Wake Up Happy Every Day (18 page)

But I am not a child. I am a grown-up and I think I should be allowed to watch old-school pornography too. Porn is motivational as long as it’s not too weird. At least as inspiring as anything from Disney anyway. Modern porn can be scary and odd, but classic is a different story. Classic. Vintage. Retro. These styles in porn – as in clothes, cars, and music – are uplifting.

A buffed youngish teacher gives extra tuition to an entire sorority. A buffed youngish pilot takes care of all the flight attendants while the plane flies itself to Stockholm. A buffed youngish plumber services the needs of a whole gated community of bored housewives.

The moral of your classic porno is broadly the same as
Watership Down
. Follow your dream, stick at it whatever the obstacles, and you’ll end up with loads of bunnies. You’ll become Bigwig. That sad sack Nicky Fisher wouldn’t ever get to share a hot tub with Shyla, Shannon, Shanta, and all their pneumatic friends – but a fully operational lean, clean, sex machine like the all-new Russell Knox surely would. As I say, motivational. Uplifting. Keeps your eye on the prize.

There is a Martin Luther King element to classic porn without a shadow.

But I somehow sense that saying this to Linwood or to Jesus would be to court their disapproval. Conservative sexually as well as tin-eared, that’s your average jock for you.

And when I’m not running, wrestling, lifting, stretching, sharing my hurt, then I’m in a clinic being worked over with retinol to peel away the dry tundra of my skin. I’m having vitamin-X enriched unguents worked deep into the baby-soft vulnerabilities revealed beneath the dead surface. Or I’m having my teeth underpinned and then bleached to an unearthly electric white. Oh I’m a Grand Design and no mistake. Not half.

And Linwood never questions why a faceless guy like me might suddenly want to turn myself into a kind of Jimmy Dean at fifty. But I guess part of being the best in any business is knowing when to shut up and simply trouser the fee.

And talking of trousers . . .

One of the things that keeps me going is that of how great I’ll look in my suits. Because from now on, or when I’ve finished this programme anyway, I’m only going to wear handmade bespoke clothes. I’m going to have a suit for every day of the week and a real bobby dazzler for high days and holidays.

Jesus has found me a guy. An old Chinese tailor called Jimmy. The one everyone uses. By everyone I mean those who can afford him. Everyone in this context means about fifty blokes in the whole world. New threads to go with my new architect-designed body.

Almost as tricky to sort as the body, and certainly trickier than the tailoring, are the tattoos. It isn’t the pain – I turn out to be more stoic about that than I had expected – no, it’s what they say and how they say it. No illuminated Latin tags or beautifully worked copies of great works of art for me to wear. No, when he was fourteen Russell had tattooed himself with Ozzy on the knuckles of both hands. Over the years this leads to dozens of illiterates in bars hassling him in the mistaken belief he is Australian.

He also had a wobbly home-made LUFC on his shoulder. Having these done really hurt my sense of aesthetics – not least because I had mocked Russell for having them for over thirty-five years, even though I’d encouraged him to have them done in the first place. Back in 1978 it was me who had actually inked the first O and the first Z, before being unable to carry on because of the blood.

I do it though. Get the tats. Hate it but do it and just get over it. Hey, imagine if I’d been like that at school, at work, or in relationships? Imagine what I might have achieved. Funny that it takes the exigencies of committing a major fraud to give me the kind of work ethic and capacity for self-sacrifice that I have never shown before.

And an incredible thing happens while the kid we’ve hired to scrawl this amateur graffito on my body is doing his thing. He’s definitely the cheapest, because for this job cheapest is perfect. And it turns out to be the best sixteen dollars I’ve ever spent.

He’s at OZ on my left hand when Scarlett lopes in wearing a pair of Mary’s old sneakers, carrying one of her ukuleles, and tossing her head in imitation of Mary’s carefree movement through the world. She canters up to me and stares hard at the blood and ink on my hand. She prods it.

‘Ouch,’ I say. She giggles.

‘Ouch,’ she says back. We’re gob-smacked. It’s a word. Or almost. And then, the unlooked-for miracle. She puts down her instrument and then pokes my gory fingers again with her own tiny hand.

‘Ouch,’ I say, not because it hurts – which it does – but to encourage her. Which it also does.

‘Awesome,’ she says. ‘Badass.’

Unbelievable. I think we all cry. And we laugh. Our baby can talk. And such a Mary thing to say. Especially as it really isn’t awesome. And in no way badass. But that’s the moment that makes everything worth it.

Of course, there are other good things. I’m also beginning to feel strong now too. I’m enjoying waking up and feeling alive. The old pains, the old twinges, the old spasms, they are all gone. And they are replaced by new pains, new twinges, new spasms, but the old pains felt like approaching death – these ones feel like life. These ones are accompanied by spontaneous erections. I think that’s the difference. That and being able to twist open the lids of jars with barely a flick of the wrist. I’m here to tell you it’s true what they say about vegetables, kids. The stuff Linwood calls sport candy.

Six weeks it takes. That’s all. Six weeks in which I lose a stone of flab and tighten everything that’s left. And in which our baby proves she knows the impact of a surprise announcement.

Twenty

POLLY

This is what Polly learns about sperm. She learns that with sperm – like with everything else – you get what you pay for. Pay a couple of million for your ten centilitres and you get the spunk of one of the better-looking former world leaders or that of a sprightly Nobel prize winner. A few hundred grand will put the juice of a top brain surgeon or an astrophysicist in your turkey baster. Lower down the scale you can expect to pay in the high tens of thousands for that of film directors, or games designers. A lower five-figure sum and you are looking at your soap-opera actor, your retired pro-soccer player, your TV talent-show winner. Your Supreme Court judge.

As with thoroughbred horses, so with men.

And it is all carefully calibrated. Different nationalities attract different premiums and you can expect to pay more for looks too. Put it this way, the DNA of an athletic six-foot Ethiopian with a PhD is going to cost you way more than that of a Birmingham car mechanic. That should be obvious. What is more surprising is that an Ethiopian car mechanic might well cost you more than a Brummie PhD. It depends what you prioritise. Polly has spent a long time thinking about it and knows what she wants. She’s a focused and determined shopper. She wants fit, but not too fit. She doesn’t want to spend years in draughty sports centres watching her kid win the regional javelin cup or whatever. And she wants brainy but not too brainy. She doesn’t want her kid leaving her behind by going off to do something she doesn’t understand in a medieval university covered in ivy and privilege. In any case super-genius means super unhappy in Polly’s experience. No, Polly wants quite coordinated, quite clever, quite good-looking, a decent ear for music and languages. She wants OK-looking, averagely symmetrical. She’s not bothered about hair colour or height. As long as he or she is not a dwarf or a giant then that’ll do. And that’s another thing, she’s not bothered about the sex of the child. Or the colour. On balance she thinks boy babies are cuter than girl babies, black babies better looking than white ones, but they’re not deal breakers.

You have to shop around of course, look out for the best value. And these days there are so many flexible payment plans that it can all get very confusing. But Polly quite enjoys this sort of thing. It’s always Polly who books the holidays for her and her mum. It’s always Polly who gets the quotes on insurance. Polly can compare the market dot com. Polly is not daunted by terms and conditions. Polly is not afraid of small print.

Just at the minute there are those special offers on in Norway and Polly is thinking a clean-limbed Viking might be OK, but she’s in a pickle because the offer expires soon. It’s all a gamble, isn’t it? In the end? However much research you do there’s always the fact that your own genes are going to be stirred into the mixture, so maybe she should just fill in the online form, push the button, and get it all over with.

That’s what she’s thinking when the PC in the office goes ping. It’s a message from Russell and it reads:
Hey P – can you tell Mr F that Scarlett said a word!!!!!!! Two words!!!!! (I know he won’t care but could you tell him anyway?)
. Who, she wonders, is Scarlett? And why all the exclamation marks? She likes the fact that Russell Knox says ‘Hey P’, it sounds matey, like the way you’d write to a friend. And she thinks she’ll worry about the sperm later. Anyway, in Polly’s experience the minute you’ve filled out the online form and pressed send, you find yourself regretting it. Ten minutes later you find the same item for less on a different site. Or you find you’ve changed your mind and don’t want the thing anyway. And all special offers and sales are a con. They say ends soon, but then there’s always another sale along in a minute. Maybe she’ll miss out on Norway but there are other places that will probably be just as good. Nigeria maybe. Or Indonesia. They look good value too.

Polly finds Daniel in his room having his hair cut by some woman from the council and she’s making a right pig’s ear of it. All that fabulous newsreader hair piled on the floor around him like a sudden and severe snowfall. She’s giving him a number four all over with an electric clipper thing. Polly can’t let it happen and she’s across the floor in a flash and turning it off at the wall.

The woman from the council is puzzled. ‘Excuse me, what are you doing?’

‘Get out. Just get out.’

The council woman, moon-faced and slow, doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know what’s going on. And neither does Polly really. She’s simply enraged and knows that she can’t have this woman near Daniel. He looks like he’s in prison.

The two women glare at each other and into the jagged silence Daniel suddenly says, ‘Polly! It’s Polly!’ and he sounds so relieved and delighted that Polly knows he’s been sitting there trying to remember her name.

‘I’m just doing what he asked for, love.’ The woman has a soft voice. It makes her sound sad.

‘Thought I’d go for something simple and low maintenance. Like myself. Ha ha.’

‘Oh, Daniel,’ says Polly.

‘I can’t leave him like this,’ says the council hairdresser woman. ‘Not half done.’

‘I’ll do him then. I’ll finish him off.’

‘Oo-er missus,’ says Daniel. Polly and the council woman both ignore him. ‘Not appropriate, I see.’

‘Sorry, I don’t let anyone else use my instruments. Just a rule I have.’

‘Yes because you’re such a professional, aren’t you?’

‘You’ve got a problem, dearie.’ The soft voice and fat face mask an appetite for battle.

‘Now, now, ladies.’

‘Come on, Daniel, we’ll get you done in town by someone who knows what they’re doing. You’ll need a hat.’

As they go past the front desk, Irina says, ‘Where are you going, Polly? You’ve only just arrived.’

The council woman huffs up behind them. ‘You should sack her. She’s a lunatic.’

Polly rounds on her. ‘They can’t sack me. I don’t work here. I’m a volunteer.’

She turns back to Irina. ‘And there’s loads of mess – hair and shit – in Daniel’s room. It’ll need clearing up.’ Irina’s face darkens. ‘Not actual shit,’ Polly adds hastily, because in Sunny Bank clearing up shit quite often means exactly that. ‘Just hair.’

‘I was going to ask you to cover reception,’ says Irina sulkily.

‘Tough,’ says Polly as she marches out, and it feels great. But Daniel lingers. ‘Awfully sorry,’ he says, enveloping both Irina and the council woman in an anxious smile. ‘Don’t know what’s got into her today. I thought you were doing a splendid job,’ he says to the hairdresser.

‘Daniel!’ Polly snaps from the front door.

‘Well, I best get along. She who must be obeyed and all that.’ And he does a little bow, touches the brim of his battered trilby.

‘Coming, dear,’ he says.

They are in the Banker’s Draft, the cheapest pub in town. It’s the pub that used to be the Midland Bank and is always busy because you can still get a pint for less than three quid and a full English breakfast for £4.99. Though for lots of people in here a couple of pints is all the full English they need.

Daniel is at the bar buying the second round of drinks. She looks at him waiting patiently to be noticed. He looks old in a way he didn’t in the Old English Gentleman. He passed for middle-aged in there. Here it’s different.

Polly thinks that old age is a kind of skin disease, a kind of facial disfigurement. It makes people want to avert their eyes. And some people – like the barmaid – seem to think it’s contagious, that if she handles Daniel’s crisp new note, withdrawn just an hour ago from the hole in the wall, then she’ll catch the weird leprosy called Being Old. And the worst thing is that people – some people anyway – seem to think the victims of Being Old Disease have brought it on themselves, that they could have avoided it somehow. They are in this state because they were careless, or stupid. It makes Polly very angry, you shouldn’t be allowed to treat other people like that. There should be a law.