Perfection Comes at a Price Read online

  PERFECTION COMES AT A PRICE

  by

  Ulla Beattie

  Copyright 2019 Ulla Beattie

  First Edition

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Ulla Beattie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogues are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Where locations are used, all characters described herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to Susan

  Chapter 1

  “Mum, it’s seven o’clock. Weren’t you and Dad going to go to the pictures?”

  “You bet we were. You got that one right, you Mr Know-All! That father of yours is a scum-bag. Leaving me here to stew with a seven-year-old.”

  Eric flinched. Another horrible week-end was on its way. His father had no doubt gone to the pub as he usually did on Friday evenings. That was the pay-day. He worked as postman and he was one of the lucky ones who worked on one Saturday a month. Most worked every Saturday.

  “Mum, shall I set the table?”

  “Bloody hell, no! I’m not hungry. Bring me another gin bottle out of the cupboard. And a Tizer. When that man gets home, I’ll have his guts for garters! What are you staring at, you stupid boy? Make yourself a sandwich and take it to your room together with an apple. Scram!”

  The pale seven-year-old boy hurried to do as he was told and settled to read something. Not an easy task as his mother put on loud records and wailed along drunkenly.

  After her fourth glass of gin, Barbara Flint broke into tears of rage. That horrible husband of hers had yet again broken his promises.

  At quarter past eleven Barbara heard the key in the lock. The culprit had returned.

  “Tom, you bastard! Where the hell have you been?”

  “Oh, shut it, will you. I was at the Fox and Hare as usual.”

  “You drunken shithead, we were supposed to go to see the new film tonight. You promised we’d go to the pictures.”

  “I promised no such thing, Babs! I’m always at the Fox and Hare on Friday nights.”

  “You damned bastard! How dare you?”

  She went to get the cleaning brush and started to hit her husband viciously.

  “Ouch! Ooh! That hurt. Stop it, Babs, or I’ll give you a black eye.”

  “It was meant to hurt. Tomorrow we’ll go there without fail. And as for a black eye, you are the one to get it.”

  Barbara stood up. She towered menacingly over Tom. He was a slightly built man who knew that he was no match for his strong and buxom wife.

  There was a movement in the corridor. Eric flitted quickly to the bathroom.

  “Why is the boy still up?”

  “He isn’t. He’s just going to the toilet.”

  “Shit! Make it fast. Then get yourself into your bedroom,” Tom bellowed after the boy. His head began to spin.” Ouch. I’m not feeling all that good.”

  With that Tom hurtled to the bathroom just as Eric was coming out. The two collided and Tom was sick all over the bathroom floor. Then he turned around and swiped the boy several blows.

  “You vermin! It’s all your fault. Babs!” he yelled and then retched again. The vomit flew all around. By now the mother had come to the scene.

  “Look what you’ve made your father do!” she screamed and started to hit her son with the brush that she was still holding. “Because you went to the bog just then your father could not reach it in time. It’s your fault. God, it stinks. You will clean it up. Now!”

  The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. He smarted from the blows he had received. He went to get the rags and mop and a bucket and started quietly to clean up the mess.

  The neighbours, who had been wakened by this noise, were knocking angrily on the walls. The couple paid no attention but went into their bedroom to continue their quarrel.

  When Eric was finished, he went into his bedroom to lie with his eyes wide awake for a long time.

  It had been a typical Flint family day.

  The following morning Eric got up quietly to make himself breakfast. On Saturdays and Sundays the family had bacon and eggs, so he boiled himself two eggs. He much preferred boiled eggs to the fry-up that his mother made, which swam in grease. Then he went out on his paper round. It helped to get him a few pennies. Unlike the other children on the estate, Eric did not get pocket money, though sometimes his father might give him as much as five shillings (a fortune for Eric) if he was in a particularly good mood. His other income came from doing the shopping for three old ladies. He saved furiously. Whenever he’d saved up to ten shillings, he went to the post office and changed the coins to a paper note, which he kept hidden inside the top cupboard in the kitchen. He put the notes carefully under the shelf lining-paper. He knew that his mother regularly snooped in his room, and any paper note would have vanished in a jiffy. A few pennies did not interest her.

  After his paper round, he would join the other children on the estate who had come out to play. Eric’s family lived in Southall in a block of flats. The area was mostly Indian but in the blocks of Eric’s estate the people were mainly white with a sprinkling of Caribbean families.

  Eric went home at one o’clock. He knew from experience that by noon his mother would have been up in order to prepare a lunch by quarter past one. His father would leave for the football or rugby before two, and his mother by two- thirty in order to be at the bingo by three. Between six-thirty and seven the parents would be back provided that one or the other, or both, had not gone out to a pub with friends. It was like clockwork.

  That evening, just after seven, the parents were back. Eric’s mother was purring, as she had won a set of hair-curlers as well as some costume jewellery. His father was a thundercloud because the home team had lost by a whisker.

  “What bloody bad luck! The scumbags from West Ham won,” he lamented loudly. To console himself he had come home with lots of beer.

  “Stop ranting. I don’t give a shit how your beloved home team does. They can’t win all the time.”

  “You know nothing about football, Babs.”

  “No, I don’t, and I intend to keep it that way. It makes me sick to think how grown men are interested in kicking some object round a field. Pass me some cheese, Tom.”

  There was a little lull while the family munched. Eric judged the moment right for what he was going to say.

  “Mum. Dad. I hope you remember that on Monday there is the parent-teacher meeting at school at seven-thirty.”

  Eric hoped ferociously that this time his parents would be going as they had missed on any previous ones. Also his teacher had said that he particularly wanted to speak to his parents because Eric had done so well.

  “What! What’s the point of all that reading and swotting? You’re working class, and you’ll always stay that way. Don’t give yourself airs,” his father snapped and gulped a big swig of beer.

  Eric was nearly in tears.

  “Look, son, we’ve got other things to do than go to listen to lengthy blabber from your teacher,” his mother added. “Now go to your room and leave us in peace.”

  And indeed, Monday came and went, and yet again Eric’s parents had not gone to the meeting.

  Mr Hargreaves, the deputy-head of the school was slightly annoyed because the Flint parents had not turned up at the meeting. He had told Eric specifically that his parents should be there. This was the third time those parents had not come. The meetings took place twice a year, and most parents came at least once a year.

  He ruminated over Eric. The boy, born on the 26th of October, 1946, had started school in September 1952 when he was nearly six years old. A curious child. Very secretive. Very observant. Very competitive. He was slightly taller than average and had a beautiful face with fine bone-structure, a straight nose, full lips and most arresting large blue eyes. The boy would grow into a singularly handsome man, thought Mr Hargreaves. The future would indeed prove him right. But now, and what concerned the deputy-head, was the fact that he was beginning to see from the boy’s advancing work that the school had a potential star pupil. Someone who would go far in life, provided that he managed to stick to his studies.

  Home-life mattered as regarded studies. Encouraging parents was usually the key. Such parents could give a child the stamina needed to advance. A dysfunctional family could prevent any member from advancing. In a dysfunctional family, the parents often were two nasty, low types of pond-life who had no interest in furthering their offspring, in fact were hostile to see them advance. During his thirty years in teaching, Mr Hargreaves had seen only five cases of star pupils. In three cases there had been supportive parents, and two young ones, two boys and one girl, had gone into brilliant careers in life. In the other two cases, the parents had been vicious, jealous individuals who had prevented their offspring from advancing. It had resulted in two terrible tragedies. The one boy had gone with his father into petty criminality, with the result that he had been in prison on two occasions and had subsequently taken to drink. The other boy had committed suicide at the age of twenty-two.

  Now in the case of Eric, a tragedy was the most likely outcome. Mr Hargreaves remembered the parents vividly. The father was a small, thin, rat-like man with a nervous gaze, and the mother...well! It was difficult to describe the woman. A terrible mop of dyed red hair, a cigare
tte dangling from a vividly painted full mouth, rouge that cried out loud and eye make-up that made her look like a panda with purple eyes. Mr Hargreaves shuddered. The woman had ruined her beautiful eyes, face and hair. She was permeated by a sweet and cloying perfume, a type of scent that would linger anywhere long after the wearer of it had left. The nails were those of a predator. Good Lord, she applied green nail varnish! Unheard of. Her hour-glass figure was well-advertised through clothing that was much too tight. Being a normal married man, Mr Hargreaves had not been able to prevent himself from taking in the deep cleavage of Mrs Flint, not to mention her well-padded buttocks. And the woman behaved like a man-eater.

  With such parents, how would Eric fare? Mr Hargreaves had a yearning to help the boy forward. He decided to take a nurturing interest in the boy and help where he could. If the next three to four years went well, the boy would have the strength to get over the first hurdles and would be likely to continue. At least till thirteen or thereabouts. The next hurdle would come when the boy would be in the throes of puberty. A difficult period for any growing lad. So many of them wanted to quit school at that age and only waited till they were fifteen, when they could do so. Mr Hargreaves sighed. He had seen so many lives go to waste.

  The door slammed.

  “Shut your trap, you stupid man,” Eric heard his mother’s voice.

  “You were flirting in the pub, I saw how the men ogled you.”

  “You saw nothing. It’s all in your head.”

  “And no wonder. Your breasts are nearly bursting out of that blouse!”

  “Shut it. I can’t help it if I’ve got a fine pair.”

  “I won’t have you parade yourself like that. Hitching your skirt up as well.”

  Tom stopped while he had a coughing fit and then burped. There was sound of breaking glass.

  “Bugger! I’ve dropped a beer,” yelled Tom.

  “You fool. Get clearing it up this minute,” shouted his wife. ”If I get any glass in my feet, you’ll be sorry.”

  “All right. All right. Where is the brush and dustpan? And newspaper? Come and help me, Babs.”

  Eric lay still in his bed listening to the commotion. It was not the first time his parents quarrelled on that topic. Eric was fully aware of the types of looks that followed his mother, they were amused, disapproving or suggestive. He had often heard people in the estate refer to her as “that hussy”.

  For the moment, his parents seemed to have forgotten about him, so all was well. Eventually the noise would die down when both of them were sufficiently inebriated and fell into a slumber.

  Chapter 2

  “Eight, nine, ten. I’m coming,” shouted Timmy.

  The children were playing hide-and-seek. The little group that usually played together, consisted of Eric, Timmy, Katie, Nandita and Helen. They were classmates, all having been born between October and December 1946.

  Eric and Katie were hiding together behind the bicycle shed. Nandita was behind a small wall, and Helen was standing behind a tree.

  “Don’t think you can hide for long,” Timmy continued shouting, “My nose will sniff you out.”

  “Yes,” giggled Katie to Eric, “he reminds me of a spaniel.”

  “Shush, don’t giggle, or Timmy will find us.”

  The game continued, and the five friends had a lovely time.

  Timmy Day knew more than most of the others about Eric’s horrible home-life. The Days lived next door to the Flints and were thus subjected to hearing the regular quarrels between the couple. They also knew about the beatings Eric suffered as they could not avoid hearing them.

  Mrs Day was a large, jolly woman who managed her four children wonderfully. Her husband was a carpenter, a quiet man, who got on with working. Mrs Day would have liked it if Eric had come more often to their flat to play with Timmy, but Eric preferred on the whole to hide in his room. He was conscious of the pitying glances of Mrs Day. Also he preferred her not to know how often he was hungry. As it was, whenever Eric had gone to play with Timmy. Timmy’s mother had invariably made a pie or a cake. On one occasion Mrs Day had given him two portions to take home. That had turned into a disaster. Eric’s mother had seen him with a small paper bag.

  “What have you got there?” she asked.

  “Mrs Day gave me two pieces of cake to eat later.”

  “The bloody woman. The cheek of it. And you stupid boy accepted that! All she is giving are handouts to the poor. As if we could not afford to feed ourselves. Don’t you dare to accept anything again in the future. I’m going to go there and throw these back in her face.”

  Eric felt terrible, he felt humiliated. That kind woman was being paid back in the nastiest of ways. Oh why had he not thought about that before? Never again would he bring anything back home.

  Helen Brown was a quiet girl who always seemed anxious. And indeed she was. Her parents were divorced, a disgrace in the fifties. Her mother worked in the local council in a secretarial job. She was a disappointed woman. Her husband had left her for a widow who had a house. No doubt the man was comfortable there, so comfortable that he did not often come to the estate to see Helen. The girl missed her father. Well, thought Mrs Brown, at least the alimony came regularly and any presents to Helen were always of quality.

  Nandita Patel was an Indian girl. She was Katie’s second best friend after Eric. She was an only child, a fact which was a thorn in the side of her paternal grandmother. Her father, a tailor, had married for love, against his family’s wishes. However, the family, which consisted of his mother (his father had passed away when he was only sixteen) and two younger sisters, had had nothing to say. Mr Patel adored his wife and was as proud as a peacock of his only daughter. His mother could fuss all she liked about the fact that there was only one child and a female to boot.

  “But, mother, our daughter is not just any female. We have our Nandita, the most wonderful daughter there ever was.”

  Anyway, they lived now in England, not in Bombay. Mr Patel had no intention of ever going back there; no, he loved England. He was a good tailor and he was determined that sooner or later he would have his own business. His wife was an excellent needle-woman, and she helped her husband.

  Their flat had only two bedrooms, but they were big. Mr Patel had made a separation wall and an extra door to one of the bedrooms so that Nandita could have her own room and not have to share with her grandmother. Their lounge was their shop. There were two sewing machines, an ironing board with an iron, a cutting table and many shelves. In one corner was a cubicle for changing with a long mirror. There was a long moveable railing. Their kitchen served as the family room with its table for six. All was practical. They lived frugally and saved every penny they could. The business flourished.

  The fifth in the group was Katie. She was very close to Eric. She came from a happy family. Her parents were devoted to each other and to their child. Despite efforts, Katie had remained an only child. Her father, Mr Smith, was a rarity in the estate, as he was only occasionally to be seen in the local pub. He went there only when his friends really insisted.

  Katie was aware of Eric’s home-life. That was because Mrs Day was best friends with Katie’s mother, and Mrs Day talked thirteen to the dozen. Often Katie’s mother would put her finger across her lips in a sign to keep the sound down, as she wanted to spare her daughter from hearing too much about the Flint household. Eric himself never told anything about his home-life. On occasions, Katie would hear snippets from Timmy. And marks of contusions appeared regularly on Eric’s body. Some time ago Katie had noticed two particularly bad contusions.

  “Eric. Your parents have been beating you. You must be in pain. Why do they hit you so often?”

  “No, no. I just fell down awkwardly.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Timmy mentioned yesterday that his family had heard some dreadful noises coming from your side. They had heard you cry.”

  “Please, Katie, don’t tell anyone else.”

  “No, I won’t.”