'You didn't tell me that . . .'

'Didn't I?'

'No, I'm sure you didn't.' She reaches across, puts her hand on my arm. 'Brian, I am so sorry.'

'Oh, it's alright, it was six, no, seven years ago now, when I was twelve.'

'What happened?'

'Heart attack.'

'Oh G.o.d, how old was he?'

'Forty-one.'

'That must have been awful.'

'Oh, well, you know.'

And she's leaning forward now, eyes wide and she's holding my hand and squeezing it, and with the other hand she takes the wax encrusted bottle, and puts it to one side so that she can see me properly.

'Do you mind talking about it?'

'No, not at all,' I say, and I start talking.

121.

15.

QUESTION: Lee J. Cobb, Frederick March and Dustm Hoffman have all played the unfortunate w.i.l.l.y Loman in which Arthur Miller play of 1949?

ANSWER Death of a Salesman.

'Dad was a double-glazing salesman, which is a funny job really, because it's one of those jobs that people think it's okay to laugh at, like traffic warden or tax inspector or sewage worker. I suppose it's because, at the end of the day, no one loves double-glazing. Dad certainly didn't, not after ten years of it, anyway. He was in the army before that, where he'd met Mum and had me. He'd done his National Service, one of the last people to do it, and sort of liked it, and hadn't known what else to do, so he stayed on. I do remember worrying, whenever there was a war somewhere on the news, tension with Russia, or when Northern Ireland was flaring up or something, worrying that he'd be called up, stuck into uniform, given a gun. But I don't think he was that kind of soldier really, I think he was more on the clerical side. Anyway, when they had me Mum put her foot down and said he had to leave the army because she was fed up with moving round all the time, and she hated West Germany, where I was born, so he came back to Southend, and he got the double-glazing thing and that was it really.'

'Did he enjoy it?'

'G.o.d, no. I mean, he must have at first, I suppose, but I think he really grew to despise it. It's long hours, you see, because 122.

you have to catch people when they're in, which means early mornings, evenings and nighttime, so it was usually dark when he got home, even in summer. And I think there was a bit of door-to-door involved; "Excuse me madam, but are you aware of the huge difference double-glazing could make to your heating bill," that kind of thing. And I know it was paid mainly on commission, which meant that there was this constant worry about money. Whatever job I end up doing, I never, ever want to be paid on commission. I know it's meant to be an incentive, but it's just an incentive to f.u.c.k up your life, it's working with a gun to your head. It's really evil, I think. Anyway. Sorry. Boring.

'Anyway, he hated it. He never told me he did of course, because why would you, to a little kid, but he must have because he was angry whenever he got home from work; not shouting or punching or anything, but just this silent, clenched, white-knuckled, red-faced rage at the tiniest thing, like toys left out or wasted food. You want your memories of your parents to be about picnics or being carried round on their shoulders, or pooh sticks, or something, but no one's childhood is perfect and all I mainly remember is him arguing in the kitchen with Mum about money or work or whatever, his face all red, clenching and unclenching his fists.'

'That's terrible.'

'Is it? Well, I'm probably exaggerating a little bit. Mostly I remember watching telly with him, if I was allowed to stay up until he got home. Sitting on the floor between his legs. Quiz shows. He loved quiz shows, and nature doc.u.mentaries, David Attenborough, educational stuff, he was always going on about how important an education was, I suppose because he thought that was the key to a good life, to not being miserable, to a job you didn't despise.'

'So, how did he, you know . . . ?'

'Well, I'm not sure exactly. I don't like to ask Mum about it, because it sets her off, but apparently he was out at work, in 123.

some strangers' house, trying to convince them of the benefits of double-glazing or whatever, and he just. . . fell over. Right there, in their living room. I'd got back from school and was watching telly while Mum was cooking tea, and there was a knock at the front door, and some talking in the hall, I went out to see what had happened, and there were two policewomen and Mum was curled up in a ball on the carpet. To begin with I thought maybe Dad had been arrested or something, but this policewoman said he'd been taken poorly, and then they rushed Mum off to the hospital while I stayed with the next-door neighbours, and he died shortly after she got there. Oh, look. No more wine. D'you want some more? Another bottle? I stayed over at the neighbours, and they told me the next morning. Another bottle of Lambrusco please, no, we've not decided about desserts yet, can we have five minutes?

'Anyway. Looking back, I'm not surprised, even though he was only forty-one, because he was just like this . . . knot, all the time. And he did drink, I mean a lot, pub at lunchtime and after work, you could always smell the beer on him. And he smoked about sixty a day. I used to buy him f.a.gs as a Christmas present for f.u.c.k's sake. I don't think I've got a single memory of him where he isn't puffing away on a f.a.g. There's even a photo of him and Mum with me in the maternity ward, and he's got a f.a.g lit up. In a hospital, with the ashtray and a bottle of beer balanced on top of my cot. The silly sod.'

'And how did you react?'

'To him dying? Um. Not sure. Weirdly, I think. I mean I cried and everything, but they wanted to keep me off school, which worried me because I didn't like missing lessons, so that should give you some idea of the kind of swotty, cold little freak I was. I was more upset by Mum to be honest, because Mum really loved Dad, and she was only, what, thirty-three at the time, and he was the only man she'd ever slept with, before or since, as far as I know, and she did take it really, really badly. Oh, she was okay as long as there were people 124.

around, and of course for the first two weeks the house was absolutely crammed - a.s.sorted vicars, and mates of Dad's, and neighbours, and my gran, and aunts and uncles - so there wasn't time for Mum to get too upset really, because she was always busy making sandwiches and pots of tea, and making up camp-beds for these strange cousins from Ireland, who we'd never seen before or since. But then after a couple of weeks they all started to drift off and it was just me and Mum. And that was the worst time, when things had calmed down and people left us alone. Quite a weird combination, a teenage boy and his mum. I mean, you're very aware that there's someone . . . missing.

'And I suppose, looking back, I could have been better with Mum, sat with her and stuff. But I used to hate sitting in that living room every night, watching her watch Dallas or whatever and then suddenly bursting into tears. When you're that age, that kind of thing, grief, well it's . . . just embarra.s.sing. What are you meant to do? Put your arms around her? Say something? What are you supposed to say, a twelve-year-old boy? So in a strange, terrible way I started to resent it. I used to avoid her. I'd just go from school to the public library and from the library to my room to do my homework; there was never enough homework as far as I was concerned. G.o.d, what a creep.'

'How were they at school?'

'Oh, it was alright. Compa.s.sion doesn't come very easily to twelve-year-old boys, not at my school anyway, and why should it really? Some of them tried, but you could tell they were putting it on. Also - and this is really shameful - at the time it wasn't so much about the person who'd actually, you know, died, my dad, just dropping dead at the age of forty-one, or how it was for Mum even, I just thought how it was going to be for me. What's that word? Solipsism or solecism or something? Solecism.

'I suppose it got me noticed though, in a terrible way; 125.

this awful, maudlin kudos, the dead-dad-boy, you know, lots of girls who've never talked to you before, coming up and offering you a finger of their Kit-Kat and rubbing your back. And there was a bit of bullying of course, and a couple of kids took the p.i.s.s, calling me Barnardo-boy, that kind of thing, which isn't even witty, because it's not like I didn't have Mum. But I had one mate, Spencer, who decided to look after me for some reason, and that helped. People were scared of Spencer. Quite right too, because he's a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Spencer . . .'

'Do you have a picture of him?'

'Spencer? Oh, Dad. No, not in my wallet. Why, d'you think I should?'

'Not at all.'

'Back at home I do. If you come back to mine. Not tonight necessarily, but, you know, whenever . . .'

'And you think about him?'

'Oh, yeah, of course. All the time. But it's hard because we never really knew each other. Not as two adults anyway.'

'I'm sure he'd have loved you.'

'D'you think so?'

'Of course. Don't you?'

'Not sure. I think he'd have thought I was a bit weird, to be honest.'

'He'd have been proud.'

'Why?'

'Lots of reasons. University. Star of the quiz team, going on telly and everything . . .'

'Maybe. The only thing I do still think, and I don't know why, because it's not rational, and it's not even technically their fault, but I'd love to meet the people who employed him, the people who made all the money from making him work like that, because I think they're c.u.n.ts. Sorry - bad word. I don't really know their names or where they are now, probably in some big f.u.c.k-off villa in the Algarve or something, and I don't know what I'd say to them even if I 126.

met them, because they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just running a business, just making a profit, and Dad could always have left if he hated it so much, got on his bike and looked for something else, and he would have probably, you know, gone early at some point anyway, even if he was a florist or a primary school teacher or something, it's not like it was criminal negligence, or a mining accident or a fishing boat or something, he was just a salesman, but it's not right for anyone to hate their job that much, and I think the people who made him work like that, well, I do think they're c.u.n.ts and I hate them, every day, whoever they are, for taking . . . anyway. Anyway, will you excuse me a minute? I've just got to go to the loo.'

127.

16.

QUESTION: The lachrymal duct and gland are primarily responsible for the production and distribution of what?

ANSWER: Tears.

In the end I suppose it was a blessing that we were sat so near the toilets.

I've been in here some time now. Too long probably. I don't want her to think I've got diarrhoea or anything, but I don't want her to see me crying either. As a seduction technique, uncontrollable sobbing is definitely overrated. Now she thinks I'm one of those boys who cries. She's probably next door right now, shaking her head, paying the bill and hurrying back to halls to tell Erin all about it; 'G.o.d, you wouldn't believe the evening I've had. He's only one of those boys-who-cry . . .'

There's a knock on the cubicle door, and I a.s.sume it's Luigi, checking to see if I've done a runner through the fire exit, but there's a voice . . .

'Brian, are you okay?'

'Oh, hiya Alice!'

'Are you alright in there?'

'Oh, I'm fine, I'm fine.'

'D'you want to unlock the door, sweetheart?'

Oh, G.o.d, she wants to come in the toilet cubicle with me.

'Unlock the door, darling . . .'

'Actually, I'm fine, I'll be with you in a minute.' Hang on ' sweetheart' ?

128.

'O-kay. Come back to me soon though, won't you?'

'Two minutes,' I shout, and, as she's going out the door, 'go ahead and order dessert if you want to!'

And she goes. I wait a moment, then leave the cubicle and look in the mirror. It's not so bad I suppose - the eyes are a bit red, but my nose isn't running any more, so I adjust my bow-tie, mould the fringe back in place, re-attach the braces, and walk back in, head slightly bowed so Luigi won't see me. When I approach the table, Alice stands up, and amazingly puts her arm round me and hugs me really tightly, her cheek pressed tight against mine. I don't know what to do, so I put my arms around her too, leaning forward slightly to allow for the volume of the puff-ball skirt, one hand on the grey satin, and one on her back, her beautiful back, just where the flesh swells out over the top of the satin, and she whispers in my ear - 'you are such a lovely man' - and I think I'm going to cry again, not because I am such a lovely man, but because I'm such a disgusting, f.u.c.king stupid, f.u.c.king t.w.a.t, so I squeeze my eyes tight shut and we stay like that for a little while. When I open my eyes again I see Luigi watching, and then winking slyly at me, and giving me the thumbs-up. I don't really know how to react to this so I give him the thumbs-up back, and immediately feel despicable, because I don't quite understand what I'm giving the thumbs-up to.

Eventually of course, my braces ping off and Alice breaks the embrace, and smiles at me with the corners of her mouth turned down, the kind of rueful smile mums give to tearful kids in TV commercials. I'm starting to get pretty uncomfortable now, so I say, 'Sorry about that. I usually don't start crying until much later in the evening.'

'Shall we go?'

But I don't want to go yet. 'You don't want dessert? Or coffee or anything?'

'No, I'm alright.'

'They've got profiteroles? Death by chocolate . . . ?'

1S9.

'No, really, I'm stuffed,' and from somewhere in the folds of the puff-ball dress she produces the world's smallest handbag, and goes to open it.

'Hey, I'm paying!' I say.

And so I pay the bill, which is actually pretty reasonable in the end, thanks to me having a complete mental breakdown instead of dessert, and we head out.

On the way back to her digs, we change the subject, and talk about books, how we both hate D. H. Lawrence and which Thomas Hardy we prefer; I'm Jude The Obscure, she's Far From The Madding Crowd. It's a mild late November evening, and the streets are damp despite the fact that there's been no rain. She suggests we take the scenic route back, and so we stomp up the hill that overlooks the city, breathing a little heavily, because of the exertion and the conversation, which never falters. The sound of the cars on the city streets gets fainter and the only noise apart from our voices is the wind in the trees and the whoosh of her satin ball-gown. Halfway up the hill she slips her arm through mine, and gives it a little squeeze, and rests her head on my shoulder. The last person to take me by the arm like that was my mum, on the way home after seeing my Jesus in G.o.dspell. She had just watched me being crucified of course, which is bound to have an emotional effect on a mother, but I remember even then that it made me feel a little strange, partly proud, partly deeply embarra.s.sed, like I was her proper-little-soldier or something. Alice taking my arm feels no less self-conscious, as if it's something she picked up from a TV costume drama, but it's nice too, and I feel warmer and a good two inches taller.

At the top of the hill we sit on a bench, and she nestles her hip against mine so that we sit snugly in the corner, and even though I can feel the damp soaking through my slacks, and know they'll be streaked with algae, I don't mind. In fact I wouldn't mind if we stayed here forever, looking at the city beneath us, and the lights of the motorway winding off into the countryside.

130.

Tve just realised, I haven't wished you happy birthday yet.'

'Oh, that's okay . . .'

'Happy birthday though . . .'

'Oh thank you, same to you.'

'Except it's not my birthday.' She says.

'No, of course not. Sorry.'

'And I haven't got you a present, either . . .'

'That's okay. Tonight was a present.'

We stop talking, and I contemplate pointing out some of the constellations, like they do in films. I've learnt them off by heart for just such an occasion, but it's too cloudy, so instead I wonder if it's dark enough for me to kiss her, or if she's drunk enough to let me.

'Brian, what are you doing at Christmas?'

'Um, don't know . . .'

'D'you want to come and stay?'

'Where?'

'With me.'

'In London?'

'No, we've got a little cottage in Suffolk. You can meet Rose and Michael.'

'Who are Rose and Michael?'

'My parents!'