George and Spider Part Eight - The Anniversary cont'd

Arthur rushed back through town feeling lighter, less tense perhaps, but black and filthy inside and out. Also his legs ached terribly from all the walking and other activities, and his shirt was damp with perspiration. He flapped his jacket open and shut in an attempt to cool off and dry the sweat patches. When he reached the florists he stopped, took a few deep breaths and tidied himself up in the reflection of the shop window. The annoying bell announced his entry.

'Oh it's you,' said the Welsh assistant, Mary. She seemed to peer at him for several seconds, then said, 'I'll just fetch your bouquet, won't be a moment.'

Arthur was pleasantly surprised with the tightly packed creation compiled of soft yellows and purples, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a small, understated bow. Mary laid it on the counter.

'I'm pleased with that I am, it's beautiful. I'll come here again!' Arthur said, grinning.

'Good. We aim to please. That'll be thirty five pounds please.'

Arthur inhaled sharply. 'Thirty fi- Christ! Money in flowers is there?'

'There can be. People fall in love and make mistakes and die don't they,' Mary said very quickly, fiddling with the bouquet on the counter. 'Nature messes things up - but it puts them right too doesn't it?'

Her voice sounded as pure as if it had been filtered through the bell of a daffodil. Arthur watched her and then handed her his credit card. 'I don't know,' he said very weakly.

The shop had a very slow card payment terminal, like the one they used to have at Jules Jewels before Francis updated it. There was a seemingly long period of silence. Arthur found himself mesmerised by Mary; her hands so pale and conical, her face free from make-up and nonsense, there was something straight forward and reliable about her, and she had a fresh floral smell, or was that the blooms?

He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her hand, to hold her close to him, feel the hard surface of her green tabard, to cradle her even. After the woman he'd just been with, Mary seemed so honest and clean and he longed now to consume her; like eating something sweet and fresh after something cold and savoury with an obscured sell-by date.

Arthur found himself checking her fingers for a wedding ring, dreaming decades in advance of a phantom future with Mary from the florists. She glanced up at him and he recoiled as he reminded himself of the reason he was there. He felt confused, guilty and worked up, he bit his top lip then paced up and down the counter, whistling tunelessly. His head was like a millefeuille of emotions; guilt layered over grief, layered over guilt, layered with desire, all shored up with little hard wafers of willpower, the mettle which prevented him from falling apart altogether. Today Arthur had allowed those layers to grow too high and he felt unstable, out-of-control, grabby even. He felt he couldn't trust himself, he couldn't trust his hands and he clasped them together, effectively hand-cuffing himself until the transaction was complete.

Thanking her abruptly, he blustered out of the florists and began striding back towards his shop. Gusts of wind seemed to attack his bouquet, pressing the cellophane violently into the blooms. Arthur put his arms over it to protect it. When he arrived back at the jewellers Francis was just saying goodbye to a young couple.

'What did they want?' he said, rather grumpily.

'Just spent two grand on an engagement ring.'

'Two big ones! Well done Franny!' Arthur grabbed his son and held him in a bear hug. 'That'll make up for it,' he said.

Francis picked up foreign smells on his father and pushed him away. 'Please don't call me that,' he said, screwing up his nose.

'Sorry son. I've had- , well, to tell the truth, I'm a bit out of it today.'

'Make up for what anyway?'

'Oh, you know - expenses and all that. There's too many people on our payroll these days, things are getting complicated.'

'I sold some of that boxed stuff in the safe too.'

'Boxed stuff? Oh yeah, the fakes. I thought we was gonna hang fire on those Fran. Not sure how to label them yet.'

Francis shrugged aggressively and said, 'Women don't care do they? As long as it sparkles and looks expensive, that's all they want.'

Arthur sat down. 'If you say so Fran,' he said.

'I do say so. What does a diamond do except sparkle? It's useless. A good fake looks exactly the same - on the end of an arm that is. It's not as if they're going to use the diamond, to cut something very hard - just like they're not going to use their high heels to plant crocus bulbs.'

'You what son?'

'Diamond industry's warped, and women have made it so.' Francis was going off at a tangent now and didn't even seem to care whether or not his father was listening. 'Women like things to be, you know, warped, twisted. They get a kick out of seeing men being conned, humiliated into spending ridiculous money.'

Arthur gave his eldest son a concerned look and said, 'Well, as guardian of the realm Franny, you know best I suppose - but diamonds are part of our business, don't forget that.'

'Don't CALL me that that Dad!'

'Oh yeah, sorry Fran. Seriously though, one day all this will be yours you know - that's if you want it.'

Francis had heard his father say this many times before, and he viewed the prospect of owning Jules Jewels with mixed emotions. On the one hand he would inherit an established business, a known quantity, on the other, he would never really be free to go and seek out his own life. He would also want to run the business straight, but he suspected that running it straight might not be profitable.

'You'll have to kick George out first,' he said, then he sniffed the air. 'Have you been smoking Dad?'

Arthur bent down to wipe a stain off his shoe. 'Smoking? Er, no, but I went and had a - a pint.'

'Where did you go, anywhere nice?'

Arthur got up, turning his back on Francis and began to look at himself in the mirror, then quickly turned away, horrified at the stranger looking back at him. 'Oh erm, The Grinning Monkey or whatever it's called,' he said, adjusting his collar.

'The Smiling Monk?' Francis gave his father a look of concern and said, 'You must have been desperate Dad.'

Arthur nodded and said sadly, 'Yeah - I was, I really was.'

'Nice flowers by the way.'

'I won't tell you what they cost! I might wriggle out of this game, it's getting too filthy. We could set up a florists instead.'

Francis was tidying up now, preparing the shop for closure. He checked his watch. 'It's nearly half past two Dad. Are you going to pick Nan up?'

'Oh crikey! Is that the time? I'd better be off,' said Arthur. He slapped the palms of his hands on his pockets, feeling for car keys. 'I'm fetching Tony aswell, he's at home today isn't he?'

'Probably watching telly with Nan.'

'No doubt they are.'

Arthur appeared to be in a confused fluster as he prepared to leave. Francis noticed how the wisps of his father's hair appeared damp and there was a flash of white shirt hem hanging beneath his jacket.

'Are you alright Dad? I could go and fetch them if you like. These birds have been driving me mad in here.'

'No, you're alright. I'm on the edge of madness myself today. The drive will do me good. Get this place all locked up and sort Georgy out for me will you?'

George was still in the shed with his dog. The man who had wanted to come and view Ghost Carp hadn't turned up and George had spent the entire afternoon doing exercises almost compulsively; fifty push-ups, a five minute break, then fifty sit-ups, then push-ups. He'd punctuated this activity with regular trips up to his flat to change his underwear, and he'd taken a short walk to the council planters in the surrounding streets. From these he'd taken some flowers and arranged them into a straggly posy, tied with nylon from the fish nets.

Francis knocked the shed door tentatively. 'Ready to go George?' he said.

There was a little pause which always worried Francis. Then he heard George say, 'Yeah, just need to go up to the flat and sort some things.' He came out, rushed past Francis with Crystal following behind.

Francis locked up the back and waited for George by the front door. He waited and waited while George crashed around upstairs, opening drawers and chattering to his dog, plumping up the cushions for when Maxene returned from her work. Eventually he came back down clutching his wilted posy.

'What have you been doing? Your flies are undone.'

'Just smartening myself up and that.'

Francis looked his brother up and down. 'You look exactly the same,' he said.

The two of them began walking the half hour journey to the cemetery. They rarely had a lot to say to one another, that's how they were, but on this day, the anniversary, the silence was somehow painful. They broke it now and then with banal observations about their surroundings.

Meanwhile Tony and Kathleen, who were very close, had got dressed up into smart outfits and were sitting as a tight unit in the back of Arthur's car. He listened to their chatter, occasionally glancing at them through the rear-view mirror and wondering what Cynthia would have made of them. They talked a lot about clothes, celebrities and various other inconsequential fluff. Despite a large age gap they seemed to inhabit the same world.

'Traffic's bad.' said Arthur.

'I don't know what this country's coming to. It'll all grind to a halt one day - I'll be dead by then of course. You will too Arthur, I shouldn't doubt,' Kathleen said shrilly. 'Dead and buried with nothing between you and your bones - except your pace-maker and a couple of fillings.'

Tony laughed heartily.

'Yeah - thanks for that Kathleen,' said Arthur, scowling through the mirror.

By the time they arrived at the cemetery, George and Francis were already there, leaning against the perimeter wall in silence. Next to them was a pair of black, wrought iron gates, ornately Victorian in character. George had strong memories of those gates, they towered above him in his dreams.

Tony got out of the car and Kathleen waited for Arthur to open the door for her, then she got out slowly like royalty and adjusted her felt hat.

'We've come smart George,' she said, 'but look at you, dressed in your slummage!'

'Been at work Nan, dealing with fish.'

She looked at him with her pale eyes, which appeared almost white under the gaze of the bright sky, then she shuffled along on her sparrow legs to catch up with Tony. He paused and held out his arm for her to grab onto. In his other arm he clutched a huge, opulent bouquet which looked impossibly expensive for someone who wasn't earning, but that was typical of everything Tony bought. He had dressed for the occasion in a lightweight black suit, pink shirt which matched the flowers, and a pair of very shiny shoes. George's eyes lingered on the shoes for a while; they looked incredulously long and were so shiny that George could see white cumulus clouds racing across them.

'Another sunny windy day, I can hardly believe it!' said Arthur with a quiver in his voice.

Francis opened the heavy black gates for the others to go through.

'Same every year,' said George and Tony in perfect unison.

Occasionally this happened, both twins would say the very same thing at the very same time. Tony barely noticed it and had no reason to dwell on it. Arthur found it thoroughly delightful and it never failed to bring a smile to his face. George however, always felt that his twin had trespassed upon his thoughts. It annoyed him greatly and he needed a few minutes to recover.

After so many years the family had come to know many of the prominent gravestones. As they walked by they felt almost rude for not greeting those familiar names who lay buried beneath the turf. Arthur kept stopping and pointing at certain graves, shouting out their titles, 'Oh there's young Mr Moor, Miss Adams, the Dodds-' George shut his ears. He knew almost all of the graves off by heart, and the dates. He quietly anticipated them in order and threw some of the departed a discreet blast of warm energy as he went by.

Cynthia's gravestone was a piece of polished black granite, engraved with gold lettering and an angel. Her plot looked sad and weedy. Without delay Francis got down on his knees, removed a Swiss army knife from his pocket and began snipping the long grass and digging out the dandelions. When he'd finished he removed a potted cyclamen from the green plastic bag he'd been carrying and placed it carefully next to the grave.

'That looks nice Francis. You put yours down now Tony. I think those are probably the nicest. Your mother will be so pleased you've made such an effort.'

Arthur rolled his eyes at Kathleen then placed his bouquet next to Tony's.

'No! Move those along Arthur. They'll clash with Tony's there, you can't have yellow and purple alongside pink, it'll look like a dogs dinner!'

Arthur huffed and puffed and stiffly bent down to move his bouquet towards the opposite end of the grave.

George stared at the other flowers and held his own behind his back.

'Come on then George! You can place your offerings, don't keep us waiting. They'll never last the afternoon.'

'Yes they will,' said George, 'they're part of nature, they'll sink in.'

Kathleen began to smile, then titter to herself. 'Do you know this reminds me of the day you were born George. We waited and waited, then you appeared, a floppy little thing, half-dead and all droopy - part of nature. We didn't think you'd last the afternoon.'

Who knows when Kathleen began being abusive to her youngest grandson George. It could have been the instant he left the womb, it could have developed slowly, but for as long as he could remember George's grandmother had either ignored him completely or treated him with contempt. It was as if she blamed George for everything that was wrong with the world. She certainly blamed him for pushing her daughter beyond the edge of what she could cope with, making her sick with worry, perhaps ultimately sick enough to die.

As a baby George had been labelled by doctors with something called "failure to thrive". Cynthia had to'd and fro'd with little George, and her two other boys in tow to clinics and hospitals for weigh-ins and developmental checks. He hadn't thrived in education either and she's to'd and fro' to school to see various teachers and occasionally the head teacher. Later, as a teenager George had been quiet and odd, worryingly secretive and self-contained. He went out a lot, returning at odd times of the day and night. Kathleen used to say that George was Cynthia's forfeit for having Tony.

George had grown so used to Kathleen's insults that he barely noticed them, they ricochetted off him. He viewed his grandmother as nothing more that a flimsy apparition, an ancient cobweb slowly desiccating in the corner; something which only bothered him if he craned his neck to pay attention to it, and even then he knew he could blow it away with very little effort.

'Yes alright Kathleen,' said Arthur, 'I don't think Cynthia would appreciate hearing that. Just place your flowers George.'

George crouched down and closed his eyes as if saying a little prayer. Then carefully, he leaned his posy against the headstone.

'They're nice George, very natural, and you gathered them yourself, your mother would have liked that,' said Arthur.

George nodded. 'She WILL like that - but yours Dad, well the flowers will die away but - the cellophane will blow about in the wind - all about the necropolis, disturbing the dead as they sleep.'

'You what?'

'The cellophane and bow Dad. They won't decompose.'

'He's right,' said Francis, 'The wrapping will end up as litter.'

Kathleen tutted and placed her hand on her chest. 'Why do you have to spoil it George?'

'He's just making a valid point Nan.'

'Deal with it then Tony love,' said Kathleen, turning away from the scene.

Tony crouched down and spent a few minutes trying to get the bow off. 'It won't come off easy,' he said.

Francis handed him the Swiss army knife and he removed the cellophane and cut the bow, sending the flowers scattering all over the ground.

Arthur's mouth dropped open. 'Thirty five quid,' he gasped.

George got down and tidied them a little, gathering them up and tying them ingeniously with a dandelion stem. Francis collected the litter and Kathleen removed her rosary beads from her handbag and began turning them over in her hands.

'Thanks George,' said Arthur, 'It's not as bad as I thought now.'

'It's the flowers that count Dad, not the bow.'

Arthur thought of what he did at Rainbow Lodge and a little tear developed in the corner of his eye. 'She'd be so proud of you boys, I know that,' he said in an emotional blurt.

The family stood in silence for four or five minutes. Kathleen, who rarely ventured outside, shivered and pulled her jacket tightly closed across her chest. Everyone wanted to go now but nobody wanted to be the first to say so.

'That's it then,' said Francis, 'Are we all done?'

The party nodded and slowly turned away from the grave with droopy heads. They walked along the gravel path towards the gates and parked Jaguar. George strolled a distance away from the rest of the family. He resisted a strong urge to light up a cigarette, for it seemed inappropriate. A few seconds later he was horrified to see Tony remove a large banana from his jacket pocket, peel it like a gorilla and take an enormous bite, with half the fruit vanishing into his gullet in a single go. George stared at him, horrified by the size of his mouth and the way his mandibles bulged as he chomped. Tony's head was a full fifty percent large than George's, and his glossy, billowing hair made it look twice the size.

George was repulsed by his twin's ridiculous behaviour and the absurd outline of his big head, so full it was with silly ideas. He tried desperately to think of something to say to alert his father to Tony's crass, simian, fruit eating behaviour. There was nothing he could say that didn't involve swearing and he feared that any comment he did make would backfire and the family would see it as HIM causing trouble again. Kathleen would have chastised him for having a cigarette in the cemetery but she said nothing about Tony's banana. Inwardly George seethed, little dents appeared on his forehead and anger raged through his body, it damaged his cells, shaving more hours off his lifespan than the cigarette he'd foregone.

Francis got into the passenger seat of the car. Tony and Kathleen got into the back and linked arms. Kathleen
removed a handkerchief form her bag and dabbed her cheeks. They all looked relieved that the ordeal was over for another year.

Arthur wound down the window and said, 'You be alright will you George?'

'Yeah - I'll walk. See you Dad, bye.' He gave them a stagnant wave and watched the vehicle slope away, then he had his cigarette and returned to the cemetery alone.

He knelt and re-arranged the flowers in the way he thought best. He sat for a while with the side of his shoulder leaning up against the cold headstone. He felt restorative energy coming up through the earth from his mother. It had a physiological effect on his body, it filled him up like warm, nutritious milk.

Later when it became cold he got up and wandered through the vast necropolis. It was overgrown and private, there were many live inhabitants; birds, badgers, foxes, he'd even seen a deer there once.

It began to grow dark. Soon the gates would be locked, not that George was at all phased about climbing them. He sauntered out feeling uplifted and clean, so unlike his father, who had contaminated his grief with an opportunistic remedy which had only left him feeling dirty and complicated.