In front of me was a low, wooden coffee table. I put my drink on that, then picked up one of the books,
Communicating With Your Teenager
by Sheila Munro. Beneath it was a wellthumbed
copy of
You Just Don’t Listen: You Just Don’t Understand
, and
Other People’s Children
by Joanna Trollope.
Ding. Dong. Ding Dong.
The room had almost filled up. The fizz was flowing and I was introduced to neighbours, and friends, and counsellor colleagues of Jane’s. Jack hadn’t asked anyone else from London FM. But it was all rather jolly, though the two girls could not be induced to join in. They sat on the stairs reading their copies of
Sugar
and
Shout
! And by ten the party was at its height, and we were all feeling nicely merry, when there was the sound of tyres screeching to a halt outside, the slamming of car doors, drunken male laughter, and then,
Ding Dong.
‘Avon calling, hur hur!’ shouted a loud male voice through the letter box. ‘Come on, Topaz, open the friggin’ door!’ Topaz and Iolanthe flew to open it, and in walked a gang of denimed, black leather-jacketed youths. The room seemed swamped by testosterone. Topaz and Iolanthe’s faces were shining with joy. Their heroes had arrived.
‘Evenin’,’ said a boy of about fifteen with a loud, dirty sniff. It was hard to tell which was the greasier, his Brylcreemed hair, or his gleaming, sebum-coated face.
‘Hello, er …Wayne, isn’t it?’ Jane enquired with a welcoming smile. ‘And Pete.’ Pete held up a tattooed hand by way of a greeting. On his chin was a purulent eruption like a mini Krakatoa. ‘Jack, do get them some drinks,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve got quite a choice of beer, boys.’
‘Great,’ they said, and they made for the kitchen.
Ding Dong
! Another group of teenagers had arrived. Three more boys, and a couple of girls. They stared at us as though we were aliens from the planet Zog.
‘Cor, what a bunch of skanky antiques!’ said a girl called Dawn with purple hair and ears so be-ringed that they resembled curtain tracks.
‘Now, “skanky antiques”, that’s us,’ Jack explained to me, knowledgeably. ‘Just in case you thought Dawn was expressing reservations about the furniture.’
‘Bleedin’ rentals,’ said her friend.
‘Rentals?’ I said.
‘
Par
entals,’ Jack explained.
‘Now, what would you like to drink, Dawn?’ Jane asked.
‘Vodka and orange,’ she replied.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Jane. ‘Same for you, Tyler?’
Tyler nodded. ‘Make it a double,’ she said.
‘Just help yourselves, girls,’ Jane called out benignly as they headed for the drinks table. ‘We trust you young people not to overdo it.’
‘No, we damn well don’t,’ Jack hissed.
Ding Dong
! In came girls with pierced eyebrows, and girls with black fingernails; girls in knicker-length dresses, and girls with strange footwear. I couldn’t help staring at the bizarre things on their feet: trainers with sling-backs; platforms with flip-flop thongs; clumpy leather casuals spangled with pink glitter.
‘– Like my new platforms?’
‘– I
luv
Prince William.’
‘– Nah, I prefer Leo.’
‘– Oh, he’s a right Kevin.’
‘– Mum’s stopped my pocket money.’
Ding Dong.
In came more boys – boys with long greasy hair; boys in baggy shirts; boys with fluffy moustaches; boys whose faces were measled with acne. Within half an hour the fifteen-year-olds had outnumbered us ‘antiques’ by two to one, someone had changed the CD, and the sitting room had begun to resemble a fifth-form disco. The lights had been turned low and a grope-a-thon was now in progress. The atmosphere was becoming oppressive as the hormonal soup was stirred.
‘– come on!’
‘– nah! Don’t want to.’
‘– go on.’
‘– Oi! Thass disgusting!’
‘You know, there’s nothing worse than inhibiting a young, vulnerable person,’ said Jane, as Topaz grabbed a passing boy, pulled him on to the sofa and started snogging him enthusiastically. ‘Did you know,’ she went on seriously, ‘that teenagers
who are stamped on by their parents find it hard to form successful relationships in later life?’
‘Oh, really,’ said Jack, wearily.
‘I think it’s a mark of civilisation,’ Jane crooned, ‘if the older generation can be tolerant and understanding of the young. I mean, my parents were
terribly
strict with me …’
“Scuse me-’ A girl pushed past Jane into the downstairs loo, her hand clapped to her mouth. In the sitting room two boys were holding a spitting competition, trying to see who could hit the centre of the mirror, from the sofa, with the greatest accuracy.
‘Goodness, is it eleven?’ I heard one of the ‘rentals’ say.
‘Well, must be off.’
‘Thanks for a great party, Jane.’
‘See you, Jack.’
In the meantime, Dawn and Tyler, now on their sixth double vodka and orange, were giggling hysterically. And every time Tyler opened her mouth to laugh, her silver stud glinted on her tongue. Suddenly she seemed to topple on her six-inch platforms and, as she lost her balance, she grabbed at one of the boys.
‘Oi, Pete! Keep yer ‘ands OFF ‘er, OK?’ yelled Wayne from the other side of the room.
‘I never touched her,’ protested Pete.
‘You just WATCH IT!’
‘OK,’ said Pete again. ‘I don’ even
fancy
‘er,’ he added, waving his can of Carlsberg. ‘Your gnarly girlfriend’s an old dog.’
‘WOT? You come ‘ere and say that!’
‘Nah,’ said Pete.
‘You come right here and –’ Wayne grabbed Pete and lifted him up by the shoulders against the wall. Jack’s dainty oil painting was dislodged, and slid off its hook to the floor.
‘Careful of that!’ said Jack, rushing to rescue it. ‘What do you say?’
‘Yeah – WOT do you SAY?!’ shouted Wayne, still pinning Pete to the wall.
‘OK. OK. Sorry,’ mumbled Pete.
‘Thass better,’ said Wayne, dropping him with a thud. ‘You’ve got ter show a little REESPEC.’
‘– Well, we
have
enjoyed ourselves.’
‘Because if you don’t show any REESPEC …’
‘– it’s been awfully nice.’
‘ …I’m gonna bash your bleedin’ ‘EAD IN!
‘– we’ll give you a ring soon.’
‘– INNIT?’
‘– no, no, we’ll let ourselves out.’
‘OK. OK,’ said Pete.
Ding Dong
! My God – more. Another knot of adolescents, drunk as skunks, charged into the house. Word had clearly got round, and by now a discreet drinks party had become a rave. The windows rattled as the kids all began dancing to the mindless techno-beat.
‘This is “Trance”,’ shouted Iolanthe happily, as she bounced up and down with a boy.
‘Don’t you mean, “Coma”?’ said Jack. ‘Look, Iolanthe, we’ve got to turn it down,’ he shouted, ‘or we’ll have the police coming round.’
‘Bog off!’ said Iolanthe with a drunken giggle. ‘Mum says she doesn’t mind.’
‘No, I don’t really,’ Jane agreed. ‘This is how young people express themselves.’
‘Well, I’d rather they didn’t express themselves like this in our house. My
God
!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are those white pills?’ A tall thin boy with shadows under his eyes was handing out small, white tablets. The floor was jumping, the pictures were shaking as the kids bounced up and down to the beat.
‘I think we ought to go upstairs,’ said Jane, ‘so that we don’t get in their way.’
‘Well, I really ought to go home,’ I said.
Ding. Dong.
‘Oh, please, Minty, I need your moral support,’ whispered Jack.
‘We really shouldn’t spoil their enjoyment,’ crooned Jane.
‘But it’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘After all, they’re only young once. My parents wouldn’t let me go to parties at all.’
‘I need your help, Minty,’ Jack hissed, again. I could feel his hand pressing on my arm.
‘But it’s between you and Jane.’
Ding. Dong.
‘I won’t renew your contract!’
‘Jack!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered hoarsely, as Jane made her way upstairs. ‘But I’m so desperate. I’m just so,
so
desperate.’
‘Oh, OK. But what am I supposed to do?’
‘Just try and get through to my wife.’
‘No, of course they won’t damage anything,’ said Jane, serenely, as we sat at the top of the stairs. ‘I feel sure of that. The point is that if we show them we trust them, then they’ll behave in a trustworthy way.’ From below came the sound of wood being split.
‘OI! PETE, LOOK WOT CHEW DONE NAH!’
‘I think something’s broken,’ I said.
‘Oh, no no no,’ said Jane. ‘I can’t believe they’d be so thoughtless of other peoples’ property.’
Then there was another ‘KER-UNCH!’, followed by the distinctive tinkle of falling glass.
‘My God!’ I said. ‘Did you hear that?’
Suddenly the sitting-room door flew open. We saw a boy rush into the hall, minus his shirt, his hair streaming with beer.
‘Perhaps we should just keep out of their way,’ said Jane, as we retreated further up the stairs, ‘so that we don’t inhibit them. And of course I don’t want to embarrass the girls in front of their friends by coming over the heavy parent.’
I glanced into the bathroom; it was a towel-strewn swamp, someone having tried, unsuccessfully, to clean up a pool of sick at the base of the loo. ‘I LUV IAN’ had been sprayed, in shaving foam, over the mirror, while the contents of the medical cabinet had been strewn across the floor.
‘Tsk tsk,’ Jane tut-tutted. ‘They
are
naughty. Still, it won’t take long to clear up.’
‘YER WANKER!’ we heard from downstairs, as we opened the door to the spare bedroom. Then we heard, once again, the unmistakable fracturing of furniture.
‘Oh my God,’ said Jack, his head in his hands. ‘We’ve got to do something – they’re trashing the house.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jane, ‘but we must be careful because they’re very sensitive young people.’
‘Sensitive young people?’ said Jack. ‘Sensitive young people, my arse!’ He stood up. ‘I’ve had
enough
!’ he hissed. ‘I’ve had enough of your lily-livered liberalism, Jane. These “sensitive young people” are thugs and they’re destroying our house.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘But NOTHING!’ Jack went on furiously. ‘You must be out of your MIND, Jane,’ he yelled. ‘You must be stark, staring MAD! I’m going to put a stop to this – RIGHT NOW!!’
He flew downstairs. Then he threw open the sitting-room door, and stood, dumbstruck, looking in.
‘
Oh my God
!’ we heard him moan as we peered over the banister. He shook his head. ‘Oh my God,’ he said again. And we noticed in the distance, but growing louder now, the whoop and wail of the sirens. ‘Oh my GOD!’ he exclaimed a third time. And then he turned on the light and yelled, ‘RIGHT, YOU LOT – OUT!!!’ The music slammed to a stop and several boys ran out of the house like rats fleeing a burning barn. The party was over. The carriages had arrived. And now Jane and I ventured downstairs and stood surveying the wreckage.
‘Oh no,’ said Jane. ‘Oh
no.
’ The overmantel mirror was crazy-paved with fractures. The pale green sofa was marbled with red wine. The curtains had been slashed in three places and there were cigarette burns in the rugs. On the walls, pictures hung at odd angles, as though drunk, while the wrought-iron candle chandelier had been half pulled out of its rose. Worse by far, for Jack, his chess table had been thrown across
the room. It was missing half of one leg and its elegant, checkered top was cracked in two.
‘RIGHT!’ Jack shouted. And as Kevin and Wayne attempted to exit, fast, he grabbed them by their collars.
‘You two are going to help me clear this
UP
!’ he yelled. He was holding them at arm’s length, as though they were dangerous dogs. ‘And if you don’t give me your assistance, I shall give your names to the police.’ Because by now the sirens had stopped, and the Panda cars had drawn up, their flashing blue lights penetrating the house and spinning across the walls.
‘Right. Will you assist the police with their enquiries, gentlemen?’ Jack enquired acidly. ‘Or are you going to help me put this mess straight?’
‘Er …I fink we’ll help you,’ said Wayne.
‘Yeah, we will.’
‘Yes, you will, WHAT?’ said Jack, simmering with rage.
‘Yes we will …sir,’ Wayne replied.
Jack released the boys. Then he went outside, and we saw him conferring with the cops. We thought they might come inside, but within two or three minutes they’d driven off. Suddenly Topaz and Iolanthe emerged, with two boys, from the garden, their hair and clothes awry.
‘Oh my gawd,’ gasped Iolanthe.
‘Christ!’ Topaz breathed.
‘This is what your friends have done,’ said Jack, fixing them with a contemptuous stare. ‘The friends your mother and I thought it would be nice to invite. The friends you encouraged to behave like total pigs. I trust you’re both quite satisfied.’
Topaz had started to sniff. Iolanthe looked utterly distraught.
‘And now you’re both going to help me clear up. And so are you,’ he said, addressing the four boys who remained. ‘Right,’ he said to the shortest, ‘collect up all the bottles. And you – you’re going to clean the floor. Iolanthe – go and get him a mop. Topaz,’ Jack commanded, ‘you can clean the sofa. And as for you,’ he said to Wayne, ‘you are going to help me take the mirror down from the wall.’
‘Yes. Yes, er, sir,’ said Wayne. ‘Sorry, sir …no offence.’
I looked at Jane as we all cleared up, aware of the sour smell of vomit, and the sweet stench of dope. She seemed to have been struck dumb. And I glanced at the girls, who were also quite silent. They looked ashamed and appalled. But as Jack took charge, in a way he’d probably never taken charge before, I thought I also detected what I can only describe as a kind of admiration in their eyes.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ said Amber. ‘Don’t be silly, Minty.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I said, as I put some snowdrops in a tiny vase. ‘I didn’t know how you’d take it,’ I went on. ‘But I decided you’d have to know soon.’ I’d kept the invitation in my room, of course. I was hardly going to display it on the mantelpiece. But I didn’t quite see how I could attend Helen and Charlie’s wedding without Amber finding out. And so, this morning, I decided to tell her. She appeared to take it well.
‘Obviously I knew they’d be getting married, Minty. She’s up the duff, after all, and the bastard’s the decent type.’
‘Yes. But that’s not why they’re doing it. They just clicked, I suppose.’
‘Well, Charlie always wanted kids, and now he’s going to have them,’ sighed Amber. ‘You know, he was the wrong man for me,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have enough …oomph! I can see that now.’ I saw it long ago. ‘He was a pushover, and that was dull. As for Helen,’ she added expansively, ‘well, good luck to her. Did you know that a quarter of all babies cry between three and four hours every day?’
‘Really?’
‘Worse – they do most of their crying at night!’
‘Oh dear.’
‘They take all your energy, Minty. All your creativity. They sap your very life-force. And of course they consume
vast
amounts of cash.’
‘You always talk about what they take,’ I said quietly. ‘Never about what they bring.’
‘No, I really don’t want brats,’ said Amber, picking up Perdita and cuddling her. ‘I can’t imagine anything worse. And it would
ruin
my literary career.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Statistics say that 20 per cent of British women born after 1960 are going to remain childless,’ she added, ‘and one of them is going to be me.’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘Do you know they’ve just got a cat next door,’ Amber added as Perdita lay, purring, across her shoulder.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I mean it’s
quite
nice,’ she added as she patted Perdita’s back, ‘and of course I was
very
polite about it. But, to be frank, it’s not
nearly
as pretty as Perdita. And it’s not nearly as clever. Quite slow, in fact. There’s absolutely
no
comparison. Have I shown you what Perdita can do?’ she went on animatedly. ‘Just watch
this
! Still clasping the cat to her left shoulder, she went into the sitting room and came back with a ball of pink wool. She put Perdita down, then jiggled the wool up and down in front of her. In a flash, Perdita had pounced, pinioning it to the floor.
‘Isn’t that
fantastic
,’ breathed Amber, her eyes like saucers.
‘Er, yes,’ I said.
‘Her reactions are just amazing, you know. I think she’s very advanced for her age. Aren’t you, dinkums? Mummy thinks you’re de most clever, most beeau-oot-iful puddy tat in de world.’
‘Pass the sick-bag,’ I said.
‘No, she really
has
got an exceptionally high IQ, Mint.’ Amber gazed into Perdita’s huge, emerald eyes. ‘Would ‘oo like some more milky den, darling?’ she squeaked. Yuck. Though at least Amber’s constant ministrations had improved Perdita’s health. She had put on quite a bit of weight, and she’d grown in height by more than an inch. Her emaciated little face had filled out and her coat now gleamed like jet. And in just a month she had made herself quite at home. During the day she sits on Amber’s lap as she writes or reads, blissfully
extending and retracting her claws. At night she sleeps on Amber’s bed, curled round her head like a feline Astrakhan. She never leaves her side. And despite all our efforts to trace her owner, no one has come forward to claim her. And that’s just as well, because Amber is completely enslaved.
‘He’s my slave!’ said Melinda.
‘Who?’ I enquired. It certainly wasn’t me any more. I was sticking to my New Year resolution to be mean and unhelpful to Melinda.
‘Wobert,’ she said, waving his latest letter. ‘He says he’s my slave. At least that’s what he wites. Isn’t it a scweam?’
‘What does your husband think?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he doesn’t think anything,’ she said. This was probably true.
‘I wonder what he’s like,’ I said. ‘Not your husband,’ I added quickly. ‘I mean, your stalker, Robert.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s tewwibly attwactive,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps I should twy and meet him!’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I said. ‘He might be an axe-murderer, for all you know.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly, Minty!’ said Melinda, with a little laugh. ‘Now,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘I’m a bit stuck on this single cuwwency business – the pwo’s and cons of EMU. Could you take me thwough the arguments again?’
‘I’m sorry, Melinda,’ I lied. ‘But I’m working flat out on this piece about child labour. Why don’t you ask Jack?’
‘You
know
I can’t do that,’ she hissed theatrically. ‘He’ll think I’m completely
useless
!’
‘You are,’ said Jack. He had just come in.
‘I am what?’ said Melinda, indignantly.
‘Ready with the script? You are ready with the script?’ he repeated. ‘That’s what I said. I’d like to have a look, you see.’
‘Oh,’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Well, I just need a little more time. I’ve got to wite my Euwo link.’
‘Well, don’t be long,’ he replied. ‘I’ve told Wesley I want a
proper rehearsal. I want everything to go smoothly today because Sir Percy’s coming in to watch.’
‘Oh Chwist!’ said Melinda. ‘I’d forgotten. It had better be good then, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ said Jack, crisply. ‘It had. Now, if you’re stuck on the EMU cue, ask Sophie. She’s hot on that sort of thing.’
‘I’m rather busy myself,’ Sophie groaned. She was organising the rotas for our digital training sessions. Jack, mollified by his recent victory on the home front, had finally caved in.
‘Please, Sophie,’ whined Melinda.
‘All right,’ she agreed with a sigh. Sophie put down her pen, then came and stood by Melinda’s desk, folding her arms in magisterial fashion. ‘Now, it’s really not difficult, Melinda,’ she began, pushing her small wire-rimmed glasses a little further up her nose. ‘Basically, the Euro, having replaced the ECU, is the common currency of EMU and the new cornerstone of EU fiscal policy. The member states which have joined so far are, in alphabetical order – Austria, Belgium, Finland, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Luxembourg, The Netherlands, Portugal and Spain. This “Eurozone”, as it’s called, forms a market of about 300 million customers, accounting for one fifth of the world economy. The key benefits.of joining,’ she went on smoothly, ‘are greater price transparency, more efficient capital markets and reduced risk to business from exchange-rate volatility. Some analysts also claim that the long-term effect of membership in supply-side and commercial terms will be lower prices, the realisation of a real common market, as well as wider competition. Now, the
antis
,’ she added, ‘Lord Owen, for example, argue that Britain’s entry into EMU would mean accepting a “one-size-fits-all” interest rate which would entail a concomitant loss of national control as well as a reduction in labour flexibility. They also point to the spectre of higher taxes and increased unemployment, while highlighting the fact that several key conditions for EMU’s success are still not yet in place. The convergence criteria, for example, have undoubtedly been fudged, and several countries have entered the Euro with debt levels too high for
comfort. How
ever
,’ she went on seamlessly, ‘the pro’s – and this actually includes the CBI – whilst acknowledging that conditions are not yet perfect, are in favour of Britain’s eventual entry, believing as they do that it will promote further development of the single market, thereby reducing internal costs and barriers to expansion. Got that?’
Melinda looked as if she were going to cry.
‘I never understand Sophie’s explanations,’ she whined, as Sophie returned to her rotas. ‘But I can understand yours, Minty, because you’re not as clever as her.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, tartly.
‘I mean, you
explain
things better than her,’ she corrected herself. ‘Please, would you give me a hand?’
‘All right, then,’ I said looking at the clock. ‘We’ll swap. You cut down this piece for me – you’ve got twenty minutes, by the way – and I’ll write your link for you.’
‘But you know I don’t know how to edit, Minty,’ she whined.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I simply can’t do two jobs.’ She looked at me resentfully, but I didn’t soften. I hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d said about the programme ‘sufferwing’ while she was away. Anyway, why
should
I help her? She never did a thing for me. A few minutes later we all went down to Studio B, ready for the rehearsal.
‘And in an hour from now,
Capitalise
, presented by Melinda Mitten,’ said Barry.
‘Are the tapes all ready?’ said Jack, as he scrutinised the script.
‘Yes,’ said Wesley.
‘De-ummed?’
‘Yes. All clean.’
‘Got the sound effects?’
‘Yes.’
‘And music?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wesley,’ said Jack wearily, ‘I’d rather you didn’t practise your paternity skills during working hours. Would you kindly put Melinda’s baby down?’
‘Sorry.’ Wesley stopped dandling Pocahontas and put her back in the car-seat, which he then proceeded to rock with his left foot, rather too violently, I thought. I had visions of one of us having to catch her, but luckily she was well strapped in.
Five minutes later, the studio door opened and Monica showed in Sir Percy. He looked affable enough, though a little out of breath.
‘Now, don’t get oop, lads and lasses,’ he said in his broad Yorkshire brogue. ‘I’m quite ‘appy to be sat ‘ere.’ He took a seat on the padded bench by the door, then smiled benignly at Melinda as she waved at him through the studio glass. ‘Don’t mind me, folks,’ he reiterated. ‘Youse all got work to do fer t’programme and, anyroad, I don’t need nowt.’
‘
Are YOU shamed by your grammatical mistakes
?’ enquired a cultivated male voice, as we waited for the programme to start. ‘
Does YOUR poor command of English let you down? Then try our stunning correspondence course! Here’s what one satisfied customer had to say:
‘
Six months ago I couldn’t even spell “executive”
,’ announced a Michael Caine soundalike. ‘
Now I ARE one.
’
‘
Just £69.99
,’ explained the first voice again. ‘
Payable in three easy, interest-free payments. Most major credit cards accepted.
’
Beep. Beep. Beep.
‘And now time for today’s edition of
Capitalise
,’ said Barry, ‘presented by Melinda Mitten.’ Sir Percy was grinning approvingly.
‘Hello, evewyone,’ crooned Melinda. ‘Today we look at attitudes to the Euwo – are the pwo’s now gaining gwound? We have a sobewing weport on the spwead of child labour. We pweview the new Steven Spielberg film, and we’ll be talking to the distinguished architect, Sir Norman Foster, about his wonderful new ewection.’
We all suddenly expressed an interest in the carpet, but Sir Percy hadn’t noticed a thing. He seemed to be enjoying himself and, overall, the programme wasn’t too bad. The mix of items was good, the tapes were all fine edited, and the programme
finished bang on time with the ‘live’ interview with Sir Norman.
‘Well, it’s been an honour talking to a man who’s cocked up so many fine buildings,’ Melinda concluded happily. ‘Sowwy –
clocked
up!’ she corrected herself as she peered at her script again. ‘Do join me again tomowwow, listeners, but for now, fwom me, Melinda Mitten, goodbye.’
‘Bah gum, that were a right interestin’ programme,’ said Sir Percy appreciatively as we all trooped out of the studio. ‘Right interestin’. But I would like to see t’office too, seeing like as ‘ow I never really cum down ‘ere. And I’d like to ‘ave a word with you, Jack, about future of t’station. Ratin’s, an’ all that.’
‘Of course,’ said Jack. ‘We’d be delighted to show you round.’ And so we all went up in the lift to the third floor, and Jack put on the coffee machine, and someone went to get nice cups and saucers. And then Sir Percy said he’d like to nip to the gents, and Monica poured us all some coffee, and Melinda opened a box of rather delicious-looking cakes. There were nine dainty little sponges, in pleated wrappers, each with a pool of snow-white icing, topped by a glistening, crimson cherry. We were all starving because we never have time for lunch. But we politely waited for Sir Percy to return from his ablutions.
‘Melinda, m’duck, well done!’ he exclaimed warmly as he came back into the office. ‘I thought that script of yourn were right good.’
‘Thanks vewy much, Uncle Percy,’ she said. ‘I wote it all myself.’
As Monica handed Sir Percy a cup of coffee, his eye caught the open box of cakes on Melinda’s desk.
‘Fairy cakes, eh?’ he said. ‘My favourites. There’s nowt like a fairy cake. Very thoughtful of you to bring those in, Melinda, m’duck. Don’t mind if I do.’ And he grabbed one, and sank his teeth into it, and began chewing. And chewing. And Melinda had taken one, and had just offered the box to me.
‘Did you make them yourself?’ I enquired.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I’m a hopeless cook. Wobert sent them to me.’
‘WOBERT SENT THEM TO YOU?’ we all cried.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Awfully sweet of him, wasn’t it? He said he wanted to give me a pwesent.’
We all stared, aghast, at Sir Percy, whose face had suddenly frozen. And now his eyes were registering a combination of puzzlement and shock. And he had stopped chewing. And he was choking. And spitting. He began to spit the cake out of his mouth. And out it came in damp, half-masticated bits, with vivid red flecks of maraschino cherry. And as he pebble-dashed Melinda’s desk, his coffee cup fell from his hand. Then, with an astonished expression on his bucolic face, Sir Percy crashed to the carpet-tiled floor.
‘Dearly Beloved,’ said the vicar, ‘we are gathered here today …’ I couldn’t help thinking about it. Not even the sight of Helen and Charlie smiling blissfully at each other in front of the altar on their wedding day two weeks later could eradicate the awful scenes at London FM. ‘Dearly Beloved …’ That’s what the vicar had said at Sir Percy’s funeral on Thursday …What a shock. What a sensation. What an absolute bloody nightmare. I sighed, and tried to distract myself by reading my Order of Service: ‘St John’s Church, Holland Park, London. Saturday February 14th.’ And in the bottom left-hand corner it said ‘Helen’, and then, to the right, ‘Charles’. The church was full. It was a freezing day, with light snowfall, and we were all in our winter gear. But however hard I tried to concentrate on the wedding, the dreadful events at work kept springing into my mind. It didn’t take the police long to trace Robert. He’d made a fundamental error, you see. He’d put his address and phone number at the top of all his letters. So they paid him a visit and told him he was nicked. And in his statement he insisted that he hadn’t meant to kill Sir Percy. He said this was a vile slur. He’d intended to kill
Melinda
, as a punishment for ‘ignoring’ him.