Money

After Columbo, I rang Mother:

Kay: Hullo. Kay here.

Mother: Hello, Kay.

Kay: How are you?

Mother: Good. And you?

Kay: Not too bad. How’s Father?

Mother: He’s in the garden. The shed collapsed last Tuesday. It killed Percy.

Kay: Fuck. Who’s Percy?

Mother: Don’t swear. Percy is next door’s cat. We were obliged to pay for his funeral.

Kay: Cats don’t have funerals.

Mother: Mothers don’t lie.

Kay: I was ringing to see if I could borrow some money. Only for a couple of weeks, I’d pay it back.

Mother: No.

Kay: Please, Mother.

Mother: The funeral was very expensive, Kay, and your father had to buy a new shed. It was only one month ago that we sent you £500.

Kay: Two months ago.

Mother: And what about the play? Malcolm is a large role, you told me. You said you’d be a star, Kay. I imagine you are paid well to appear in Shakespeare.

Kay: Goodbye, Mother.

Reader, I was banking on Mother’s money. She never refused. I knew she had savings. I knew she had cash. Fucking cat funerals couldn’t be expensive. And I didn’t believe Percy was having one, anyway. I telephoned again.

Kay: Mother, I’m desperate. I have rent to pay.

Mother: I’ve always said you pay too much for that tiny flat. You should live in a shared house like your nephew does. He went to Cambridge University.

I ended the telephone call by throwing the mobile across the room. It struck the wall, leaving a black fudge, and fell to the floor in three pieces. I mended it with gaffer tape. It looked ridiculous.

We move to the following morning:

Dressed in a retro NY Cosmos soccer shirt and Diesel denim, I left my flat and walked down the stairs that lead to the communal exit past which Mr Dowson, the landlord, lurked.

He looked Turkish. Sweaty hair. He spoke with a Turkish accent. But I never saw him without an England football shirt. At the beginning of our relationship, when I paid rent on time, he would regale me with tales of his childhood in Devon – running through fields of corn and drinking cider and watching the local soccer side. All damn lies, I’d bet. I would gamble both feet that he was from Ankara.

“Your rent is a late,” he said, every word mispronounced.

“But that can’t be, Mr Dowson,” I said.

“Dave,” he corrected with sinister civility.

His body stood tall and wide - the sun’s rays were temporary blocked. I could see nothing but the dull white of the over-washed England football shirt. And I could smell nothing but Old Spice. My nose tingled.

I feigned surprise and ‘swore down’ that he’d have the money in his account by the end of the day. He nudged slightly to the right, a subtle signal that I could pass.

My landlord shouted something after me, but it was lost in the ambient noise of a SE London high street of buses and teenagers and police sirens. It sounded like ‘You’re a gay’. I would be surprised if that’s what Dowson actually shouted. I’m not gay. And it would also be a strange observation to make at that point. I’d done nothing homosexual when passing, I was sure.

Before leaving the flat, I had taken all banknotes from Doctor Faustus. I counted them as I walked to Sainsbury’s (shopping for bread).

Three times I checked, and three times the figure remained the same:

£135

Before meeting Rosalind, I possessed £245. I had travelled to North London and bought lemonade. In the following few days I had only left the flat to buy economy brand foodstuff from Sainsbury’s and a few bottles of wine. I had also bought The Stage newspaper (£1.40).

In doing all of this, I had spent over a hundred quid.

Jesus F Christ.

In despair, I purchased a quality bottle of Bordeaux. Alcohol would free me from despondency and inhibition. And inhibition is the enemy of remuneration.

I forgot to buy bread.

Twenty minutes after drinking the wine, I rang Mother once more. And, once more, she refused me money.