Jeffery Brakelight Breezes Through Life, Part 3

I really hit it off with Sonia. Following the awful incident when Holy Joe vomited all over her at the Horse and Cow, I mustered the courage to call her at work on the following Tuesday morning and we went for lunch together. A trip to the cinema to see Home Alone followed that weekend, and, although she hadn't yet stamped my card, as you might say, I had us down as an item.

So it happened that one evening in December Sonia made her first visit to my apartment, where I was to prepare a meal for us. In anticipation of her arrival. I experienced those wonderfully violent pangs of butterflies in the stomach that occur when a relationship is new and exciting before familiarity dulls the edge.

When she arrived, looking particularly fetching in a black and red dress, there was a delightful moment, during which the wine I had consumed had begun to stir in me a wonderful glow of contentment; you know, complete satisfaction with my lot. As an instrumental jazz CD played softly, Sonia sat on the settee sipping wine while casually turning the pages of a TV guide, and behind her, lights on the Christmas tree twinkled and flashed. It was a delightful image that I burned into my mind for all time.

With my condition at that moment bordering on euphoria, I was just about to apply a vigorous grinding of black pepper to the simmering spag bol when the phone rang. On answering, I heard the familiar voice of my dear old Uncle Dickie.

Now, Dickie Brakelight is as decent a chap as ever squeezed a teabag. He breezes through life with a fixed smile, carrying a glass that is permanently half full. In fact, such is his proclivity for looking on the bright side, were he ever to suffer the misfortune of having a foot amputated, I'm sure he'd take the view that the time to be spent clipping his toenails had just been halved.

"Hello, Dickie," I said, in reply to his salutation.

"Jeff, I have a favour to ask."

"Fire away, Unc," I said, happy to offer my services to this likeable relative.

"I've spotted some porcelain figurines on display in town which are identical to one I accidentally decapitated about five years ago, and I'm going to buy one to put into your aunt Charlotte's Christmas box. It's quite an exciting prospect for me, as I know she'll be thrilled when she sees it, and I shall finally erase what has been a long-standing stain on my character with her."

"Very good," I said, "but where do I come in?"

"Well, Jeff, the problem is that as you know, my wife is the most assiduous of housekeepers. There's not a nook or cranny in the entire place she doesn't intrude upon with the mop or the duster, so hiding the blighted thing will be all but impossible. I was wondering if you'd be so good as to look after the ornament for a few days until Christmas Eve."

"Glad to," I said.

The smell of garlic bread caused me to communicate to Sonia via a novel form of tic-tac that she should pull the thing from the oven without delay, and she did so in the very nick of time. I brought the telephone conversation to a close, having arranged to meet Dickie the following evening at the Bluebell Inn in the town centre, where I would take delivery of the figurine.

I have to say that my culinary efforts were a big hit, and I received several compliments from my guest. The garlic bread, which was made in the pizza base fashion, had been pulled from the heat just in time to avoid being turned into a garlic biscuit, and it was perfect for mopping up the sauce. We rounded off the repast with a perfectly browned crème brûlée each, which earned me more praise from Sonia.

As we ate, I mentioned Uncle Dickie's predicament, and that I'd be meeting him in the Bluebell when he finished work. Sonia asked if she might come along for a few post-work drinks, as that pub is close to the library where she works. My delight at securing another meeting with this lovely creature was tempered somewhat later on when she asked me to book a taxi to take her home. They do say, however, that patience is a virtue, and so this virtuous young man went to bed that night with only the hot water bottle to keep him warm.

The following evening, I was first at the Bluebell and Sonia arrived soon afterwards. Another attendee was my long-time friend Silas 'Sporty' Porter, whom I had called, and invited to the gathering, as his office is also in the town centre.

At this juncture, I should say a few words about Sporty's occupation, as it is pertinent to the following narrative. He works for a local weekly newspaper, making up the situations vacant pages, and typing out the small ads, that sort of thing. As a labour of love, he and a colleague run a monthly round-up of the local music scene called The Pulse, which features forthcoming gigs, interviews, reviews, and suchlike. Got it? Good.

Uncle Dickie arrived at the Bluebell looking agitated and distracted. I rose and asked him if all was well, and he shook his head.

"Your aunt Charlotte just called me at work. The vet has told her that due to JR's failing health, the kindest option would be to have him euth—," He stifled a sob.

JR is Uncle Dickie's much-loved Jack Russell terrier, now fourteen, but a wonderful character and a proper clown. "I'm so sorry," I said putting my arm around his shoulder.

"I must get home," Dickie said, handing me a white plastic bag holding the boxed figurine. Good sport that he is, he stood a round of drinks and then hurried on his way.

My sadness at Dickie's news was fleeting, as fourteen is a decent innings for a dog. After he’d gone, I took the box from the bag and examined a photo of the enclosed ornament, an abstract representation of a nude. I could see how Dicke had beheaded the original piece, as the neck looked rather fragile.

The figurine prompted a conversation on inappropriate Christmas presents we had given or received. While Sonia regaled us with the tale of how, via a Secret Santa tub, she had once given a box of milk chocolates to a colleague who turned out to be a vegan, I noticed that Sporty, who is usually a keen contributor to such discussions, appeared nervous and detached.

"Is everything all right, old mate?" I said, "You seem as jittery as a blue tit on a cattery fence."

"It's him," Sporty said, pointing out with a nod of the head a rather loud individual at the pool table. "Mutant Mason."

"Who on earth is Mutant Mason, and why does he have you on edge?" I said.

"He's the singer in a punk band called Snotbox. I gave them a bad review in the column. You might remember I told you that they had been throwing a pig's head about on stage at a gig."

"Oh right," I said, "so that's the pig's head chucker."

"Sounds disgusting," Sonia said. Sporty chuckled, before elaborating.

"I said in the review that the lifeless head on the stage possessed more intelligence than the living one which sat upon the shoulders of the singer. I also called him a cretin,"

"And now he's coming over," I said.

Mutant was a hulk of a youth in a leather motorcycle jacket, who sported a mop of thick hair above an oily forehead. "Well, well, well," he said, directing his words towards Sporty, "if it isn't our friendly neighbourhood gig reviewer. The one who likes to hurl insults around." He then turned to Sonia. "Called me a cretin, he did. In print. In a newspaper."

"Come on, Mutant," Sporty said. "Most people would call throwing a pig's head about on stage cretinous behaviour."

"That may be so," Mutant said, "and I could take it if someone said such a thing to my face. But to put it in print for the whole town to see, well, that's a bit underhand in my book."

"Well, it's done now. That was last month. It's history," Sporty said.

"Ah, the old tomorrow's fish and chip wrappers get-out clause. You think you're clever because you write for the local rag, don't you?" Mutant said, "But I bet you ain't so bright." After a pause, while he lit a cigarette, he continued. "There's a quiz on in this pub tonight. I'll be participating with my brother Ralph, and I'd bet you anything you'd care to name that the two of us would wipe the floor with the three of you."

"Not interested," Sporty said.

"What you mean is, you're chicken, and we'd show you up. You're good at dishing out insults and calling others stupid, but when it comes to demonstrating what you actually know, you clam up." He then reeled off three questions, snapping his fingers between each one. "What's the currency of Austria? Who created the Daleks? What's the capital of Costa Rica? Come on, chop-chop." We remained silent. "You see," he went on, "you're the cretins." Satisfied he'd won the point, Mutant walked back to the pool table.

"I 'd like to wipe that smug grin off his face," Sporty said. I told him to forget it and drink up.

"The schilling, Terry Nation, and San Jose," Sonia said.

"What?" Sporty and I said together.

"The currency of Austria is the schilling, Terry Nation created the Daleks, and the capital of Costa Rica is San Jose," Sonia said, laughing.

"You know stuff like that?" I said.

"Of course. When Dad was alive, my parents ran a pub and my brother and I were almost addicted to the quiz machines they had in. I also compiled a weekly quiz for my dad, so I've picked up a lot of useless information over the years."

"Do you think the three of us might beat Mutant and his brother?" Sporty said.

"I dare say we'd give them a run for their money," Sonia said, and we decided to give it a go.

Some ten minutes later, the quiz master, a middle-aged, bespectacled chap called Alan, announced his arrival, first by tapping, and then blowing into the microphone to check that all was in order. "Good evening, everyone," he said, clearly very nervous, "and welcome to the Bluebell weekly quiz. We're now taking entry money, so if you'd like to form a team and take part, then it's fifty pence per person."

As we three fished out our entry fees, Alan revealed a possible reason for his lack of confidence. "As you may know," he said, "David and Fran are away this week so me and Annie are doing the quiz in their absence. It's our first time, so please be gentle with us. David printed the quiz before he left, so if you have issues with any of the answers, you'll have to take it up with him when he gets back."

Mutant and Ralph demonstrated a lack of imagination when they registered their team as Norfolk & Chance, easily the most overused name ever to be applied to a pub quiz team. We called ourselves, for what reason I have no idea, Rag, Tag, and Bobtail, and I have to say I was quite looking forward to this unexpected challenge.

As we awaited the start of proceedings, we weighed up our main contenders, who sat directly opposite. Sporty told me that Ralph Mason, a morose-looking youth in a chunky knit sweater, has an almost encyclopaedic memory for trivia. So much so, that in one pub he used to empty the quiz machine with such regularity, the landlord had it taken out and replaced with a regular fruit machine. This revelation dented my confidence a little, but our own secret weapon, Sonia, was an unknown quantity, so all hope wasn't lost.

After seven teams in total had registered, Alan blew into the microphone, which served as the starter pistol that got the quiz underway. "The first round comes under the heading mixed bag," he said, "so if you're ready, we'll make a start." The hum of chatter diminished, and the room fell silent. "Question one: what was the name of Jesse James's brother, Frank?"

The audience laughter that greeted this novel form of pub quizzing, in which the answer is included in the question, ran the whole gamut, from titter to guffaw. On realising his error, Alan spoke again. "Oh, wait," he said, "I see what he's done, he's typed the answers right after the questions. I'll ask that one again. What was the name of Jesse James's brother?"

"Frank!" someone shouted.

"Don't give out the answers, please. It spoils it for everyone," Alan said, to more hilarity.

When the laughter subsided, we got stuck into the first round, and Sonia astonished me with her ability to recall obscure facts. Sporty and I were mere bystanders as our star player reeled off Richard Nixon's middle name, Sherlock Holmes's door number, and the capital of Latvia. At the end of the first round, we were in joint second place, two points behind Mutant's team.

During the inter-round break, Sonia said that she simply must go to a shop at some point and that she knew there was one on the main street that closed at ten o'clock. While she would be able to pop out during a break between rounds, it was clear that Sporty and I would have to tackle at least some of the questions as a twosome. Hopefully, though, Sonia would return in time to check our answers.

By the time we got to the third round, the quiz master had settled into his role, aided by the administration of several pints of stout to settle the nerves. In fact, the sedative effect of that dark elixir was such, Alan now delivered quips and made comments where none were required. One such had the room in stitches when he revealed that in answer to a question relating to a 1960s TV ad campaign, which product gave us the ring of confidence? one team, whose anonymity he respected to spare their embarrassment, had put Andrex, rather than the correct answer, Colgate toothpaste.

It was after that round that Sonia dashed out to the shop, and Sporty and I grappled with the questions, which were on literature, not a strong subject for either of us.

With our star player absent, we made as decent a fist as we could of the questions. We exchanged our inklings via whispers, and Sporty jotted down notes and the questions we couldn't answer. In the nick of time, with Alan just asking question number nine of ten, Sonia returned. She was panting from having hurried back, and she immediately checked our answers. "What's A Clockwork Orange?" she said.

"The book where you 'd find Alex and his droogs," Sporty said.

"Good, and this, George Orwell?"

"Who wrote Homage to Catalonia?"

"Excellent," Sonia said, "and what on earth is pea pod the answer to?" Sporty looked at the notes he'd scribbled.

"The name of the ship in Moby Dick," he said. I laughed at his misinterpretation of the answer I had whispered to him. Sonia crossed out our answer and put the correct one in its place, the one I had verbally given to Sporty. I told him he needs to have his ears tested.

We scored eight on literature, and by the time the quiz entered its final round, our team was one point behind Mutant's. When Alan announced the final scores, we had clawed back that point, and tied for first place, which meant we would be in a tie-break with Mutant and Ralph. As Alan sorted out the deciding question, Rag, Tag, and Bobtail reflected on what had been a sterling team effort. Sonia's input was obviously the major contributing factor, but had it not been for Sporty knowing that Pilot had a hit with the song January, and me somehow remembering that Swansea City's home ground is the Vetch Field, then we would have fallen short, and there would have been no tie-break.

"Right," Alan said, "this question is for teams two and five only. The answer is a year, and the team that comes closest wins the cash, which stands at eighteen quid." Annie then handed a slip of paper to each team participating in the tie-break. The question was, in what year was Jack Nicholson born?

We guessed 1940, and Mutant's team went with 1938. When Alan announced the correct year 1937, there came a great roar of triumph from the pig's head chucker. Mutant walked up to collect the winnings with his arms aloft, and on his way back, he approached our table, smirking and waving a banknote in each hand, right in front of Sporty's face. "To the victor, the spoils," Mutant said.

"You need to grow up, mate," Sporty replied, clearly rattled.

After the applause for Mutant's victory had subsided, Alan announced that Annie would be bringing around jackpot slips, which were available for fifty pence each. This was the big finale to proceedings, during which one lucky winner would be drawn from the hat, to be given a crack at a single question for the jackpot. Alan said the total had rolled over several times and it currently stood at fifty-six pounds, news that was met with a sustained cheer, and a burst of table-drumming from participants. Sporty, Sonia, and I bought two tickets each, and we decided against putting Sonia's name on all of them, as that would be unsporting.

When all of the slips were in the hat, actually a cloth bank bag, Alan gave them a good shake-up. Annie pulled one out and handed it to her husband, who by now had completely overcome his mic-shyness, and was relishing his role. "Jeff Brakelight, come on down," he roared over the microphone, in the manner of a game show host he'd seen on television.

"Go on, Jeff," Sporty said, patting me on the back as I rose.

"Good luck," Sonia said.

I walked up to Alan's table, where he explained the jackpot rules. Once instructed, I turned to Annie, who held three envelopes in a fan, each containing a question. After some deliberation, I opted for the middle envelope, which I opened at a designated table. I pulled out the slip of paper and on reading the question I couldn't believe my luck. It was all I could do to refrain from laughing aloud, for the question was, what is the capital of Costa Rica? I picked up a pen, wrote down my answer, and handed the slip over to Alan.

The cheer that greeted Alan's announcement that I had provided the correct answer and won the jackpot was more enthusiastic than that which had followed Mutant winning the quiz. The three of us waved tenners and fivers about in a most provocative manner towards the table of Norfolk & Chance, but to his credit, Mutant smiled and applauded.

We divvied up the winnings, taking fifteen pounds each, and what was left we put towards more drinks. By the time we pulled on our coats, we were each in a state of happy inebriation, and so absorbed in our celebrations we made our way to the exit sans figurine. Luckily, the landlord saw the unattended bag and called us back.

Outside, we were delighted to see that snow was falling. There wasn't a breath of wind, so it floated down incessantly; soft and silent. We awaited our taxis in the car park, passing the time with a snowball fight until Sporty's cab took him away. After he'd gone, a combination of alcohol and appreciation of the British climate prompted me to take Sonia by the arm. She laughed as I led her on a dance around the empty car park in the falling snow, singing the chorus of the Queen number, We Are the Champions.

At that moment, the snow beneath my feet may just as well have been a cloud, for I was so deliriously happy I felt like I was walking on air. But I was set for a mighty fall.

Having earlier taken delivery of a snowball to the back of the head, I immediately sought retribution by forming my own missile to launch back at Sporty. I had placed the bag containing Dickie's figurine on the ground, as there was no one else around. When our taxi pulled into the car park, Sonia and I stopped dancing and stood by to allow it to pass. The driver, whose vision was doubtless impaired by the falling snow, failed to see the white plastic bag that contained the ornament, and one wheel went right over it.

As grim as this development was, Sonia and I couldn't help laughing out loud as I picked up the flattened bag. We climbed giggling into the back of the cab, and I inspected the damage. Luckily, there was a receipt in what was left of the box, so I knew from which shop Dickie had bought the wretched ornament, and I would hopefully be able to purchase a replacement. I was dismayed to report to Sonia that it had cost the princely sum of nineteen-ninety-nine, although she said she'd be happy to stump up half. I declined her offer, but the purchase would wipe out my jackpot winnings, and then some.

When the taxi drew up outside my apartment block, I took out some cash as my contribution to the fare, expecting the cab to take Sonia on to her own home. I was surprised, and not a little delighted when she stepped out of the vehicle, instructing me to pay the driver.

In the kitchen, Sonia filled the kettle, while I put the broken figurine into the bin. We had decaf coffee done in the cafetière, with a good glug of whisky to make the perfect nightcap. We chatted, and when the time finally came to turn in we retired together. Needless to say, I was happy to be leaving the hot water bottle on its hook on the inside of a kitchen cupboard door.

There were no physical shenanigans under the duvet, but rather we chatted until sleep overtook us. Stirred into consciousness by a need to pee at 6.42, I stared momentarily in the dimmest light at the barely discernible form of Sonia's head on the adjacent pillow. Then, in answer to my bladder's prompting, I gently slid out of bed, dashed to the toilet, washed down a brace of paracetamol tablets, turned on the central heating, and was back under the duvet before my warm patch had cooled by a single degree.

My re-entry stirred the sleeping figure in the bed, and when I told her the time, she said she must dash home to get showered and ready for work."Bide-a-wee," I said, assuming that phrase to be an instruction to remain. "We may as well stay under the duvet until the place warms up. Give it ten minutes and then we'll have a quick cuppa and I'll run you home."

"Perfect," Sonia said, snuggling down for a bonus doze.

Half an hour later, I steered the old Astra in the direction of Chez Sonia, but I wouldn't complete the journey. As I exited a dual carriageway, I noticed a police car with blue flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. Unaware that anything was amiss, I pulled to the left to give the emergency vehicle room to pass, but then I realised that the lights were flashing on my behalf. I brought the car to a halt.

I couldn't decide if the officer who spoke to me was just finishing a long shift and was tired, or just starting one but he wasn't a morning person. Either way, he was the surliest specimen I've ever had to deal with. The reason for my being stopped was that, according to this officer of the law, I had been driving erratically. He said he had observed a works van having to brake suddenly because I had strayed into its path. I wasn't aware of having deviated from my lane, although I did recall hearing the blast of a horn behind me a few minutes earlier. After a brief lecture, he invited me to blow into a plastic tube, so I followed his instructions. On scanning the result, the officer notified me, with some relish, that I had failed a roadside breath test.

I was aghast. I'd never been one for drinking and driving, but I supposed the residual alcohol from the previous night's celebrations had kept me over the limit. That damn nightcap, I thought, as the officer quoted my rights before arresting me. Sonia was visibly upset, and I wouldn't have inflicted such embarrassment upon her innocent soul for anything. But, she had to get to work, and so as the policeman, who had noticeably brightened up, went through the procedure for those who fail a breath test, she stepped out of the car. "Call me," I said, as she began walking down the slip road in search of a bus stop.

Inside the police station, it was like my entire world had collapsed, and I don't recall ever having felt so sorry for myself. Apart from the impending shame of a drink-driving charge, I had no idea as to Sonia's feelings on the matter. My misery was compounded by a stubborn hangover, which served to magnify my woes.

At home that afternoon, I paced the floor in anticipation of a call from Sonia. I didn't even ring Sporty to tell him the news, lest I missed that vital call. As five o'clock passed, I hoped she might get in touch after work, but the phone remained silent. I contemplated giving her a buzz, but I couldn't think of the best way to broach the issue. She never called that night, nor the following day. On Friday, after buying the replacement figurine in town I finally summoned the courage to call Sonia from a phone box, but she didn't answer. The library had closed for the Christmas break, so I couldn't contact her via that route, and all hope seemed lost. With a heavy heart, I assumed it was over between us.

But, life goes on, and early in the evening on Christmas Eve, I turned up at Uncle Dickie's with the figurine. As he let me in, he issued an over-loud greeting, while dispatching a wink in my direction that could have cracked a walnut. "Come in, Jeff," he said, taking the bag from me and hurriedly hiding it in a cupboard under the stairs. We entered the living room, where Aunt Charlotte sat in an armchair sipping sherry. With the lights winking on the tree, the smell of mince pies in the air, and a CD of Christmas carols playing, the ambiance was warm, homely, and very festive.

Charlotte offered me a whisky, but I declined on account of having the car, so I settled for coffee and one of the aforementioned pastries under a drizzle of cream. While she went to prepare my snack, Dickie expressed his appreciation for my looking after the figurine. "You're a star, Jeff," he said, "I don't know where I could have kept it hidden from your aunt Charlotte's all-seeing eye."

"Think nothing of it, Uncle," I said, telling myself if only you knew!

I had my coffee and pie, and I said goodbye to Charlotte and Dickie, wishing them both a Merry Christmas. In the hallway, Dickie handed me a smooth cardboard cylinder, inside which reposed a bottle of the finest single malt whisky. I've already intimated this, but I shall reiterate. My uncle Dickie is as sound a chap as you could ever hope to meet.