Divorced and Deadly. Josephine Cox

You can never have enough shirts.’ She punched father’s newspaper. ‘Isn’t that right?’

      ‘For pity’s sake!’ Dad complained. ‘Can’t a man read a paper in peace?’

      ‘I said…a man can never have enough shirts.’ What is wrong with the woman?

      ‘If you say so, dear.’ Dad knew when to give in.

      ‘I do.’ Mother smiled triumphantly.

      Dad settled himself in his chair. ‘Then that’s settled. Now, can I please read my paper?’

      ‘If you must!’

      At times like this, sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants looks very tempting.

       BEDFORD OCTOBER, SUNDAY

      I thought I deserved a lie in as I’d had a hard week at work. On Thursday, two cats almost tore each other to shreds when Poppy accidentally shut them in together. That same afternoon, young Simon took the Great Dane for a walk and it ran off with him. Simon ended up in the duck pond; the dog leaped into the baker’s back garden, flattened a hutch and sent the four rabbits into the undergrowth. He chased them down a hole, and it took three men two hours to retrieve them.

      And there’s more! By late afternoon, I’d actually finished extending the puppy run. When Agnes Dovecote arrived with her snappy Dachsund, she somehow managed to fall into the hole, which I’d dug in the wrong place and forgotten to cover. I always believed she was some kind of lady, but I must tell you, I have never heard such shocking language in all my life. After twisting her ankle and laddering her tights (more like flight-path balloons), the old biddy cunningly blackmailed me into letting her ‘darling toots’ have a fortnight’s stay at my expense (I didn’t know who to throttle first…the snappy Dachsund or the old cow!).

      And now, what with all that digging, there’s not one inch of my poor body that doesn’t ache.

      My Granny’s old alarm clock has taken on a life of its own. Mum should have binned it, but in her great wisdom she gave it to me instead! I’m sure it’s a form of torture.

      It’s now seven a.m. on Sunday morning. The damned thing is ringing and ringing and I can’t turn it off. I grabbed it, wrapped it in my shirt and stuffed it under the bedclothes. It was still ringing its head off, but you know what? The vibration was surprisingly pleasant.

      Just when I was getting ready to enjoy it, the damned thing stopped. Utter silence! But oh, what bliss! There I was, stretched out like some big, lazy dog with a belly full of best tripe. The curtains were shut; there was no one about. I could dream and laze, and there was not a soul in the whole wide world to disturb me.

      ‘BEN!’ It was my darling mother. ‘BEN, CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF THAT BED! IT’S NINE O’ CLOCK. TIME FOR SUNDAY MASS!’

      ‘I’M NOT GOING!’

      ‘WHY NOT?’

      ‘I’M SICK!’

      ‘DON’T GIVE ME THAT! I KNOW YOUR LITTLE GAME. YOU’VE NEVER LIKED GOING TO CHURCH, EVEN WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY!’

      ‘YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!’ I was not going to let her win this time. ‘I REALLY AM ILL. I’VE BEEN UP HALF THE NIGHT, BRINGING UP MY DINNER.’

      The bedroom door was flung open and there she was, in all her glory: black hat, long black coat and looking for all the world like Darth Vader. ‘So, you’re ill are you?’ Gawd! She’s in my bedroom! Was there no peace in this crazy world?

      ‘Oh, Mam, leave me alone…I need my sleep.’ I groaned.

      ‘Is that so?’ She walked across the room and stood by my bed. It’s Hammer Horror all over again.

      ‘So you need your sleep, do you?’ She said quietly.

      ‘Yes, please.’ Am I pathetic or what?

      ‘So, you’ve been throwing up, have you?’ Even quieter.

      ‘Honestly, Mum, it was awful. Look, it might be best if you go without me. Let me get my rest, eh?’ Groaning, I slid under the covers. ‘I hurt all over, I really do.’

      ‘Do you now?’ Oh, God! I thought, She’s folded her arms. When my mother folds her arms, it’s war.

      ‘Please, Mum. I’ll make up for it next Sunday.’ I’m a past master at grovelling. ‘Next week, I promise to be up and dressed before you even come down for breakfast.’

      ‘So, you’ve had no sleep, you’ve been sick, and you hurt all over?’ She drew back the covers and looked me in the eye (it felt like my last moment on earth). ‘Is that the honest truth, Ben?’

      ‘Well of course it is! Do you think I’m making it all up?’ (One Christmas, I played Joseph at school; the drama teacher swore I had a future in acting.) ‘Ooh, Mum, I feel terrible.’

      I gave a rending groan and made a face like a stripped kipper. Shameful I know, but when confronted by the enemy, what can a man do?

      ‘Now, I’m not calling you a liar, son, but I can’t understand it.’ Mum had a look in her eye I didn’t like.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because your poor father was ill most of the night with shocking wind. I had to get out of the room or faint from the smell. Anyway, I thought he might have woken you, what with all the noise and such. But you were so deep asleep, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.’

      ‘Shh, well…you see…’ (She was on to me.) ‘I must have just got back into bed…’ Give it up, Ben, I told myself. It’s too late; you’ve been well and truly rumbled.

      Her tight little face stretched into a sly, knowing smile that would frighten elephants. ‘You must be feeling better now,’ she said, ‘I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes.’

      ‘I’M NOT GOING!’ That told her.

      ‘TEN MINUTES, BEN!’ That told me!

      ‘I’VE ALREADY SAID…I AM NOT GOING, AND THAT’S FINAL.’ End of! Not up for negotiation! Last word on the subject.

      With her good and told, and out of my hair, I sighed, and cuddled up with my Big Ted.

      I’ve done it! At long last I’ve put my foot down; both at home and at work, and not before time neither.

      What’s more, although I might live to regret it, I have definitely decided to broach the matter of sharing a flat with Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. Though it will mean I’ll have to take on his hairy mongrel, whose wind problem is almost as frightening as my father’s.

      The day seemed to have ended as well as expected.

      The church was cold as usual. I warbled through two hymns I’d never even heard of, but when the organ struck up All Things Bright and Beautiful, I sang my heart out with the best of them.

      The collection box got me on the way out. I only had two pence, which I threw in with a grand gesture. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the verger tucked the coin back into my hand, ‘I think you need it more than we do.’ I was miffed. What real man wears a skirt anyway!

      As I slunk out, I felt a sharp pinch on the back of my leg. ‘You’re a mean bugger, you are!’

      If he wasn’t just three feet high, and sucking a sticky dummy, I might have smacked him one. (Though I did manage to stamp craftily on his foot. It did my heart good to see the shock on his little pink face.)

      Ah well, happy days. Tomorrow has to be an improvement. Doesn’t it?

       BEDFORD