CHAPTER - 14

14 

 

 

As we headed along the A3 towards Ditton the clouds closed in and it became dull enough to make Monkie pull over and retrieve the umbrella from the boot. 

“This is a fine beast of a thing,” I said as he handed it to me. 

“Yeah, it’s my dad’s golf umbrella.” 

“Your dad’s a golfer? I thought that was the preserve of the rich or insane or both and I’m sure he’s neither.” 

“You’re right, of course. The clubs were kind of gifted.” 

I was puzzled, “What’s kind of gifted mean?” 

“He found them.” 

“Your family seems to be good at finding things. What with cats and golf clubs. Thinking about it, that’s a bit of a funny thing.” 

“What, finding things.” 

“No golf clubs. You take your golf clubs to the golf club.” 

“Very droll… you do have some strange ideas, don’t you.” 

“Not really, Anyway, where were they lurking?” 

“In the boot of a pranged Jag. Whacked up the backside by something either heavy or fast. He picked it up from the scrap yard to rebuild. The lid was jammed so no one bothered to look inside.” 

“So, he plays then?” 

“Once, to give it a try, he said. The clubs now reside at the bottom of the lake on the local course. Thirteenth hole.” 

“All except our saviour,” I said as I held out my hand, held the umbrella aloft and fully opened it. “This is a bit bright,” I suggested. 

“Sure is… you know, bright yellow is probably my favourite colour,” 

“How so?” 

“It reminds me of sunshine, of course.” 

“Now that is handy, considering.” As we pulled away I felt the wind tug at the fabric, Remember, Monkie take it easy please. This thing’s heavy enough to take my arm off.” 

I have to admit Monkie was right. It did look cool. In fact, in the dull light it was stand out cool. The bench seat allowed me to sit in the middle with the umbrella resting on the windscreen covering both of us. At a speed of thirty it was just about controllable providing I kept it pulled down really tightly onto the screen. People stopped. They stared as the pale blue convertible, sporting its makeshift yellow hood, with a rusted wing, a misfire and dripping oil slowly swam its way over the saturated road to pull into a driveway down a lane close to the river in Ditton. 

Monkie swung the car round to scrunch to a halt in front of the garage. “A gravel driveway, that’s handy.” I said. 

“My father’s idea, of course. He’s very conscious of old cars and oil problems. You notice there’s virtually no weeds. Oil and foliage don’t mix.” 

“Clever chap, your dad, to choose such an accommodating career.” 

The house was old. Late Georgian I’d say. Big sash windows. I could see what Monkie had meant by the lack of gardening interest. The good thing: the foliage provided some protection from the rain. The bad thing: in sunlight the place must be really gloomy. Inside the house everything was dim and quiet. The smell of burnt toast prevailed. 

“That’ll be my sister and an early tea,” said Monkie, “Tuesdays she works evenings at the chippy.” 

“I thought you said she was a hair stylist.” 

“She is, well, an apprentice. Tuesday is a half day because she works Saturdays. Apparently she doesn’t get paid enough to fund her lifestyle. So…” 

“Part time work.” 

“Exactly. Anyway, we’ve one of those eye level gas grills that, even after ten years she has been allowed to use it, she has failed to master it. The odd thing is it must run in the female side of the family, my mother hasn’t either and she’s had obviously a lot longer. Anyway, the smell’s better than the egg sandwich alternative.” Monkie stopped me before I got to the front room door, first on the right. “Nobody’s home,” he said. 

“Is that good?” I asked. 

“Definitely. Bengie and strangers are not a good combination. The vicar discovered that the first time he called after Bengie took up residence. My dad had hung the cage in the front room right where my mother entertained the vicar and before he even had time to sit Bengie’s conversation started.” 

“He can talk, Bengie?” 

“After a fashion. There’s a few words he’s mastered.” 

“Is this the vicar who owned the convertible?” 

“Yup, and he’s not been inside since. Well, to be exact, he would probably come in but my mother’s too embarrassed to have him in the house. She meets him in the garage.” 

“By the lawnmower, I assume.” 

“Not really she made my father section off the front so there’s a kind of bijou outhouse. They sit on camping chairs on an old Bokhara rug with an upturned apple box for a table, drinking Earl Grey tea, eating burnt toasted tea cakes with the garage doors open chatting about the ways of the world that mostly revolve around the church. She asked my dad to buy something to brighten up the walls so he bought a large picture. When mum saw it hanging behind the chairs she quite naturally asked what it was. He replied quite innocently that it was a Madonna and Child. When she suggested it was the wrong denomination all he said was that it was religious, wasn’t it, and walked out. Although the vicar doesn’t seem to mind it is one of many continual sources of her irritation and it does make people look as they stroll past.” 

“Sounds like your dad’s stuck with a real problem and a lot of alteration work for him. Walls, paint, inappropriate pictures, all sorts of stuff I expect. Costly I’d have thought.” 

“You’re right there. The ironic thing is it would’ve been way cheaper just to have bought her a dog in the first place. Sometimes, for an intelligent and extremely capable person, he does the dumbest things” 

“No thoughts of changing the pet?” 

“I expect he wishes every day but unfortunately, Bengie is unsaleable and to evict him I suppose would mean certain death and… well, you’ll see what I mean. Take a step up to the door… that’s it… the first on the right, slowly… a bit further… and… stop.” 

As I crept I could hear muttered squarks. A cage rattled. I stopped and stood in the doorway. Felt the sudden blast of words hit with a jolt as the squarks flowed. I was immediately reminded of the first two words Charlie the milk said to me when I hopped into the front of his milk float. My ears burnt. I glanced at Monkie, “I hear what you mean. A few hard lines there for a vicar to absorb for sure,” I said. 

Monkie was grinning, “I find this all so amusing… my old man’s got himself well and truly pickled… just hop about a bit… go on, a bit more effort.” 

“Whoa… Whoa, what was that?... Fortunately it’s a bit hard to decipher.” 

“Fortunate for sure and my dad’s saving grace even if it is very slight. This particular parrot has trouble pronouncing certain letters.” 

“He’s top of the class with F and B though and P’s apparently. Was that pillock I just heard? Yeah, I'm sure it was… yes, definitely… dopey pillock.” 

“Yeah, but that’s my contribution. I tried to retrain him. Spent hours running through the ins and out of etiquette. Read him sections of the Gentlemen's Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness the 1860’s Cecil B Hartley number but he was having none of it. I ended up shouting at him. All I said was, why can’t you just stop it, you dopey pillock. And there you have it. Instead of stopping words I simply added more.” 

“Frustrating, I would expect, but at least the new ones are not offensive.” 

“There is that but even so… anyway, we are stuck with a parrot with sewer breath.” 

“Tried soap?” 

“He ate it,” 

I looked at the huge cage hanging by a stout chain fixed to the centre of the ceiling. Bengie jauntily swinging on his perch. A gleam in his eye. If he had teeth there would be the flash of a wide toothy grin. No doubt about that. He casually pecked at a misplaced blue feather. I said, “I’ve heard a cover over the cage shuts parrots up.” 

“Tried that, The tirade was slightly muffled but nonetheless it was very clear what he thought about being in the dark.” 

“Shut the door and windows, then.” Monkie shut the door. The decibels increased tenfold inside the room so were only slightly diminished outside. “There is a slight reduction,” I suggested. 

I noticed ear defenders hanging on the wall by the hat stand, “And these?” I asked. 

“For the guests. They sit and eat dinner in silence. Three visits appear to be the requisite before Bengi stops complaining.” 

“So, why not acclimatise the vicar?” 

“Won’t work. My mother was so embarrassed the first time. A second confrontation and my dad’s life could be in danger.” 

“And it’s not at the moment?” 

“Not so long as he keeps up the supply of gifts.” 

“Okay, one last suggestion… how about Bengi residing in the garage rather than the vicar.” 

That made Monkie really laugh, “My sister, being extremely practical, suggested that, Can you believe what my mother said, she said she didn’t want Bengie to get lonely.” And rolled his eyes. 

I wandered into the room and stood facing Bengi. I stared at him, right into his eyes. He hopped back and forth on his perch. Nodded his head and preened some more. Glanced back at me, gave one final squark and fell silent. 

“Are you a parrot whisperer,” said Monkie. 

“Not that I know of.”  

Bengi muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t make much of it out but I was sure the first word was something dodgy. He was nodding. Stamping his feet. I held my ground and waited. The next string of expletives forced me out of the room, “There goes the whispering theory… I suggest therapy.” 

“Or a gag,” said Monkie. Then he said, “Come on, now you’ve met the devil himself… I’ll take you home.” 

 

It was coming up to seven when Monkie pulled up to the kerb close to Margie’s place. A bit down the road due to parked cars. Climbing over the door I suggested meeting Friday evening for a few beers to get into the mood for Saturday’s party. Monkie said he had thoughts on collecting some finance from a passing car in the morning if I was free.  

“No problem,” I replied. 

“Also,” said Monkie, “My father’s workshop is crammed with car parts. There’s all sorts, Oil, radios, tyres, in fact you name it and it’s probably there. I was thinking, He’ll sell us any bits we want. Maybe they’d be a good line for your market stall.” 

“I’m not sure I want to lay out money on expensive stock. What if it didn’t sell?” 

“If I ask, he’ll likely do it sale and return. That way we’d only pay for the things we sell. I can work out a cost structure so we know how much to charge. No skin of his hooter and all that, he’s already paid for it. All it’s doing is just waiting for a suitable motor and anyway it can soon be replaced.” 

“In that case let’s give it a go. Tell you what, you sort out suitable parts first thing tomorrow then we’ll go and earn some cash. After that I think we should open a bank account. One that pays interest. In joint names, of course, both signatures and all that sort of thing. Get some proper structure into our finances. Ten quid each should be enough to get it started. Then back to yours to load up for Thursday.” 

“Sounds good. My dad will be in the workshop so you can meet him. You’ll like him.” 

“But will he like me?” 

“Definitely, just don’t expect long sentences.” 

As he fired up the motor Monkie said he’d pick me up at nine-thirty tomorrow morning and I started to stroll the hundred yards or so towards Marge’s. I’d only got about halfway when the door of a black Wolseley opened and out stepped a large guy with the face of a pug. A boxer was my first thought. From the driver’s side Don appeared. 

“Been wanting a word with you, you little creep,” he snarled. 

The big guy grabbed my T-shirt and swung me around against the front wing of the car. Don got really close. He had to stand on his toes to spit words into my face but he managed it. “You’ve been places you shouldn’t,” Don grated.” Seen things you shouldn’t.” 

He looked around as the sound of a spluttering car pulled up just down from Don’s car, “Saw you in my wing mirror,” said Monkie, "need any help?” and stood to get out of the car.  

Don glanced his way, then back at me. Nodded at big boy who pushed me down the pavement. Don snapped, “This isn’t finished… I’ll be seeing you when you're on your own.” They both got into the Wolseley and were away slowly down the road, the car purring as though it had recently been tweaked. 

“That was close, thanks Monkie,” I said. “Clearly the two of us are odds Don didn’t fancy.” 

“Are you okay?” asked Monkie and I nodded, “You need to watch out. He’ll be back and mob handed I would expect. Next time two of us won’t be enough.” 

“That’s for sure,” I replied as Monkie started the car. “Oh well, we'll worry about that then… anyway, thanksagain, Monkie, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

As I walked into the house I was thinking about Don. Why make such a fuss? The likelihood of me talking to anyone was less than slim. He should know that. There had to be another reason. Or maybe it was just a warning but, if he did come back, then I would know it was more than just a casual warning.  

On the plus side, getting an account opened was a great step forward. The scheme I mentioned when talking to Take Six - that was taking real shape in my mind and one of the most important ingredients was getting the account opened.