‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.
‘Standing on her head against the wall.’
‘She’s what?’
‘She’s taken up yoga.’
‘Oh blimey.’
‘Yes. She wants to find herself. Reveal the complete woman.’
‘I’ve just left two like that. She’s all right, is she?’ I tap my nut.
‘Oh yeah. She says some bloke on the island put her on to it.’
‘Oh my gawd. He hasn’t shown up has he?’
‘No, of course not. What is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing, nothing. It just doesn’t seem like Mum, that’s all.’
‘I think the holiday really did something for her. They say travel broadens the mind, you know.’
‘Yeah. You can say that again. I think I’m going to stay at home for a bit.’
As she talks, Rosie’s eyes begin to glaze over and I reckon she is thinking of Mr Nausea.
‘I thought it was marvellous out there. The heat, the different people you met–’
‘How’s Sid?’ I say hurriedly. I mean, I am not president of his fan club, but I do reckon you have got to stick up for your own flesh and blood. Once Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman starts getting two-timed, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Into the Common Market and–boom! boom!–hordes of blooming dagos leaving wine glass stains all over your old lady. That is not nice, is it? On the evidence of Mum and Rosie you might as well forget about birds and start carving models of the Blackpool Tower out of chicken bones. Of course, it may just have been the weather. Get your average Eyetie or Spaniard over here and his charms probably shrivel up before he has half-filled his hot water bottle.
‘He’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘Recovering.’
‘Recovering?’
From what? I ask myself. I knew he was having a big Thing with this bird on the island, but she looked a very hygienic lady to me. I mean, I cannot believe that she had–
‘You can see him in a minute.’
‘Oh God. What’s he doing here? Why isn’t he lording it back at your country house in Streatham?’
‘We’ve sold it.’
‘Sold it?’
‘Yeah, you can talk to him about that an’ all. Do you want to see Mum?’
‘Naturally.’
I follow Rosie through to the front room–which has not changed, right down to my knee marks on the fireside rug–and there is Mum. I would have had difficulty recognising tier because she is indeed standing on her head with her feet resting against the wall. Her dentures are on the carpet in front of her head like some kind of name plate.
‘Hello Ma,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Timmy. Glad to see you get your knickers from Marks and Sparks. How’s it going then?’
Quite a warm greeting from an only son, locked from his mother’s eyes through five long weeks, I am certain you will agree. I look down at the carpet for signs of tear stains beginning to appear but I am disappointed.
‘Timmy love, never interrupt me when I’m meditating. There are some fish fingers in the fridge.’
And that is all I get. Talk about the younger generation. It is the older generation I am worrying about.
‘I’d better see Sid then, I suppose. What’s the matter with him?’
‘He was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp.’
‘Oh yeah, very funny.’ You have to hand it to Rosie, she is getting a whole new sense of humour. Very satirical.
‘I was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp,’ says Sid when I ask him. ‘It was one of Slat’s ideas. You know he was mad keen on the Blitz and starting holiday camps in deserted tube stations with sirens and muzac by courtesy of World War II?’
‘I remember something about it.’
‘Well, that was just the beginning. When he really thought about it, he came up with Prisoner of War Camps. When you settled up for your holiday you were issued with a rank according to how much you had paid. For two hundred quid you could be C.O. It didn’t make any bloody difference to the food you got but people are crazy about status, aren’t they? Instead of Holiday Hosts you had guards and that cut down on the organisation because they didn’t organise games. They just tried to stop you escaping. Every intake was given a spade and a pair of wire clippers and there was a prize at the end of the fortnight for who got farthest.’
‘How did you get shot?’
‘To get a bit of publicity at the beginning, they got a real German prison camp guard. Well, you know what the Krauts are like. Very thorough. They like to give value for money. I was trying to whip up a bit of enthusiasm for an assault on the electrified fence and he shot me.’
‘He might have killed you!’
‘He said he was doing it for my own good. You see, the fence really was electrified. Slattery reckoned that some dodgy bugger could take advantage and get his two weeks for nothing if you didn’t deincentivise him.’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘It’s a word I learnt on one of Funfrall’s bleeding courses. You can have it. I’m not going to need it any more.’
‘Have you been invalided out?’
‘I’ve resigned with honour.’
‘Why, Sid? You were doing so well.’
‘Breathing is what I do best, Timmo, and I want to make a career of it. My next posting was going to be Kew Gardens.’
‘Kew Gardens!’
‘Yes. They wanted to get Malaysia but Eye Twang Knickers, or whatever his name is, wouldn’t play ball. You see, Timmo, when my number nearly came up they got more applications from people who wanted to be guards than prisoners. It’s understandable when you think about it, you know what I mean? Much more fun machine-gunning people and setting guard dogs on them than it is digging bleeding tunnels. Sir Giles saw that straight away. First of all, he tried to get the Japs to start another Death Railway and promised them cheap labour–but they thought it would be bad for their car exports so in the end he had to settle for the Hot House at Kew. Two bananas and a survival pack is four hundred guineas with cremation at the crematorium of your choice thrown in for nothing. Up on the cat walk with your Hirohito forage cap and a Nippon issue rifle is six hundred guineas or you can have the intermediate, “Jungle Boy” holiday, Dyak blow pipe and a plastic shrunken head for every camper you knock off. Personally, I thought it was going a bit too far. Specially when they said I was going to be umpire. I mean, get a few light ales in that lot and they’d open up on anything. So I said bugger it and handed in my armband.’
‘So you’ve jacked it in, Sid?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Going to leave you a bit short, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I thought of that, didn’t I? I told Sir Giles straight. I said “you can’t go around having your senior executives shot by blood-crazed Krauts and expect to leave a nice taste in everybody’s mouth.”’
‘Right, Sid.’
‘Especially if they are reading about it in the News of the People. I mean, it gets around.’
‘You were approached were you, Sid?’
‘Not exactly approached, Timmy. But I have a few contacts.