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(aka Bike) Part 1828 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad
All Rights Reserved. |
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It was the next morning, Sunday, before David and I were able to speak. I took him over some of Simon’s old motorbike magazines–it was either that or stick them in the recycling bag.
I’d managed to evade the eye of our very own super sleuth, and slipped in through David’s door when he called for me to enter. He took the magazines with some enthusiasm which almost surprised me. I mean if he handed me a pile of Family Circle, I’d drop them straight in the recycling, Cycling Weekly or Procycling–now that’d be different.
“Coffee?” he offered putting on the kettle and then adding some fresh grounds to a coffee pot.
“Umm, please,” I responded and took the seat he offered.
“I suppose your real reason for being here is to see what all that was about yesterday.”
“Only if you wish to tell me,” I said but he wasn’t far off.
“I suppose I better had.” He poured the water on the coffee and let it stand for a few minutes before pouring us some. I added loads of milk to mine he took his black but with sugar. I gave up sugar yonks ago.
He sipped his coffee–how, I’ll never know–mine had milk in it and was still too hot to drink, he was well into his.
“The man you saw hit me, was my brother, Arthur.”
“Why did he hit you?”
“I did something he told me not to do.”
I nodded for him to continue.
“My dad has been ill for ages, an’ I got word that he was on his last legs in Southampton General. I had to say goodbye.”
“And he hit you for that?”
“Yeah, that’s about it.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Well it didn’t to me, grown men don’t hit each other for such things–do they?
“Dad knew about me, but didn’t like it. My brother liked it even less, told me to stay away from him and the rest of the family. Dad died just after I saw him–Arthur says it was my fault.”
“I doubt it,” I reached across and rubbed his hand.
“So do I. When I got there he was already in a coma. I spoke to him and gave him my original name and he smiled and squeezed my hand. I left and he died a short time later.”
“Perhaps he was hanging on for you to come and see him, let him go.”
“I don’t know, Cathy, but I felt I had to go, just as I feel I have t go to the funeral, even though Arthur has threatened me with a good kicking if I go.”
“He’ll have to get past me first. Do you know when it is?”
“Not yet–but it’ll be in the local rag.”
“Where in Pompey or Southampton?”
“Eastleigh.”
“Let me know when, I’ll come with you.”
“As my body guard?”
“No, as a friend. I’m sorry your dad died and I’m even sorrier your brother is being such a lout about it.”
“Perhaps I should just forget it.”
“Why? Then the barbarians do win.”
“I don’t want to cause any unpleasantness.”
“You won’t, if it happens it’ll be your brother who does, and I who stops it.”
“This isn’t your fight, Cathy.”
“If it affects a member of my household, then it is. You are a much loved member of this household, and we look after our own.”
He had tears in his eye when he hugged me and I left to let him mourn his loss in private. A little later, after Simon announced he’d booked dinner for us at a pub near Havant, I explained what David had told me.
“He can’t stop him going to the funeral, can he?”
“As he’s a member of the family, I doubt it, but he can make quite a scene and spoil it for everyone.”
“Spoil it?”
“Okay, make it even more unpleasant for everyone, and funerals are bad enough in themselves.”
“Quite, so how can we help? Want me to arrange to have big bro kneecapped?”
I glared at his stupid grin, “Do you think this is an appropriate place for such glibness?”
He blushed, “I wasn’t being serious, ya know?”
“I know that, Simon, and much as I love you, I do wish you’d drop the schoolboy act from time to time.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
I wanted to dare him to prove it, but it was a side issue. “I’m going to the funeral with him.”
“Want me to come as well?”
“That’s very kind to offer, but I don’t want to set up an our gang and your gang mentality.”
“Fine, but if you change your mind, let me know.”
“Thank you, darling. Now what d’you want us to wear to this ’ere Sunday Lunch?”
“Smart casual–is David coming?”
“I doubt it.” I called him on the phone and he declined, thanking me for thinking of him. I informed Simon.
“Stella isn’t either, so if she’ll take care of the baby, the rest of us could go in two cars, yours and Tom’s. Jacquie’s not coming but Sammi is and so is Phoebe.”
“So that’s, you and me, the three girls, plus Julie, Phoebe and Sammi, Danny and Tom. We’ll need to take three cars, won’t we?”
“No, both yours and Tom’s should seat five.”
“Okay, are you driving?” I asked him.
“You can drive back.”
“So you can have a drink?”
“Oh that’s a good idea, I’d never have thought of it myself.”
So after talking to Stella, and thanking her for taking care of Catherine, I and the other females went off to tart ourselves up a bit for our Sunday treat. I also told Danny to wear his new shirt and trousers, not jeans. He grumbled but complied.
The younger girls wore skirts and tops with thin jackets; the bigger ones, shorts with footless tights and jackets, and I wore a skirt and top with a jacket. Si wore his corduroy jacket with cavalry twill trousers and a checked shirt, the check looking like a fishnet over the cream colour of the shirt. Danny wore the shirt and trousers I’d asked him to and a hoodie, and Tom wore his shirt and tie with a tweed jacket and black trousers. Once again he’d been into the university to sort out the dormice, but Neal would be back tomorrow–so would the students. As if I needed reminding. I almost offered to let Stella come while I stayed home and did some work on my dissertation, except Simon would have played hell.
For what it cost, nearly two hundred quid, the meal was at best average. I opted for roast lamb, of which I am something of a connoisseur, having been brought up across the river from the most delicious of all cooked sheep, Welsh lamb. This certainly wasn’t that, probably New Zealand and it tasted like it had died of old age. I almost asked them for another slice to repair some shoes I had. The veg was okay and the mint sauce commercially prepared, as I suspect the roasties were. The sweets were frozen ones, so I opted for ice cream, at least I knew that had been frozen.
Si was very disappointed that his roast beef and Yorkshire pud was tough and tasteless. When he complained, the landlord suggested he shove his complaint where the monkey keeps his nuts. Not a good idea to someone who might well hold your mortgage. I was pretty sure, Si would be on his computer as soon as we got home and the landlord could have a surprise coming–all of it nasty.
I felt sorry for Si, he had tried to raise everyone’s spirits and it had bombed out but not through any fault of his own. I was surprised no one else seemed to be grumbling, but they weren’t. The problem is we don’t complain often enough so shoddy service remains a real problem in Britain.
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Comments
I'm sorry the lamb wasn't proper.
Most of the lamb we get here is the New Zealand variety; however, if we don't screw it up, it can be pretty good. Surprisingly, the lamb chops (cutlets) we get at Sam's Club are very good, and reasonably priced. The racks of lamb are far more expensive. Lamb is good, and now my mouth is watering.
Portia
Are they really that blunt?
I don't think that has ever happened to me in the Colonies. Of course, I rarely complain. So the owner is going to get is junk stretched?
G
Blunt Waiters
We were eating at what was at one time one of the better hotels in Stoke-on-Trent, it has gone down hill considerably since then, when we had the misfortune to come across one of the rudest waiters we've ever experience. He was French. He took the edge off of what was a very good meal.
Portia
ultimate revenge on a bad experience is to wish
you could buy the place and fire the offenders. Interesting in that Simon (via the bank) may already own the restaurant.
Hoping Cathy can defuse any unpleasantness at the funeral
David certainly doesn't need it and the brother should have more respect for his family. I liked Cathy's alternative to the brother's accusation. Of course Cathy has personal experience there.
Yeah, I hate the expectation these days that tips are automatic. Why can't we tip based on quality of food and service? I'm sorry that wait staff is poorly paid and depends on tips but if the food is not up to expectations or the service is poor, they should expect that there won't be much of a tip. Do you really think they don't know what's going on?
I still
I still tip based on quality of service... And actually WRITE comments on the receipts.
Does it help? No clue. But, it's what I do. I've never given a zero tip... But anything below the "expected" rate should be recognized as a "complaint".
One thing that bugs me - some restaurants add in a tip automatically with the bill (even for small parties). This bugs me no end... USUALLY, you can challenge this, and reduce it, but they make you feel awkward about it... To make it worse, at least one I've been to, did this, and then provided a credit card receipt where you could add MORE tip... I'm sure quite a number of customers didn't notice the initial tip, and ended up DOUBLE tipping...
As to the "rest" of the story... It is disappointing to go out, and get served mediocre food at best. A local eatery used to be OUTSTANDING. Then, the owner retired and sold it. Things went way down hill. Finally original owner's kids purchased the place. And made significant improvements. Some things are again outstanding. But, recently, went there and was disappointed at both the creme brulete desert as well as the main course. The rest was very good. It happens.
David's issue - yes, a brother. Glad Cathy found a way to support David, in a way he could accept. Also glad he found a way to say good bye to his dad.
Thank you,
Annette
Poor service in the UK
I remember a lunch where my niece complained bitterly about the standard of the food. We all had a free lunch as a result.
My experience in the US, in which I've travelled extensively, is that they take more pride in their meals and wouldn't dream of serving sub-standard food. My experience may not, however, be representative of the country as a whole.
My own brother is six and a half years older than I am and seemed more exercised that his younger daughter is gay than by the fact that he has a trans-sister.
S.
My daughter
who was recently married in the US, had to give both her parent's legal names, while the court house said nothing, she grumbled that it looked as if she was the product of a lesbian parents. Her mother in law can't understand why she can't see the marriage licence.
Angharad
Depends
If you go to any non-hotel associate restaurant than you have a better chance. Chain restaurants, can vary a lot but there are good ones. When I was in blighty I lucked out and got good fare courtesy of knowing a local and also reading a travel guide.
But it is surprising how good service is in most places and the food in general does meet a minimum standard. US is very large so it is of course possible to get a poor meal, especially at some greasy spoons.
Kim
Easy As Falling Off A Bike pt 1828
What if the waiter, or owner is related to the lout and made sure to give them lousy food, knowing who David works for?
May Your Light Forever Shine
Any of you or our heroine Cathy considered RANDOM tipping?
It's based, I guess on a phenomenon in animal training where inconsistent rewards often elicit a quicker and stronger learned behavior than consistent reward.
Works for people too.
Some US writer, I forget who, had a not so great experience at a local restaurant and gave a 20% tip or was it 30%?
Needless to say the next time he was there he got GREAT service. He left no tip.
He did this a few more times and now EVERY time he goes there he gets good food and great service as they never know if it is Mr. Generous Tipper or Ebenezer Scrooge they are serving.
Simon, go for the restaurant manages balls.
As to David, I think Cathy is right though having a canister or two of pepper spray on hand would be nice. otherwise she will have to beat up the self righteous prick of his brother.
BTW begs the questions, was the brother always like this or is this some twisted grieving over his lost sister??
Would be a hoot it Mr Stuck in the Mud was a gay man and thus he is pissed as he is expected to father children if the family name is to go on as David surely cannot unless he had eggs harvested before his transformation?
Poor David but then who knows how to push your buttons, for good or ill, better than a family member?
John in Wauwatosa
John in Wauwatosa
Its true
that in the UK we do not complain enough. On more than one occassion i have had food that was less than satisfactory and did nothing about it, So i guess i only have myself to blame when it happens again... I have to say i sometimes look on with envy at my brother-in -law when he complains about poor service and watching him i resolve to follow his example, But when put to the test i invariably back off, Call it cowardice or the fear of making a scene but i will normally just pay the bill, leave a tip and walk out telling myself next time it will be different .... it never is.
Kirri