Two years had passed since my family were rescued by the countess and not much had improved. On arrival at Heathrow, penniless, they had stayed the first night with an old friend in Hyde Park. The friend in question lent Dad ten pounds, presuming he would use the money wisely. Perhaps visit his agent or make an important business call. But how daft is that? Fact is, only a family member can comprehend the complex brain of another. Dad’s thoughts on the subject were crystal clear. Naturally, the ten-pound note would be invested wisely, namely in purchasing a ten-pack of Sobranie Russian filter-tipped cigarettes (the trendy coloured ones, in the black & gold box) and also a bottle of twelve-year-old Chivas Regal.
As a one-time commandant of a rest camp in North Africa during World War 2, dad’s strategy, when faced with dilemma was unique. First rule; Poor yourself a stiff whisky. Second rule: Light a fag. Third rule; Inhale deeply (don’t worry about cancer). Fourth rule; peruse your options before taking any action. Fifth rule; Don’t take any action at all, except to have another drink. Result; By the time the bottle is empty and the ninety ninth cigarette has been stubbed out; the problem will have been solved. And if it hasn’t? Then just start over!
Dad was faced with a grim reality. Gone were the prosperous days of writing for television. Now it seemed, seven years of drought was upon him. The television world, to which he had returned, had become a shark-infested ocean.
Instead of two channels, there were now four! It was called competition. New productions destined for the Cathode Ray Tube were invariably whipped from under his feet by younger talent. Upstarts. Illiterates. Impostors! Television had turned into a ruthless monster. Where were all his friends anyway? The truth was, most of them were dead and he now found himself alone in an alien world.
“Join me for a drink old son”? Dad asked. There was not much else to do anyway and after three weeks of lounging around trying to figure out my future, I was becoming bored. “Yes Dad. Ok” I answered. We headed for the car. “Why don’t we walk Dad, it’s only 100 yards?” I suggested. “He looked at me as if I was mad. “Why walk when you can drive?” he said. “Exercise maybe?” I suggested. “Quicker by car and it’s five minutes to closing time.” he said. Fair enough, he had a point. So, we got into the car and thirty seconds later, arrived at the pub. We now had four and a half minutes drinking time left or the equivalent of four large whiskies and (if we were lucky) a quick one for the road.
There we sat. Dad and I, propping up the bar at the Three Horse Shoes. Two large identical noses looking gloomily into our drinks, contemplating the future. My life seemed to be running in slow motion. It was time to rewind the spring and load a new roll of film. We drained our whisky in perfect unison. Without asking, Val poured us two more. “Don’t worry son, something will turn up”. said Dad.
Indeed, something did turn up. It was not exactly what I had in mind, but at least it kept me off the bottle. Toxic waste, oil spill or just plain garbage. Bury me up to the waist in any of it and I can cope with life. But if my hands are soiled as a result of digging them into a flowerbed where grit gets under the fingernails, then I turn into a particularly nasty character. It was only due to the protective gloves, that I tolerated the job so long.
“See that little mound over there?” said my new boss, Jason. I looked across the bombsite and saw. “Level it out until it’s as smooth as a cricket pitch…Ok?” “Yes, Jason, ok” I lied. It was not ok and it was a real problem. The little mound, as he so neatly put it, was a heap of earth the size of Mount Etna. Even God would have needed a bulldozer to shift it. Then Jason vanished off to the pub again. I knew I wouldn’t see him until two, conveniently after closing time. While he was out drinking beer, I was shovelling dirt for a miserable fifty Pence an hour. Slave labour it was.
I was a film student for Christ’s sake. What the hell did landscape gardening have to do with making movies? In fact what the hell did it have to do with my life at all? I jammed the spade irritably into the stubborn ground and threw the contents over my shoulder, hoping that I might hit somebody. After two weeks of shifting soil, I decided England was a Godless country. Had I remained in Italy, at least I would have been digging up treasure. And at midday, I would be drinking wine on Zev’s balcony, watching topless ladies parading across Bertolucci’s terrace. A delicious aroma would drift through from the kitchen and Ilio would ring a little bell announcing lunch. I would then sit down to a sumptuous meal, after which coffee would be served. Drowsiness would ensue and during the heat of the afternoon I would have a little siesta and wake up around four just in time for tea and cake. The fact was, I had traded my princely lifestyle for one of hard labour and soggy ham sandwiches in the rain.
I pushed the spade into the soil. Then the sun popped out for three seconds. I stopped and looked up. Warmth radiated weakly through a gap in the clouds. A glimmer of hope? What if gardening did have something to do with my life? Perhaps the desolate wasteland, which lay before me, was trying to tell me something? Perhaps it was a reflection of my chaotic life, waiting to be given some order. Fruit trees were waiting to be planted and a pile of crazy paving was about to be turned into a path.
What fruit would the trees bare? Where would the path lead? Would it go round and round in circles, or would it lead straight out to the edge of the cliff? The rain stopped and by three pm, I had flattened an area the size of a picnic blanket. Only another ten thousand shovels left and I reckoned we could play cricket.
Jason arrived in his land rover towing a trailer. He jumped out merrily and called me. When I saw the 400 yards of barbed wire and 300 wooden posts in the back, my enthusiasm vanished. So, the garden was going to be turned into a concentration camp. “300 holes around the border Nik. Three feet deep, OK?” said Jason. “Yes ok, no problem” I lied again. Would the fence be electrified I wondered? For three long weeks I had done my best to see the positive side of gardening. The rewards, which are reaped from planting and watching things grow and which give so much pleasure to normal people. But the mounds of earth made me sick and I hated the sound of the pebbles scratching on the spade. My only companions were the snails but we had little in common, except perhaps the fact I was half French. The only joy I did get, was from exterminating them with poisoned pellets.
It was time to face Adam’s lost rib. “When can I see you?” mother asked on the phone. I knew I could stall no longer. “Terribly sorry Jason. I won’t be able to come next week. Got to visit my mother” After seven years absence, the news of my return to England had finally reached her ears. We agreed to meet up in London the following Monday. The date suited me well. It was an excuse to get away from the dreaded gardening job and tied in perfectly with an interview for a job I had found in the papers.
I caught the eight thirty commuter train to Waterloo and one hour, twenty minutes later, stepped out onto the platform. There she was waiting for me. The mother of all mothers. The envy of all husbands and the provocation of all housewives. This time she wasn’t dressed in gold but instead wore a pair of Janis Joplin sunglasses, an Indian print dress, tied in the middle with a gigantic Medusa buckle. “Allo darling” She greeted me theatrically. I had forgotten what it felt like to be embraced by an ironing board but after disentangling myself from the spring mechanism, I decided it was painful. We headed for the nearest tube.
Steven, Hooton and Cooney was not a shady firm of solicitors but it might well have been. In one aspect, the gentlemen were associated. Each of them had stumbled their way blindly into Holy matrimony with my mother. The first to resign office had been my dad. Since his reign, poor blighters number two and then number three had moved in. Number two had done the sensible thing and run off within the first three months. He may only have been of short-term service to mother but by marrying her, he had at least done my Father a favour: Relieved from alimony payments, Dad had finally been able to get on with his new life.
Number three on the other hand, was a prize catch. Mother had really hit the jackpot. Arthur was a real businessman and possessed a talent, which both Steven and Hooton had lacked. His managerial skills were not just suited to his business, which produced soundproofing materials for cinemas, but proved extremely soundproof when applied to Mother. The fact that he was slightly deaf might also have been the reason for his success in both cases. The down side was that he had no sense of humour and lacked grandeur. But it was none of my business. The truth was, Mother was ecstatically happy and no one could deny the fact. The recipe for her happiness was simple. Arthur gave her everything she had ever wanted: A good social life and plenty of money!
She excelled in her role as Mrs Arthur Cooney and flaunted her charm whenever the occasion demanded.
Business dinners were no exception. All she had to do was speak with a French accent and Arthur’s colleagues would swoon and sign the contracts blindly. Business had never been so good. “I say Arthur. What a piece of crumpet. Where the devil did you find her? “By the end of the dinner parties, the tension would rise and the gentlemen would be dragged off by their venomous wives. “I saw that look on your face George. Don’t deny it…you fancy that French tart, don’t you?”
“Mind the gap…mind the gap”. There was a hiss as the doors closed behind and I jumped across onto the platform. Two minutes later mother and I surfaced onto Islington high street.
No. 3, Noel Road, was just a ten-minute walk away. The street was quiet and consisted of a row of semi-detached flats, which backed onto a canal. Mother was proud to inform me that their property had tripled in value in just two years and that it was now worth a small fortune. I raised my eyebrows to indicate amazement. We entered the premises. Inside, everything was neat and tidy. The walls were decorated olive green and the floor was covered with an orange Casa Pupo carpet. Voodoo masks hung on the walls and dried weeds from the canal had been arranged neatly in vases by the balcony. The only other sign of floral arrangement was a dying potted geranium on the dining room table. “It’s wonderful…it never needs water, “she explained. I suspected I knew where my talent for gardening came from.
When Arthur arrived, mothers’ behaviour changed. It was now clear who was boss. She fussed nervously about the flat, making sure everything was ship-shape and then vanished into the kitchen like the good wife to prepare lunch. During this time, I acquainted myself with my new Stepfather. First impressions are usually right. I looked at his ear lobes. There were no teeth marks in them. Secondly, his baldhead revealed no stitches or suspicious dents, which would have suggested an encounter with a savage kitchen utensil or perhaps a flying marble ashtray. I concluded at once; their marriage was a happy one.
Conversation was not the most thought provoking. We talked about the weather and the wonders of soundproofing wool. Ten minutes later, a strange odour came from the kitchen. Mother had prepared one of her culinary masterpieces: “Poisson aux petit pois a la Francaise”. “Yum-yum,” said Arthur. “Oh God have pity” thought I.
Memories came flooding back. In spite of the fancy title, the dish looked suspiciously like mashed peas, Heinz spaghetti and fish fingers. To the unacquainted, a harmless enough menu, but if my mother had anything to do with it, then there was good reason to be concerned.
Arthur opened a bottle of wine, checked it for cork and poured me a half glass. Our gastronomic journey into the unknown began. As expected, the fish fingers were still frozen on the inside but I said nothing. “Your mother’s an excellent cook Nicholas…that’s why I married her “. It was amazing he wasn’t dead I thought, nodding in agreement. After the main course, came, “Pruneaux aux sauce jaune Anglaise” In layman’s terms; (tinned prunes & custard). As expected, Mother had not removed the stones but Arthur, accustomed to her ways, succeeded in separating the flesh by pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Out they popped, one by one. Then with fork and spoon, he filed them neatly onto the side of his plate.
The meal was over. Arthur looked at his pocket watch, rose from the table, gave mother a peck on the cheek, wished me good luck and left.
With his departure, all formality vanished. In true peasant style, mother began dunking large quantities of digestive biscuits into her coffee. We both relaxed and I reached for the bottle of plonk and helped myself to a large glass. We spent a surprisingly jovial afternoon, chatting and catching up on lost time. Mother and son together. Reunited at last. It was almost romantic. But then the subject of “Barbie Bitch” crept into the conversation and she warned me never to have an au pair. “They break up marriages Nik”. She said, “Believe me, I know.” I could sense her bitterness. Her darker side began to manifest itself and the voodoo masks on the walls looked more evil than usual. Her fascination for collecting these macabre tokens was deeply rooted in her subconscious. Schizophrenia I called it. Two mothers for the price of one. I recognized the symptoms at once. The vacant expression and tight lips. “I have to go now” I interrupted.
“…My appointment’s at three” In a flash she slipped back into the mother I knew and was sweet as pie again. Enquired about the state of my teeth and told me how strong, white and perfect her own were. She flashed them at me as proof. I remembered my dad’s ear lobe and the stream of blood flowing down his white shirt. “My teeth are fine thanks, “I said. Then before leaving, she asked if there was anything I would like. I could think of nothing. But she was determined not to let me go without some token of goodwill. “I have a little something for you Nick. I know you will like it” She left the room for a second and returned with a hastily wrapped present.
I looked at the gift with dread and prayed it wasn’t going to be another do-it-yourself Victorian carnival mask. I extracted the object from within. Yet another piece of junk from some Oxfam shop. This time it looked very much like a ping-pong bat with holes in it.
On closer inspection, it was a ping-pong bat with holes in it. The only difference being that underneath
(hanging rather perversely) was a wooden ball attached to strings. The strings passed through the holes and were connected to six wooden chickens. “Wiggle it, Darling…wiggle it and you will see” Mother said. So, I wiggled it and I saw. The ball pulled on the strings and caused the chickens to start pecking grains of corn, which were glued to the topside of the bat. Mother laughed like a little girl and the chickens went peck, peck, peck. “Faster, faster” she said. So, I wiggled faster. The ball swung round furiously and the chickens pecked like machine gun fire, eating themselves to death. Mother was delighted. “Isn’t it fun darling?” I did my best to share her joy. “Wonderful” I said. Exactly what every young man needs. Not a fifty-pound note or maybe a packet of condoms but a ping-pong bat with pecking chickens. Armed with such a contraption I was bound to impress the girls. “Wow, see that guy …He’s the fastest Chick pecker in town! “. “Thanks very much mummy” I said. It was time to go. On the threshold of the flat, she gave me a twenty-pound note and made me promise not to tell Arthur. I embraced the ironing board again, taking extra care to avoid the springs.
The ad in the papers read: “BBC seeks Junior assistant editor”. The job sounded interesting and I wasn’t going to be choosy. Even if it meant running back and forth between
laboratories carrying rolls of film, I would at least be involved in movie making. Anything was better than gardening. I turned into Wood Lane and entered the BBC Television centre. Feeling optimistic about the interview, I was already imagining myself being promoted in a short space of time to Editor. As it turned out, the optimism was wasted. “Mr. Steven?” a voice called. It was the BBC recruiting officer, beckoning me into his office. I pulled up a chair and sat down. The man had a weasel face and an air of indifference. He was almost rude and made me feel I was wasting his time. I could tell he was from the North. Perhaps he didn’t like my accent. Whatever the reason, I presented my case. He listened to what I had to say with disinterest. Then. “Come back in a couple of years when you’ve got some qualifications” the man said. A couple of years? Did I hear right? That was a lifetime. What did he mean by qualifications? I was carrying them under my arm for God’s sake. No less than six short movies to be exact. One of them had even won a prize on Telly. “Don’t you want to see them?” I asked. “No” said the man, to my amazement. He was not the slightest bit interested. He even suggested my experiences in Rome had been a waste of time. All those hours spent shooting commercials, cutting films, worthless? Who could be more qualified than that? Did he really expect me to go back to school and study for math O-levels? Scarcely was there time to digest his comments, when I was being shown the door.
I left the room dazed as if I had been hit on the head with a brick. A lead weight dropped in my stomach. The frozen fish fingers from lunch were beginning to defrost. It started to rain outside and I knew the worms would rejoice. My head was numbed. Nothing came to mind except thoughts of pesticide. I headed for the nearest tube and descended into London’s murky underworld where worms belong.
The Three Horse Shoes pub was not just any old pub. It was a Mecca. A place built on an underground well of whisky from which gallons upon gallons were pumped up each day. It was a place of solidarity and not just for alcoholics. If you weren’t one before you arrived, then you sure as hell would become one by the time you left. A miracle of nature you might say. But above all, it was a place where all ideas, good and bad are born. At the Three Horse Shoes, everybody was welcome. All colours, races and creeds, as long as their purses were stuffed with money and/or, were celebrities or artists. If you arrived in a Rolls Royce, so much the better! Basically, it was the Inn of the filthy rich happy hour. The only ones who did not fit into this paradise on earth were day-trippers. However unjust it might sound, those poor buggers with bicycles were not welcome at all. Our Dear Polish Publican, Valerian Pavlacheck De Burgh, despised their rucksacks and their weedy little wives and above all, he could not tolerate their ever-so-humble requests for “One bottle of Coke and two glasses please”.
After barely a month in England, depression already set in. The two years I had spent in Rome had been both wonderful and exasperating. On the positive side, I spoke fluent Italian, had learned to cook and had also managed to save up 500 pounds! But it was the grey skies and drizzle which got to me. When Val Pavlaczek de Burgh announced his crackpot idea for my future, I thought I saw a ray of sunshine. I was caught off guard and with three whiskies’ already inside me, I fell for his plan like a gullible fool.
The idea was simple: To walk in Roman Polanski’s footsteps. The man was indeed my favourite director and I particularly liked the idea of studying at the film school he had gone to but I was less enthusiastic about the forged university diploma that needed to go with it.
When the forgery arrived a week later, I scrutinized the document with scepticism. Val had insisted it was a masterpiece and worth every penny of the one hundred pounds it cost my dad to have made.
To be honest, it looked like a bad colour photo copy. In fact, it was a bad colour photo copy.! At this stage of the game, there was no turning back, so I prayed to God the plan would work and that I would not end up in jail. It was difficult to supress my fears and must have showed “Don’t worry my dear boy”. Val said. “The Poles are only interested in dollars!” But what about the signature from the Minister for Education and countersignature from the Chairman of Guildford Art College. “How on earth are you going to get those? “I asked. “All in good time Nicholas, “said the publican. I got the message. In other words: shut the fuck up. Ten minutes later, the pub door opened and two-day trippers entered carrying enormous rucksacks on their backs. A man with his little wife and both desperately thirsty. “A bottle of coke and two glasses please Guv” gasped the man. I waited for the fireworks display. Under normal circumstances, Val would have shown them the door but this time he didn’t. Instead, he winked at me and slid my sacred document across the counter. “Sign here please” he said, holding a short fat finger on the dotted line to hide the small print. The couple looked at the paper with mistrust. “No signature, no Coke,” said Val. Their shock was hard to conceal. “It’s a charity to save the Blue bottomed Throssle Tit Warbler, “he said. “Blue bottomed what?” asked the little lady. “A very rare bird with a very large beak” said Val looking at me. In view of his threatening manner and their insatiable thirst, the couple decided it was probably best not to argue. No sooner were their signatures scribbled across the paper, when Val withdrew the document and replaced it with a luke warm bottle of Coke. “On the house” he said, with an exaggerated air of generosity.
Two weeks later, I was on my way to Warsaw with a one-way ticket.
