The Life of Lee (29 page)

‘So, there are these two women in a field picking carrots,’ I began, really laying it on thick, adding some texture and colour by acting out the entire joke complete with characters, using my full range of hand movements and body coordination. Basically I fell back upon my natural skill as a professional buffoon.

‘And so one of them pulls this carrot out of the ground, turns to her mate and says, “Do you know, this carrot reminds me of my Fred.” The other woman looks at the carrot and asks, “What? That carrot? Your Fred?”’

I was encouraged at this juncture, as I could see Heather start to giggle at my antics. The same couldn’t be said of her two friends, who stood behind her, arms folded, staring at me with real contempt and looking like they were chewing down on a mouthful of nails soaked in nettle juice.

I kept going. ‘“Yeah,” says the woman, “my Fred.” “What?” asks her mate, “the colour of it?” “No,” replies the woman, “not the colour of it.” “What then? The
length of it?” “No, not the length of it.” “Well, what then?” The woman looks her mate right in the eye, holds the carrot up and says, “The dirt on it!”’

Heather laughed, hard. Then, turning round, she laughed even harder when she saw her two friends, who hadn’t even flinched but just stood there locked into a deadpan stony stare as if still waiting for the punchline.

‘The dirt on it,’ I repeated to her friends, trying to make them crack a smile, but their nonplussed glares were still fixed on me. Heather found this hilarious. Great, my joke had worked! It’d had the desired effect: she was laughing.

‘Do you know?’ she exclaimed, taking in a huge gulp of air and wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘I haven’t laughed like that for such a long time.’

That was it.

25. Are You Going to Scarborough Fair?

The rest of the evening, Heather and I spent strolling around together, hardly paying any attention to the bustling crowds that had now packed the fairground and the disco in the field beyond. We were just content to be in each other’s company, able to talk to one another with such ease. It was suddenly as if we’d known each other for years. We never stopped talking – somehow it just felt natural that we wanted to tell each other everything.

When we left the fair, Heather let me walk her home. Although we nattered all the way, I noticed she’d forgotten to mention one important detail. She lived so far away that if I’d known, I’d have taken some survival supplies, a good camel and a couple of Sherpa guides, or at the very least dropped bread to find my way back home again.

But the time seemed to fly by as she told me about her mum’s illness. She said she’d had to leave the newly rented flat (need I be reminded – the one where I’d burst the big bag of feathers) to move back home in order to help her dad and look after her little brother while her father was busy organizing the funeral. We talked a lot – well, she talked a whole lot more than I did. She talked loads, actually. In fact, between you and me, and I’ve never mentioned this to her, ever, she didn’t friggin’ shut up!

That was OK, though, as I got the impression she hadn’t been able to just chat to someone, get it off her chest. So I was glad to be there. It also meant I didn’t have to tell her about my family, as I was always – not exactly embarrassed – but aware that people from more conventional backgrounds might not fully understand the eccentricity of the way our house worked.

Whenever anyone asked me to tell them about my family, I’d always revert to my little diversion routine. ‘I was adopted. Then one day my dad gave me some sad news: “Son, I’m afraid we are your real parents.”’

That sort of thing covered my tracks. If I ever had to introduce Heather to my parents … well, I just figured I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, but thought it best to leave it blank for the moment. I don’t want you, the reader, to think I am in any way ashamed of my parents. They’ve changed over the years. After doing better for us all and moving to Billericay, they’ve mellowed.

I’ve also always hated trying to explain the whole thing about what my dad does, finding it much easier just to say he works in public relations – well, he does in a way. Then if anyone asked what that was, I would say it was the opposite of private relations. Then, I would add, of course there are all the relations he doesn’t even know at all. Usually, by then, they’d be so confused they would just wander away in a trance to smash their head against the nearest solid object.

As Heather and I walked, then walked some more, my feet began to swell up to the size of two giant lilos you might find being towed behind a boat by a bloke called José. I felt sad as Heather explained to me that her family
home – once a sunny place filled with her mother’s effervescent, breezy personality – had become so depressing since her mother had passed away.

‘Mum always had flour up to her elbows, cooked all the time,’ Heather reminisced. ‘She had queues of local people at the front door willing to wait ages for the curtains or clothes she would make for them.’ Then her mood changed. Dropping her head towards the floor, she added sadly, ‘Now our house is a dark, cold place.’

Her father, she went on, was only going through the motions and, however much he tried not to show it, he was very down. Her two brothers were just walking around like robots, not having accepted it at all. Most of the household chores were now left to her.

As we arrived outside her house, she told me how much she’d enjoyed our chat. I told her I’d also enjoyed it. I said, ‘Perhaps we could meet up again soon so that next time I can get a word in edgeways!’ She laughed, thanked me for listening and wondered if we could really meet up next week.

I couldn’t believe my luck! She actually wanted to see me again. But before I could get excited, I suddenly remembered that I was leaving for Scarborough in a few days. I had to go; I desperately needed the money for college. I’d failed at everything else, and there was no way I could fail this time. I’d also told Scott, the pub landlord, that I was coming to work for him.

Then it struck me, so I just said it without really thinking about it. After all, it was an outrageous idea – she had only just met me. It was ridiculous, but it just exploded out of my mouth without really giving my brain the
chance to catch up. I asked Heather if she fancied going with me to Scarborough.

As I said it, I already knew the answer would be ‘No’. I am a dreamer. I always think things are so simple, but of course they’re not. How could I ever have imagined that a beautiful girl like Heather would even consider –

‘Scarborough, you say?’

‘What?’

‘Scarborough? I’ve never been to Scarborough. I’ve never been anywhere.’ She looked up at her house, and I could see her come back to reality. ‘What about my dad and my brothers? What would they do?’

‘Look, I shouldn’t have interfered, I’m a dreamer. I have these big ideas, but I don’t really think them through properly. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’m sorry.’

But I could see in her eyes that she liked my idea. I don’t know if that was because her mum had just passed away – they do say these sorts of things make us more aware of our own mortality and eager to grab opportunities before it’s too late.

She asked if I could come over tomorrow, a Saturday, and meet her dad. I told her that would be great, but first I’d have to adjust my sleep pattern as the journey to her house from mine would probably take me through at least five time zones, three different language barriers and take at least a light year to get there. She laughed again, and I set off home.

As I walked away, Heather called after me and asked me pleasantly enough if, before meeting her dad, I could make a small detour to the nearest barber’s for a haircut. She was obviously not familiar with the art student
standard-issue attire of really long hair and baggy, cheap clothes. But I agreed anyway because, basically, if she’d told me to bend over and bite my own bum, I would have done it for her there and then.

Once home, I got a really good night of no sleep what-so-frigging-ever. I was far too worried about meeting Heather’s father to drop off. The next morning, I was out the door and up the hairdresser’s begging for a short back and scrape. Then I went straight back to our house and did the best I could to hide my art-college, scruffbag image. I was desperate to create a good impression with Heather’s old man.

So there I was, nervously tapping on the door of Heather’s small semi in the middle of nice-wife-2.4-kids-and-a-Ford-Mondeo-on-the-drive territory. I was all done up like a doughnut, plimmies, some old Mod drainpipe trousers that looked as if the bottoms had had a right barney with my feet and retreated halfway up my shins, a bespoke, off-the-peg jacket from Oxfam and enough Brylcreem on my head to grease up the Chippendales for a fortnight.

Luckily, I needn’t have worried. Mr Nudds was great, and my training from Mum and Dad always to call people ‘sir’ and remember the pleases and thank yous went down a treat. I found him a really nice bloke. In fact, he made me feel so relaxed, it was the very first time I’d visited a girl’s house to meet her parents without creating mayhem, being thrown out on my ear or being sick in their kitchen.

I admit I really laid it on thick, calling him ‘Mr Nudds’ or ‘sir’ at all times. I also don’t mind confessing that I did
my best-ever creeping routine. Immediately after arriving, I noticed he was out cutting the grass at the back of the house. I quickly saw my chance to get on the right side of him by offering to cut it for him. Of course, as soon as he left it to me, I made a really good job of slicing clean through his orange extension cable, rendering the Fly-mo a Fly-no. Good start, I thought. That’ll convince him I am the right bloke for his daughter. I can’t even cut the grass.

I stayed for the day, getting well acquainted with Heather’s dad and her little brother. I had dinner and explained I was off to Scarborough and would love it if Heather could come with me. I added, ‘I know you’ve only known me for a day, and I’ve broken your mower but, I can assure you, I only have the best intentions for your daughter.’

Mr Nudds told me he needed to talk to Heather about it, but right now he needed to take the dog for a walk. Well, naturally, I said I’d take out the dog – that would give Mr Nudds a chance to talk to Heather. He agreed, but told me in no uncertain terms that I should not let the dog off its lead as he was a little blind and senile and would get disorientated and lose his bearings.

By the look of it, the dog had already lost his bearings. He was a grey, mangy thing who barely stood a foot off the ground and was definitely getting on in years. I don’t know what he was in dog years, but he looked older than a Lassie film. With his head bowed, he wobbled about the house with the right ache. He had a real chip on his furry shoulder, I’d say. He moved more slowly than an antique footstool and blew off vile, trumpeting wind louder than the horn section of the James Last Orchestra.

When Mr Nudds uttered the words ‘Dog’ and ‘Out’, something must have clicked in the section of the pooch’s brain that wasn’t dead yet and reminded him he was once part of a long line of vicious, ancient, hunting, wolf-type creatures that roamed the outlands killing anything with fur on it. He hobbled over to the front door as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him and stood there without even lifting his spiky head, resembling a pensioner waiting for the home help to arrive to take him up the shops.

I showed the dog the lead – nothing! His bloodshot eyes were deader than a stuffed toy in the bargain bucket. It was getting dark outside, so I didn’t want to be out long – just long enough for Heather and her dad to have a little chat.

My elderly new pal and I eventually made it down the road and into the park at a pace so slow that snails were overtaking us and laughing as they went by. However, by that point, I felt as though I’d got to know the sad old dog. Feeling a bit sorry for him, I decided that maybe what was needed was a bit of freedom. It could be that he wasn’t getting much of that from Heather’s rather conventional family. So, I thought, let’s give the poor mutt a bit of the old Evans anarchy. I unclipped the lead and he slowly raised his head, took what looked like a little sarcastic glance up at me out of the corner of his eye and then, quite unexpectedly, he was gone.

I hadn’t seen anything shoot off that fast since visiting the greyhound racing once with my brother Wayne. That old codger of an animal who, moments earlier, looked minutes from death, was now, it appeared, hours away from me. He just shot off into the darkness like an Exocet
missile. He was like a gazelle on rocket fuel fired from a cannon. As I stood there in the middle of the park, still crouching and holding the end of the smoking lead, it dawned on me – I hadn’t actually asked anyone what the damn dog’s name was.

Even if I was to try searching for him across the park, there were no lights so it was well-nigh impossible to see anything further than your own eyelashes. And if I saw the wretched dog, what name should I call out to bring him to me? I eventually decided on a whistle.

Three hours later, my inner-body core now a solid block of ice, my mouth frozen into the pursed whistling position, I looked like Percy Thrower caught in a snap freeze. Completely exhausted and a near-nervous wreck, I returned to Heather’s with the dog. I say returned – in fact, I found him quietly waiting for me at the front door. I hadn’t a clue how long he’d been standing there. After trawling the park relentlessly and by now covered in mud and sticks, I’d staggered back to the Nudds’ house, all the way acting out various scenarios of how to tell them their dog had gone. All of them involved lots of crying on my knees and begging for forgiveness.

After only a day, Mr Nudds had already been introduced to the real Lee. An idiot.

26. It’s Not Grim Up North At All

One week later, Heather and I were on a train going north to Scarborough. I had my job working for Scott at the Bell pub as a barman, and the expectation was that Heather would find something when we got there.