The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Page 18
“Steve!”
“Sorry, love. If you look closely at those symbols, there’s a tiny number in the middle from one to seven. Well, guess what?”
“What?”
“Only a tiny fraction of numbers one and two can actually be recycled. Plastic of types three, four, five, six and seven can’t. It might as well go straight in the regular trash because it’s all destined for a fucking landfill or an incinerator.”
“Steven! Ava is right there.”
“It’s okay, Mum. I’m glad Dad feels strongly about this.”
“Not anymore, I don’t. I’ve had enough. I refuse to be duped any longer. I’m not going to waste my time sorting through rubbish for no reason. These purple recycling bags are going straight in the trash. Someone else can save the planet.”
He kicked the bin.
“There must be something we can do,” said Ava.
“I wish there was, sweetheart. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough eco-warriors to make a difference. The manufacturers need to be forced to either make plastic that can be recycled easily, or recycle it all themselves. And that’s not going to happen. Not while there’s money to be made and governments don’t give a shit.”
Steve picked up his coat and put it back on.
“Where are you going, love? You’ve only just got home,” Fiona said.
“To the pub.”
“On your own?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 44
Sunday 2 November, 2003
McDougal living room, 10:45 a.m.
“Is that the end?” said Serena.
“Yup,” said Eric.
“Did we win?”
“We absolutely hammered them.”
“How many goals did we get?”
“You’re thinking of football, babe. This is rugby. We scored a hundred and eleven points.”
“Is that good?”
“Very good. Way better than the opposition. They only got thirteen points. Lewsey scored five tries for England.”
“Did she?”
“He. Josh Lewsey is our full-back.”
“They all look very pleased with themselves. Which one is Jamie Wilkinson?”
“Johnny Wilkinson. He didn’t play this time.”
“Why did they all keep huddling together like that? Was it to keep warm?”
“It’s called a scrum, and it’s a crucial part of the game.”
“Why?”
“It gives the fat players something to do. That’s why Rugby Union is such a marvellous sport. It caters for all shapes and sizes. The scrum is for the fatties, the line-out is for the tall freaks, and the rest of the game is for the normal-sized players.”
“How do they choose the team? Presumably, it’s whoever’s got the sexiest thighs.”
“I think it’s more to do with which player is strongest in each position, but I take your point. I’m a red-blooded, card-carrying heterosexual, but even I can recognise a sexy pair of manly thighs when I see them.”
“Gay!” Ollie coughed.
“It all seems so violent,” Serena continued. “They must be completely battered and bruised by the end of the game. How do they recover for the next match?”
“Each team has massage therapists who knead the players’ muscles to increase blood flow and remove lactic acid in the injured areas.”
“Thighs? Buttocks? Back?”
“Anywhere the players have a strain or an injury.”
“How much does it cost?”
“What?”
“How much do you have to pay to be a rugby massage therapist?”
“You misunderstand, sweetheart. It’s a job. They get paid to do it.”
“You’re shitting me! Are you seriously saying that I’ve been a bloody housewife for the last nine years when I could have been employed to rub massage oil into rugby players’ thighs?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And buttocks?”
“Yup.”
“Jesus!”
“You should go for it,” said Steve. “It only takes a year to train.”
“Don’t encourage her, mate.”
“Be quiet, both of you,” Serena snapped.
“Why?”
“Shhhh!” She closed her eyes. “Jason Robinson has torn his gluteus maximus and needs my help. ‘Just relax, Jason. You’re in safe hands now. What’s that you say? You’ve bruised your penis too. Oh, you poor thing. I’ll get right to it when I’ve finished sorting out these two magnificent buttocks.’”
“Serena!”
“What?”
“You’re speaking out loud.”
“Am I?”
Ollie frowned. “How come you know who Jason Robinson is but you don’t know Josh Lewsey or Johnny Wilkinson?”
“Because Jason’s got lovely eyes. And he scored that brilliant eighty-metre try down the right-wing, after a sublime side-step past their scrum-half, sixty-nine minutes into the game.”
“Pardon?”
Ollie chuckled. “I suspect she knows more about rugby than she’s been letting on, mate.”
“You could be right. Same again next weekend please, sweetheart.”
Serena picked up the tray. “What do you mean?”
“You need to repeat everything you did today when we play Wales next Sunday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Walk in front of the telly just after we score our first try. Talk over the commentator. Bring us a cup of coffee and some Jaffa Cakes at half-time. Go to the loo ten minutes into the second half. Wear exactly the same clothes that you’re wearing now.”
“This old thing?”
“That’s a brand new dress, and yes, all the same clothes.”
“Even my underwear?”
“Especially your underwear. And don’t wash it. That’s extremely important.”
“Why?”
“So that our luck stays the same. If you change anything in your routine or your clothing, our luck might change.”
“Huh? How does that work?”
“Nobody knows, not even scientists, but it’s definitely a thing. If we’re going to win this world cup, we all need to play our part. Even you.”
“For how long?”
“Hopefully until we win the final on the twenty-second.”
“But that’s three weeks away. Are you saying I can’t wash my knickers for three weeks?”
“Just the ones you’re wearing now. Hide them somewhere safe and put them back on next Sunday morning.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Look, you don’t have to do it. But if you don’t, and we lose, it will be your fault.”
“No pressure there, then.”
Serena wandered off to contemplate rugby players’ thighs in private and have a long, cold shower.
Steve yawned and stretched.
“You all right, mate? You look tired,” said Ollie.
“I’m zonked.”
“Trouble sleeping?”
“You could say that. Late night last night, and no sleep at all the night before.”
“Prostate trouble?”
“What? No. My prostate is fine. Like a dick, I spent the whole of Friday night on a voyage of self-discovery.”
“What did you discover about yourself?” asked Eric.
“That I’m a gullible fool.”
“How come?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just a minor existential crisis. Our planet is doomed and there’s nothing I can do about it, but hey ho! Last night was much more pleasurable.”
“Is that why you’re grinning?”
“Am I? It could be. It’s so refreshing to feel appreciated for a change.”
“We appreciate you, mate,” said Ollie.
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Every time our house needs rewiring, you fix it for free.”
“I bloody don’t. The invoice is in the post.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. But it will be as so
on as I get home. Thanks for reminding me, pal. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Is he kidding?” asked Eric.
“I can’t tell. He doesn’t tell lies, but does kidding count as telling lies?”
“No idea. I’m more interested in who appreciates him all of a sudden. It can’t be Fiona.”
“You got that right,” Steve moaned. “Fiona doesn’t appreciate me at all. I might as well be invisible at home. She seems unaware of all the things I do around the house. All the things I do to make her happy. She never says thank you after I go down on her. I can’t even remember the last time she laughed at one of my jokes. Yes I can. Sunday the first of April 1990. We’d just had a new kitchen fitted, and it was her pride and joy. Fiona was still fast asleep in bed and I went downstairs to make a cup of tea. Then I rushed back upstairs, making as much noise as possible, burst into the bedroom and panted, ‘Come quick, there’s a massive leak under the sink.’ I’ve never seen her jump out of bed so fast. Anyway, she charged downstairs and opened the cupboard and there it was: a massive leek (Allium ampeloprasum), one left over from our leek and potato soup. Best April Fool prank ever! When she looked at me, though, I genuinely believed I was about to be murdered; beaten to death with an oversized vegetable. But then she sniggered. Admittedly, it was more a snigger of relief than mirth, but it still counts. And that was the last time I amused her intentionally. I’ve said many hilarious things since then, but not managed to induce so much as a chuckle. Let me give you some examples ...”
“No need, mate.”
“Because you know how funny I am?”
“Yeah, let’s go with that. So, if it’s not Fiona who suddenly appreciates your finer qualities, who is it?”
“Mandy,” said Steve proudly.
Ollie’s head swivelled. “Mandy with the boobs?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When have you been spending time with Mandy with the boobs?”
“Last night.”
“At the pub? You went to the pub without us?” Eric was aghast.
“At the pub and afterwards back at her place.”
“Wait! What? You went back to Mandy’s cottage after the pub closed?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“She’s been having problems with her fusebox.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious. She explained the problem, and I went round to assist, like a good neighbour should.”
“Yeah, assist her out of her knickers, I bet!”
“Don’t be crude. To assist her with her fusebox issues.”
“Please tell me that’s a euphemism.”
“It’s not.”
“Did she seduce you?”
“Of course not. She’s a sweet kid. We talked for hours. I’m amazed I’ve got so much in common with a nineteen-year-old.”
“Such as?”
“We like the same music and the same movies.”
“Everyone likes the same music and the same movies.”
“We both enjoy nature and going for long walks.”
“Everyone likes those things too.”
“She thinks I’m really funny.”
“Everyone … some people … you think you’re funny. That’s the main thing.”
“What’s wrong with her fusebox?” Eric asked.
“One of her white goods is tripping it. I’m going to have to go round there again and do some tests.”
“I bet you are,” said Eric sardonically.
“You’re just jealous because I got to spend some quality alone-time with Mandy and you didn’t.”
“I prefer spending time with grown ups, mate.”
“Well, I had a wonderful evening. She really made me feel good about myself for a change. It was so refreshing to have someone actually listen to me.”
Eric flicked through the TV channels until he found some golf.
Ollie browsed a coffee table magazine.
“I said,” said Steve, “It was so refreshing to have someone actually listen to me.”
Eric and Ollie looked at him, trying not to laugh.
“Sorry, mate. I was miles away. Did you say something?”
“Bastards.”
Chapter 45
Wednesday 5 November, 2003
McDougal garden, 7:19 p.m.
“Please be careful, Eric.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Make sure you light them well away from the house,” Serena implored.
“Will do.”
“And don’t return to any of the rockets after they’ve been lit. Even if they don’t go off.”
“Okey-dokey.”
“Where are the dogs?” said Fiona. “We need to lock them in the wine cellar.”
“I’ll do it,” said Ollie. “Come here, Lord. Barney, can you grab Stumpy?”
The inseparable canines were escorted to the most soundproof room on the premises and temporarily locked away.
◆◆◆
“What’s going on, old chap? Why have they shut us in here? Did we do something wrong?”
“Fireworks, mate. Don’t you remember? Once a year they all get together, drink too much, and explode some shit.”
“Some shit?”
“Bangers and rockets and all sorts. It freaked me out the first time they did it, I can tell you. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I ran inside the house and hid behind the sofa for a week.”
From upstairs came muffled whizzes and thumps, plenty of oohs and aahs, and one ‘Do be careful, Eric.’
“But why do they do it?”
“Nobody knows, mate. Some say it’s to put us pets in our place. Some say it’s to commemorate a wise man who once tried to blow up Parliament.”
“What’s Parliament?”
“No idea.”
“How long will they keep us down here?”
“Till all the neighbours have finished exploding stuff. A couple of hours, maybe.”
Lord had a sniff around. “What shall we do? I don’t like wine.”
“You can do whatever you like. I’m going to have forty winks.”
And, with that, Stumpy lay down and quickly fell asleep.
◆◆◆
After the fireworks and the food, when all was once again peaceful in the village, they all huddled around a patio heater, under blankets, drinking mugs of steaming cocoa.
“Remind me how this works again,” said Eric.
“It’s simple. I’ve written everyone’s name on a piece of paper and put them all in this hat.” Fiona held up a dark grey trilby.
Eric leaned closer to his wife and whispered, “Is that my best trilby?”
She mouthed, “Sorry, it’s all I could find.”
Fiona was still talking. “We each select a piece of paper from the hat, and whoever’s name is on it, that’s the person we have to buy a Christmas present for.”
Eric leaned back towards Serena. “Shouldn’t it be whomever?”
She shrugged.
“What if someone gets their own name?” asked Ollie.
“Then we put all the pieces of paper back into the hat and start again.”
“That’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it? Mia, what’s the probability that at least one of us selects our own name?” said Steve.
“Are the kids taking part, too?”
“Yes.”
“And the dogs?”
“No.”
“Typical,” woofed Stumpy.
“So, that’s nine people?”
“Correct.”
“Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”
“Short.”
“The short answer is ‘Piss off, I’m not at school now!’”
“Mia! Language! Not in front of the children, please.”
“Sorry, Fi.”
Barney sniggered.
“What’s the long answer?”
Mia took a deep breath. “If there are nine names in the hat, and they’re all equally likely to
be selected, then there are nine factorial unique permutations. The first person has nine choices, the second person eight, the third person seven and so on until the last person who doesn’t have a choice at all because there’s only one name left in the hat. So that’s nine times eight times seven times six times five times four times three times two times one. We call that number nine factorial.”
“What is that number? How many permutations are there for the nine of us?” Steve asked.
“No idea. My mental maths is shit.”
“Mia!”
“Sorry, Fi. Serena, have you got a calculator?”
Serena leapt up and jogged into the house, returning speedily with the requisite device.
Mia pressed four buttons and said, “Three hundred and sixty-two thousand, eight hundred and eighty.”
“Wait,” said Steve. “You only pressed four buttons.”
“On a scientific calculator, the button that looks like an exclamation mark is the factorial button. So, next you have to work out how many of those permutations are unsuccessful, and by unsuccessful I mean draws where one of us selects their own name. To calculate this, you need more factorials and the inclusion-exclusion principle …”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Steve. “When I said ‘the long answer’, I was kind of just hoping for a percentage, not a rambling, unintelligible explanation of your working out.”
Mia pressed five buttons on the calculator. “The probability that we all successfully get someone else’s name in the draw is about thirty-seven percent.”
“About?”
“To be precise, the limit is one divided by e. That’s 36.78794412 percent.”
“The limit?”
“Thirty-seven percent is a fairly reliable estimate for a group of five people. The more people there are, the closer the probability gets to one divided by e.”
“So if there were a hundred of us, it would still be thirty-seven percent?”
“Correct.”
Steve frowned, his head beginning to ache. “How bizarre. I have another question.”
“Fire away.”
“What the …?”
Fiona coughed.
“What the heck is e?”