Page 8 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
“Oh. Well, good luck.” She made it sound like I’d need it.
“You, um, remember Phil’s family?” I was very conscious that the bloke himself was currently wrapped around me and could hear every word I said.
“Oh yes.” Another pause. “Call me Sunday night if you need to.”
Cheers, Sis. Way to make me feel optimistic and all.
Saturday, both me and Phil had work to do in the morning that managed to stretch on to midafternoon. We met up for a late lunch—well late—and decided it was way too nice out to just veg in front of the sport on the telly, ’specially as in mid-September you know the weather’s not gonna hold forever. So we took a walk down to Verulamium Park, where we wandered around the old Roman ruins, had an ice cream from the van, and ended up down at the Fighting Cocks like I’d wanted to the previous evening.
The beer garden there isn’t huge, and it was full of people, like us, trying to stretch out the summer just that little bit longer. In fact, we got out there with our pints just in time to nab the last couple of seats—they’d set up a big screen out there to show the England rugby match that night, and laid on a barbecue as well. Now, rugby’s not really my thing—bit too public school for me—but it was England, yeah? You’ve got to cheer on your national side. And I’ve gotta say, there’s a lot to be said for what rugby does to a man’s thighs. So we settled in for the evening, and a very good evening it was too.
See, the thing about football—proper football, I mean, played with a round ball like God intended—is, it’s like an art form. The clever footwork, with eleven men playing as a team, dodging and, all right, sometimes diving. Tactics. They call it the beautiful game for a reason, don’t they? It’s, well, it’s elegant. Poetic, even. The players are athletic, yeah, but it’s all about the skill too. Not just the brute force.
Rugby, now . . . Well, it’s just a bunch of big bastards getting up close and personal with each other, innit? Sort of like wrestling, only not faked, with intervals of some bloke built like an armoured car grabbing the ball and legging it, trying to make it to the other side of the pitch before fifteen other blokes, some of who’re built like Chieftain bloody tanks, throw themselves on top of him. And, all right, there’s a bit of skill involved too, but mostly there’s a raw physicality about it that I didn’t have to be into the game itself to appreciate.
I wasn’t alone there, as it happens. I was trying to grill Phil a bit about his family, get some tips on how best to make ’em like me—or at least, to not piss them off too much. I mean, I did okay with Jase, but this was Phil’s mum. It was important, yeah?
But every time I tried to bring up the subject, some bugger with legs like beer barrels would make a tackle, or score a try, so I s’pose it wasn’t surprising Phil kept getting distracted. I mean, who wouldn’t?
Couple that with the testosterone boost of our side winning, well . . . I’m sure you get my drift. Not that me and Phil were all over each other while we watched or anything—Phil’s not into public displays of affection, and neither of us is into getting gay-bashed—but let’s just say we had a very good night after we got back to mine.
Waking up slowly on Sunday morning in the arms of my fiancé was pretty good too. At least, until I got a look at Phil’s expression and had a moment’s panic it was Monday. “Oi, what’s up? Merlin wake you up by biting your toes again?” Serve him right for being so bloody tall his feet stuck out the end of the duvet.
Phil made a low, grumbly sound. “Forgotten what today is, have you?”
“Sunday. I checked. Day of rest, peace, and goodwill to all men—no, wait, that’s Christmas. So what’s got you all pissed off before you’ve even got out of bed?”
He hmphed. “You do remember where we’re going today, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. Your mum’s. But that’s hours off, innit?” I tried to snuggle into his side, possibly—all right, definitely—with a view to getting a bit frisky, but it was like trying to cuddle a block of granite.
“One o’clock, Mum said. She’s doing a roast.” Phil glowered so hard at one particular spot on the ceiling, I was worried the plaster would crumble.
I could feel my sex life going the same way. “Okay, you wanna tell me why you’re looking so bloody miserable at the prospect? What is it—lumpy gravy, overcooked meat, what?”
Phil almost smiled at that, and shook his head. “Nah. She’s not a bad cook. It’s just . . . Mum stopped doing Sunday lunch after Dad died. Said it was too much of a faff, and none of us lot ever appreciated it anyway. Half the time, Jase was at work, Nige was away, and Leanne was still in bed sleeping off her hangover.”
All right, it wasn’t that early in the morning, but it was still too early for me to read subtext. “You’re gonna have to spell it out. What is it—sad memories of your dad?” I hadn’t thought he missed the old guy that much, but still waters sink ships and all that. Maybe recent developments in my life had brought it all up in his mind. Dredged up long-buried emotions, that sort of thing.
He huffed. “Nah. It’s you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“It’s not what you’ve done. Pulling out all the stops, isn’t she? Just you wait. There’ll be napkins on the table and forks with the pudding spoons. She’ll probably even turn the telly off while we eat.”
“Hang on, I thought you said she remembered me?”
“Yeah, as that posh kid whose family were planning to sue us.”
“Come off it—you know I’m not posh!”
“Yeah, you are. Compared to my family, anyhow.” At least he said it without getting visibly shirty. My Phil’s always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder about his council estate origins, but I like to think I’m doing my bit to wear it down. Phil would probably be the first to agree I can have an abrasive effect at times.
“You don’t act posh,” he added grudgingly.
“Yeah, well, the polo pony got a flat, and my top hat’s in the wash.”
He laughed. “Never seen you dress posh, for that matter. Not since Gary and Darren’s wedding, anyhow.”
