Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (14 page)

'Wow,' is all I manage to say.

'Happy birthday, my son,' Dad says to me as he puts down the cake.

My mother joins him, and places a single candle in the middle of the intricate icing. She lights it and stands back. 'Time to sing everyone!' she says. 'One, two, three...
happy birthday to you
,'

And so everyone joins in with the time honoured - and very expensive to use in a book, if you include more than one line of the lyrics - theme of a million birthdays throughout history.

It's all jolly nice. Even my sainted old grandmother Enid is singing along, though there's every possibility she thinks she's singing happy birthday to Winston Churchill.

There's even a spontaneous round of applause at the end. It's all enough to give me a warm fuzzy, forty year old glow. Though that may also be the Jack Daniels.

'Blow the candle out!' Sarah demands with a laugh. I duly oblige, which grants me another round of applause. Birthdays are very strange things. In no other circumstance in normal human social interaction would a group of people clap the simple task of puffing out a candle. It's rather like everyone giving you a cheer every time you sneeze into a hankie, or walk through an open doorway without tripping up and falling on your arse.

'Thank you, Mum,' I say, like the indulged child that I am. 'Thank you everyone. You've made the horror of turning forty just that bit more
beara
- '

DING DONG!

Mum and Dad's comically loud doorbell interrupts my impromptu birthday speech.

'Aha!' Mum cries in excitement. 'That'll be my special treat for you, Jamie!'

Special treat?

Special
treat
?

But I already have a cake in the shape of my book, and am already surrounded by my loving family (and Terry). What on Earth else could I want right now?

'Come on everyone, out into the hallway! Chris!' My mother points a finger at my older brother. 'You wheel Enid out!'

Chris rolls his eyes, but accepts his job as designated Enid
carer
, and grabs the handles of her wheelchair.

Nervously, I shuffle out into the broad expanse of Mum and Dad's entrance hall, along with everyone else. Mum is already at the front door, and is swinging it open to reveal four men dressed in waiter’s outfits. They each have a fake
twirly
moustache, slicked black hair, and neat black waistcoats over their pristine white shirts. They also all wear large, floppy bowties and have the shiniest shoes I've ever seen.

...actually, they don't look like waiters, they look more like -

Oh good lord.

Mum has ordered me a barbershop quartet for my birthday.

She claps her hands excitedly and turns to look at me. 'Isn't it brilliant
Jamie!
'

'Er... '

'They come highly recommended!'

'Okay... '

'They've got a special birthday song for you!'

'Right... '

The four men file into the hall, and fan out in front of us. One produces what looks like a kazoo from his back pocket and plays a single note.

Then the song begins.

All four men burst into harmonious singing - and boy, the lyrics are something else.

'Hello Jamie, that's your
namie
,'

'It's your birthday today, and you're looking rather gay,'

Terrible start. Let's hope it improves as it goes along.

'You're turning forty, but you're not warty,

'Your skin still looks clean, and it has a healthy sheen,'

Getting worse.

'You're getting older, but not much bolder,'

'As the years ebb away, you'll get wrinkled and grey,'

Oh, well that's charming. Where did Mum find this lot?

'You'll get a bad cough, your cock will drop off,'

'Your teeth will fall out. You'll look horrid, there's no doubt,'

I stare at them in amazement. Am I actually hearing this right? From the look on Mum's face, it appears that I am. She has gone from sheer delight during the first verse, to horrified dismay as the song has gone on. The rest of my
family are
looking equally shocked. The Newmans are not an attractive bunch when we're all standing open mouthed, looking like a bunch of guppies at feeding time.

'You'll have a huge stroke, it will be no joke,'

'They'll have to feed you with a spoon. Your sad death is coming soon,'

What makes this awful song even worse, is that all four men are singing in happy, light tones, with the broadest shit eating grins I've ever seen across their faces. It's like all my worst enemies have clubbed together and hired the barbershop quartet from Hell to serenade me into an early grave.

If we weren't all quite so fucking British, one of us would surely have stopped the harmonious character assassination by now, but as it is, the singing lunatics are allowed to do another verse.

'Your corpse will bloat up, so let's raise one last cup,'

'As they throw you in the ground, you won't make a bloody sound!'

I feel like crying.

'
Woah
,
woah
,
woah
!' Laura shouts and waves her arms angrily about in front of her. She steps forward and moves towards the quartet - who thankfully stop singing, before they can launch into another verse about how my loved ones will cry... and then go and eat some Thai.

The broad smiles have been replaced by a mixture of fear and confusion. This is obviously the first time somebody with an angry look on their face has interrupted them mid-flow, which, given the content of their lyrics, astounds me.

'What the hell are you doing?' Laura says to them incredulously.

'We're... we're singing our birthday song,' one of them replies in a doubtful voice.

'But it's horrible!'

'Well, yes. We know. But... but that's the point.'

'What do you mean,
that's the point?
'

'We're The Black Barbershop Quartet, aren't
we.
'

'Are you?'

'Yeah!'

'Is that supposed to mean something to me?' Laura demands.

I think I'm beginning to grasp what's going on here. I figure I'd better step forward before my wife chins one of these poor buggers. I have the feeling that the blame does not lie with them for this.

'Mum?' I ask. 'Where did you find these guys?'

'I looked them up online, Jamie,' she replies in a faraway voice. She's obviously having trouble getting past the idea of me having a stroke and being fed with a spoon. 'They were one of the closest and one of the cheapest, so I thought they would be good.'

'And I guess you didn't read much about their actual act?'

'They're a barbershop quartet. Everyone knows what a barbershop quartet does, don't they?' She gives me an imploring look.

'Oh my God!' I hear Sarah exclaim from behind me. She's holding out her iPhone to me. 'I've just looked them up! It says they specialise in blackly humorous four part harmony. It looks like Mum ordered the 'We'll Sing You Into Your Grave' package.'

'Yep, that's the one,' the guy replies. 'Only forty quid, very reasonable.'

Mum continues to look aghast. 'But... but, I didn't know Jamie! I honestly didn't!'

Time for some careful reassurance, I feel. I put one arm around her shoulder. 'It's okay Mum. You weren't to know. Laura? Could you see the gentlemen out please?'

'Sure.'

I give them all a smile. 'Thank you for coming. You, er, you rhyme very well, and have lovely singing voices.'

Laura ushers The Black Barbershop Quartet out of the door, and I gently coax Mum back to the kitchen.

'I wanted to hear more!' pipes up Enid from her wheelchair. 'Haven't heard a good barbershop quartet since Pearl's wedding. Very handsome they were.'

'I'll ask them for a CD, Mum,' Dad says, taking over from Chris in the wheelchair guiding department.

It takes me a good ten minutes to calm my poor mother down to the point that I've managed to convince her she isn't the worst parent in the history of the world. I'm half tempted to point at Terry to underline my point, but manage to resist the urge.

The rest of the party goes off more or less without a hitch. Enid spends most of it telling Terry about how
dishy
the barbershop quartet at Pearl's wedding looked. To be fair to him, he fakes his interest very well. Mum is fine after a couple of Baileys over ice, which gives me a chance to detach from her and speak to my two siblings - something which I don't have much opportunity to do these days. Uncle Fred and Auntie Kathy are being completely captivated by Poppy and her fascinating stories about how many small, defenceless creatures she's poked in the past couple of weeks. This leaves Laura talking to my father. Or rather, trying to keep a smile on her face as my father's eyes inevitably wander down to get a quick look at her tits every thirty seconds or so.

By 10.30 Poppy is yawning her head off. 'Can I put her in the spare room, Jane?' Laura asks Mum.

'Of course, my dear.
It's all set up for the night, as we agreed.'

What's this? I didn't know Laura had arranged for Mum to babysit tonight.

I say as much to my wife as we go to get our tired daughter from where she's flaked out on Uncle Fred's lap.

'Well, I haven't given you your birthday present yet, Jamie,' she tells me softly, as I carry Pops out of the room and up the stairs. This'll have to stop soon. Poppy is getting far too big to be carried, but it's hard to let go of the fact that your little girl is growing up - and is not actually so little anymore.

'I thought we agreed the holiday was my early birthday present this year?' I say to Laura. 'Given how much it was? I told you I didn't want anything else.'

'I know, but the whole pedalo debacle put the dampeners on it a bit, so I thought I might give you a little something extra.' Laura arches one eyebrow suggestively. 'Your birthday present this year is going to be one word.'

'One word?
What do you mean?'

'You'll find out later,' she says cryptically and pats me on the cheek. 'Now let's put Poppy in bed for the night. She knows she's staying with her Grandma, so she'll be fine.'