Authors: Sue Townsend
12 Porky Pies
The Queen looked at her son in the dock and remembered the last time she had seen him behind bars. He’d been in his playpen in the nursery wing at Buckingham Palace. Diana sat next to her, clutching a wet handkerchief. Her eyes and nose were pink. Why had she forgotten to ask a solicitor to go and see Charles at the police station? How could such an important thing have slipped her mind? It was entirely her fault that Charles was now being represented by the court Duty Solicitor, Oliver Meredith Lebutt, a red-haired, disreputable-looking man with nicotined fingers and a speech impediment. The Queen had taken an instant dislike to him. Charles waved and smiled at his wife and mother in the public gallery and was rebuked by the Chief Magistrate, a stern Trade Unionist called Tony Wrigglesworth.
“This is not a carnival, Mr Teck.”
The Queen pricked her ears. “Teck?” Why was Charles using his great-grandmother’s maiden name? Thank God Philip had refused to get out of bed and come to the Magistrates’ Court. It could, quite possibly, have killed him.
Diana smiled back at her husband, he looked
great
. Two days’ stubble gave him the fabulous
raunchy
look of the street fightin’ man. She winked at her husband and he winked back, provoking another rebuke from Tony Wrigglesworth. “Mr Teck, you are not the comedian Rowan Atkinson, so please refrain from indulging in facial contortions.”
Sycophantic laughter rippled around the court. However, it did not ripple along the press bench, because the press were absent. The streets around the court were closed to traffic and pedestrians and, in particular, media personnel.
There was a sudden commotion and Beverley Threadgold came up the stairs from the cells below and joined Charles in the dock. Beverley was handcuffed to a policewoman. Charles, who was still standing, turned to Beverley and offered her a chair. Tony Wrigglesworth thumped the bench in rage and shouted, “Teck, you are not a furniture salesman! Remain standing, Mrs Threadgold.”
Charles helped Beverley to her feet. Seeing their hands touch gave Diana a pang of jealousy. Beverley did look fabulous in the dock, curvy and womanly in a knitted two-piece. Diana resolved to put on at least a stone in weight.
The third prisoner was brought up – Violet Toby, looking pale and old without her make-up. Tony Threadgold and Wilf Toby nodded their heads towards their wives, too afraid of Tony Wrigglesworth for anything more friendly.
The case began. The Crown Prosecutor, a dumpy head-girl type of woman called Susan Bell, gave the facts to the court. The Queen, who had been a witness to the events described in such dramatic terms by Ms Bell, was horrified. It simply wasn’t
true
. PC Ludlow was called and told lies, claiming he was savagely assaulted by Charles, Beverley and Violet.
No, he couldn’t explain the reason for this assault. Perhaps it was the influence of television. Inspector Holyland backed PC Ludlow’s story, calling the so-called attack on Ludlow “an orgy of violence, led by the man, Teck, who had been heard to shout, ‘Kill the pig’.”
Tony Wrigglesworth intervened, “And there was not a pig in the immediate vicinity, a four-legged pig?”
“No sir, I believed Teck’s phrase, ‘Kill the pig’, to mean that he was urging his accomplices to murder PC Ludlow.”
The Queen said very loudly, “Nonsense.” Wrigglesworth was on to her immediately.
“Madam, this is not a fringe theatre. We do not encourage audience participation.”
Oliver Meredith Lebutt stopped exploring the wax in his ears and put a waxy finger to his lips, indicating to the Queen that she must remain silent. The Queen was overwhelmed with feelings of rage and hatred, but she kept her silence and merely scowled at the bench where Tony Wrigglesworth was conferring with his fellow magistrates, one a tweedy box of a woman, the other a nervous man in an ill-fitting Next suit.
The hearing continued, the sun came out and the trio in the dock were illuminated from behind, which gave them the look of angels descending from heaven.
Oliver Meredith Lebutt lumbered to his feet, dropped his papers and, in his high, lisping voice, proceeded to address his clients by the wrong names, mix up their evidence and generally antagonise the court. It was a surprise to everyone when, after a short adjournment, Tony Wrigglesworth announced that all three defendants would go to trial at the Crown Court, but would be granted bail, providing certain conditions could be met.
Oliver Meredith Lebutt punched the air in triumph as though he had won a major victory at the Old Bailey. He looked around expecting congratulations, but when nobody came forward he shuffled his papers together and lurched out of the courtroom to flirt with Susan Bell, the Crown Prosecutor, with whom he was falling in love.
Charles insisted on staying in court to hear the next case. Lee Christmas was sent to prison for two months for the theft of a black plastic knob. Before he went down to begin his sentence he shouted, “Tell our mam not to worry, Charlie,” which prompted Tony Wrigglesworth to declare that the court was not a message service.
As they left the Court and walked along the abnormally quiet street outside, Tony Threadgold suggested that they should have a celebratory cup of tea at the British Home Stores before catching the bus back to Hell Close. The Queen felt quite lonely as she watched the three couples enter the café in front of her. Wilf had his hand on Violet’s shoulder. Tony and Beverley were hand in hand and Diana had snuggled her head into Charles’s shoulder. All the Queen had for comfort was her black patent handbag.
She had expected that the public appearance of three members of the ex-Royal Family would cause a sensation in the crowded café but, apart from a few curious glances at Charles’s dishevelled appearance and Diana’s Ray Bans worn in April, nobody took particular notice. There were many women of the Queen’s age seated at the formica tables, most of them headscarfed and wearing brooches pinned to their coats. The Queen said: “I’m afraid I have no money to pay for the tea.”
Tony said, “No sweat,” and, after urging the rest of the group to find a table, went to queue at the self-service counter. He came back with seven cups of tea and seven doughnuts. Beverley said, “Tone, you’re lovely, you really are.”
The Queen agreed. She was ravenous. She bit hungrily into the doughnut and jam dripped out and trickled down the front of her cashmere coat.
Violet handed her a paper napkin and said, “’Ere, ’ave a serviette, Liz.” And the Queen, instead of taking offence at the over-familiarity, thanked Violet, took the napkin and wiped her coat.
13 Grid Marks
When Charles got back to Hell Close he went to see Mrs Christmas to relay the message from her son. He found the house in uproar. Mr and Mrs Christmas were in the middle of a violent row with the six teenage sons – something about missing rent money. Mrs Christmas had one son in a judo hold, round his neck. Mr Christmas was brandishing a potato masher towards the others. The son who had let Charles into the house leapt back into the argument, as though he had never left, proclaiming his innocence at full volume. “Well, it weren’t me!”
“Well, all I know is I left that rent money under the clock an’ now it’s gone,” said Mrs Christmas.
Mr Christmas jabbed the potato masher towards his sons and said, “An’ one of
you
bastards ’as ’ad it.”
The sons became quiet. Two of them already had grid marks on their foreheads. Even Charles’s heart beat loudly in his breast and he
certainly
hadn’t had the rent money.
Mr Christmas began to prowl around the living room and spoke, as though he were giving a lecture to particularly dim university students. “Now I know I ain’t an angel. Fact is, I’m a tea leaf, no sense in ’idin’ it. And ’til recent I’ve kep’ you all in food and clothes and shoes, ain’t I?”
“They’ve gone without nothink,” said Mrs Christmas loyally. “They’ve ’ad everythink they’ve ever wanted, father.” She released her hold on her son’s neck and he fell away from her, retching.
Mr Christmas continued his address. “OK, so I’ve broke the law of the land, but I ain’t never broke a more important law, which is you never shit on your own patch. You don’t thieve off your neighbours and you
never
thieve off your own family.” Mr Christmas looked around at his sons, profoundly moved by his own oratory, his eyes misted over. “I know things ’ve been ’ard since I done me back in.”
Mrs Christmas defended her husband fiercely, “How’s he supposed to break an’ enter with ’is back in a corset?”
Charles began to feel sorry for Mr Christmas, a fellow back sufferer deprived of his livelihood. He cleared his throat. The Christmas family turned towards him, expecting him to speak. Charles stammered, “So, Mr Christmas, what do you blame for this deterioration of the morality of the criminal classes?”
Mr Christmas hadn’t understood the question so he waved the potato masher vaguely towards the living room window and the street beyond.
Charles said excitedly, “Society! Yes, I totally agree with you. The breakdown of educational standards and er … the disparity between rich and poor …”
A large pantechnicon drove slowly by the Christmas’s window, blocking the light. It parked next door. Charles looked out and saw that his sister was at the wheel. Mrs Christmas rushed to the mantelpiece and began to titivate her tight blue curls. She threw her apron into a corner and changed out of her slippers and into white wedge-heeled sandals. She turned to her six sons and her husband and said, “So,
what
do you say when you meet ’er?”
Seven sonorous voices said as one: “’Ello your Royal ’Ighness. Welcome to ’Ell Close.”
“Yes,” breathed Mrs Christmas. “I’m proud on yer.”
Charles said, “Oh Mrs Christmas, I’ve bad news, I’m afraid. Lee got sent down for two months.”
Mrs Christmas sighed and said to her husband, “You’ll have to eat his chop, then. Can you manage three?”
Mr Christmas assured his wife that Lee’s chop wouldn’t be wasted. Then they all trooped outside and stood at their paint-blistered gate to watch Charles welcome his sister to Hell Close.
“Wotcha,” said Anne. “This is a bloody hole. You look awful. Who’re the dorks at the gate?”
“Your neighbours.”
“Christ! They look like the Munsters.”
“They’re not monsters, Anne, they’re …”
“
Munsters
– you know, on the telly …”
“I don’t watch …”
“How’s Mum?”
Anne let down the ramp at the back of the van and her children, Peter and Zara, staggered out looking pale and ill. Anne said, “I bloody well told you you wouldn’t enjoy it in the back, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?” She threw the keys to Seven Hell Close to Peter and told him to open the front door. She ordered Zara to take the dog for a walk and instructed Charles to start emptying the van. She strode around to the front of the van, woke the driver, who was sitting in the passenger seat and then went to introduce herself to the Christmas family.
To her astonishment, the Munster woman and the Munster men said, in Munster voices: “’Ello, your Royal ’Ighness, welcome to ’Ell Close.” She shook eight hands and said, “My name is Anne. Call me that, would ya’, please!”
Mrs Christmas practically swooned with delight and dropped into a curtsey, bending her fat knees and bowing her head, but when she arose from abasing herself in front of the Princess, she was disturbed to find that Princess Anne was curtseying to
her
, Winnie Christmas. She didn’t know what to make of it. It put her at sixes and sevens. What did it mean? Was she taking the piss? But no. She looked dead serious.
Dead
serious. As though Winnie was as good as
she was
. I mean.
The Queen hurried down the Close when she heard that Anne had arrived. She threw herself into her daughter’s arms with uncharacteristic passion. “I’m so, so pleased to see you,” the Queen said.
Charles stood by. He felt useless and stupid. There was something about Anne that made him feel … he groped for the word … foolish? No. Effete? Yes. Nearer the mark. Unlike him, she despised the speculative, preferring practical, down-to-earth solutions to everyday problems. In the past she had openly mocked his attempts to make sense of the world. He felt lonely. Where would he find a fellow spirit in Hell Close?
Anne’s home was much like the other houses in Hell Close, but, being on a corner site, had an unusually large garden, which was full of brambles. The house was dirty, damp, cold and cramped, but she declared herself satisfied with it. “It’s a roof over one’s head,” she said. “It’s better than being put up against a wall and shot.”
The Christmas sons, Craig, Wayne, Darren, Barry, Mario and Englebert were put to emptying the van. Mrs Christmas sent Mr Christmas to the shop to buy a packet of Flash and a plastic mop bucket. While he was gone on his errand, she and Anne swept the mouse droppings off the floors.
Peter and Zara were taken next door to watch the Christmas’s vast television set. As they entered the living room they were unable to stop their noses from wrinkling. The Christmas’s vast black cat, Sonny, lay in a cardboard box on an acrylic cardigan. He was old and incontinent but, as Mrs Christmas explained to the children, “I’m not ’avin’ ’im put down; what’s a bit of a stink matter?” She approached Sonny and stroked his mangy head. “You want to die at ’ome, don’t you?”
The children cheered up slightly. The Christmas family were awfully common, but at least they liked animals, so they couldn’t be all bad. They had watched their mother weeping this morning as she said goodbye to her horses. They had tried to comfort her, but she had pushed them away and dried her eyes and said, “Always a mistake to get too attached to one’s animals.”
Zara held her nose and crouched at the side of Sonny’s basket. She rearranged the urine-soaked cardigan while Peter zapped through thirty-six channels of cable television. Sonny blinked his dying eyes as the channels flicked by. He could smell mice, but he hadn’t the strength to climb out of his basket and do his duty.