hand, I accept the invitation to brunch. Yes, I’ll definitely go. And I spend the rest of my manicure trying to remember how I know the guy who’s invited me. A guy called Leon Taylor.
30
Jim
In the booth, I open the paperback I took from my ma’s house last night when I nipped in to grab some essentials she wanted bringing into hospital. About the comic genius of Dudley Moore, it’d been one of my dad’s books and I was thoroughly surprised to find it there on the shelf, having never noticed it before.
Two sentences in, I’ve got to explain to a driver that she can’t pay on card.
‘Why not?’ the woman asks.
‘Cash only, love.’
‘But, I wanna use me card.’
‘You’ll be able to use it soon.’ I attempt a smile.
‘But, I wanna use me card now.’
Dudley Moore’s story’ll have to wait.
Ah, what a difference a week can make. Or not. Exactly one week’s passed since I received that phone call from Connie and Carl on Mersey Wave 103.4 and yet, despite the pandemonium over the past seven days, here I am again, in the toll booth, reading a paperback, getting stiff knees. The BMW’s still in the pound. I’ll have to put a few quid aside over the next few months before I can think about getting that back, if it’s even worth bothering. Only yesterday, as I sat in the canteen to eat my ham and pickle on brown bread (courtesy of the tenner I won on the quizzie at the Pacific Arms), Derek Higgins had swung by to remind me about the card-payment training day.
‘How could I forget, Derek?’
‘I hope you know this is a privilege.’
I opened my packet of Cheddars and crunched one slowly.
‘You’re The Chosen One, Jim.’
The woman wanting to pay the toll fee on her card seems to have finally comprehended that she can’t. Gayle Freeman’s in the booth beside me, and being the perfect team player, she’s waving all cars over to her, allowing the woman to reverse without commotion. Really, Gayle should be The Chosen One.
A welcomed lull encases me and I delve into the first chapter about Dudley Moore. I make it through three full pages before I’ve got to give change again.
Our Emma sends me a message.
Hey little bro!! What time do you finish work today? We’re doing tours of both footy stadiums today (Jack’s idea obviously!) and then going for food at the Albert Dock before going to see Mum. Wanna join us? Lisa and Paul are coming too. Love ya loads. Em x
No, I don’t want to join and listen to Jack harp on about soccer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they’re making the most of their time in Liverpool. Emma’s kids are sweethearts, and they’ve warmed to their Uncle Jimbo since I gave them a Mars bar the other day. Plus, their politeness is bloody astounding, a million miles from the Wongs’ antisocial kids. Well, four thousand two hundred miles to be almost exact. I message Emma back to say I’ve got errands to run and to have fun without me this afternoon. In truth, it’s the perfect opportunity to go and visit my ma. Alone.
‘Y’never heard of a barber, mate?’
He’s late today, the fella in the Ford Focus. I laugh, as usual, wishing him all the best.
Then I get another message, from Mikey.
Ring me now.
Can’t mate. Working. I reply.
Fuck work. Ring me now.
Something up?
Quite the opposite.
It’ll have to wait. Speak to you later mate.
Twat.
BEEP!
I apologise to the driver waiting for his change and tend to the queue that’s built up within a matter of seconds. I catch Gayle Freeman’s chin sinking into the many rolls of skin surrounding her neck, a look of disapproval beaming from her eyes like headlights in fog. She does such an excellent job of being efficient and pulling faces simultaneously. Really, quite a talent. The queue disappears almost as quickly as it began. Gayle leans out of her open window, calls my name.
‘What’s got into you?’ she yells.
My response is a shrug and a one-sided smile. I’m wondering the same thing. At least I’m not predictable anymore.
I receive a series of angry doorbell buzzes at my flat above the chippy. It had totally slipped my mind to speak to Mikey after work.
‘What’s your problem?’ I ask Mikey, who’s also been banging on the door, too.
‘I can’t stay long, I’m parked on double yellows.’
‘What’s going on, Mikey?’
‘I knew if I sent you another message, you wouldn’t reply. Ungrateful bastard.’