pair of suede shoes in a slightly darker blue with a bit of heel from a place on Oxford Street, and it was quite fun being girly for a few hours with Mona, who could do girly till the cows came home.

When she got home she did a twirl for the boys and Jacob said, "You look like a lady," which was weird, but sweet.

She bent down and kissed him (bending down wasn't particularly easy either). "We should get you a sailor suit to match."

"Don't be hard on the little chap," said Ray.

Jacob gave her a serious look. "I want to wear my Bob the Builder T-s.h.i.+rt."

"I'm not sure what Granny is going to think about that," said Katie.

"But I want to wear my Bob the Builder T-s.h.i.+rt," said Jacob.

They'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

11.

George sat in the car outside the surgery, gripping the steering wheel like a man driving down a mountainside. car outside the surgery, gripping the steering wheel like a man driving down a mountainside.

The lesion felt like a manhole cover of rotted meat under his s.h.i.+rt.

He could see the doctor, or he could drive away. He felt a little calmer just putting it like that. Option A or Option B.

If he saw the doctor he would be told the truth. He did not want to be told the truth, but the truth might not be as bad as he feared. The lesion might be benign or of a treatable size. Dr. Barghoutian, however, was only a GP. George might be referred to a specialist and have to live with the prospect of that meeting for a week, two weeks, a month (it was entirely possible that after seven days without eating or sleeping one went completely insane, in which case matters would be taken out of his hands).

If he drove away, Jean would ask him where he had been. The surgery would ring home to ask why he had missed the appointment. He might not get to the phone first. He would die of cancer. Jean would find out that he had not been to the doctor and be livid that he was dying of cancer and had done nothing about it.

Alternatively, if the lesion was benign or of a treatable size and he drove away, it might subsequently mutate into a malignant and untreatably large cancer and he might be told this and have to live, for however brief a time, with the knowledge that he was dying as a direct result of his own cowardice.

When he finally got out of the car it was because he could no longer bear his own company in such a confined s.p.a.ce.

The presence of other people in the surgery calmed him a little. He checked in and found himself a seat.

What could he say about Ray in his speech at the wedding reception? Now there was a puzzle he could get his teeth into.

Ray was good with children. Well, good with Jacob at any rate. He could fix things. Or thought he could. The mower had died a week after he tinkered with it. Either way it was not a sufficient recommendation for marriage. He had money. A sufficient recommendation, certainly, but one which you could add only as an amusing aside once you'd established that you liked the chap.

This was filling his head.

Ray was in love with Katie, and Katie was in love with him.

Was she? His daughter's mind had always been a mystery to him. Not that she had any qualms about sharing her opinions. About the wallpaper in her bedroom. About men with hairy backs. But her opinions were so violent (could wallpaper matter that much?), so changeable and so clearly not part of a coherent worldview that he wondered, sometimes, during her teens especially, if there were something medically wrong.

No. He had got everything back to front. It was not the job of the bride's father to like his prospective son-in-law (he could feel sanity returning even as he formed the thought). That was the job of the best man. In which respect, if Ray's best man improved on the buffoon at her last wedding George's relief might outweigh his misgiving about the marriage itself ("So I rang all Graham's previous girlfriends to find out what Katie was in for. And this is what they said...").

He looked up and saw a poster on the far wall. It consisted of two large photographs. The photograph on the left showed a patch of tanned skin and bore the words HOW DO YOU LIKE MY TAN HOW DO YOU LIKE MY TAN? The picture on the right bore the words HOW DO YOU LIKE MY SKIN CANCER HOW DO YOU LIKE MY SKIN CANCER? and showed what looked like a large boil packed with cigarette ash.

He came very close to being sick and realized that he had steadied himself by gripping the shoulder of a tiny Indian woman to his right.

"Sorry." He got to his feet.

What in the name of G.o.d were they doing putting up a poster like that, in here of all places? He aimed himself at the exit.

"Mr. Hall?"

He was halfway to the door when he heard the receptionist saying it again, more sternly this time. He turned round.

"Dr. Barghoutian can see you now."

He was too weak to disobey and found himself walking down the corridor to where Dr. Barghoutian stood beside his open door, beaming.

"George," said Dr. Barghoutian.

They shook hands.

Dr. Barghoutian ushered George inside, closed the door behind him, sat down and reclined with the stub of a pencil jammed like a cigar between the first and second fingers of his right hand.

"So, what can I do for you today?"

There was a cheap plastic model of the Eiffel Tower on a shelf behind Dr. Barghoutian's head and a framed photograph of his daughter on a swing.

This was it.

"I had a turn," said George.

"And what kind of turn are we talking about?"

"At lunch. I was finding it very difficult to breathe. I knocked some things over. Rus.h.i.+ng to get outside."

A turn. That was all it was. Why had he got himself so worked up?

"Chest pain?" asked Dr. Barghoutian.

"No."

"Fall over?"

"No."