(In which a wholly imaginary character infroms an entirely non-existent audience of some resolutely made-up events . . . for today is one of those dark days, that make the nights seem brighter than they are).

At a quarter past nine, the laughter stopped. There should be more to it, but there isn‘t. My mother put down her knitting, and looked at the floor. I stood up, and stepping between the spent embers of the fire, opened the door to his room. She followed me in, and we stood, side by side, next to the bed. He was not lying in it. He was lying by the window, with his legs in the air and against the wall. He had died as he had lived - with odd socks on, and his beard uncombed. One of the paisley curtains had come lose from its rail, as if yanked in the final fall, and it hung lopsidedly, and entirely without hope. It should have been funny. Or maybe it shouldn’t. I don’t know anymore. My mother’s face was leaden, and my heart was full. The funeral was sparsely attended. There was the vicar, my mother, me, Steven, a man who couldn’t speak any English and was probably in the wrong place, and two aunts from Pitherington-On-Sea. One had a moustache, and both wore the same hat. In his last will and testament, my father has requested that we play Jerusalem as his corpse was lowered into the ground, and we respected his wish. Unfortunately, the gramophone broke. It played the song at four times the expected speed, trembled violently, and shot the record at the wall, where it smashed into three pieces and was later swept up by a rotund young man in blue overalls.

I couldn’t be dwelling on this, though. Not only was my brother dying, but Mr. Hyssops was coming to tea. To add to my troubles, Cheeky had upset his water dish, flicked his seeds all over the carpet, and was clearly sulking. He had his back to me, and the cuttlefish bone which I bought especially for him at the grocery store remained untouched.
“Don’t be like that, Cheeky.”
A brooding silence.
“Mr. Hyssops is coming round later. You know how you like Mr. Hyssops.”
There really isn’t any point in talking to him when he’s like this.
“I’ve told him not to bring Cuddles over with him.”
If that didn’t placate him then nothing would. Cheeky loathed Cuddles. It was, of course, all my fault. When I moved in here - almost three years ago, now - the lorry with my furniture and crockery slipped a few tea-stops short of Stalybridge in a big pool of melted strawberry ice cream from another accident and was delayed somewhat. In fact, it ended up on its side, with the result that the grandfather clock fell out and disappeared down the side of the grass verge and into a ditch, where it quickly filled with water and minnows. Anyway, during the ensuing absence of soft furnishings, I felt it would be a nice thing to let Cheeky explore the house, since there were no lampshades or curtains for him to click. He hadn’t been out two minutes when there came a knock at the door, which turned out to be Mr. Hyssops.
“How do,” he said. “I’m Mr. Hyssops.”
This was all well and good, except that he had a cockatiel on his shoulder and had barged in without so much as a by your leave or thank you.
“This is Cuddles,” he said.
As soon as the brute saw Cheeky, all hell was let loose. Within five seconds there were feathers everywhere, and poor Cheeky fell onto the carpet, where he lay panting and covered in bald patches. Cuddles regarded him venomously from the windowsill.
“Dearie me,” said Mr Hyssops. “He’s never normally like that. It must be your budgie.”
As for the grandfather clock, it has been in its second childhood ever since. It didn’t smell right for weeks, and I was forever finding dead tadpoles in it. Every St. Swithin’s day, without fail, it chimes incessantly for three hours, and then the minute hand falls off. I haven’t the heart to get rid of it, though.
Unfortunately, none of this cut the mustard with Cheeky and I was eventually forced to confiscate his cuttlefish bone and put a tea towel over his cage. He pretended not to care, but he would be sorry later when the dinner was ready. He went mad for turnip.
Mr. Hyssops was due to arrive at half-past seven, a time when I would normally be in my dressing gown. Still, one has to make sacrifices occasionally.

I hadn’t had anybody round for tea since I invited Irene and that wall-eyed woman from the tanning parlour. Morag, I think her name was. I shan’t be repeating that in a hurry. When I offered her a cheese cracker she took three, and then I found them in the aspidistra pot after they’d left. Not that there was ever much danger of that with Mr.Hyssops. He’d eat anything. I once saw him put lard on toast. He had an excuse, though, because he was colour blind. When he was a teenage boy he was running away from a steamroller and he fell down and hit his head on the pavement. He was unconscious for three days and when he came to he was colour blind and could only blink with one eye at a time. It’s a dreadful shame. He would have made somebody a lovely husband.
He proposed to me once, of all people. He’d come round to creosote the fence, and by a stroke of luck his hat matched his dungarees. Unfortunately they were both canary yellow, which did nothing but attract flies. Still, it was a step in the right direction. He came in and removed his wellingtons, and began to comb his moustache in the reflection of the window. What it must have looked like from outside I shudder to think.
“Why are you wearing a top hat?” I asked, not unreasonably.
“It’s a big day, today,” he replied. “It isn’t every day that today happens. Would you like a glacier mint?”
“No thank you.”
We both sat in the sitting room whilst Mr. Hyssops ate six glacier mints and blew his nose. Outside, it began to drizzle. Suddenly, he leapt up and grabbed me by both shoulders.
”Will you marry me, Gladys? I’d be a good husband. I wouldn’t leave the toilet seat up or neglect the compost heap. I’d be a good father to Cheeky. Him and Cuddles could resolve their differences. I’d only smoke my pipe on a Sunday. We could have the honeymoon in Grogport and I’ve bought an acrylic cardigan and some winceyette pyjamas especially.’
I really couldn’t refuse because my compost heap wasn’t even worthy of the title, and who can say no to winceyette pyjamas?
“I’d love to, Mr Hyssops.”
“What?”
“Marry you.”
Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. He sat down suddenly and blinked rapidly for a while.
“Would you like a glacier mint?”
“No thank you.”
After eighteen minutes, during which three ice-cream vans had driven past, he got up and went rather gingerly outside, presumably to creosote the fence. Cheeky was watching me from his perch.
“I know what you’re thinking.” I said.
He flicked a sunflower seed onto the carpet.
“Now, then. There’s no call for that.”
He continued to regard me with his tiny little black eyes.
“Stop it. You know I don’t like it when you do that. You can’t dictate to me what to do.”
Silence.
“You’re just jealous. That’s all it is.”
He closed one eye and turned his back on me.
“That mirror can go back where it came from, you know.”
Just then there was an ominous bang from outside, and when I went out into the garden, it had begun to rain, and Mr Hyssops was lying on the lawn with a paint can stuck on his foot.
“Who are you?” he said, rather aggressively for my liking.
“I’m your future wife-to-be.’
“No you aren’t.”
“Yes I am.”
“You aren’t though.”
“I am as well.”
A child with a balloon passed the garden. Halfway along the back fence, the balloon caught on a thorn and burst. All that remained of it was a damp rag of rubber, which hung pathetically from the twig.
“Go home!” shouted Mr. Hyssops suddenly, leaping to his feet and causing his face to go crimson.
The child looked at him.
“Garn! I’ve had it up to here with you and your balloons.”
The child’s lower lip began to tremble.
“Shoo!”
The child turned and ran back the way he’d come. I’d never seen Mr. Hyssops do anything like that before.
“Does that happen often?”
“No. But you’ve got to be firm with them when it does.”
And that was that. He brushed himself down, which only made the mess worse, really, and together we cleaned up the paint, which was all over the steps - best place for it, too. I would never have lived it down if he’d painted the fence electric blue. Agatha next door would have had a field day. He never mentioned the wedding again.
“It’s a rather fine day.” was all he said.
“Your dungarees are on back to front.”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
He had a twitch in his eyelid after that, and it was still there when he left to go home half an hour later. I suspect he must have bumped his head, because he surreptitiously kept putting jam in his tea with his finger, as if I wouldn’t notice. After he had eaten half a scone, he said “This tea, it’s crude oil.” and stood up, upsetting the finger bowl.
“Are you going?” I asked. “It’s only a quarter to three.”
“I’d best. Cuddles will be worried.”
I looked down at the carpet, thinking we were in for another funny turn.
“He pines, you know.”
“For you?”
“Yes. He chews on the pelmet.”
“Oh.”
“It isn’t fit to look at.”
“Is it not?”
“No.”
And with that he left, only he forgot his top hat, which, it transpired later, had fallen into the rhubarb patch during the creosote incident. I only noticed the next week when I went to peg some washing out and some wasps had begun to build a nest in it. It’s still there now actually, just you can’t see because the rhubarb has covered it.

It was, by now, twenty-three minutes to eight, which was annoying because I put the pie on the table at half-past exactly, and, due to Mr. Hyssops and his disregard for time and the vagaries of puff pastry, it had sunk. Of course, this was nothing. Last time he came round to tea he was thirteen minutes late, and appeared to have mislaid his toupee along the way. I didn’t say anything, of course. It might have put a damper on proceedings. He was wearing plimsolls, crimson slacks, a white shirt, a puce tie and a shamrock green blazer, because like I said, he’s colour blind. It’s a shame, really. He could look quite dapper if only someone would dress him.
Just then the phone rang. It was Mr Hyssops. He told me that he couldn’t come round for tea because the whippet had caught ‘flu and besides, his hair needed washing.
“You haven’t got a whippet,” I said. He hadn’t any hair, either, come to think of it.
“Cheerio, then.” was all he said, and he put the phone down one me. I was not being treated like that. Not after buying best butter for the pastry and a new tea cosy when it was him who put a hole in the other one in the first place. There was nothing for it. Cheeky clucked beneath his tea towel.
“You needn’t laugh,” I said to him. “Not after that rigmarole with the water dish. And you needn’t think you’re getting any turnip neither.”
I put on my coat with the intention of going round to Mr.Hyssops house to get to the bottom of things, only just then a bee came in the window and it took me a good half hour to chase it back out again, upsetting the new magazine rack in the process. As if that wasn’t enough, Steven started ringing his little bell, and when I went up to his room, he just wanted a chat.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, Steven. I hope not.”
The heavy curtains were shut and the failing light that shone through them made his eyes shine and gave his skin a greenish cast.
“I just wanted to say thank-you.”
“What for, Steven?”
There was an awkward pause as he summoned his words. Outside, a lawnmower revved and spluttered, and failed. Twice. I realised that it wasn’t the light that was making his eyes shine - it was tears. He was crying.
“Just for putting up with me, you know. And for understanding me. I’m not very easy to get on with. You’re the only one who hasn’t left me.”
“Oh, Steven. Don’t be so silly.”
He’s right, though. He never really had any friends. Not proper ones, anyway. Just the sort that kick you in the groin to get the ball off you on Sundays, hide your sandwiches on the Monday, and ignore you the rest of the week. He got married once. He was only nineteen. Julia, she called herself. Ginger hair. What a little slut she was. She came round to our house the day before the wedding to get her hair done with a hole in the toe her tights the size of a half crown.
“But what if he sees you, Julia?” my mother had asked.
“I’m not fussed.” she said.
“But Steven might be, Julia.”
“I don’t care. I’m a working woman. I’ve got enough to contend with what with these fingernails and the boiler and there’s none of us getting any younger you know.”
“Suit yourself, Julia.”
My father muttered something about there only being one boiler he knew of and went outside to clean his boots. At any rate, the wedding was a shambles. For a start, Julia was half an hour late because her flat mate had been sick, and her side of the family ended up stuck just west of Scarborough because a sparrow had somehow been sucked into the exhaust pipe. In effect, that only left Steven, me, our parents, the two aunts, Julia, the Vicar and the Best Man, who, as far as I could see, was none other than Darren O’Riley, who used to bully Steven in secondary school.
“Doesn’t she look lovely?” said my mother.
After a rather subdued ceremony during which Darren’s stomach kept making funny noises, the church door opened and a man with a ponytail and leather trousers came in with a chihuahua on a lead. Everyone turned to look at him. He had three day’s worth of stubble and a big spot on his forehead.
“There you are!” shouted Julia. “Where the hell have you been? It isn’t funny!”
“Who’s he?” said Steven.
“Shut up, you. You’re not helping.”
Steven went red and began to examine his nails. Julia flounced over to the man in the leather trousers and kicked him in the shin. The chihuahua wet itself.
“Well are you going to get sorted or not?” snapped Julia. The man hung his head and went outside leaving the dog sitting on the floor. It began to shiver. Julia strutted back up to the altar. Her veil had come askew and her eyes were bulging slightly.
“Julia, love, who is he?” said my mother gently.
“That’s Nigel, is that.” she said. “He’s a wedding singer.”
“I didn’t want anything fancy,” said Steven.
“Oh, it’s all about you isn’t it? As long as you’re happy! You just couldn’t care less, could you? This is my big day, and there’s none of you thinking of me!” She was out of breath and some spittle had appeared at the corner of her mouth.
“Julia.” my mother said.
Steven scratched his head and my father wiped some sweat off his top lip.
Just then Nigel came back in with a microphone, a recorder, a stylophone and, inexplicably, a balloon with a face on it.
“Have you got a plug?” he asked.
“No.” said the vicar.
“How am I supposed to work in these conditions?”
He tossed his hair and set about trying to balance the microphone stand between his briefcase and a crate of toffees that one of the aunts had brought as a wedding present. Julia looked on with her jaw set and her feet planted one yard apart.
“Come on!” she said. “I’m not paying you £1.83 an hour to muck about like this! Where’s your costume?”
“Costume?” said Steven. Nobody heard him.
After the wedding singer had disappeared behind the altar to change into a pair of crimson satin trousers, a gold lamé shirt and a Stetson hat, he emerged and promptly caught his toe on the rightmost pew. Brushing aside this slight mishap, he mounted the stage and tied the balloon with the face on it to the microphone stand with a theatrical flourish. He sang Suspicious Minds, Will Never Marry and Send Me The Pillow You Dream On to the congregation, musically aided by the stylophone. He had a hearty baritone, but his diction was affected and the aunts both felt that he could have made more effort regarding his facial hair. By the time he had finished, Julia’s mascara had all run in greasy rivulets down her face, and her nose needed blowing.
“I didn’t reckon much to that,” said my father.
“He was just like Vic Reeves, him” said Steven.
“He wasn’t. I chose him especially.“ snapped Julia. “He was expensive, he was. I’m not having this from you. You’re all the bloody same, you lot.” She tossed her hair and clumped off towards the church door, leaving marks on the carpet with her stilettos.
“That’s not paid for yet!” shouted the vicar after her. The door slammed.
“Where’s she gone?” asked a woman with corned-beef legs who had seemingly arrived unnoticed.
“I shudder to think.” said my father.
“She’s a right little madam, isn’t she?” said my mother. “Fancy that, and with the cake being lemon as well.” Everyone looked pointlessly in the direction of the cake, which was decomposing apathetically in a square of pale sunlight below the window.
“I don’t even like lemon,” said Steven. A tear appeared in the corner of his right eye, and ran down his cheek. No-one quite knew what to say, and so no-one said anything for a full forty seconds, after which my father took him by the arm, and led him to The Button and Strap next door for a drink. It set the pace for the rest of his days.

After the honeymoon in Cheadle, they had moved into a modest flat in the next street from our parents. He got a job as a dog-food cook after a few months, but that all fell through when he was caught one evening on the way out with three tins of beef chunks with added gravy in his satchel.
“What did you do that for?” asked my mother, “You haven’t got a dog.”
“I know.” said Steven. “Only Julia wanted a pie making for the tea.”
“I bloody wonder sometimes.” said my father, leaning in the kitchen doorway. “I bloody do.”
Julia dyed her hair blonde and left him five days after that, for a strapping, crimson-cravatted beautician called Angus. And here he was now in front of me - a grown man of fifty-two, telling me that I was the only friend he’d ever had.