To get us started we were given a list of sentences and told that we had to use one of them in the first paragraph of our story. I picked “You must be our new neighbours”. Thrilling stuff.
We’d had a rather odd conversation in class about reading out swear words. Our tutor suggested that some people might be sensitive and we could maybe give a warning if we were about to read out an expletive, or maybe bang the table instead. One of our fellow students suggested self-regulating ourselves to the equivalent of a ’15’ cinema rating.
Given such provocation, I think that I was rather restrained…..
Waxy and Frick
Looking back on that cool autumn’s evening, so long ago, I’m still rather proud that I kept the smile on my face as I toppled into the washing up. We had arrived late to the campsite that day and were finally lying down inside our newly erected tent when we heard a swish and a crack, followed by somebody calling: ?Ahoy! Hullo! You must be our new neighbours?.
Clare giggled and poked me in the ribs. ?Gawd, who’s that?? she stage whispered, ?here, you go?. I grimaced and nodded. Struggling around in the cramped space of our two man tent I pulled up my waterproof trousers, thrust my legs in the air to push my feet through and promptly kicked the lantern hanging down in the middle of the tent.
?Fuck!? the expletive was out before I could stop it. Clare stifled a second giggle. I made a ?Shhhh!? expression, putting my finger to my lips. Clare merely raised her eyebrows and made a shooing motion towards the tent’s entrance.
I cared so much more about what people thought in those days, and was petrified of the judgement of others. Clare played up to this at times, and she wasn’t shy of creating a situation then retreating, leaving me to confront my embarrassment. Exploring the line between supportive and bullying, I suppose.
So, I flustered about on my hands and knees, trousers sticking to the groundsheet as I crawled out, until I emerged red faced, like an angry slug. Inhaling the smell of fresh damp grass after the plastic, moldy aroma of the tent, I was still half rising from a horizontal position when I felt a strong grip simultaneously pull me up and pump my hand in welcome.
A broad, ruddy-faced woman beamed at me enthusiastically. It appeared that she had a few too many teeth for her mouth. She was a couple of years older that Clare and with her sandalled feet, khaki shorts and loosely worn Barbour jacket she seemed a Hale and Hearty Type.
?Hello there. Name’s Frick, short for Fricka, father was mad for Wagner dontchaknow, fifth daughter though, so all the good names had gone?. Frick snorted.
?Ah? I said as I struggled to decypher what she thought she’d just told me.
?This is Waxy? she said, which, to be honest, didn’t really help my confusion. A man’s face poked itself into view from a couple of feet behind her. Narrow and ferret-like, this appeared to be the aforementioned Waxy.
Nature hadn’t been kind to Waxy and Nurture’s sympathies certainly must have lain elsewhere. I could see that his right eye was slightly shut as he squinted towards me from a sideways view. He smiled to reveal crotcheted teeth framed by thin lips below an even thinner moustache. Along with his slicked back hair this conspired to give him a spiv-like appearance. As he leaned around his wife I wondered if he was about to offer to sell me a pair of nylons.
?Waxy Clifford? he said to me, by way of introduction, holding out his hand, ?boutique estate agent to the well heeled of Knowle and Dorridge?
?…and next Conservative Member of Parliament for Sparkbrook? added Frick proudly, puffing herself up like a pigeon protecting its young.
Startled, I held my hand out to meet Waxy’s and stepped towards him, stuffing my right foot into the billowing fabric of my trousers that had bunched around my ankles. I put my left hand out to steady myself against something before realising, too late, that the great outdoors is both unfurnished, and without walls.
As I said, looking back on that cool autumn’s evening long ago, I’m still rather proud that I kept a smile on my face and held Waxy Clifford’s eyes in mine as I toppled into the washing up. And we still talk about it fondly, the four of us, savouring the memory of that younger me, smiling stoically with hand oustretched while Waxy and Frick watched me sail head first into the suds.
?Well Waxy? said Frick, breaking the silence ?I can see that we are going to have to do some more work on your handshake?.
The tent beside me guffawed.