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‘Thanks, Mum.’ He took the tea and three sandwiches, although he wasn’t hungry anymore. He’d force them down somehow.
‘Tea, love?’ Sally turned to Chas.
‘Nah, got me beer.’ He waved the Guinness can at her.
‘Sandwich?’
‘All right, since you’ve made them.’ He shuffled his weight forward in the chair and took two sandwiches. One was stuffed almost whole into his mouth before he sat back, showering crumbs over his trousers.
George, repulsed and hot with loathing, hoped fervently the old bastard would choke.
Sally took a mug of tea for herself and settled next to George on the sofa. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Racing, can’t you bleeding see?’ Chas interrupted.
‘Yes, of course…’ She took a breath.
George wondered at her patience.
After a reflective moment, she said, ‘Only it’s that nice Dick Van Dyke programme on the other side.’ She sipped from her mug, looked at Chas over the rim, and waited expectantly.
George watched them both, wondering if this battle of wills would escalate. Sometimes his mother would win through gentle stubbornness. More often, she would lose. Although Chas rarely used his fists anymore. Sally was a brave woman to keep on trying. George vowed if Millie said yes to marriage, he would never mistreat her. Never neglect her, take her for granted, or demean her. He would never hit her. A wife should be cherished, treated with tenderness, even gratitude for the beautiful things she gave to a man.
The afternoon dragged on.Not especially interested in horse racing, George was even less keen to watch the American crime drama, but for the sake of his mother, he would not say so. The spoils of victory were hers. The show she had fought to see seemed to be set in a hospital in some sunny US location, where most of the male characters had dark suntans, and the leading actor who sported a magnificent head of snowy white hair played a surgeon who doubled as an amateur sleuth. Unbelievable. But George stared at the screen anyway, and willed time to pass more quickly. Every time he tried to sneak a look at his phone, his father rumbled from behind his copy of the Racing Post. A technophobe to his very core, Chas objected strongly to mobile phones in his house. Insisted they should be switched off at all times. He’d read somewhere that they fried your brains. ‘Like sticking your head in the bleeding microwave,’ he’d say.
Diagnosis Murderended. A children’s programme followed. Chas, always in charge of the remote control, moved into action, wasting no time in changing channels.
George’s mum cleared away the remains of the sandwiches and tea.
‘Want some help, Mum?’
‘No, no. You keep your dad company.’
George stood to hold the door open for his mother and glanced at the hallway clock. Another two whole hours before he could escape. Depressed, he flung himself back on the sofa; he half-watched the racing again and tried to blot out his dad shouting at the screen.
‘Come on, my beauty,’ Chas yelled, spittle glistening on his lips. ‘Don’t let the gaffer down.’
‘You got a bet on?’ George asked for something to say rather than curiosity.
‘Yeah, I’ve put a few quid on. Always like a flutter before Christmas.’
‘How’s it going? You up?’
‘Don’t know cos of that bleeding crime thing. I’ll have to wait for the results.’
‘You could check on Ceefax.’
‘Nah… can’t find my way around it.’
The phone rang.
‘I’ll get it.’ George leapt up. Usually, he would let his dad take the call. Like with the television remote, his father was the ultimate ruler of the landline, but before Chas was even lifting his broad behind, George had snatched the receiver. It might be Millie. Perhaps she wasn’t working tonight. Maybe they could spend the entire evening alone together. He wondered if Martha and Sharon had gone to their respective family homes yet. Would his Christmas stay over with Millie happen tonight?Oh, yes, please.
‘Hello.’
‘George?’ It was Owen’s voice, sounding strangely distant for a call only coming from Aldershot.
‘Hi. What’s up, mate?’
‘Sorry, oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to call you at home. I tried your mobile, but it’s off and, and I’m in trouble. I need… need help.’
George was almost certain he’d heard his friend sob.
