Reading the Sauce Bottle

By Martin Stuart

It's London in the 1980's; 'the urban jungle' and Barratt is somewhere near the bottom of the food chain. He's unemployed, skint and has no prospects. He lives in a squalid bedsit in Brixton where he spends his days fruitlessly scheming ways of making money. He has two principal pleasures in life: smoking dope, when he can afford it, and sex, although this is invariably a solitary affair.

Then one day, during his musings, he remembers Aunt Sarah and she's old and rich, very rich. However, there is a big problem – Aunt Sarah is an inveterate snob, who has completely severed all contact with the lowly Barratt clan. Barratt creates an alter ego to inveigle this elderly woman into believing that he is successful, urbane, artistic and cultured in order to get his mitts on her money. There are, however, many barriers to cross if he is to be successful, apart from Barratt's unprepossessing physical appearance and unattractive personality: he has no money and he owes George, an emotionally unstable Jamaican drug dealer; to default would not be an intelligent option, and the venomous Mrs Haggett, Aunt Sarah's housekeeper, who 'has got his number' and will do anything in order to stymy his plans. In pursuit of his goal, Barratt is forced to weave an ever more intricate web of deceit . There are excruciatingly awkward dinners with Aunt Sarah and her supercilious acquaintances, conflict with a group of Hari Krishna disciples and an unpleasant encounter with a former colleague who had stitched him up and lost him his job. But, once he had boarded the train of deception, there was no getting off...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Stuart
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301130603

Book preview

Reading the Sauce Bottle

Martin Stuart

.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Martin Stuart

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

1.

Flat 2

Dresden House

Akerman Road

Brixton

London SW9

Mrs. S. Frobisher

Cranbrook House

Lindfield Gardens

Hampstead

NW3

22-1-87

Dear Aunt Sarah,

I expect you are surprised to receive a letter from a nephew that you haven't seen for several years. To get to the point, I have always admired your obvious culture and intellectuality. I fully understand your past reticence in encouraging unnecessary contact with the rest of the family; I too have found their general lack of ambition, low horizons and conversation stultifying. I suppose it's all too easy for those of us who have 'made our mark' in life to look down upon low achievers but, life is short and without stimulating company is wasted. I am not one to blow my own trumpet but I am proud of my business success and financial independence. My life however is not dominated by my work - it merely enables me to indulge my real passion for the arts, good conversation and la bonne vie. I recognise in you Aunt Sarah, a kindred spirit, and in a family so sadly bereft of, if you will pardon the expression, quality people', it is vital that we keep in touch. Indeed I would value the opportunity to get to know you better. I am often in your area on business, perhaps you would be free to come out to lunch or dinner some time in the near future.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Kind regards

Gareth.

*

Cranbrook House

Lindfield Gardens

Hampstead

NW3

Mr. G. Barratt

Flat 2

Dresden House

Akerman Road

Brixton

SW9.

January 25th 1987.

Dear Gareth

You may come for tea next Monday, 29th January at 3.30 for one hour.

Yours sincerely

Sarah Frobisher

*

Barratt rose early that Monday morning at ten o'clock with a sense of purpose. Sunlight had sliced through the window raising the temperature to a bearable level, at least for February. He let the hot water tap run splashing into the sink after he filled the kettle and was overjoyed when half a minute later, steam began rising. The hot water system was functioning again - he could have a bath. Ignoring the grey tide-mark he wallowed for an hour in the chipped cast-iron tub and mentally rehearsed the possible scenarios he may encounter until his meditations were abruptly terminated by Hannah banging on the door stating an urgent need for the lavatory. He shaved carefully over the sink in his room, and dressed. He stepped jauntily into the busy Brixton streets admiring his new image in the shop windows. As he passed Morley's in the Brixton Road, he checked his stride and sauntered into 'Men's Toiletries', selected a sample bottle of 'Armani' and liberally sprayed his smooth jaw, before taking the tube on the Victoria Line, changing at Euston and on to Hampstead. He took a cab from the station - Hampstead covered a large area and he had no idea where Aunt Sarah lived.

As the car swept through wide, tree-lined avenues, Barratt became aware of a dull ache low down in his belly, the first stirrings of fear. The driver swung the car between two large pillars, each crowned with a bronze lion, into a private road and announced grandly that they had just entered Lindfield Gardens. The car clock read twenty five past three.

Cranbrook House was a large, Georgian detached with a gravel drive sweeping in a gentle curve up to the gleaming, oak front door, sheltered by a pillared porch. It was separated from its neighbours by high manicured hedges and the front garden was a masterpiece of horticultural precision with not a dead leaf in sight. Barratt stubbed out his cigarette, paid the driver exactly the right money and crunched purposefully to the door, doing breathing control exercises in an attempt to combat the temptation to bolt. He pushed the burnished brass button, hearing a faint chime within, and waited. He strained his ears for sounds from inside the house but could hear nothing. He hovered his extended finger over the button, snatching it back as the lock on the door was released with a solid clunk. Barratt stretched his face into a terrified smile and Aunt Sarah appeared from behind the door transfixing him with grey eyes, as cold as a January suicide, squinting from behind metal-framed spectacles.

Good afternoon. You're on time.

Aunt Sarah! gushed Barratt. How lovely to see you again!

He vacillated briefly on whether to kiss her or shake her hand but his nerve failed before he attempted actual physical contact. She seemed to appraise him for ages before granting him entry. He would engineer an excuse for escape at the earliest juncture. That was until he saw the contents of the house.

The interior, like the garden, was immaculate with a pervading fragrance of expensive polish. Barratt followed her through the wide hallway, his busy eyes registering the paintings adorning both walls, through a doorway into a capacious drawing room. The colours of the soft furnishings complemented the reds and golds of the vivid Persian carpet, elegant furniture in walnut and ebony was perfectly positioned to maximise and contrast the balance and colours of the room. On every gleaming surface were objects of antiquity and beauty - a huge brass telescope, a pair of ornately engraved duelling pistols, a jewel encrusted egg, a tea clipper, perfect in every detail, encapsulated in a glass case, items of fine silver, a carved elephant's tusk, daggers and swords, gold coins and many exotic, unidentifiable items. Oil paintings in ornate gilded frames hung on every wall. Barratt's eyes hungrily consumed the largesse, the extent of which was way beyond his expectations. The potential prize was so large he could not possibly contemplate not pursuing it with all the energy he could muster.

Aunt Sarah instructed him to sit and he sank into the luxuriant upholstery of the chaise longue she had indicated with a nod.

Tea? she asked.

Er yes please.

Aunt Sarah busied herself with the ritual of pouring the tea into the bone china cups that had been laid out ready. She sat down directly opposite him and told him to help himself to sugar.

What exactly is your business?

I'm a marketing strategist, he replied automatically.

And what's that?

I advise companies and provide them with a plan to maximise their positioning in the market place, he faithfully trotted out the wording of the advertisement in the sits vac of 'The Independent' he had learned by heart. Effectively I am a specialist business consultant.

Oh. Good money? said Aunt Sarah sounding mildly impressed.

Adequate... to support my rather full lifestyle, said Barratt casually understating in a way that James Bond might describe his sex life.

There was a heavy silence apart from the tick of a splendid grandfather clock. Barratt swallowed a mouthful of Earl Grey, its passage earthward clearly audible. Aunt Sarah watched him.

You've got your father's look, she stated.

Barratt was not sure how to take this remark but being fully aware of her hostility to the Barratts in general, he assumed that his appearance was not to his advantage.

Oh, we may have the odd physical feature in common but dad and I, I'm afraid are like chalk and cheese ... he's like all the rest of them. No vision, no appreciation of the finer things in life... that's why I've always looked up to you ....you've been a kind of role model for me.

Aunt Sarah pulled her thin lips into a smile, encouraging Barratt to continue with flattery.

Do you know, Aunt Sarah, you haven't changed a bit in thirteen years.

This was no exaggeration - she had always been a fat, intimidating, old bag.

The old woman preened. The sandy grey hair had been teased and back-combed into a bouffant style in a partially successful attempt to disguise the odd bald patch but, overall it was an impressively huge coiffeur, a perfect frame for her magnolia slab of a face. Barratt stretched out his long legs and allowed his eyes to dwell on the treasures.

Brixton is a strange part of the world isn't it? her voice grated like a chainsaw in an opera house.

Barratt sat up. Aha, that's a popular misconception. There's Brixton and there's Brixton...

I was under the impression that it was full of black muggers, she interrupted. Haven't been there since the war.

Simply not true. The area did have its problems but it's undergone a complete transformation since gentrification.

Gentrification! What on earth is that?

Well... it's what happens when people like... me move in. Professionals with money...cultured people, artists, the shakers and movers.

I can't bear this modern dancing. It's primitive, no rhyme nor reason to it!

No, no Aunt Sarah. A shaker and a mover is the term we use for a person who makes things happen, entrepreneurs, captains of industry, that sort of thing.

So you make your living shaking and moving do you? She giggled at her own joke, showing her horsey yellow teeth. Barratt joined in a little too heartily.

He wanted to shift the conversation from himself.

How about you? What do you get up to?

Very little these days, she said ruefully. When you get to my age...

He tried to interject with some platitude about being as old as one feels but she waved it away.

... most of my friends are dead or gone away. The old days were wonderful. There was the opera, society balls and of course the holidays in France, the Alps, the Riviera... now I have to experience everything second hand from the television. Do you like opera?

Oh yes, agreed Barratt, hurriedly. Wonderful!

Which is your favourite? her eyes speared him.

I'm... quite keen on Andrew Lloyd Webber.

She eyed him suspiciously for a terrifying moment before guffawing like an angry sea lion.

"Very good,