Visiting Hours

I hope to Christ that I’m not stuck with this one.

She stormed into the room, knocking on the lights and pulling the covers off him. He thrashed about a bit, moaning, and then opened his eyes.

“Wha’s matter?”

She ripped the curtains open and switched on the radio, and watched, with no small satisfaction, as a jaunty pop song irritated him upright. He was groggy and hairy, and she was furious.

“Don’t even fucking think about having a drink today, you idiot.”

He stared.

"I'm sick of it."

She hadn’t been delighted when he had decided to stay down at the bar ‘for one more’, and then, when he landed in at 3am, reeking of cigarettes and gassy with lager, she had made her mind up.

“We’re going to see them tomorrow.” she had hissed into the darkness.

“Alright love.” he slurred, then farted and started snoring.

Now he sat there, stupefied and crapulous. He had missed breakfast.

“Taxi’s coming in twenty minutes, so you might want to have a shower.” she said.

“Any chance of a cup of coffee, love?”

She barked once in laughter, and then took her make-up bag into the kitchenette. She passed a relaxing fifteen minutes at the table, listening to the top twenty hits and putting on her face as the shower hissed.

She was dabbing from a pool of foundation on her hand when he came back in, fully dressed and presentable. Lucky bastard. He stood, smugly looking down at her as she concentrated on getting the skin tone right under her eyes.

“Nearly ready, love?” he said, and busied himself with the tiny kettle.

“Nope.” she said, annoyed that he had invaded the space. “Just go and check your emails and I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Already have,” he said, through a mouthful of shortbread, “nothing new.”

“I’m sorry.” she said, her eyes appraising the reflection of her own nose in the mirror, and the small mole. She turned to him and pointed at it. “Should I get this removed?” He shrugged and went to find his shoes.

In the taxi, he stared out the window at the passing town and she tried to engage him in conversation.

“So that’s the restaurant I was telling you about,” she said, pointing in front of his eyes at a small building that zoomed past, “they do the most amazing veggie meals.” He looked at her. “Maybe we could go tomorrow night?”

“Maybe.”

“And that’s where my friend Vicki lives. You remember Vicki don’t you? She did that skydiving course with me in Australia.”

He muttered, ‘oh yeah’.

“You met her at Kate and Andy’s wedding, remember?”

“That one in Cyprus?” he said, and took out his phone. He perused it for a while, scanning his emails. "Dunno why they couldn't have it here."

“Holy hell, did you see this?” he said, pointing the screen at her.

“Seventy-Eight killed in Bangkok blast.” she read. “Oh, Tom, that’s near the hotel I stayed at when I was backpacking.”

She smiled at him, delighted. He looked blankly back.

At her parents' house, there was a brief flurry of nice to meet you and so this is the young man and Simone has told me all about you, and her mother shepherded them all into the lounge. She was pleased to see that Tom wasn’t quite as tall as her father.

“You’ve done the place up again,” she said, looking around, “have you?”

The place seemed to change every time she came back. Most times it just looked a little shabbier, or smaller, but now the whole ground floor was light and airy.

“Oh, we’ve had a few things changed here and there.” said her mother, waving her hand. “Thrown a few odds and sods out too.”

They sat while her father fetched the tea things, and from force of habit, she placed her hand on Tom’s leg. Her mother glanced at her hand, and she removed it.

“Simone tells us that there might be some big news.” said her mother, with a coy purr. She beamed at Tom, as if she wouldn’t have expected less.

He returned the smile, but not before looking a brief murder at her, and gave his best attempt at jocularity.

“Well, these professor types take forever to make their minds up, so it’s all up in the air really.” he said.

Simone squeezed his leg then, trying to give him a hint of support. She noticed again how skinny it was. He looked down at her and smiled his public smile.

He's going to be in a mood later.

“It would be so exciting to have a Professor in the family, though.” Said her mother, clearly imagining the bragging rights. “What area is your specialty, Tom?”

“Post-feminist sexuality.” he said, gravely, and her mother gave a crystalline laugh, clearly unsure how she could spin it at bridge.

Her father came bounding in again with the tray, limping a bit, but beaming at them all.

“Tea, cake, coffee.” he called, and set the tray down. He plopped himself on the sofa and beckoned to them all to help themselves.

“May I?” said Tom, dipping the spout of the teapot to her mother’s cup, and Simone fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her father winked at her. That was the way it had always been; her and her dad were the rascals, and her mother was the refined one. Tom’s fit of etiquette was just that; best behaviour.

He poured some tea into her cup without asking, and she thanked him anyway.

“Have you ever been to Exeter before, Tom?” asked her father. He was a big man, with a scrubby beard and a weathered face, and he smiled at everyone.

“I think so, when I was very young,” said Tom, “but I’ve never had any reason-" He stopped himself. “I grew up in London, you see, so it’s a bit out of the way, but it’s really a lovely place.”

Her father smiled, and took a forkful of chocolate cake, and her mother rounded on her.

“And Simone, are you still working for those communists?”

This was a point of contention. Simone sighed, and lowered her teacup.

“It’s only a bookshop mum,” she said, “and besides, they’re not communists, they’re anarchists.”

Her father snorted with laughter, and Tom and her mother looked at her with disapproval.

“Well, it’s fine for now, I suppose, but I just cannot see any future in it.” said her mother, her eyebrow arcing like the trajectory of a mortar-shell.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll find you something.” chuckled Tom, “I might need a research assistant soon enough.”

Her mother gave another exhibition of tinkling laughter, and shared a soppy glance with Tom, then turned to Simone and gave her a 'he’s a keeper, this one’ smile, and Simone fought the urge to throw something heavy and breakable.

“Let’s show Tom the house, shall we?” said her father, snatching his wife up and beckoning for Tom to follow.

“I’ll take care of these.” Simone muttered, pointing to the tea-ware.

“Good girl,” said her father, giving her another wink.

She took the tray into the kitchen, and heard her father as he rumbled on about renovating the attic, and the pine flooring, and the skylight that opened up the hallway. Her father could talk for hours, stumping from room to room, and made Tom examine every detail of the renovation. She imagined that Tom would be in awe of his study, with its haphazard miasma of books and decades old cigarette smoke and notebooks. She doubted the renovation had stretched that far.

“It’s a fucker to dust though.” she heard him say, followed with quicksilver rapidity by her mother’s “oh really, Frank!”

In the kitchen, she placed the cups and saucers on the side, placed the teapot - never rinsed- beside the kettle. They had changed the kitchen too, she noticed, so that the garden window was much wider, and captured more of the light. She smiled out, pleased that the garden was as unruly as ever. Along the back fence a black cat, fat and proud, waddled along with his tail stuck up in the air.

“Dickhead.” she muttered.

“But of course I can’t ride much anymore, not since the crash.” said her father, as he led them into the kitchen. “Did Mone tell you about it?” he asked.

“She mentioned it, yeah.” said Tom, and Simone saw her mother roll her eyes at him, as if she had heard the story too often. Tom smirked back at her.

Simone smiled at her father and he regained his grin.

“Who’s for a spot of sherry then?” he asked, clapping his hands.

“Sounds like a plan.” said Tom, before Simone could decline, and her father led him back into the lounge, an arm on his shoulder.

Simone and her mother followed them warily.

After a few glasses, Tom was telling them about his proposal,

“But they can be nasty bastards when they want,” he said, his finger wagging, “just because they don’t like you.”

Her father had his cigarettes out, and was blowing smoke rings; a trick he had performed for her when she was a child, but which now just irritated her.

“Dad, you’re getting smoke in your beard.” she said.

“Your mother doesn’t complain.” he said, and her mother, flushed and grinning, shrugged her shoulders.

"I never minded it." she giggled, then shrieked as he squeezed her.

When it was time to go, she helped her mother with the glasses. It was still fairly light, and the evening had a slow, hazy glow.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” said her mother.

“No mum, honestly, we’re meeting-“ but she broke off, seeing something from the corner of her eye. “What’s that?” At the back of the garden, one of the fence-poles had a large black rag hanging down from it.

They went out to inspect. Her father could just reach up to touch it.

“I have no idea how he got his head stuck in there,” he said, staring at the plump body of the cat. “looks like he slipped and broke his neck, poor thing.”

He stumped over to the shed and rummaged for a while.

“Janine, fetch some marigolds would you?” he called, and her mother ran into the house. When he came back with the step-ladder, Simone cut across him.

“No way dad, you’re not getting up a ladder with your leg.” she snapped.

“Well, maybe Tom will go up.” said her mother, “would you mind, dear?”

Tom was a bit unsteady on his feet from the surfeit of cake and sherry and when he made to speak, Simone took the gloves and thrust them into his chest.

“Thanks babe.” she said, with malicious sweetness. “You’re the best.”

To be fair to him, he walked up the ladder and took to the task without complaining. Simone considered this a positive. He gripped onto the creature’s neck and pulled, jerking it this way and that, and grunting with the effort as they stood below, squinting into the sunset.

“Mind you don’t rip the thing, Tom.” said her father. Simone had the impression that he was enjoying himself.

Tom worked at the cat’s neck, bracing himself on the fence as he squeezed harder, trying to get purchase on the fur as he pulled. The head popped out with an obscene ‘plop’, and Tom toppled off the step-ladder, bouncing once on the soft grass. He got to his feet quickly, grinning as if expecting to be applauded. Then he noticed the cat in his arms, with its gallows neck and plump warmth, and vomited chocolate cake down himself with a whimper.

Her father winked at her as he moved forward, struggling with repressed laughter - 'He’s a keeper this one' - and patted Tom on the back.

“Good job, son. Good job.”

She tried her best not to laugh.