The Ferret Has Landed
by
Nell Peters
Copyright by Nell Peters 2011: Smashwords Edition
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ONE
In the cold light of morning, his was a face – a face jam-packed with Vesuvius spots - that not even the most devoted mother could love. Sebastian rolled over, farted and groaned, his necro-slumber disturbed by hail stones clattering onto the grimy skylight of the attic bedroom. Temporary amnesia, born of several skins full of dangerously cheap alcohol the previous evening, made him wonder where the hell he was. He had the bed to himself, so he hadn’t pulled… tottyland’s loss, he thought, as he absentmindedly scratched at hairy bum cheeks… like, mega loss.
He scanned the cramped room through one barely open bloodshot eye – the ramshackle furnishings looked familiar and he definitely recognised the vomit-inducing odour of rancid trainer that attacked his nostrils… vintage Seb. Ah yes, he was home sweet home, back in the scrotum of his family after three long years’ hard slog at university; cue weepy violins. At least, that’s what he claimed en famille – the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth s’welp me gawd, would only distress the oldies and have them question whether their extreme sacrifices made in the name of Number One Son’s higher education had been justified.
He leered with overblown satisfaction remembering – like, in his reckoning at least – his sound-wicked-awesome result. This man was In The Ozone! Okay, so he had scraped a projected BA pass grade in nothing whatsoever useful, but more importantly, he was a pioneer – a trailblazer, no less. Sebastian was the first member of the entire Avon clan – and that included the vast pikey and chav contingents - ever to attend university; A and B of the C of D! As icing on the bun, he’d emerged with a degree tucked securely under his beer gut – and now the world was his executive prawn cocktail. Thoughts of food prompted his stomach to produce a cacophony of unpleasant gurgling noises, not unlike a giant blocked artery and despite the hangover hammering around his skull, he wondered where his breakfast in bed - as befits a conquering hero - had got to. He’d been home several days now and – like - one hadn’t turned up yet.
He needed some slap-up grub before he could even – like - think about suitable career options – current favourite being foreign correspondent for any girlie magazine, closely followed by Formula One racing driver…after he’d passed his driving test. He’d have to actually learn to drive initially, of course - a minor technicality in his not-so-humble opinion, since his omnipotence knew no bounds. But before any of that, he had a grope year to plan…and he’d need several more hours’ kip to crank the grey cells back into working order. He’d already decided on the main criteria for his twelve, maybe eighteen month break – it would involve lots of sunbathing, copious amounts of booze and uninhibited sex, nothing strenuous and definitely nothing philanthropic. Just a few minor details to fill in, then - he deserved some chillax time, he figured, after all that hard work he’d done at uni, sinking record numbers of subsidised pints in the student bar.
He pulled the pillow around his ears to block out household noise on the floors below and drifted back to the land of nod, hoping to get back to grips with that fit bird from the kebab shop last night – like, he had no trouble at all remembering her with those amazing bazookas which contradicted that Newton dude. She was phat!
TWO
Ben galumphed down the rickety staircase three at a time, “Looks like someone’s moving in next door!” he called out, for general consumption.
“Good thing,” said Dad, stirring in his moth-eaten armchair, “place has been empty far too long – it must be falling to rack and ruin…and full of rats, I’ve a mind.” He returned his attention to the sports section of the daily newspaper and chomped down on the stem of his tobacco-free pipe.
Pirouetting through the sitting room, Mum chirped, “I saw someone chopping down the For Sale sign last week,” she gnashed at a wedge of generously buttered toast and spat crumbs, “I just thought it was some gyppo, stealing firewood.” Mum genuinely believed that voting for the winning party in an election was political correctness enough for anyone.
Noticing the youngest boy, Michael – at thirteen, an obvious afterthought and or accident – was in civvies, Mum snapped, “Come on, Mikey! Get yourself ready for school, or you’ll be late!”
“It’s a teachers’ training day,” he reminded her, “I gave you the note…”
She rolled her eyes, “Bollocks! And they do it mid-week, to make it as inconvenient as possible for parents with proper jobs; I thought they were meant to be trained already, before they’re allowed anywhere near impressionable youngsters.”
Mikey blew a raspberry - Mum always said the same thing about ‘teachers’ skiving-off days’, as she scathingly referred to them – ever since she discovered that the staff were only actually in school for a few hours and certainly free before lunch.
“As if those long holidays they get aren’t enough…oh well, it’s a good thing Sebastian is home – he can look after you until I get back from work.” She waved a greasy finger at him, “You mind you behave, now,” and zapped him an ‘or else’ look for good measure, which he skilfully deflected off the freckles on his forehead.
Mum moved to the foot of the stairs and bellowed, “Anyone who wants a lift had better be down here in two seconds flat, or I’ll leave without you!”
Peter and Joe knew from bitter experience this was no idle threat, as they jostled for pole position on the stairs, bending the banister rail to a sinister angle amid sound effects of splintering wood. Victory was Joe’s by a whisker – he had the weight advantage after all…and the whiskers.
Mikey was fidgety - anxious for everyone to leave so that he and Sebastian could have the place to themselves to do ‘brotha bonding’ things, unfettered by house rules and regulations. His biggest brother could always be relied upon to improve his education in ways which might be frowned upon by 1) adults and 2) polite society. He ran to the front of the house to wave off Mum and the others – but when he tried to peer through the small leaded windows, his vision was hopelessly impaired by condensation caused by torrential rain. He spotted a piece of leftover naan bread under the dresser and used that to wipe himself a smeary spy hole – now he had an excellent perspective on what a fly’s eye view would be like.
Of far more interest to Mikey than watching Mum and his brothers drive off, was a giant removal van, as it slowly manoeuvred a path up the dirt track. It was a tight squeeze, a bit like to trying to fit an elephant’s buttock into Kate Moss hot pants – lumps of hedge and foliage were snapping off and soaring high in the gusting winds, as the truck rocked from side to side. Following at a safe distance came a very flash 4x4 with tinted windows and bull bars, leaving a Yeti-sized carbon footprint. His little heart quickened and his furtive imagination went into overdrive – that was a villain’s set of wheels if ever he saw one! Maybe their new neighbours were drug dealers, money launderers or porno kings – that should massively improve his street cred in the playground! He rubbed his hands in anticipation of the kudos that would shortly be his – and the perks it would bring…like having the pick of everyone else’s packed lunch, instead of having to gum his way through the fish paste sandwiches that Mum slapped together everyday.
THREE
Knees wedged under his chin and looking glum, Ben was already squashed into the back of the tiny hatchback when Joe dived in after him – no one ever sat up front voluntarily when Mum was driving. Peter wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of riding shotgun, but at least he’d be the first to be dropped off – at Madame Chignon’s hairdressing salon, where he was coming to the end of his apprenticeship.
Ben was in one of his moods, “You’re mincing again, Pete,” he scoffed, “and I do believe I saw your hand on your hip – are you still exploring your feminine side?”
Pete sighed, “Talk to the hand, Ben,” he added ‘pathetic wanker’ in his head.
Ben didn’t shut up, “Just because you’re a hairdresser, it’s not compulsory to be a pansy as well.” He was feeling particularly stroppy and Pete was always a soft target, he’d found.
“Crawl away and die an excruciating death,” said Pete, embarrassed, “the way I walk is nothing compared to Joe.”
Joe came to his own defence, “Yeah, but I have an excuse…”
Ben’s laugh was malicious, “Oh right – the mission to Ignite the Fart that went horribly wrong. That’s no excuse - you were twelve and well old enough to work out you should take your boxers off first!”
“I’m sure you could have that scar tissue surgically removed,” Pete suggested – his attempt at mediation.
Never one to bother with femininity herself, Mum cussed, “Bollocks! If you lot don’t put a sock in it, I’ll have you all surgically removed. And that thumping great juggernaut is blocking my path – I’ll have to drive out the back way. Bloody hell!” She took off like an Exocet missile and skidded a donut in the wet to change direction, leaving substantial deposits of rubber on the tarmac parking area.
The brothers were instantly reunited in fear - they held their breath and offered up a silent prayer to the patron saint of endangered passengers.
Peter turned an indelicate shade of puke and grappled for the steadying influence of the dashboard, his knuckles white and bloodless. He pleaded on behalf of them all, “Slow down, Mum!”
Some hope - as they knew only too well, Mum would floor the accelerator any time now to get over the small hump-backed bridge, which led to the main road. She always hopelessly misjudged her speed and went way too fast, flew over the top of the thing and seriously tested the suspension of the clapped-out jalopy as it crash landed on the other side.
When Mum announced, “I’ve been offered some overtime, stacking shelves, so you’ll all have to get the bus home tonight,” a communal sigh of relief misted up the windows.
FOUR
Excitement and anticipation curdled with the instant strawberry porridge in Mikey’s stomach – just Dad to get rid of now before he and Sebastian could get down to the important stuff… once he’d crowbarred him from his minging bed.
He hovered by Dad’s chair and asked as nonchalantly as he could, using his well-practised ‘adorably cute kid’ voice, “Shouldn’t you be going, Dad?”
Dad made agitated rustling noises, turning a page, “Harrumph.”
“I was wondering - would you like me to mow the lawn today?” He knew he was on a safe wicket there – what the Avons ironically referred to as ‘the lawn’ played host to more muddy puddles when it rained than MPs have dodgy expenses claims. Not ideal conditions for a short back and sides – plus, of course, Mikey was too vertically challenged and scrawny to be able to push the heavy, old-fashioned hand mower that should have been put out to grass long ago. He smirked, well satisfied with his razor-sharp wit.
“Nope, too wet,” Dad growled, crunching down hard on the pipe’s stem, baring his stained dentures like a rabid dog.
Mikey slapped on the angelic smile, though drew the line at fluttering his eyelids, “Would you like me to get your bike out of the shed for you?”
“Nope, too wet - I’ll take the Land Rover.”
That was a relief – saved him a soaking, but the Land Rover had seen better days – and way too many of them. Shards of metal and rust frequently fell from the bodywork and clanged onto highways and byways – and it was a miracle to Mikey there was anything more than a shell remaining. The engine was a bit eccentric too, although it did at least have most of its roof, which Dad’s bike obviously lacked.
Eventually, Mikey’s telepathic entreaties scored a direct hit and Dad creaked slowly up from his seat, simultaneously brushing imaginary ash from the lapels of his shiny suit and hitching up his meat and two veg.
“I best be going,” he announced, as if addressing a sold-out amphitheatre packed to the rafters with adoring fans, before he gathered up all the paraphernalia he took to work with him, Monday to Friday, week in, week out. Everything, including his daisy chain of recycled paper clips, was shoved into the scuffed leather briefcase he’d inherited several years before - the sole family heirloom to be passed down on Mrs Avon senior’s side.
Dad inwardly shuddered at the thought of work – he’d been a lowly clerk at a mini sub-branch of The Rypoff Bank since Elvis was breathing and he’d loathed every nanosecond of his career. Though he’d rather eat fresh rhino dung sans ketchup than admit it, job satisfaction was a superfluous-to-requirements buzz phrase as far as he was concerned and as such, was banned from his basic vocabulary.
Things had looked so much more hopeful when he was still a tasty young bloke, he recalled - with more than a dash of melancholy, intermingled with regret. In those days he was frequently ogled and mentally stripped naked by the dribbling Saga set who trusted him with their meagre pensions. He’d even been athletic enough to foil a daring heist at the bank, when two balaclava-clad oiks burst through the doors wielding sawn-off chair legs, threatening him and Doris, his now elderly part-time assistant who had always sported a terrifying blue rinse hairstyle that was far worse than anything Pete had ever created.
Heroic Sir Galahad Avon showed total disregard for his own safety, as he leapt over the counter yelling, “Stand back there, Doris - Super Clerk to the rescue!” He kicked one robber in the googlies and whacked the other over the head with a weighty ledger.
Stunned in the face of totally unexpected resistance, Butch and Sundance legged it empty-handed down the High Street and made their escape on a number ninety-two bus heading east. As Mum remarked just recently, if this incident had occurred nowadays, the thieves would have felt well within their rights to sue Dad for inflicting life-threatening injury, loss of earnings, hurt feelings, defamation of character and whole host of additional slights, with the sole intention of making themselves a quick buck without the need to work for one cent…a career move to legitimised robbery, funded by Legal Aid.
But back in those halcyon days, Mum still fancied Dad like mad and was rightly proud of his courageous actions. She’d assured him a dizzying promotion to one of the main branches, or perhaps even Head Office, was certain to be his reward for safeguarding the bank’s assets with his life – at the very least.
Week after week, the postman’s daily visit was eagerly anticipated, as Mum and Dad waited for the official letter confirming his elevation to greater things to spiral onto the doormat. But tragically, when the brown envelope did arrive, some six months after the aborted robbery and bearing insufficient postage, Dad’s reward turned out to be a £2.50 WH Smith voucher (worth at least £2.52 in today’s money), along with ‘ta ever so’ scribbled in orange wax crayon on a compliments slip - from the desk of the assistant to the under-second assistant, assistant area manager.
FIVE
When Dad finally did the decent thing and left for work, Mikey returned to the window for an update on what was happening next door. He was keen to check out anything they had which was worth borrowing - like a PS3 or a Wii, which the Avon boys were denied ‘for your own good – you’ll thank us when you are older’. Yeah, right. It had also occurred to him that a thirteen year old boy might be delivered along with the furniture…
What he actually saw was a cyclist wobbling up the track, fighting against the wind on a bicycle that was way too big for her; even though she was wearing a body-bulking yellow plastic raincoat that billowed out behind, a matching souwester that hid most facial features and red Wellington boots, Mikey’s gut feeling told him this had to be a girl. No self-respecting male, with the possible exception of Paddington Bear on a sartorial off day, would be caught dead in such uncool clobber.
He ran off to fetch Mum’s precious opera glasses (clearly engraved ‘Property of the Tibetan Theatre and Highland Fling Ensemble’) to get a better look – and returned just in time to see the girl park her bike behind the 4x4. Two more sensibly dressed adults – one male, one female - emerged from the house and waved at the banana, then started to carry smaller cardboard boxes into the house, leaving heavier items for the removal men and their trolleys. The men wore bright green overalls, of which Kermit the Frog would be proud to claim ownership.
Tired of being a gawping Tom, Mikey decided it was time to crowbar his brother from his fetid pit, so they could go join in the fun and generally make a nuisance of themselves.
He ran upstairs, fought against mounds of dirty laundry to shoulder open the bedroom door and lifted a clump of rank hair from Seb’s ear, “Seb! Get up! You’ve won the Lottery!”
His eyes remained tightly closed when he croaked, “Cool - tell them, like, I don’t want no publicity…just stash the money in a Roller and park it out front.” His stale beer and tobacco breath would dissolve granite to a molten state within seconds.
Mikey tried another tack, “The house is on fire!”
Seb yawned, “Only the good die young…save my pubic hair collection – like, I’ve bequeathed it to the nation.”
“There are identical twins at the front door – they’re gagging for sex and asked if you’re in.”
That did the trick - he threw back the soiled duvet and lay there, all 6’5” of his pasty body, skinny limbs, pot belly and shrivelled willy exposed to an unworthy world; Mikey was worried he might regurgitate his porridge.
“Tell them to come on up – I’m, like, ready to perform.”
Because Seb was right-handed, Mikey skittered around to the left side of the bed, in case violence ensued when he fessed up, “Err…I might have exaggerated a bit.” But halfway there he slipped on a dinner plate that was still slimy with the remains of an abandoned chicken tikka masala with a gobi aloo saag chaser - and narrowly missed becoming an Admiral Nelson look-alike, when a fork flew up and pierced him on the cheek.
“Aaaaaaaaaaw! Shit – that hurt.” His lips trembled, but he wouldn’t allow himself to cry – only girls and cissies did that.
“Serves you right, you little turd – like, piss off.”
“But someone’s moving in next door – come and look!”
“Like, take a hike you minging dwarf – you’re really beginning to nark me. Can’t you see I’m trying to get some zzz’s?”
Time to launch the clincher, Mikey felt, “There’s a girl – and she’s really boooootiful.” He had his fingers crossed behind his back to cancel out that blatant porky and purposely neglected to mention the banana outfit.
“Like, are you telling the truth this time, weasel freak?”
He nodded himself dizzy, “Cross my legs…come and see for yourself...” He handed Seb a striped towelling bathrobe that was rotted away in several areas – most noticeably under the armpits - and stank of something truly vile. Seb scraped a t-shirt and a crispy pair of boxers from a handy pile and dragged them on, topping off his ensemble with the bathrobe.
“Wicked… like, Noel Coward eat your friggin heart out,” he said, only partly in jest, as he admired his reflection in the mirror. To Mikey, the look was more destitute transvestite than matinee idol, but he didn’t want to push his luck by saying so, having actually managed to get Seb out of bed before nightfall – an A* achievement in anyone’s book. He dragged Seb down to Mum and Dad’s room, from where they could get a crow’s nest view of the activity next door.
At last, it had stopped raining.
“Look, that’s her,” said Mikey, pointing to the humanoid banana.
Seb’s already slack jaw plummeted to the offensive legend slashed across the chest of his t-shirt, “Corrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr blimeeeeeeeeeeeey! Like, she is slammin!” He grabbed the opera glasses and salivated, “Wicked…I’ll get a quick shower and shave and we’ll go right over.”
As he tottered to the bathroom, scratching his scalp through matted spikes of unwashed hair – even though in normal circumstances it would be far too early for him to accomplish two things at once – he called over his shoulder, “Like, make yourself useful, Mikey – grab those flowers Mum got for her birthday and tart them up in some newspaper. We can’t go calling without a housewarming gift – it wouldn’t be polite.”
Mikey was poleaxed; shower…shave…flowers…polite…and all before noon? What had he done?
SIX
Less than ten minutes later – by which time the heavens had reopened with a vengeance - Sebastian was (by his standards) all spruced up, wearing clean-ish clothes and striding purposefully over to Brothel House through the mud. Mikey struggled to keep up with his giant paces and ended up jogging at his side like a demented puppy, so as not to be left trailing.
They passed the truck, where two removal men were taking a tea break in the dry, sitting astride packing cases by the tailgate. The one wearing bottle-bottom glasses waved an egg and cress sandwich on white at Mikey, by way of a greeting.
The front door was ajar and Seb poked his head in, “Yoo-hoo, like, is anyone home? Helloooooo, Avon calling – bing-bong.”
The new lady of the house appeared at the end of a wide hallway, “Oh, no thank you. I gave at the office.” She was around forty, Mikey guessed – like Mum, but much prettier and her brow wasn’t permanently furrowed in a cranky frown. Nor were her lips pursed.
Seb smiled his best charmer and held out his hand to shake hers, as she walked toward them. Mikey noticed that even his fingernails were clean. Well, pretty much.
He guffawed, “Just – like - kidding! I’m Sebastian Avon and this is my little brother, Michael – we live across the field at Bumble Bee Cottage. Like, how’s it hangin?” He thrust the wilting bunch of petrol pump carnations under her nose. “Like, please accept this humble gift of ours to welcome you to the neighbourhood.”
Yuck! Thought Mikey, cringing – but he was impressed by the graciousness of this woman. She didn’t bat a false eyelash when, as she accepted the bunch a whole load of brown petals cascaded to the floor, leaving the stalks practically starkers. At this stage, Mum would have definitely gone off on one.
“Thank you so much, that’s really most thoughtful of you – won’t you both come in? We’re in a terrible mess, of course…” Mikey couldn’t see any mess – the place was a zillion times tidier than home, despite the boxes piled everywhere. “I’m Celia Fanshaw-Brown – my husband and I bought Brother House over the Internet and so we are exploring the place for the first time – he’s upstairs at the moment. It’s all frightfully exciting.” Mikey thought Celia was a bit posh…but friendly.
On cue, a spray-tanned, podgy man wearing ultra-trendy clothes that neither suited him nor fitted properly descended the stairs – followed by the banana. When he spotted the brothers Avon, his pace slowed to that of a condemned man approaching the gallows. Seb pulled himself up to 6’9” and grinned at the girl like the village idiot’s less intellectual brother; Mikey fully expected his tongue to loll from his mouth any second, to strains of the theme music from Deliverance.
Celia said, “Daahling, this is Sebastian Avon and his brother, Michael – they live next door and have taken the trouble to come out in this dreadful rain to welcome us. And they’ve brought flowers – isn’t that too, too divine?”
Daahling didn’t appear overly thrilled by the unsolicited invasion – he scowled pointedly at the pile of dead flora in his hallway. Like a Dalek in need of a lube job, he scanned around to the array of muddy footprints the Avon boys had trampled onto the oak floorboards and made some strange huffing noises which were difficult to translate. Belatedly, he dredged up some manners, twitched his lips into a false smile and lunged forward with his hand outstretched.
“Good to meet you, Sebastian – I’m Archie Fanshaw-Brown, the famous, best-selling novelist.” From craning his neck up at Seb, he lowered his sights to Mikey, “And you too…err…Maurice was it?”
Mikey was offended that he didn’t warrant a handshake from AFB, just because he was only a little squirt – it was him who’d gift-wrapped the flowers so beautifully in that week’s free press, after all. “Mikey,” he corrected. Archie Fanshaw-Brown? Never heard of you, he thought – and his fantasies of living next door to some sort of infamous Mr Big, to shine in his criminal light whilst recounting tales of their chummy derring-do to his school mates, took a terminal nosedive. Author indeed – booooring! Even that sad old lag Jeffrey Archer had managed to write a book or two.
“Quite.” Archie waved a hand at the banana, “And this is Miss Dent – she’s kindly agreed to assist us with interior decoration, while we convert this place into somewhere habitable.” His lip curled as he cast an arctic gaze up and down the hall.
Compared to the Avon residence, Mikey thought Brothel House was Buckingham Palace or The Ritz – not that he’d ever been to either place…or London, even.
The banana acted all coy and giggled, “Oooh! Thebathtian, charmed I’m thure – and you mutht call me Pru.” Mikey had to stop himself sticking his fingers in his ears, to protect his auditory senses from her awful voice – it could surely grate cheese from a thousand yards and at best she sounded like a chipmunk with it’s paw caught in a trap. Her teeth were a bit chipmunky too, he noticed and her dark, rodent eyes darted here and there hyperactively. He made a mental note to look up whether eyes could in fact be hyperactive.
Mikey couldn’t fathom why any parent would lumber their child with such a ridiculous moniker as the banana’s, but one glance at Seb and he could tell he thought it was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard. Puke! – and a whole bucket of puke was called for when Seb actually bent double, grabbed hold of her hand and planted a disgustingly slobbery kiss on it, like some saddo geek in shining armour.
“Like…enchanted.”
Well, at least he knew what to get Seb for his next birthday – an instruction manual on acceptable chat-up lines and behaviour for the twenty-first century, so as not to mortify your little brother by acting like a complete Muppet.
Pru twittered and preened, knocking her knees together so much, Mikey feared she might create enough sparks to set the place alight - and she was versatile; she shuffled her wellied feet at the same time. When she did a sort of curtsey dip sideways with her hands clasped on her thighs, he clocked how big and pointy her nose and chin were… definitely a physiognomy that would benefit from a niqab. Not that Sebastian was any oil painting… Was this all some sort of weird and not-so-wonderful banana mating ritual, he wondered.
Celia said, “Let’s all go through to the kitchen, shall we? I’ll put some coffee on, if I can find the perc.”
Unfortunately, two impossible to disguise puddles had formed where Seb and Mikey stood, drip-drying. Archie’s radar homed in on them and he shot a meaningful glare at Mikey, who couldn’t work out what the meaning of the meaningful glare was, exactly – unless Archie thought he had weed himself and done a complementary one for Seb while he was about it – so he skipped nonchalantly off, in Celia’s heavily perfumed wake, before their host had a chance to get out the thumbscrews and extract a confession under interrogation lights. As if it were his fault it was peeing with rain!
The Fanshaw-Browns’ kitchen had custard yellow walls, so that Pru merged into the background until she removed her coat - to reveal a luminous pink mini-dress so bright it burned Mikey’s retinas. He hoped her taste in furnishings was better than her dress sense. When she removed her boots, he noticed her chicken legs for the first time – the sort of shapeless sticks that would look better encased in jeans…or artistically swathed in a body bag. They would come in useful, however, for Boy Scouts on campfire duty – or, indeed, any arsonist who had run out of matches.
A sturdy rectangular pine table was already in place central to the room, with six chairs placed equidistant around it – Mikey was surprised that all the chairs matched, being used to rickety oddments and charitable relatives’ cast-offs at home. And most of those scatter-gunned splinters into your bum.
As Archie moved to sit down, Seb remembered some of the rugby tactics he’d always skived away from at school and steamed in for a drop kick and conversion – all in his quest to secure a seat next to Pru. Mission accomplished, Mikey couldn’t believe the cane way his big brother simpered and fawned over the unzipped banana. Cack, or what? While he was forced to sit and make polite ‘new neighbour’ conversation with the Fanshaw-Browns, Seb blanked everyone else, having eyes and ears only for her.
Squirming in his seat, Mikey felt embarrassed to acknowledge Seb as a distant relative several times removed, never mind admit they actually shared the same gene pool.
SEVEN
They’d covered only a few yards of the walk home across the field, when Sebastian stopped, parted his bum cheeks manually and let go a sonic boom of a fart.
A wide smile of relief and satisfaction spread over his face, “Aah, like, that’s much better, man – been brewing that awesome little beauty for hours. I didn’t want to show myself up…”
You don’t need the help of a whopping great explosion of gaseous waste to do that, Mikey thought.
Checking his Harry Potter watch, he moaned in his pissed-off, whiny voice that would sorely tempt Mother Teresa to scream obscenities, “We should have left ages ago, Seb – I thought we could do something really cool together today, now it’s too late. That Celia was trying to get rid of us when she offered us raw fish gunge for lunch – but you wouldn’t take the hint and had to make a pig of yourself…it’s nearly tea-time now. S’not fair.”
“Like, bull crap, that was sushi – the pincushion of sophisticated nosh, sadly wasted on a poxy pixie like you…and anyway, Pru really valued my artistic input…” he whacked his spindly little brother on the shoulder harder than he meant to, causing Mikey to slip on a patch of saturated green slime, lose his balance and fall headlong into a deep puddle, creating a mini tsunami.
Sitting in the muddy water, Mickey spat, “What did you do that for, you smelly retard?”
Lost in his own private banana split world, Seb dismissed the question as rhetorical, “Like, she was really made up, when I cancelled my plans for the day and hung around to give feedback on her ideas…she says my talent is wicked.”
“Talent? Hah! And what plans for the day? You haven’t done anything during daylight hours since you got home from uni!”
Seb shook his shoulder-length hair back from his face, “Whatever…Like…what do you know, arsehole? Most of the time I have my eyes closed, I’m in deep constipation – and it’s more comfortable if I do it on my bed.” His focus switched to middle distance and he drifted away on a cloud of imaginary fabric samples, leaving Mikey to struggle upright by himself. “Perhaps I should consider a career in interior design – like, I’ve definitely got a pendant for it.”
Mikey caught up, squelching in his trainers, “The only thing you’re good at is boozing, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna get paid for doing it.”
“Nah, too much competition from winos with doctorates – but sloshing on a bit of emulsion here and there and plumping up a few cushions, then standing back to admire my handiwork making ‘ooh!’ and ‘ah!’ noises, might just be the niche market I’ve been – like - looking for…and I could work with Pru – she said I could.”
“What’s neeeeesh market?”
“Um…well… like, I’m not exactly sure, but Pru kept mentioning it, so it must be somewhere phat. Actually, I think it might be just south of Birmingham.”
“And Mum’s gonna be really cross when she finds out you’ve invited the Fanshaw-Browns and the ban…err, I mean Pru, to a cock-up party on Saturday.”
“Like, that’s a cocktail party, you tiresome little tit – all the mega ‘in’ crowd have them. It’s about time we showed everyone that the Avons are super cool and have class.”
“But we haven’t – and I’m telling you, Mum’s gonna be livid. You know she likes to watch her Eastenders DVDs on Saturdays evenings, uninterrupted. She won’t want to be poncing around, all tarted up to the eyeballs, handing out cheese and onion crisps and glasses of cheap plonk to people she’s never even met.”
“God, Mikey – like, you’re so prologue…”
“Huh?”
“A mega pleb, peasant, tramp, scuzzy git – get it, like?”
Mum’s face turned blotchy purple with cerise pinpricks and steam hissed from her ears. She spoke in a menacingly restrained voice, “You invited them here for a what?” She cracked the knuckles of both hands.
“Like, a cocktail party - on Saturday, seven for seven-thirty. No sweat, Mum - Peter and Joe said they’d make the drinks. We can get all the recipes off the Internet.”
“Bollocks can we – in case it had escaped your notice, we don’t have a computer and most of you kids have been banned from using the Public Library. And who’s going to pay for all that fancy drink – my discount at the supermarket doesn’t amount to bugger-all… and where will we get extra glasses from? We’ve only got a few of those tumblers left that were free from the Shell garage…” another thought struck, while she paused for breath, “I’ll have to offer them bloody canapés too, I suppose - what about them?”
“Like – duh - I’ve got it all worked out… we can get paper cups, à la kids’ tea party; we’ll be mega avant-garden and stick umbrellas in them, with some tinned fruit - and I thought we could tart up some sausages on sticks, skewer an olive on here and there as well. Didn’t you always tell us necessity is the granddaddy of retention?”
“An olive? I don’t waste the measly housekeeping I get on buying bloody olives! They taste like skunk faeces anyway.”
“Okay, lumps of cheese, then – or, like, a pickled onion …leave it to me and I’ll think of something really awesome.”
“And I haven’t got a cocktail dress – come to think of it, I haven’t got a dress. You and your half-baked ideas, Sebastian Aloysius Avon – why don’t you think before you open that moronic great gob of yours?”
“Aw, come on, Mum, it’ll be wicked – like, Ben’s doing ‘A’ level art at the Sixth Form college, isn’t he?”
“You know damned well he is – that’s how come we’ve got a dead stoat in the dining room, soaking up vinegar in the old fish tank.”
“Okay, like - so he can design you an outfit. You must have some old curtains hanging around somewhere?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr Genius BA, our old curtains are still hanging up at the bloody windows! That bloody university has given you some highfalutin ideas well above your bloody station, young man…wait ‘til your father hears about all this codswallop.”
“Like…whatever…where is he, by the way?”
“The gardening club.”
Seb’s snigger dripped with irony, “Like, why? He doesn’t do any gardening, except cut the grass occasionally – and even then he waits ‘til it’s knob-high.”
“That’s as maybe, but he’s started going along for the social side – it’s free and some bloke always brings along his home brew for them to sample. Best thing is it gets him out of my hair for an hour or two.”
Seb’s eyes shone, “Mm…free beer; phat – like, I might start going along…”
“You’re several decades too young – they are all wrinklies; your Dad is one of the younger members.”
“Gross. Like, back to more important issues - we could ask a few more people on Saturday; make a real mega party of it.”
“No we bloody well couldn’t!” She fixed him with the inquisition glare, “All this is to impress that daft designer girl, I’m guessing?”
Sebastian sniffed, “If you mean Pru – like, yes. And she’s not daft; she’s mega talented…an artiste. If you ask her nicely, she might give us the benefit of her expertise bogging out this dump.”
“Are you having a bloody laugh? We can’t afford the paint, let alone pay some arty-farty trollop to slap it on the walls. If this place ever gets redecorated, it’ll be me who does it, wielding my roller, as always – with your dad holding the ladder.”
“So is it, like, okay for Saturday? I can’t really cancel now – it would look, like, rude.”
“Rude, schmude – bollocks! You should have thought of that before you jumped in with both size fourteens! Bloody idiot – you always were an embarrassment, even at the baby clinic…all the other kids could walk and say ‘Mama’ before you’d worked out how to suck your thumb.”
Sebastian beamed, sensing a victory of sorts, “Whatever…Like, is that a yes?”
EIGHT
Saturday morning dawned cold and wet. Peter and Joe both had to work – as did Mum - but the boys had made arrangements to meet during their lunch break to pick up cut-price alcohol from the Cash & Carry. They hadn’t found any proper recipes for cocktails, but decided to wing it and invent their own punch; how hard could it be to mix a drink?
Ben was busy sewing in the dining room, breaking the speed limit on the ancient Singer treadle machine it had taken four of them more than two hours to manoeuvre out of the loft.
Sebastian strolled in, aping the Missing Link. He had a Cyclops eruption smack bang in the middle of his forehead, “Blimey, Ben – like, that’s a bit…err… intense, man... Does it have Mum’s seal of approval?”
“She hasn’t seen it yet – I want it to be a surprise. How come you’re up so early?”
“Lots to do – like, I’ve bribed Mikey to help me clear up and then we’re gonna create some awesome nibbles… Are you sure Mum will, like, wear that thing?”
Ben rolled his eyes right back in their sockets, “Of course she will – it’s a one-off designer number. I think it’s cool, even if I do say so myself – I may enter it into the end of term exhibition at college.”
“Yeah, like right – if it survives the night with your sewing. Whatever…Where did you scrounge the material from?”
“It’s amazing what you can find for twenty pence in the charity shop – I picked up a purple satin shirt circa 1973 and a red bridesmaid dress that was a bit Dame Edna, then I sewed them together with a few alterations here and there, added the odd arty touch, et voila!” He proudly held up a very odd-looking garment that appeared to have been modelled on an orang-utan with one shoulder higher than the other. “Of course, I haven’t put the sequins in place yet.”
“Sequins? Like, they must take forever to sew on.”
“Nah, I’m gonna stick them on with Pritt stick – they’ll be fine, just as long as Mum doesn’t breathe too heavily.”
Sebastian was sceptical, “Like…what if they start pinging off – she could have someone’s eye out.”
Ben’s highly-strung sense of humour started to leave the room, “Have faith, man … and anyway, no one will notice if we kick them under the sofa.”
Mikey felt used and abused, “How come I have to do all the vacuuming while you watch tele, Seb? S’not fair.”
“Like, talk to the hand, you pygmy oaf, I’m thinking.”
“About what – and couldn’t you do the dusting while you think?”
“Of course not, that’s your job – like, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the satisfaction of seeing the place spic and span, knowing it’s all your own hard work.”
“God, you talk wack sometimes – actually, all the time.” Seb was fast losing iconic status in Mikey’s eyes and so he felt justified in ramming the machine into his ankle.
“Ow! Be careful, you mangy knob.”
Mikey feigned innocence, “Oh, sorry – it slipped. So, how did the hot date with Pru go last night?”
Seb smirked, “Like, a gentleman never tells…”
“That lets you off the hook, then – where did you go?”
“We stayed in at her place and shared a jumbo cheese and tomato pizza, drank a couple of bottles of an unassuming rosé and talked, like, culture.”
Mikey laughed with undisguised derision, “You? Culture? The only culture you know anything about is the furry stuff that grows in your bedroom. It’s way more dangerous than anything in the Science lab at school.”
“Haven’t you, like, finished yet?”
“No, give me a chance – where does she live then? Some posh gaff?”
“Err… no, actually, she’s got like a temporary bed-sit in Morton Lane.”
Mikey stopped pushing, leant on the hose. His voice raised several octaves in surprise, “Morton Lane? Muggers go down there in gangs for their own protection! Why is she staying there – it’s right minging.”
Seb became haughty, “Whatever…Like I said, it’s a temporary arrangement – she had to, like, find somewhere in a hurry, when she fell out with her mum and dad…beggars can’t be whatever. She’ll soon find somewhere that’s more suitable for a classy bird like her. Now stop being so nosy and push that Hoover harder – like, you’re severely getting on my tits.”
Mikey would not be deterred, hoping for a juicy bit of banana scandal, “So why did she fall out with the oldies?”
Sebastian threw the remote control at him, missed by a hair’s breadth and stalked from the room, waving his arms theatrically – the only exercise he’d taken that morning, “Like, what does an artistic person have to do to get some peace around here?”
Mum got home earlier than usual, to allow herself time to spruce up, “Bloody hell! The place looks empty – where have you stashed all the clutter?”
Mickey grinned, “Just don’t open any of the cupboards…”
Hands on haunches, she sighed, “I suppose you did this all by yourself – while that useless, lazy sack of shit sat around contemplating his navel?”
Though he didn’t think Seb deserved it, he lied loyally, “Oh, he did his bit, sort of.”
Mum wasn’t convinced, “Mm…is there any hot water? I’ve been sweating buckets all day in that nylon overall – bloody thermostat for the in-store heating was on the blink and the place was like a hot house. Green bananas ripened and went mouldy before my eyes.”
Mention of bananas made Mikey snigger.
“What?” asked Mum, eyeing him suspiciously.
He put on his sweet and innocent face, “Err…nothing – honest.”
“I don’t believe you, but I haven’t got time to screw it out of you. Where’s everybody else?”
“Pete and Joe are in the shed, mixing drinks in the compost bucket – don’t worry, they washed it out first. Seb is in the kitchen artistically stabbing wieners and Ben is there too, ironing your frock.”
“Ooh, how exciting - does it look good?”
“Um…well…it’s different – um, stylishly different.”
“I don’t like the sound of that – where’s your father got to?”
“Gone for a swift half.”
“Bloody typical! Be a sweetie-pie and run me a hot bath, would you? And throw in a capful of my lavender bubbles.”
Halfway up the stairs, Mikey heard a milk-curdling howl from the kitchen, followed by shouting at full volume, “What the hell is that? I’ll look like a bloody pantomime dame! Couldn’t you have run me up something plain and simple?”
Ben replied in a mumble that Mikey couldn’t decipher.
Only marginally mellowed, Mum continued her onslaught, “They’ll be here in half an hour – what the hell am I going to wear?”
Seb said, “It’s, like, not that bad…it shows sound style.”
“Bollocks! You bloody wear it, then.”
Mum came stomping up the stairs, her face distorted with rage - the dress on which Ben had spent so much time and effort was screwed up in her fist like a rag. She caught Mikey eavesdropping on the landing, “Sod off, short arse,” she growled and slammed into the bathroom to run her own bath, leaving a trail of sequins on the threadbare carpet.
NINE
Dad’s glassy eyes betrayed he had partaken of rather more than a swift half, when he reeled through the back door at three and a half minutes to seven, wearing a rictus grin and a beer-stained pullover with leather patches falling off the elbows; he crab-walked toward Mum.
She hollered, right in his face, “Where the bloody hell have you been? And look at the state of you!”
Adopting the mien of a devious toddler, he said “Hello, my little Lotusch Blossom, I needed a teensy drop of Dutch courage – mm…don’t you look scrummy – new dresch?”
“Bollocks. Go and stick your head under a cold tap – and leave it there until you’ve sobered up. And find yourself a clean sweater, for goodness sake. The Fanny-Browns will be here any second, now bugger off.”
Mikey chose that inopportune moment to drift past the kitchen doorway.
Mum zoned in on him, “Mikey!” she bellowed, as he tried to make good his escape, but wasn’t quite quick enough. “See your father does as he’s told. And don’t let him come back down until he looks respectable and can walk a straight line.”
Mikey took Dad by the hand and led him upstairs, thinking he could hang it out for at least an hour.
Mum stuck her head out the back door, “Peter! Joseph! Stop fart-arsing around out there and bring the drinks in!”
“Coming, Mother dear,” they chorused, giggling like asylum inmates.
She strode purposefully out to the shed, flung open the door and caught them booze-handed, “Bloody hell! How many samples have you had?”
Joe grinned, his eyeballs moving independently of each other, “Juscht a few – we couldn’t get the balance right.” He belched a smelly one and thrust a plastic cup at Mum, “Here, have a tascht, Mumsy…”
As she batted the cup away, several sequins flew off her chest and landed in the compost bucket, where they floated and winked up at her.
“Sort yourselves out – right now! And bring that concoction through to the kitchen, where the bar is set up.”