Nuala works part-time in that travel agent’s Moxon was banging on about. I think she’s probably good at selling things, talking like she does. But I don’t know. If the customers get awkward or something, she’s likely to lose her temper. And that’s a nasty experience, I can tell you.
Right now, I think she might have been telling me something about a problem with a holiday to the Seychelles. There was some mention of a cancelled flight and luggage that ended up at the wrong airport, and a mix-up over a visa that she’d sorted out single-handed. She made it sound as though she was Cat Woman cleaning up crime in Gotham City.
I stifled the yawns, looked at the scenery, and waited for Nuala’s spring to wind down so the real action could start.
Eventually, she turned towards me and indicated she was inclined to use her mouth for something other than talking. Her sweater bounced and waggled. I swear that all that yakking gets her in the mood. She was certainly gasping for a bit of social intercourse now, and within seconds the windows of the Subaru were steaming up. The scenery disappeared as if a warm mist had fallen. Then, for a while, it was goodbye squirrels, hello bunny rabbits.
In the car on the way back to Medensworth, Nuala said something really strange.
“Tomorrow, Stones,” she said. “Will you take me out again?”
“Eh? We’ve just been out. Didn’t you notice all that green stuff on the floor and the big sticky-up brown things? That was out.”
“No. Somewhere nice, I mean.”
It was baffling to me that Nuala didn’t think Clumber Park was ‘nice’. This place is one of the jewels in the crown of the National Trust. The tourists flock to it. They pay to get in, for heaven’s sake.
“You could take me out for lunch again. A drink at least.”
“Oh, right.”
Twice in two days? This was in danger of becoming a habit.
“So that I know you’re not ashamed to be seen with me,” she said.
“No worries. I know just the place.”
When we got back to the house, I pointed Nuala in the direction of the kitchen while I made a few calls, careful with my words in case the clattering of plates wasn’t loud enough to cover me.
Nuala had nearly finished producing a microwaved steak and a beer when the phone rang. I answered it a bit hesitantly, nervous at doing it in front of her but not wanting to miss the call in case it was business. But it wasn’t. It was my Uncle Willis.
“Now then, Livingstone. How are you?”
“All right, Uncle.”
He’s almost the only person alive who can call me Livingstone and get away with it. I hate the name. It makes me sound like a bad music hall joke. The next person to utter the words ‘I presume’ will get my boot up his Stanley.
“And how’s, ah... what’s her name?”
“She’s fine too, Uncle.”
He has no idea, of course, who the current ‘what’s her name’ is, but feels he has to ask anyway. It’s one of those conventions, like telling someone you must meet up some time when you’ve got no intention of setting eyes on the pillock ever again. Uncle Willis lost track of my ‘what’s her names’ a long time ago and doesn’t bother trying to keep up now. This is a bit of luck, since it means I can insert any name necessary into the conversation with him, depending on who happens to be in earshot at the time.
“But how are you keeping anyway, Uncle? Is everything all right at Rolling Meadows?”
Willis is in one of those nice modern nursing homes. You know the ones. The old folk in these places are not being looked after, they’re ‘in a personal care situation’. In the mornings they spend their time practising something called ‘living skills’, which as far as I can make out means making your own bed and burning a bit of toast for your own breakfast. Then in the afternoon they move on to ‘social and recreational skills’, which means watching Countdown on the telly and listening to Val Doonican records. I think the Doonicans were probably bought at the car boot sale. Well, somebody has to buy them.
In keeping with this approach, the nursing home is called Rolling Meadows, which obviously means that it’s in the middle of a modern Wimpey estate that has never seen a meadow in its life, let alone anything rolling. Still, Uncle Willis likes it, which is all that matters. He says he appreciates the proportion of women to men in there. Maybe I’m just a chip off the old block after all.
“It’s as bad as ever, youth,” he said. “But they’ve let me have my annual phone call, you see. It was either my lawyer or my nephew, and the lawyer wasn’t in.”
This was his joke, and just in case I’d forgotten and was about to take him seriously, he let loose a painful metallic rattling that ought to have me sending for a British Telecom engineer to mend my phone, except that I knew it was just my uncle laughing.
“Right. What have they been doing to you now then, Uncle?”
“Torture it is, bleedin’ torture. They’ve cut down my cigarettes. Can you believe it?”
“Why’s that?”
“Oh, they had some pimply youth in here called Darren, who said he was a doctor. He can’t have been more than fifteen. Do they let them do house calls while they’re on work experience these days? Honestly, Livingstone, I don’t know how they think they can fool me. I told him, I’ve had more varicose veins and gurgling chests than he’s had clean socks. When I’m sick I expect to see a doctor who really is a doctor, not a snotty-nosed fifth former doing GCSE Biology.”
“But did he say what’s wrong with you?”
“Oh just a wheezy chest. Have to cut down for a bit, youth. Still, it’s made all these old girls cluck round me like a lot of hens. Nothing like it for getting the women going, you know, thinking that you’re ill.”
I could imagine it. Uncle Willis’s charm isn’t lost on the elderly female residents of the Meadows. Or on some of the staff, for that matter. I had a bit of a fling with one of the care assistants myself once, and I had to drop her like a ton of bricks when she started comparing me unfavourably with my aged uncle. Women really know how to hurt.
“Would you like me to come and see you, Uncle?”
It might sound as though I shouldn’t have to ask this. I do go regularly to see the old bloke, but if I don’t ask I’m liable to turn up and find that he’s out somewhere gadding around. They go for day trips to Alton Towers, Mansfield Brewery, stuff like that. And other days he’s just off for a stroll in the car park with one of his admirers. That’s when he’s not practising his compulsory social and recreational skills, anyway.
“Yes, that would be nice, Livingstone. Come tomorrow afternoon. There’s only Jurassic Park on the telly, and I’ve seen it three times.”
“No problem.”
“I’ve something I want to talk to you about anyway.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Nuala brought the steak in just at the right time to take my mind off what it might be that the old man wanted to talk about.
“That your uncle?” said Nuala when I put the phone down.
“Yes.”
“That’s nice.”