Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

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      “Bloody marvellous,” says Dad. “Who does he think he is?”

      “You’ll be able to ask him yourself,” I say, as Sid comes in trying to look all relaxed. I am glad to see that there is a lump under one of his eyes and his upper lip is grotesquely swollen. Mum notices immediately.

      “Ooh, Sid, you haven’t been in any trouble, have you?”

      “No, Mum. Somebody let a swing door go at me. It was an accident.”

      He stresses the last word and there is almost a hint of pleading in his eyes as he looks at me.

      “Looks as if Rosie has been having a go at him, if you ask me, Mum,” I say. “What have you been up to, Sid?”

      “You and Rosie haven’t had words, have you?” says Mum, all worried-like. Mum can’t stand what she calls ‘an atmosphere’ and can remember when Sid came home rotten-drunk and tried to have Rosie on the stairs. This manoeuvre, difficult enough at the best of times and downright impossible when drunk and with Rosie trying to knee you in the groin, resulted in Sid slipping down fifteen steps and nearly doing himself irreparable damage on a loose stair rod.

      “No, no,” says Sid. “Rosie and me are fine. It was an accident, I tell you.”

      “Of course, I don’t suppose Rosie has seen your face yet, has she?” I say pleasantly. “You came in pretty late last night, didn’t you?”

      “I don’t have to clock in, do I?” says Sid, and I can tell he is beginning to lose his temper.

      “Come, come, dear,” says Mum, “I don’t think Timmy meant it like that. It’ll be a bit of a shock for Rosie, won’t it?”

      “Too true, Ma,” I chip in. “It’s the kind of thing Rosie could get very distressed about.”

      “You hadn’t been drinking, had you, dear?” says Mum. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think you ought to look after yourself a bit more. You’ve been looking quite peaky lately. You must get enough sleep if you’re going to be up and down those ladders all day. You only need one slip and that’s your livelihood gone. And with Rosie and, now, little Jason, you’ve got more than just yourself to think about.”

      “Humf,” says Dad from behind his paper.

      Dad is a first-rate judge of a layabout and has few contenders himself in the over-fifty category. He has always reckoned Sid to be a creep of the first water and not been slow to say so.

      “He’s never thought about anyone else in his whole life and he’s not going to start now. You’re wasting your time there, Mother. Any man with a grain of self-respect wouldn’t still be living off his in-laws on the money he’s making. I know what his little game is. He reckons if he hangs on long enough, you and I will snuff it and he’ll have the house. Well, he’ll have to wait a damn long time, I can tell you. I’ll still be sitting here when he’s queueing up for his old age pension.”

      “Oh, God! Not again! I can’t stand it at this time of the morning. How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t want your rubbishy old house.”

      “‘Rubbishy’. Did you hear that, Mother? The sponging layabout has the gall to call our home ‘rubbishy’. If it’s not good enough for you, why do you stay here then?”

      “I’m not staying here a minute longer than it takes me to save up the deposit on a flat. You know that as well as I do. And don’t talk about sponging. You get your rent every week. A bloody sight more than you deserve for this dump. I’m amazed the kid wasn’t born with web feet.”

      “Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it? Did you hear that, Mother? Now he’s sneering at us. You’d like oil-fired central heating, I suppose, and a heated lavatory seat.”

      “It’s quite warm enough, the length of time you spend sitting on it,” says Sid, and Dad goes on spluttering while Mum clucks away and the fried bread gets burnt. It’s all going very nicely, though it’s getting a bit far away from Rosie.

      Luckily the little lady herself makes a timely appearance and immediately drops her lips to give the loathsome Sid his first kiss of the day. In such a position his battered phizog is clearly revealed to her.

      “Oh, Sid,” she squeals. “How did you do that?”

      “Yes, Sid,” I say, my voice heavy with menace, “how did you do that?”

      “I’ve told you once, you berk. Somebody swung a door in my face.” He sounds worried.

      “On purpose?” howls Rosie. “How could anybody do a thing like that?”

      “Maybe Sid rubbed them up the wrong way,” I say, helpfully. “You’d be surprised some of the things he gets up to.”

      I divide my gaze between Sid and Rosie and they stare at me blankly, but for different reasons.

      “You aren’t in any trouble, are you, Sid?”

      Very good question. Sid swallows hard and is about to open his mouth when Mum decides it’s time to change the subject.

      “I thought your Elizabeth was looking very nice the other night,” she says to me. Stupid old bag. Trust her to let Sid off the hook. But maybe I can turn it to advantage.

      “I wouldn’t know about that,” I say, grudgingly.

      “What do you mean, ‘you wouldn’t know’?” says Rosie, turning her attention away from Sid. “She’s a lovely girl. You should be very glad to have her.”

      “Yes,” says Sid, chirping up a bit, “very glad.”

      “Depends what you mean by ‘have’,” I say, giving Sid the evil eye.

      “I don’t understand you.” Rosie shakes her head.

      “Well, Rosie, I suppose I’d better tell you—and you, Mum. You’ve got to know sooner or later—” My voice is trembling and even Dad puts down his pencil and stares at me. Sid’s face screws up like a man threatened with a red hot poker and his mean features plead for mercy.

      “I don’t really know how to say this …” Sid pulls back from the throng and his hand dives into his back pocket.

      “… but last night I saw Liz and …” Sid pulls open his wallet and points feverishly at a thick wad of notes. My power is total and I can’t resist another turn of the knife.

      “It was in her Dad’s potting shed …”

      “Her Dad’s potting shed?” says Mum. “I hope you weren’t up to no good.”

      “Oh, no, Mum. Not me …”

      Sid staggers back against the sink to await the mardi gras, as the frogs call it.

      “We had a talk and, well, we decided it wasn’t on.”

      “Oh, no, dear. I am sorry to hear that. Are you sure it isn’t just a tiff?” says Mum.

      “No, СКАЧАТЬ