A new thought enters his head, so he goes back to the kitchen to write it down. Like him, the wallpaper and paint
have seen much better days, and sometimes, Albert has to wipe mouse droppings from the table with his sleeve. But that never
bothers him, his work is his only real concern, and, as usual, his new idea goes straight into his notebook; it’s nearly
full now and shortly to be filed away with all the others.
My best idea yet, he tells himself as he scribbles, but how can I make it work?
He then notices a rat has gnawed at the loaf of bread he’s left out on the table, so he eats the other
half spread with jam. He can share with rats as well as mice, but he can’t share with the pig asleep on the sofa. He
can share his home with vermin but not a pig. Vermin leave telltale signs, and they make up for that by disappearing whenever
he comes into the room. But the pig is always in his face, always invading his space. If it isn’t at the pub or asleep,
grunting and snoring on the kitchen sofa, then it’s mocking him, complaining about him or moaning about others; it stops
him concentrating on his work.
Albert puts the kettle on to boil, a cup of tea will wash down his bread, jam and rat-slaver snack, and perhaps
give him courage for what he has to do with his new idea.
When Bertram awakes, hungover and belching, at the sound of the spoon on the side of the teapot, he sits up,
cursing, on the sofa. Looking like one of those model pigs you see sitting on its hind legs in butcher's shop windows, advertising
their wares, complete with tweed waistcoat and beige trousers. His fingers, sausage like and pink in colour, brush back his
dishevelled hair then straighten his tie before searching through his waistcoat pockets, desperately trying to find the cigar
stub he’s saved.
“I’m sure you do that on bloody purpose,” he moans, unable to find the stub. “Hope you’re
making one for me. Three bloody sugars and just a little milk.”
“Pour in your own!” Albert growls. “Doing what on purpose?”
“You know what! Making a racket with that bloody spoon.”
“I work in here. How can I work with you lying there snoring your fat, drunken head off?”
Bertram laughs: “Work? You don’t call that work, do you? That’s all you do, sit at that bloody
table scribbling away. That’s all you do, scribble on bits of bloody paper.”
“I don’t scribble, I’m a writer. Got it? A writer!”
“Oh, you call yourself a writer – but you’ve never had anything published, have you? Oh no,
scribbling away for years but never earned a bloody penny. How can that be bloody work?”
“I'll never earn as long as you’re here. How can I? All you do is get drunk, sleep it off, and disrupt
my life. How can I write, with you here?”
“Come off it, I haven’t been here all the bloody time. Ten years you’ve been bloody writing,
and all you’ve succeeded in doing is building a paper bank. Look at it, it’s stuffed every bloody where, pile
upon pile of it. What is it, your own recycling company?”
“I wish I could recycle you, you drunken pig. One day, somebody’s going to show some interest in
it, you’ll see?”
“The only ones to show any interest are your verminous bloody friends, but only as nesting material. There’s
no wonder you’ve so many bloody lodgers. The word’s out, get down to number forty-seven, he leaves food out and
there’s plenty of bloody nesting material.”
“And there’s a big fat drunken pig asleep on the sofa. They’ll be saying that as well. No wonder
Emily’s kicked you out again. How long are you planning to stay this time?”
“That’s it, Albert. Hit a man below the belt, kick him when he’s bloody down. You know she’s
only thrown me out five times. To hear you talk anybody would think I’m here all the bloody time.”
“Every time she’s kicked you out you’ve stayed for longer and longer. The first time it was
only for two weeks, but the last time it was nine whole months before she’d take you back. I think you’ll find
she’ll never have you back this time.”
“Look who’s talking. Your wife ran off nine bloody years ago and you’ve never seen her since.
I know how she felt, I think I’ll bloody well join her?”
“Ho-ho, a result! You’re going to follow her are you? Can I have that in writing?" Albert grabs pen
and paper. “You’d deserve each other.”
“No you bloody well can’t, you’re the so-called bloody writer, not me! She ran off with a double-glazing
salesman. She’d rather have a double-glazing salesman than a bloody writer. Who could blame her? Who the hell wants
to live with somebody who packs in their job just to become a bloody writer? All you did was write, you never showed her a
good time, even though you could bloody afford to, no wonder she ran off?”
“You hypocritical drunken slob! You packed in your job the same time as me, and what have you done since?
Nothing! Except throw away all your money. Oh yes, I know you’re broke; I talked to Emily when you first showed up last
week. She’s adamant she won’t have you back this time.”
“You know my heart problems have stopped me from bloody working, and you’d better watch your step,
talking to my wife behind my back, you’re as bad as your house guests, bloody sneaking and skulking about.”
“Your heart problems,” Albert laughs. “Some excuse? Two heart attacks, but they haven’t
stopped you drinking, gambling and chasing women, have they? I’ll be blowed if I’ll stand your nonsense this time,
I’m not putting up with you any longer, and that’s that!”
“You seem to forget, brother dear, that when mother died, apart from leaving us both enough money to bloody
live on, she also left us this house. I might be bloody broke after ten years of enjoying myself, but there’s nothing
you can do about it, I can come and go as I bloody well please. This house is as much mine as yours.”
Albert smiles. “You’re absolutely right, you do own half. You can come and go as you please, but
I won’t be here, you won’t be able to sponge off me to fund your wretched goings-on.”
“Oh yeah, and where the bloody hell are you going to go? Who’s going to take in a bloody scruffy
old sod like you?”
“My Diane, that’s who!”.
“Your daughter? Don’t make me bloody laugh. She ran off just before your wife did, she couldn’t
bloody stand you either. Remember?”
“Only too clearly. But she came to see me last month, came to tell me that her mother had died in London,
she thought I had a right to know.”
“So we’re all lovey-bloody-dovey now are we?”
“I wouldn’t say lovey-dovey exactly …” Albert's smile becomes a smirk. “ …But
we’ve reached an understanding. She’s married now, with two kids, and lives in London, near to her mother’s
old place. Her husband was injured and they’re in financial trouble. I’ve agreed to buy the house and put ownership
into both our names. In return, she’s agreed to let me move in and she’ll look after me for the rest of my days.
Hopefully, we’ll re-build a relationship?”
“You can’t afford to buy a house in bloody London? And you’re dreaming if you think I’ll
let you sell this place to raise the bloody money. Unless I can go with you, of course?”
“The last thing my daughter and grandchildren want in their lives right now is a fat drunken pig of an
uncle.”
“I’ll never bloody consent to selling! Without me, none of these bloody fancy plans of yours will
work. Do you hear? I’ll never consent. Never! Unless I’m bloody well included!”
Albert laughs. “Save your breath, I don’t fall for it anymore. I’ve realised that, like all
Bullies, when stood up to you’re nothing. You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t need your permission, you
fat fool.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid, of course you need me – otherwise you’ll never get the money
you need.”
“Stupid! Me? Unlike you, I’ve been careful with my share of the money mother left us. I’ve
been careful with what I’ve spent and I’ve made a few small investments. But you’re right, I’ve had
to live for ten years and there’s a shortfall between that money and the amount I need to buy the house outright, but
…”
“… See! You do need me, you bloody idiot. Do we have a bloody deal then?”
“If you listened you might just find out.” All traces of laughter gone from Albert's voice. “I
now have other money. I’ve got the insurance policy on my wife that I kept up after she’d left me. The best investment
I ever made. Last week I collected a cheque for over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, which more than covers the shortfall.
So you see, brother dear, I don’t need you at all.”
“What? You tight fisted sod, you kept that bloody quiet?”
“Why should I tell you?” You’d only try to sponge it off me!”
“Watch your bloody mouth, I’m no bloody spon…” Bertram stops in mid sentence, a knowing
smile appears on his face as it returns to its normal colour, broken veins once more visible, “… Hold on, I know!
I’ll raise some money against the bloody house myself!” he states, after only a second’s thought. “Surely
you wouldn’t stop me doing that? That’s the answer! If we sell up, then with my half I could persuade Emily to
take me back? You won’t stop me raising money against the house, will you, old chap? We are family after all?”
“This house is worth nothing.” Albert shakes his head and places his hand on his brother's shoulder
in mock sympathy. “There are major structural problems and the council has condemned it as unsafe. They’ll demolish
it if we don’t come up with thousands to make the repairs. But you’re broke, and I need all of my money to take
care of my family. The house is doomed!”
The veins on Betram’s face disappear once more as the surrounding flesh turns a deep purple colour, then
they seem to jump out from his skin as it rapidly turns to a shade of brilliant white.
“But hold on, old boy!” Albert exclaims, with a mocking smile, “I’ve just had a thought;
maybe you’ll be able to earn a living, enough to pay for the repairs at least? You could use all of this paper and start
a recycling business of your own? I could sign the copyright of my work over to you – free of charge, of course, after
all, you are family!”
As soon as I get this done I must phone Diane with the good news, a grinning Albert says to himself as he dials
999 to summon an ambulance for his lifeless brother. Thank God, I didn’t let Bertram’s policy lapse, like the
one on my wife.
John Sales © 2003
