CC 75: Nanook

As houses went, you couldn’t have wished for a better place than Francis Pollard’s, especially at a time when owning a house, any house at all, was everything one could have hoped for in the world, and for the rest of us plebs, it was like getting a seat on the bus finally after having to stand for so long.  Who could build a nest with the price of flotsam and jetsam rising so fast?  I’d be out looking for twigs myself soon.  Wouldn’t be easy with all the best twigs taken, and all the best nests occupied.  Francis inherited the home from his parents, and he seemed to have turned it into a haven for local arty types.  I realised I had heard of the place many years ago in conversation, but didn’t know who owned it, and always had a desire to be invited, which never happened.  Here I now was – at last. 

It was a large detached bungalow with a huge garden at the front, and a lovely scenic view of the town from the back.  Inside, whether in the hallways or rooms, you were shelled with amusing objects, the whole place a patchwork of kipple from more interesting lives: lava lamps (maybe every lava lamp ever made in the history of lava lamps), and techni-coloured bongs, and towers of books stacked like buildings on the verge of falling in every available space – tomes of alchemy and revolution, and one about Italian cuisine; the living room had a framed picture of Anton LaVey that I believe was signed with a dedication, and the mantelpiece was cluttered with ornaments – a Buddha that looked more like Jabba the Hut (maybe it was both combined – somebody had the hip lever on), various plastic skulls, and a Grim Reaper with a clock for a face. 

Under the Jabba-Buddha, stretched out on an inflatable red chair, was Serena Hearty, Francis Pollard’s girlfriend – she tutted when she saw me, then broke out in spurious sunniness.  ‘Hey, Pascal.’

 ‘Hey.’ 

An unpleasant feeling replaced the welcoming one I’d felt with Francis.  Serena might be a problem.  What’s more, unless no others arrived at this little gathering tonight, I would be the only single filer in a bunch of couples, and that might fuck with the head.  Francis and Serena (who I didn’t get on with at all), Geary and Jane (though they skipped around the details of it, they were an item, and everyone knew), and worse yet, when they showed up, Paidi and my wi….Emer.  I suddenly longed for someone to hold my hand like the fucking weeping willow I was.

‘I haven’t met you before, Pascal, have I?’ asked Francis.

‘No, we’ve never met.  But I’ve seen you about.’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know your head from somewhere.  Sure, it’s a small town, isn’t it?  We’ve all bumped into each other at some point.’

‘Pascal is Emer’s husband,’ butted in Serena.  ‘But they’re separated.’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Francis.  ‘But you know she’s coming here tonight?  Are yous on good terms, like?’

‘Yeah, we’re fine.  I was just out with them actually.  There’s nothing sour there.’

‘Cool, cool.  Glad to hear it.  It’s great we can get past these things, isn’t it?  I’m astray from my own wife as well, you know.’

Serena gave him a sharp eyeball as though he’d let slip something she didn’t want anyone hearing. 

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.  ‘I understand.’

‘Cheers, buddy.  But it's two years now since we broke up.  So it’s all good.  And me and her.  We’re better friends than ever, to be honest.’

Jane came from the kitchen and handed me a can of Harp Lager that was so cold I had to sleeve it. 

‘The perfect cold, eh,’ said Francis.  ‘I take cold beers seriously.  A very precise freezing system.  I had Nanook of the North here last week, and he gave my cans the thumbs up.’

‘Who’s Nanook?’ asked Geary.

‘An eskimo.’

‘You didn’t have an eskimo here, ya liar,’ said Serena.

‘It’s a film,’ said Francis.  ‘I was joking, for fucksake.’