Moving along this lane you will pass several fine-looking Georgian houses on the right. There is Lugger's View, where Tim lives. Stoker's Folly, where Tom lives. Barnet Villa, where Nick resides. And Colin's End, which is presently unoccupied.
Moving further- along you will come to the allotments, and presently, the yucky pond. The yucky pond is actually called Tinker's Pond, but it is locally known as the yucky pond due to the excess of yuckiness that floats upon its surface.
The yucky pond is maintained by public subscription.
Opposite the yucky pond there stands a fine big house. All on its own with a high wall around it. This house is built in the Tudor style and its name is Houmfort House.
And Houmfort House was Billy's house.
Billy lived in Houmfort House with his mum and his granny. Billy's dad did not live there. Billy's dad had business elsewhere and only came home every once in a while to hand out presents and tell Billy tales of the places he'd seen. Billy and his dad were not 'close'. But then Billy wasn't really 'close' to anyone.
Billy was different.
And 'different' is hard to be close to.
Billy's mum was not different. Billy's mum was the same. Very much the same. The same as she had always been, as long as Billy had known her. Billy liked her that way, although sometimes he felt that he could do with a change.
Like today, for instance.
Today being Tuesday.
Billy always took Tuesday's breakfast on the veranda at the back of the house. Whatever the weather, or the time of year. It was a tradition in the Barnes household. A tradition, or an old charter or something.
Billy feasted this particular Tuesday morning upon roll-mop herrings and bitter-sweet tea. His mum had her usual, which was the usual, same as ever.
Billy always kept very still while he ate. Only his jaw moved, slowly and rhythmically. Twenty-three times a minute. Billy's mum, on the other hand, was a flamboyant eater, given to sweeping gestures and guttural utterances. Belching and flatulence. Food-flinging and the banging down of cutlery. They complemented one another, as is right between a mother and her son.
'It says here,' said Billy's mum, reading aloud from the Daily Sketch, 'that he engaged in certain practices which gave him the kind of moustache you can only get off with turps.'
Billy swallowed a well-masticated segment of herring and turned his eyes in the direction of his mother. She was a fine woman. A fine big woman. Generously formed. Of ample proportions. Why, a starving man could feast upon such a woman for a good two months. Assuming that he had a large enough freezer to keep the bits fresh in.
'Ah no,' said Billy's mum. 'I must have misread it. The ventriloquist's name was Turps. The dummy didn't have a moustache.'
Billy moved his head ever so slightly, just enough to take the drinking straw between his lips. He sipped up bitter-sweet tea, but he didn't swallow.
'That's Africa for you,' said Billy's mum. 'The white man's grave and the black man's dingledongler. Which reminds me, have you fed your granny today, Billy?'
Billy nodded with his eyes. Of course he had fed his granny. He always fed his granny. It was his job to feed his granny. And he enjoyed it very much. After all, he loved his granny.
Billy kept his granny in a suitcase.
It was a large suitcase and it had holes bored in the lid, so it wasn't cruel, or anything. And it saved space. Billy's granny used to take up quite a lot of space. Her bed was the biggest in the house and the most comfortable. Billy now shared this bed with his mum.
Granny lived under the bed. In the suitcase.
Billy took Granny out at weekends and gave her a wash and a change of clothes. Not every boy was as good to his granny as Billy was.
But then not every boy had a granny quite like Billy's.
In her youth she had danced the candle mambo with Fred Astaire, trodden the boards with Sarah Bernhardt, glittered at society functions, and cast her exaggerated shadow in fashionable places.
But now she was old and weak and withered. Bereft of speech and movement and much gone with the moth. Deaf and blind and dotty and gnawed away by rats.
But Billy still found time for her. Although he wasn't 'close.
'Apparently,' said Billy's mum, tapping at her tabloid, 'the Welsh have no concept of Velcro. I went to North Wales once with your father. He was very tall in those days and the Welsh are very short.
Midgets, most of them, positively dwarf-like. They were quite in awe of your father. The Mayor of Harlech presented him with a pair of braces that glowed in the dark. Something to do with the mines, I believe.'
Billy swallowed his bitter-sweet tea, his Adam's apple rising to the occasion.
'You'd like Wales, Billy,' said his mum. 'Plenty of room to move furniture around and no Velcro getting under your feet.'
Billy smiled with his eyes.
The front door bell rang in the hall.
'That will be the postman,' said Billy's mum. 'He's always doing that.' She poured herself a noisy cup of coffee, sloshed in the milk and stirred vigorously. Slap, slap, slap went her big fat feet upon the tiled veranda floor. But she didn't get up. She leaned back in her chair and farted loudly.
The door bell rang again, and then again, and then no more. At length the postman made his entrance through the garden door.
'I've a package here for a Mr William Barnes,' said the postman. 'And it has to be signed for.'
Billy eyed his mum. The big woman shifted uneasily in her wicker chair. She never took kindly to tradespeople as a rule, especially, as now, when she was naked. But she always had time for a postman, or a porter, as long as their fingernails were clean.
Billy's mum spread her Daily Sketch modestly across her knees and beckoned to the bearer of the Queen's mail.
The bearer of the Queen's mail seemed strangely reticent. 'It's for your son,' he said. 'He has to sign for it.'
Billy turned his head by twenty-three degrees and spoke his first words of the day. 'From whom?' he asked.
The postman examined the parcel. 'From Necrosoft Industries,' he said. 'Of Brentford, Middlesex'
Billy nodded thoughtfully and then sprang to his feet. He vaulted over the veranda rail, performed a handspring and a cartwheel and came to rest before the postman.
'Pen,' said Billy, extending a hand.
The postman handed Billy the parcel, fumbled with his clipboard and pen. 'Your mother shouldn't be allowed,' he whispered.
Billy signed upon the dotted line and returned both pen and clipboard to the postman. 'Fuck off,' he told him. And the postman took his leave.
Billy returned to his chair on the veranda and sat down upon it. Birdies gossiped on the garden walls, bumblies toiled amongst the roses, and the sun beamed down its blessings over all.
Upstairs in the suitcase underneath the bed, Billy's granny sucked upon her sunken gums and dreamed of Fred Astaire.
'Have you thought any more about getting a job?' asked Billy's mum, over lunch, which was taken, as of Tuesday, in the greenhouse.
Billy sucked soup through a straw. He had not thought any more about getting a job.
'You're so very qualified, dear,' said his mum, herself now prettified in a floral frock. 'You have all your school certificates and your university degree and here you are at the age of twenty-three, a virtual recluse. You never go out anywhere and you never have any lady friends round to call. You were always such a popular boy at school. You used to fit in so nicely. Could you not find a job you could fit nicely into?'
Billy raised an eyebrow. The subject of 'a job' always came up on a Tuesday. Which was why Billy always felt that he could do with a change of mum on a Tuesday.