Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 25

I met Doreen at Tottenham Court Road just before lunch time on my 40th birthday.

Lady Shite at Maida Vale had lodged a complaint about Jaffa and me, and in any case, Mervyn didn’t want us around that area. He’d given us both £200 and a couple of days off until a job was due to start in a safer part of North London. Nice work if you can get it.

But the reality of turning 40 - something I’d resisted so pointlessly for the last few weeks - could no longer be denied. I kept sighing as we strolled down Great Russell Street towards the British Museum until Doreen whacked me in the arm.

“What is wrong with you, Eric?”

“Nothing,” I moaned, like Marley’s Ghost making light of his chains.

“Well stop sighing like that. You’re making me nervous.”

Before I could help myself, another huge sigh welled up from the depths of my soul.

“Eric!”

This time I laughed, as we walked in through the huge iron gates towards the enormous faux Classical facade of the Museum’s south front.

“Sorry. It’s just that I’m coping with the facts of life.”

“Not coping, from the sound of it,” remarked Doreen, but I could sense she was uneasy. And why not? She hardly knew me after all.

“I hope you’re not coping with a guilty conscience,” she said, with a sidelong glance. “You’re not about to tell me you’re married are you?”

“No.”

“Because I am,” she said, and I nearly tripped on the giant flag steps.

“You’re kidding!” I said, suddenly feeling more than a tad deflated.

“Why, is that so impossible?” she enquired, pleasantly. “Am I that ugly that the idea of me being married is completely ludicrous?”

“Well, no. I’m just surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”

Paused on the steps, we were suddenly in everyone’s way and the flow of people adjusted around us like a stone dropped into a small stream. A moment passed, as we eyed each other, then Doreen grinned and said, “Come on. I’m dying to see the Near Eastern collection.”

* * *

I wasn’t usually that interested in museums, to tell the truth. But Doreen was keen and I gathered it had something to do with her work. Something to do with atonal musical scales as evident via an analysis of the hole configuration of ancient wind instruments - whatever the fuck that meant.

The Museum had been completely done up in the recent past and I had to admit, there was a nice feel about the place - very light and airy. But all I could think about was Doreen’s bombshell.

“So, where’s your husband?” I asked, as we trotted up the stairs towards Antiquity.

“In Sydney,” she replied.

“Why isn’t he here?”

“You’d have to ask him,” said Doreen. “But I’m glad he’s not.”

I found myself contemplating Shona once again. My God! Only a few days ago I’d rung her and told her I loved her. In fact, come to think of it, I hadn’t rung to tell her I was delayed. She was expecting me home at any moment.

“So, what are the facts of life?” enquired Doreen.

“Eh?”

“You were sighing like a pissed poet and trying to cope with the facts of life.”

“Oh, right. It’s my birthday.”

Doreen whirled about and stopped me, and once again we were a rock in the stream for others to negotiate.

“Your birthday! Why didn’t you tell me?”

I was surprised at how upset she seemed over such a trifle. But that’s women for you, one moment blase about the existence of a husband, the next moment carrying on about a notch on a calendar.

“It’s no big deal,” I said, rather enjoying the fact that to her, it was.

“Birthdays are important, Eric. They need to be celebrated.”

“Turning 40 is not something a professional footballer wants to celebrate,” I told her.

“Getting older … growing old … is a privilege, Eric. It’s far better than the alternative.”

“What, growing younger?”

We moved on up the stairs and found ourselves in the Raymond and Beverley Sackler Gallery housing Early Egypt. We wandered about the displays for a while, and I suppose some of it was interesting, especially the old musical instruments that Doreen found so fascinating. She kept pointing out the “hole configuration” on these old tootle pipes and explaining how you could tell what scales they played, and how different they would sound to modern ears. You’d think it would be boring as shit, but when someone is so totally into their work and wanting to share it with you like that, you find yourself carried along with it. I liked watching her face, so animated and absorbed.

Then we came across something that, to me, really was interesting: a shrivelled up bloke lying on his side where he’d spent the last 5000 years or so. His skin was like dirty brown leather which had been preserved in the hot, dry sand.

“I love this guy,” said Doreen. “Just imagine how he would have felt to know he was going to wind up here like this.”

I was suddenly shocked to see that his arsehole had also been preserved and was both clearly defined and on display. In the British Museum of all places!

“I reckon he had a fair idea of what was coming,” I said. “He’s mooning us, the filthy bugger.”

Doreen laughed, and said, “How’d you reckon you’d go, Eric… naked in a museum in 5000 years?”

“Well, if that was my only crack at fame, I’d take it.”

* * *

We had lunch in the Court Restaurant. Doreen wanted to shout for my birthday, but I wouldn’t hear of it. It was damned pricey too, but despite what Shona would’ve had to say about it, I decided to live the pro footballer’s life for just a bit longer. Edwin Van Der Sar or Mark Schwarzer would never have quibbled over a £120 lunch.

Doreen told me all about her husband - estranged husband, as it turned out.

“We’re having a trial separation,” she said. “That’s what he calls it. For me it’s over.”

She’d caught him out cheating with one of his colleagues - in her own bed.

“Not that I walked in on them, or anything tawdry like that,” she said. “I came home from a weekend conference and there was a coffee ring on the bedside table.”

“So?”

“So, he doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Aah.”

“That’s what he said,” she sniffed. “Anyway, I was glad to have an excuse to get rid of him. It was a mistake from the outset.”

She sipped her Australian sauvignon blanc and looked me in the eye.

“So what about you, Eric? How come you’re not married?”

A question I’d been anticipating, but was still unready to answer.

“I … erm, don’t know. Just never got around to it.”

“But you must ‘ve had women in your life?”

“Yeah, course I have. Still do, as far as I know.”

“You do? Well, I’m surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”

She smirked at me, and I laughed.

“Yeah, fair point. The truth is …”

I told her everything. I had been feeling very strange about the prospect of telling Doreen about Shona because, as I’ve said, I just don’t know how I feel, or where I stand. And the way Shona’s been talking, it doesn’t seem like I have any say in the matter anyway. She talks like we’ve already broken up.

Doreen asked me a few questions and the more I spoke, the more liberated I felt, and the more prepared I was to just keep talking - holding back nothing.

Then Doreen waved all my problems aside: “Enough about your love life. When are you going to show me what I’m dying to see?”

“What you’re dying to see?”

Doreen was smiling - daring me, and I suddenly felt strange, and a little excited. It was a long time since I’d flirted with a woman.

“I’ll whisper it in your ear,” she said, beginning to laugh. She leaned across and, for half a second, I thought she was going to kiss me. But she said, “When are you going to show me … how well you can play football?”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“Are you playing on Saturday?”

God. I really needed to rearrange my thoughts.

“Erm … Saturday?”

“Yes. Are you playing on Saturday?

“Well, yeah. Havant and Waterlooville in the league.”

“Are you going to take me?”

“Erm, sure. You can come if you want, but you might not like it. It’s pretty rough.”

“My brothers played rugby league in Mt Isa,” she said. “I don’t think there’s too much that can shock me.”

“Right, it’s just that—”

“What time’s the game?”

“Oh jeez, 3.00 is the main game, but I’ve just joined the club. It’s unlikely I’ll be picked for that.”

“So you’re playing in the curtain-raiser? What time?”

“Well, kick off’s at 1.00, but—”

“I can’t wait to see you play, Eric. You must be fan tastic to have come all the way to England to play football.”