A Spot Of Bother

8

Being alone in a darkened room was not as comforting as George had hoped. He lay on the bed and watched a fly turn randomly in the speckled gray air. To his surprise he missed being shouted at by Katie. Ideally he would like to have done some shouting himself. It seemed like a therapeutic thing to do. But he had never been very good at shouting. Being on the receiving end was probably as close as he was going to get.

The fly came to rest on the tassels of the lampshade.

It was going to be all right. Jean was not going to make him go to the doctor. No one could make him do anything.

He only had to say the word doctor inside his head and he could smell rubber tubing and see that ghost-glow from X-rays on light boxes, the dark mass, doctors in beige side-rooms holding clipboards on their knees and being diplomatic.

He had to distract himself.

The eight American states beginning with the letter M.

Maine. Missouri. Maryland. That was the one everyone forgot. Montana. Mississippi. Or was that just a river?

The door opened.

“Can I come into your cave, Grandpa?”

Without waiting for a reply Jacob raced across the room, climbed onto the bed and stuck his legs under the duvet. “Then the big…the big…the big yellow monster-eating monster can’t get us.”

“I think you’re safe,” said George. “We don’t get many yellow monsters round this way.”

“It’s the yellow monster-eating monster,” said Jacob firmly.

“The yellow monster-eating monster,” said George.

“What’s a Heffalump?” asked Jacob.

“Well, a Heffalump doesn’t actually exist.”

“Is it furry?” asked Jacob.

“It doesn’t exist so…no, it isn’t furry.”

“Does it have wings?”

George had always felt uncomfortable around small children. He knew they were not very clever. That was the point. That was why they went to school. But they could smell fear. They looked you in the eye and asked you to be a bus conductor and it was hard to shake the suspicion that you were being asked to pass some fiendish test.

It did not matter when Jamie and Katie were young. Fathers were not meant to play peepbo or put their hands up a sock and be Mr. Snakey-Snake (Jacob and Jean were inordinately fond of Mr. Snakey-Snake). You built a tree house, administered justice and took control of the kite in strong winds. And that was it.

“Does it have a jet engine or a peller?” asked Jacob.

“Does what have a jet engine or a propeller?” asked George.

“Does this plane have a jet engine or a peller?”

“Well, I think you’re going to have to tell me.”

“What do you think?” asked Jacob.

“I think it probably has a propeller.”

“No. It has a jet engine.”

They lay on their backs, side by side, looking at the ceiling. The fly had gone. There was a faint whiff of wet nappy. Somewhere between chicken soup and boiled milk.

“Are we going to do sleeping now?” asked Jacob.

“To be honest, Jacob, I think I’d prefer to keep talking.”

“Do you like talking, Grandpa?”

“Sometimes,” said George. “A lot of the time I like just being quiet. But at this precise moment I think I prefer talking.”

“What’s ‘this price moment’?”

“This precise moment is now. Just after lunch. In the afternoon. On a Sunday.”

“Are you funny?” asked Jacob.

“I think the general opinion would be that I’m not funny.”

The door opened again and Ray’s head appeared.

“Sorry, George. The nipper slipped the leash.”

“That’s OK. We were talking, weren’t we, Jacob.”

It felt good squaring up to his prospective son-in-law in one of Ray’s acknowledged areas of expertise.

But then it was not so good because Ray came into the room and sat on the end of the bed. On his and Jean’s bed.

“Seems like you blokes have got the right idea. Keeping your heads down.”

Ray lay on the bed.

And this was where the children problem overlapped with the Ray problem. You got the impression, sometimes, that parts of his brain were actually missing, that he could quite easily wander into the bathroom looking for a towel while you were on the toilet and have no clue as to why this might be inappropriate.

Jacob scrambled to his feet. “Let’s play ring-a-roses.”

And here it was. The test. You started a benign conversation about Heffalumps and before you knew it you had been shoehorned into some mortifying charade.

“OK,” said Ray getting onto his knees.

Sweet mother of God, thought George. Surely this wasn’t going to involve him?

“George?”

It was.

He got up onto his knees. Jacob took hold of his left hand and Ray took hold of his right. He hoped sincerely that Jean or Katie did not come into the room whilst this was taking place.

Jacob began bouncing up and down. “Ring-a-ring-a-roses…”

Ray joined in. “A pocket full of noses.”

George moved his shoulders up and down in time with the song.

“A-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down.”

Jacob leapt into the air and fell shrieking onto the duvet with Ray. George, having given up hope of escaping with any dignity, slumped backward onto his pillow.

Jacob was laughing. Ray was laughing. And it occurred to George that if he could find the handle he might be able to open up the secret door and slide down that long chute all the way back to childhood and someone would take care of him and he would be safe.

“Again,” shouted Jacob, clambering to his feet. “Again, again, again, again, again…”