A Proper Charlie

By Christopher Stock

What's Charlie Bennett going to do now he's out of work - again? Useless with money and struggling to find a job in a declining industry, he's on a final written warning from his long-suffering wife Melissa. His money worries aren't helped by the discovery that his aged stepfather has been swept off his feet by a peroxide blonde gold-digger with four husbands behind her who is clearly out to steal Charlie's precious inheritance. And Melissa isn't quite as impressed as he'd imagined when he reveals that he has found a get-rich-quick solution through an online gambling website...A funny, bawdy and down-to-earth story about a hapless young man trying to keep his head above water in a world that seems to be out to make life as difficult as possible for him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mereo Books
• Release date: Jul 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781861517494

Book preview

Copyright ©2017 by Christopher Stock

Christopher Stock has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Published by Mereo

Mereo is an imprint of Memoirs Publishing

25 Market Place, Cirencester, Gloucestershire GL7 2NX, England

Tel: [phone], Email: [e-mail]

www.memoirspublishing.com or www.mereobooks.com

Read all about us at www.memoirspublishing.com.

See more about book writing on our blog www.bookwriting.co.

Follow us on twitter.com/memoirs books

Or twitter.com/MereoBooks

Join us on facebook.com/MemoirsPublishing

Or facebook.com/MereoBooks

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover, other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-1-86151-749-4

Welcome to the working week

I know it don’t thrill you

I hope it don’t kill you

Welcome to the working week

You’ve gotta do it till you’re through it

So you’d better get to it

Elvis Costello

Contents

Chapter 1 Happy returns

Chapter 2 Colin and Grace

Chapter 3 In the car

Chapter 4 The working man’s blues

Chapter 5 I’m not being funny but…

Chapter 6 Well, what am I gonna do now?

Chapter 7 The agony of choice

Chapter 8 Sweating palms and unwanted advice

Chapter 9 The hand of friendship

Chapter 10 Four small walls

Chapter 11 The seat of learning

Chapter 12 Women’s bits

Chapter 13 The night shift

Chapter 14 The man with the plan

Chapter 15 A day in the life

Chapter 16 Women

Chapter 17 Friends reunited

Chapter 18 Happy families

Chapter 19 Welcome to the working week

Chapter 20 Party party

Chapter 21 Here comes the… blimey!

Chapter 22 It’s turned out nice again

CHAPTER ONE

Happy returns

I lay in bed and gazed sightlessly at the pages of the book I was holding. I hadn’t taken in a single word. I’d already renewed the damn thing three times at the library and still hadn’t managed to get half way through it.

To my left Melissa was engrossed in some chick-flick novel she’d borrowed from a friend at work. Her contact lenses had been removed, binned and replaced by glasses. Her granny glasses, as I called them. They were black and thick rimmed, which gave her a severe look which I only really cared for when we were indulging in a spot of role-playing fun of a Friday evening. Melissa Bennett; by day, mother of one and part-time journalist at the Gravesend free weekly advertiser and by night, strict geography teacher Miss Two-Globes. What a transformation. I kept promising I’d get her a better pair from work, but I still haven’t managed to get around to it.

The wind was howling outside, making the fence creak with annoying regularity. It’s been doing that since we moved here two years ago and I still haven’t summoned the energy or motivation to replace it. I suppose I will wait until it completely falls down and then pay someone an overblown fee to replace it.

‘Oh well, that’s another one gone,’ I said.

‘Yep.’

‘Another three hundred and sixty-odd days have passed almost without notice, taken for granted and waved on by,’ I added.

‘Uh-huh.’ Mel licked a finger and turned a page.

‘Forty-two. How the hell did I reach forty-two?’

‘You did what all forty-two year old’s do, my love. You were forty-one, you had a birthday, and now you’re forty-two. It’s not a mystery.’

She scornfully patted me on the hand and continued reading.

‘What I mean is, how did I suddenly become old? One minute I was a fresh-faced teenager with the world at my feet, full of dreams, heady ambitions and a twenty-eight-inch waist, and the next I’m contemplating getting a pipe and a cardigan and I’m over the hill. Well maybe not over it exactly, but I can definitely view the other side from where I’m standing.’

She put her book down. ‘Here we go, it’s the same every year. Where has my youth gone? Why don’t my trousers fit any more? Why is there more hair on my shoulders than on my head? Christ, you’re not going to go through another crisis like when you turned forty are you? I don’t think I can go through that again, all that not eating, detoxing and taking out gym memberships. How long did you keep going for?’

‘A couple of weeks.’

‘And how much did that gym cost?’

‘Three hundred and fifty something.’

‘So those six or so visits set you back fifty quid each eh? Well worth it!’

‘The money is not the issue, my dearly beloved. It’s the feel-good factor when you leave, all pumped up and exhausted after a full-on work-out.’

‘Huh, as I remember you weren’t exactly feeling good after your exercise sessions. No, in fact as I recall you were a red sweaty mass of pulled muscles, strains and BO. You even needed help with removing your own socks. Now be quiet, I’ve read the same line four times now. There is no need to fret, you are as young and beautiful now as the day you swept me off my feet. Oh, by the way, that gardening catalogue you ordered came today.’ She turned back to her book.

I sighed. Didn’t that say it all? Once I was into the latest gadgets, high-tech mobile phones, clothes and cars. Now it’s seed catalogues, pension plans and a nice sit down. The other week some of the lads from work hired the five-a-side pitch at the local sports centre and asked if I wanted to play. I made an excuse that I was busy. A few years ago I would have jumped at the chance and been looking forward to it all week, even going as far as getting in a spot of jogging to boost my fitness levels. Now I’d rather get home from work, eat my tea and put my feet up for the evening. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Everyone ages and it’s better than the alternative. OK, I may never have fulfilled my childhood dreams of fame and fortune, but who has? I guess I have accomplished most of the targets and goals someone of my age is expected to have reached. Wife: check. Ex-wife: check. Family: check. Steady monotonous job: check. Garden shed: check. It just seems like, well, that’s it. It’s all done. That there is nothing more I am going to achieve and now it’s all about running down the clock. What is there new to experience? OK, probably almost everything, but the rut I’m in has now become such a bloody great trench that I’m finding it hard to pull myself out.

‘Did you count my birthday cards?’ I asked.

‘No, why would I?’

‘It wouldn’t have taken you long, there were only five.’

‘It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality that counts,’ she said, turning the page.

‘Quality? You must be joking. One from you, one from Colin [my almost step-dad] and his new bit of fluff, the apparently lovely Grace, another from the one cousin who actually bothers…’

‘Yes, which is pretty good seeing as you can’t be arsed to send him one on his birthday, or anyone else if we are going to be picky about it.’

‘Never mind that, that’s not the issue right now. What number was I on?’

‘God knows. I’m trying to read my book.’

I ticked them off on my fingers. You, Colin, Marie, one from Adrian and Suzanne, one from Mark and Anna and a home-made effort from Ellie.’

‘Which obviously should take pride of place. It’s those which have taken the most time and love to produce. Anyone can pop into a card shop, pull one off the shelf and part with their two ninety-nine without even glancing at the picture on the front, let alone bothering to digest the moving heart felt poem inside.’

‘I don’t know, the picture on the front was crap. I couldn’t even make it out. What was it meant to be? Me? Leonid Brezhnev? Was it an angry piece of modernist art? Someone’s Friday night barf up?’

‘Charlie, she is five, what were you expecting, a Turner landscape?’

‘Mel, I expect to know what it is I’m meant to be looking at, plus a certain standard of capability in the colouring-in stakes.’

‘My, you are in a grumpy mood aren’t you? Look, if you’re on the verge of yet another mid-life personality crisis I think Ellie and I will take a six-month sabbatical somewhere sunny while you wrestle yourself out of it. Portugal, Turkey or Cyprus appeals, I could do with a healthy glow.’ She peered at me over the top of her specs.

‘What do you mean, another mid-life crisis?’ I replied indignantly. ‘When have I ever had a crisis?’

‘At twenty, thirty, forty, now… in fact I don’t think there has been a single period in your life when you haven’t been going through some kind of self-induced drama.’

‘You didn’t even know me then, well not at twenty or thirty anyway.’

‘Thank heavens for small mercies.’

‘I am not now having, nor ever have had, a mid-life crisis,’ I argued feebly. She raised her eyebrows once more. ‘No come on, when have I ever started acting like I am trying to recapture my not so misspent youth? I don’t try to dress younger than my years. I haven’t got a medallion, a fake tan or a combover. I’m not carrying on with my young secretary, pretending to fit in with her trendy mates and going to night clubs and dancing till dawn.’

‘Oh yeah, so what’s that thing parked on the drive then?’

‘Here we go again,’ I sighed, picking up my book and pretending to read.

‘Now help me out here Charlie. How many of us are in this family?’

‘At the last count, three,’ I replied.

‘And how many seats does your car possess?’

‘Two,’ I said wearily.

‘I rest my case, milord.’

‘How many times do I have to say this? I’ve always wanted a nippy convertible. I took it for a test drive and just had to have it. You have the family car, I have mine. I don’t understand what the big deal is. Just because I’m the wrong side of forty it doesn’t mean I should give up on all my dreams, does it?’

‘Of course not baby, but you have to remember you do have certain responsibilities, and giving some unknown boy-racer a burn up at the traffic lights is not one of them.’

‘Whatever,’ I said, knowing I was in an argument I couldn’t win. ‘Anyway, there is a huge difference in being in the throes of a mid-life crisis and simply being aware of your own mortality and the rapid passing of the years.’

She replaced the bookmark Ellie had made at nursery and plonked it on her bedside table. ‘I’m beat, are you ready for lights out?’

‘Yeah, go on then.’ She switched off and snuggled against my side. ‘You know what I mean though don’t you?’ I said. ‘I don’t feel ready to be old. I still want to be feisty, naughty and slightly unruly.’

‘No you don’t. You think you ought to, but against your best rock and roll intentions you and I both know that secretly you would rather be at home with your PJs on, feet up, and a nice milky coffee on the go.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yep, with Poirot on the box and an early night on the cards, as opposed to raising hell where it’s unpleasantly loud with loads of kids shaking their money makers until the early hours.’

‘It shouldn’t be that way though, should it?’

‘Maybe not darling, but it’s the same for everyone, remember? Today’s beautiful teens who have not a care, a crow’s foot or a stretch mark in sight will, with the passing of time, eventually be shuffling down to Tesco’s in search of incontinence pants, pile cream and sleep-inducing hot chocolate.’ She patted my hand.

‘I guess that’s true, but you try telling them that.’

‘I know, when you’re young you don’t think of the future. Everything is here and now. Even the following week seems a lifetime away.’

‘Then you get to our age and all you do is dwell on the past,’ I grumbled.

‘Don’t be so maudlin. You still probably have more time to go than has gone,’ she reassured me.

‘Let’s hope so,’ I said. ‘Do you ever think about death?’

‘Only during conversations like this,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Go on, pass me the rope.’

‘No seriously, are you afraid of death?’

‘I have never given it much thought. Now we have our little girl all I think of is the future, hers and ours. What she will become, how we can help her fulfil her dreams, that sort of thing.’

‘I know it may sound selfish, but when did life suddenly become all about others achieving their dreams and goals? What happened to ours?’ I carried on.

‘I don’t know. When kids arrive they become your life and really take it over. I suppose we have to put our aspirations on the back burner while they’re doing their thing, growing up and getting their own lives sorted.’

‘But won’t we both be too old, too comfy and crusty and past it to pursue whatever goals and dreams are still lingering by then?’

‘Probably but in no time the grandchildren will come along and we will be silver-haired unpaid child minders while our own kids are forced to scrimp and save and work fifty-hour weeks to keep their heads above water.’

‘Great!’ I said. ‘What a glorious future you have mapped out for us, I can hardly wait.’ My spirits were sinking further. We fell silent for a while, her head on my chest, her hand combing through the soft hairs of my belly.

‘Do you know what’s number one?’ I asked.

‘As opposed to number twos?’

‘You know what I mean. What’s the top of the charts, the hit parade?’

‘The hit parade? Blimey, you are old aren’t you! I haven’t heard anyone call it that since Pete Murray and Tony Blackburn.’

‘All right, what’s number one in the charts?’

‘That girl group, I think,’ said Melissa.

‘I have no idea.’ I confessed. ‘I always used to know. I’d listen to the top forty count-down religiously without fail every Sunday evening when I was a kid, my finger hovering over the pause button of my tape deck to record any new entry I hadn’t yet acquired, hoping the DJ wouldn’t talk over the intro. Now I haven’t a clue who’s top of the pops.’

‘Sorry to age you further pop-picker, but ‘Top of the Pops’ hasn’t been on TV for about a decade or more. They killed it off when they realised just nine people and a goldfish called Peter were the only viewers.’

‘You’re kidding me?’ I said, astonished.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Oh, by the way, while we are at it there is also no Father Christmas and Jimmy Krankie was really a middle-aged woman with gender issues.’

‘More dreams shattered. Next you will be telling me there’s no tooth fairy and you fake your orgasms.’

‘What’s an orgasm?’

‘Ha ha, very funny I don’t think.’

‘I think maybe we should change the subject. Did you enjoy your birthday meal?’

‘It was lovely. I’ve only visited the bathroom twice since we have been back,’ I answered, not feeling exactly on top of my game.

‘Well, it’s your own fault. I did advise against that killer chilli-fuelled burrito. You know what a state your digestive system is in these days. Anyone who leaves a stink like you do in the toilet cannot be a healthy man.’

‘One must suffer for one’s art, my darling. There is no way I’m living on a diet of healthy salads and fruit and veg.

This boy lives on the wild side, between the coronary intensive care unit and the bog.’

‘Well don’t blame me when you’re sitting on the toilet tomorrow with fourth degree burns and a repetitive strain injury.’

‘Do I ever?’

‘Yes, constantly. Whenever you get drunk on a Sunday evening while you are trying to stave off the dreaded attack of the Sunday night blues. When we are at a barbecue and you feel the need to break the quarter-pounder cheese burger eating record...’

‘All right, all right, message received and understood. I am the master of my own downfall. Any psychological and physical problems are one hundred percent down to my own sweet self and you, my darling, are completely blameless.’

‘I’m glad you’re taking responsibility at last. I see this as a major step forward in your development. At this rate of progress I can see you becoming a fully-rounded adult male by the time you get your pension book and free bus pass.’

She snuggled closer, the warmth of her body feeling delicious against mine. Despite having a huge Mexican meal plus starter and sweet inside me I wasn’t totally against the idea of getting jiggy-with-it with my ho.

‘Mel, do you still find me attractive?’ I asked, still feeling sore at turning another year older.

‘Not particularly,’ she replied.

‘Eh?’

‘Just joking, I find you more arousing than a Brad Pitt sandwich with a side order of George Clooney fries.’

‘Well that’s all right then,’ I said.

‘Ooh, I’ve just remembered there is one last present I’ve yet to give you.’

‘Cool,’ I said, reaching over to turn on my bedside light. ‘No, don’t do that,’ she whispered. ‘This is the kind of gift I prefer to give in the dark.’ She slipped silently under the covers.

’Oh…ah…I see. Lovely, ouch! Careful darling, mind the teeth!’

CHAPTER TWO

Colin and Grace

Colin is my ‘almost’ step-dad. I guess you could say he is as near as damn it to being the real thing as possible without having actually been present at the time of conception. My real father, my dad, died of cancer when I was still wearing short trousers to school and was still of an age where anything seemed possible. There was no doubt in my mind that on growing up I would either be Manchester United’s greatest-ever striker, a spaceman or at worst a member of International Rescue, primed to take over the running of Thunderbird 1 when Scott decided to move upstairs and help to run the family business.

A few years after my father’s untimely and painfully long-drawn-out demise, this boring, balding and short-sighted mole-like creature moved in. One evening I was sat down and told over a glass of milk and a jam butty that this ‘friend’ would be staying just for a few nights and that I should be on my best behaviour. In no time his slippers were parked by the front door in the space that used to be reserved for my real dad’s, and although they never managed to summon up enough energy or morality to shuffle down to St Marks and make it legal, he remained at my mother’s side until she passed away herself four years ago. Sad as it may sound Colin (legally or not) is my closest family relative. We are a small family; I have no siblings and precious few cousins. My aunties and uncles are not much more than names towards the bottom of a Christmas card list. Those that are still around I rarely get to see. In fact, since Mum’s funeral I think we have only gathered the once, and that was at the predictable setting of the burial of some obscure second cousin whom I had hardly met. It’s horrible really, seeing the generation before me disappearing one by one. At each gathering my uncles and aunties, who used to be so loud and proud and the life and soul, now seem increasingly worn, stooped and filled with less life and jollity at each occasion. And then it will be our turn…

Not that Colin is in any mood to give up and slow down. No way. In fact if anything he’s more active and forward-thinking than ever. He’s vice president of the bowls club, a major player at the local battle re-enactment society, helps out on several charity organizations, has an allotment and a gym membership and is the devoted grandfather always turning up with sweets, gifts and assorted Barbie accessories he obtains off his new fad, the internet. He’s like a born-again teenager. It is because of Colin that I find myself dragged away from the comfort of my home and the brand new 55-inch wall-mounted Hi-Def television on which I was looking forward to viewing the big Sunday lunchtime kick-off on Sky instead of cheering on United in the Manchester derby. I am being summoned to one of those bloody awful ‘family’ pubs. You know the sort of thing, a greeting with a smile and a cheap packet of crayons, a clientele of families who always somehow seem more prosperous and happier to be there than you, and to top it all, god-awful service. The food is hardly Michelin standard either; two razor-thin slices of semi-warm beef submerged in a dreary puddle of tasteless congealed gravy accompanied by a couple of sorry-looking spuds with an apologetic helping of wet broccoli and nearly raw slices of carrot. This is what the Great British Sunday is all about. Then once we’ve drunk enough and have managed to digest the poorly-microwaved dessert, we’ll tip the harassed waitress and tell her it was all yummy, before paying the inflated bill and grouching about it all the way home. Never mind, it’s work tomorrow. In another seven days if the urge takes you, you can do it all over again!

We parked up and I looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Ah, she’s asleep’ I said. ‘It would be a shame to move her. Let’s go home and text Colin our apologies. I’m sure he won’t mind.’

‘Come on, you’ve hardly bothered to see him lately,’ said Melissa. ‘It’s about time you gave a moment from your not-so-busy schedule to see how he is. It’s always him who takes the trouble to come over or to phone. It’s high time you showed an interest.’

‘Mel, it is Sunday, the one full day off a week I get. The last place I would choose to spend these precious hours is here with Colin, being introduced to his ancient bit of fluff.’

‘What’s wrong with here? It’s really family friendly. It’s got one of those jungle gym soft play areas that Ellie can run around in when she gets bored and fractious. That way when you and Colin are semi-pissed and arguing the toss about yesterday’s football she won’t be whining and getting on your nerves.’

‘OK, all right, anything for a quiet life,’ I said, climbing out of Mel’s sensible family car. I opened Ellie’s door and gently stroked her forehead. ‘Ellie, we’re here darling. Do you want to wake up and see Grandfather and his new bint?’

‘Charlie!’

‘Sorry! Ellie, come on darling, it’s time for lunch sweetheart.’

She came round, yawned and suddenly remembered where we were. ‘Is Grandpop here yet?’

‘Not yet darling, but he’ll be here soon.’ I released the buckle on her car seat and she slid down. She looked beautiful in a smart pink party dress, and as always my heart felt like bursting with pride. Melissa and I have made a beautiful girl. She is lean, thin and fairly tall for her age (so Mel tells me). She has a very fair complexion with huge brown eyes beneath the longest lashes I have ever seen. Blonde locks hang down in ringlets, framing her angelic face. I have no idea where her golden curls come from, as what is left of my own hair is mousy and straight, as is her mother’s. Well I think it is; Mel dyes her hair so frequently and in so many different hues from platinum blonde to gothic black that I’m not entirely sure what her real hair colour is. It’s possibly mule grey, but I’ll keep that suspicion to myself for health reasons. My mum’s hair was wavy, so maybe Ellie’s curls are a throwback to hers.

How I wish dear old Mum could have lived to see her only grandchild. She was always asking me and my first wife Marie when we’d make her a grandmother, but for some reason it never happened and then within a few weeks of being involved with Melissa something clicked into place and we were blessed. I know it maybe was a little late in the day to start a family at thirty-eight but I can tell you one thing for sure; it’s definitely better late than never and now here I am expecting number two. Well, not me exactly, but you know what I mean.

We entered and stood at a lectern which had a ketchup-stained sign attached, telling all us lucky punters to wait here and be seated. After a moment a flustered-looking assistant called Megan (I knew this from her name badge) asked if I had booked. ‘Yes, it’s a table for five in the name of Bennett,’ I said. She checked her list from top to bottom, didn’t find us and scanned it again. She found us, ticked us off with the pen attached by some hairy string to the board, picked up a handful of menus (and of course our complimentary crayons and activity sheet) and led us to our table.

‘Can I get you any drinks?’ she asked smiling, her pencil poised on her little note pad.

‘Yes please, I’ll have a Stella, my good lady would like a… what would you like babe?’

’Mmm, I suppose I’m driving home?’ she asked.

I nodded, smiling. ‘You’re a trooper babe, a true Brit and no mistake. No, but be honest, can you really see me getting through this with only a diet coke or an orange juice?’

She shook her head. ‘I guess not,’ she said and turned to the already slightly impatient Megan. ‘An orange juice and lemonade please, no ice and a blackcurrant Fruit Shoot.’

The drinks were almost instantaneous, pity the grub probably wouldn’t be. I necked mine down in a couple of minutes. It was heaven. The place was heaving already, with little identikit families filling every table dressed in their Sunday finery. All scrubbed up, trousers pressed, shirts ironed and children freshly bathed ready to greet friends, family and the world at large. How nice! How British!

I went to the bar for a refill, leaving Melissa to peruse the choice of grub on offer with Ellie. As expected there was just a spotty youth receiving training on his first day on the job and one other pissed-off looking barman trying to ignore the crowd of stressed punters staring at him with ten-pound notes scrunched up in their fists with knuckles turning whiter by the minute. Eventually I managed to catch his eye and order another pint.

As the golden liquid was reaching the top of the glass I spotted a podgy old git in an ill-fitting suit coming through the door – Colin. I turned to the bar guy. ‘Can I have a pint of whatever draught bitter is the most drinkable as well please mate?’ I bellowed. I called Colin over and