3. The Flabbergasting of Archie
1097 Words
Chapter Three
The Flabbergasting of Archie
“When in Rome, eat pizza.”—Archie
Archie stood at the front of Bunnie’s house, wondering what he had got himself into.
He liked women, and when he first caught sight of Beryl he thought he’d like her, despite her purple beehive. In fact, it was her rigid beehive he spotted first, like a beacon high above a sea of blonde heads. She seemed so vulnerable and out of place, despite the leather . . .
What a fool.
He arranged to pick up Beryl and H2 from the bus shelter, and he arrived early in the morning to find Beryl like a wet kitten shivering by a young woman in a soaking jumpsuit clinging to her skin. They were real damsels in distress . . .
As if!
Archie took one look and headed to DJ’s, helped himself to a few decent jackets, left a “I’ll explain” note (which DJ had seen many times), and took the said damsels for a right good slap-up breakfast at Sheila’s Diner. A Sheila fry-up, washed down with stain-your-teeth tea or coffee that gave you heart palpitations, was what they needed.
Soon he was staring at his plate, full of regret and wishing the Earth would swallow up the not-so-vulnerable Beryl. Helping a damsel in distress was supposed to be received with gratitude, smiles, and a promise of something more—not disdain, disappointment, and volleys of insults.
His choice of jackets was greeted with a disappointed “Me in that tent?” And as for Sheila’s Diner? Beryl sniffed at it with a “Must we?” followed by a “Shut it” shove from H2.
The diner was empty apart from a waitress, a cook, and a trucker, all mesmerized by the woman wrapped in a camouflage jacket with a beehive as high as her six-inch boots. A woman old enough to remember the fifties, dressed like she had been out on the town all night, in Dunoon.
The waitress couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been at an all-nighter. Dunoon was as dead as Woolworths; you were lucky if you got a takeaway after nine, let alone a decent night out in Dunoon.
“Two breakfasts—the works,” she said to the cook and sighed. When had she worn leather?
The round waitress slapped the plate in front of Archie. Beryl stared at the grease around the bacon. When the waitress slapped another in front of Beryl, she glared with disapproval.
“What is this?” said Beryl, gesturing to her plate.
“A full Scottish breakfast,” said the waitress with pride.
Beryl sniffed. “Do you know what this does to your tubes?”
Archie looked up mid chomp of a mushroom. “What’s tubes got to do with things?”
“My gran says sausages are made with innards,” said H2, who had insisted on “just toast.”
“And what’s your gran, a butcher?” said the waitress.
“Butcher?” H2 pulled a face. “She’s an expert on many things, but a butcher? Never.”
“An expert called Verruca,” muttered Beryl.
“Verruca? What sort of name is that?” said the trucker on the next table.
Archie, speechless, sliced his bacon into bite-size portions, pressed a snippet of potato against it, dipped it into brown sauce then placed it in his mouth.
Beryl watched.
Archie, a little unnerved, swallowed.
“Do you know what a pig went through for that?” Beryl continued.
“No, I just eat it.”
“Try it with that red stuff,” said the trucker, thrusting a sauce-covered sausage in his mouth.
“And these things,” Beryl said, pointing at an egg. “These are for baby-making.”
Archie spluttered, “Must you?”
The trucker stopped mid sausage-dipping. “Babies from a free range—you on something?”
Archie was beginning to think of escape. I could down my breakfast, he thought, make a dive for the gents and escape out the fire exit.
Archie was a slim man with clean fingernails and fondness for large rings and bonnets. In fact, he had a whole collection of both at home, and at the moment he wished he was back there rearranging them. He was a man of habit, from the way he folded his underwear to the way he told stories to woo women. Which in the good old days before Germaine Greer and bra-burning had worked; now his standard wooing practice was as out-of-date as brill cream, and, it seemed, his choice of women.
He pushed a coffee towards Beryl.
“What is this?” said Beryl.
“Coffee,” said H2. She nudged Beryl and whispered, “My gran says when in Rome . . .”
“Rome?” said Beryl. “What has Rome got to do with . . . it?”
“It’s a figure of speech,” snapped Archie. He pushed the cup toward Beryl. Anything to shut her up.
“Sugar?” he said, and when she didn’t answer he placed a couple of cubes into her coffee.
Beryl sipped. The caffeine was rich and strong, better than any on Planet Hy Man, the sugar hit sending her taste buds into a frenzy. She let out a long, slow sigh and slid another sugar into her coffee.
“My gran says sugar is a mother’s ruin,” said H2.
“Some cream?” said Archie.
“And cream is the route of all indigestion,” said H2.
Beryl nodded. The taste slid down her throat like silk, dairy, sugar, and caffeine. She drained her cup and looked about for more. She even felt like smiling.
“Try the brown,” said the truck driver, now curious.
Beryl lifted a brown sugar cube into her coffee and stirred in more cream; she was in mouth heaven.
The trucker watched, mesmerized. If that is what coffee did to her, what about a dram?
“You’ll pay for that,” said H2. “All that animal stuff, my gran says . . .”
“What would Verruca know,” said Beryl with a lick of her lips. “She said Legless was a victim . . . of circumstance.”
Archie looked up from his egg. “Legless? You know of a Legless?”
Neither answered.
Archie stood to pay.
It was obvious that Beryl’s whole BBC fancy-dress story was a load of bollocks, just like her I knew Bunnie from school story. But Legless? Was it true; was he the same Legless?
Thirty years ago, Archie was the mentor of all mentors. Every morning, surrounded by a circle of Identities hanging on his every word, Archie told stories of their forefather: the great Legless. Now he had only one—DJ. The rest laughed at his stories. The young generation had no time for Legless, called him a myth, but Archie, despite never meeting Legless, knew they were wrong.
Had he stumbled onto more than damsels in distress? Was (fingers crossed) their so-called Legless his hero?
Beside the till were bags of Sheila’s homemade tablets, two for the price of one. He picked up one, then looked at Beryl merrily dumping sugar cubes into her third coffee.
“I’ll take the lot,” he said. “This stuff is loaded with sugar.”
- Writer
