"...an' THASS why yer never see a poor bookie" said Tel, plaintively. He slurped his beer and banged the glass back on the table with impotent fury. I raised an eyebrow and looked around to see if the other diners had taken note of this little scene. But they were still busy slurping up their Hot and Sour to pay us any attention.
There are reasons for this outburst. Welcome back by the way. It's been a strange old week. I haven't been to the Valley or the DW but I felt the animosity after the first and the becalmed acceptance after yesterday. It's been a week of pre-Christmas get-togethers; colleagues self-consciously meeting to eat overpriced turkey dinners in the case of the office in Birmingham; the other two with old friends and no trace of set dinners at expensive prices or microwaved gravy or bullet-like brussels.
I had a day off on Friday because my dad fancied going Christmas shopping. i was working yesterday and then came home early to accompany Tel at the Thai on the Quay in Harwich for our festive supper. My dad needed posh shops and a decent choice, so we went to Cambridge.
He extended the invitation to Paula, but she was needed at her store for something, so declined via the phone on Wednesday night. She's managed the age-old trick of charming my dad, something my previous beau failed at and then didn't even bother at once her failure became apparent. My dad, though now in his early seventies, is no fool. He saw through her and, at least from then onwards until the decree absolute plopped through the door, relations were polite but nothing more.
So we went. I was hungover. He drove. I'd had a party the night before; old friends who ate medium-rare steak and drank flagons of red and laughed at each other and joshed me about my girlfriend/fiancee and her age and the fact she couldn't accompany us due to a prior date with her mum and sister for a dinner (her treat) at The Alma in Harwich. A night of male bonding, complaints about the vagaries of being wed for twenty-odd years and fathering ungrateful children and the pain of full-time work in establishments that had reintroduced the old 'working from home' mantra, so it all felt like last Christmas again, except no-one gave me their heart last Christmas, just a few grand in a grubby brown envelope and a few days of drinking and eating with the Terries.
And we parted as friends still, amid the vague promises to keep in touch and the updated email addresses for the wedding invites, and my drunken promises to send them once we'd fixed dates and all that.
By contrast, my dad, who is at least assured of his place at the wedding when it happens, was balm and comfort. We pulled into the Park'n'Ride car park rubbing hands against the chill and admiring the frost on cars whose owners had left them hours before for work in some faceless organisation.
"Bacon sandwich?" asked my dad as the bus alighted in that city of aquatint and frosty Parker's Piece. I nodded. We strolled, happily chatting, to the nearest cafe/bistro and sat at the red vinyl gingham covered table, the cruet placed in the furthest position away from us both as though banished. The Heinz ketchup bottle was as crusty as a bloodied nose around the lid so we both reached for the HP. The utilitarian white tea mugs smoked wispy steam from the brick-red tea they contained. We bit into the bread and dripped great globs of brown on our plates. "Mmmmm" said my dad. He chewed as though recounting a good tale, the smile widening.
Sarnies done, we hunched together over the tea to discuss tactics. "Mum wants Penhaligon's scent and a Jo Malone candle and a cashmere scarf and Neal's Yard shampoo" he said, breathlessly, reading her Xmas list written on an old envelope. "I'd like to buy her an antique, something not too pricey, know what it is when I see it and all that". My tasks were easier: an iPad cover, a book, a pair of nice slippers and a box of Violet creams. We shook the crumbs off trousers and re-coated and he slipped the girl who served us a tenner, though we'd already paid, and she looked at him like he was at best eccentric but she liked it all the same.
We started in Penhaligon's and then descended the city via John Lewis and several smaller units. By two we were finished. "Pint?" asked my dad. So we went to the Eagle and sat in the RAF bar, dimly lit by candlelight which flushed red on our ales and faces. The bags rested on chairs now the lunchtime rush was done. The Christmas lights twinkled like stars on a frosty night.
We came home with flushed faces and listening to Radio 4 on dad's car stereo. He dropped me at mine by six. I invited him in and he hesitated, but then de-sheathed his seat belt and joined me in my kitchen for a coffee with a drop of brandy. Paula came in at six-thirty, parked behind him to block him in and bounded in like a Golden Retriever shown water. She and my dad like each other. She kissed him, then perched herself next to him on the spare chair and they chatted, inconsequentially, about her day and ours. He showed her his gifts to my mum and she made all the right noises and he left, mollified, enchanted by her easy manners and her joie de vivre.
That night, as we cuddled, she murmured how much she liked my dad and I murmured that he'd already got high blood pressure and she laughed and play-punched me on the arm and it actually hurt, even though it wasn't meant to, and I thought "Christ, don't get on the wrong side of her ever" again, for about the thousandth time since we met.
Saturday was dulled by work. Paula took her mum and sister to Lakeside, shopping. She had her credit card ready. She spent an age showering and dressing and making-up and teasing her hair back into shape. We kissed goodbye and I was gone, off to Birmingham, Talksport telling me Gerrard was returning to Anfield for the first time since he retired as a player and how many they thought Liverpool would score against his new lot. No mention of Neil Harris. Or of Cooky the ex. I sighed and switched over to Absolute 80's.
I came home at three-fifty, through the dusk, past the bright lights and the throngs of shoppers laden with bags and bent by phone-watching. Home at six-ish, no time for a freshen-up as we'd booked the Thai for eight and Tel sent a text saying he was watching "Scum Manu in pub 00 usless". So I joined him and came in just as Ronaldo smashed a penalty past Krul and the scum fans went quiet (apart from the booing) and Tel was high-fiving Jamie the landlord, a closet Newcastle fan even though the closest he's been to Geordieville is the North Yorkshire Moors.
We left at seven-thirty and got a cab into Harwich. Tel was unsettled in the cab. "Lissen, got summink ter tell yer. Wait til we've ordered beer'n'that". Intrigued, I waited. We sat in the restaurant, near the back, a decent table for people spotting. We ordered Singha's and satay starters. Then he said "So I 'ad this tip, right, 'orse runnin' yesterdee, 5-1 shot, Trevvah darn the office at work, 'e reckoned 'e'd won five 'undred last week on a sim'lar pony. So I fought 'we need ter boost the ole betting' pot like, just shy'o'two and a quarter grand. So I 'ad the quarter on this 'orse and blow me, it fell on the second fence. Just tripped and went. Wotchin' on me phone in the karsey I woz, nearly lobbed the bleeder darn it". He stopped, face flushed, I didn't know with what, embarrassment? Anger?. Then he reached into his coat inside pocket and withdrew a wad of notes in an envelope. "Nine'Undred each" he said. Then he couldn't understand why I wasn't angry with him. So I said "Nine Hundred quid is a lot of money considering" and that's when the relief hit him and he railed against betting and bookmakers in general.
So I'm nine hundred quid up from a fifty-each start. We ate the prawn crackers and the satay skewers and then he ordered something he couldn't pronounce and the waiter said "Do you like intestines then, sir?" and Tel nearly turned greener than the grass on the quay and then the waiter laughed and said "Only Joke! Is beef with lemongrass and chilli" and we all laughed and ordered two and it was delicious. And Paula joined us for dessert after texting me and gave us all a lift home and we dropped a drunk Tel at twelve and he fiddled in his trousers for his house keys and then said "Still cumming then?" and Paula and I looked at each other in simulated shock and he said, frantically "Nah, I ment Chrissmuss at ours!" and we laughed and said yes and he kissed Paula and went to do the same with me only he fortunately missed my mouth and got my five o'clock shadow instead.
We drove off waving at him. "Hope he made it inside" said Paula, as we rounded the corner to mine. I hoped I would too, later. And I did!!
1-1 away's a good result all said. Mind you. I don't fancy Harris much........
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