Keep Her

Keep Her
by
Ged Backland
 

A begging letter dropped on to the mat the morning following the win.
"Dear Eric," it read and assumed an air of familiarity that I suppose
only a lottery win or an appearance on 'Noel's House Party' can
achieve. 'Dear Eric, I was pleased to hear of your good fortune on the
lottery. Although you don't know me, I have long admired you as an
upstanding and decent man. You might remember me, I passed you two
Thursdays ago in the park. You were walking your delightful dog and I
was on my way to the DSS.We passed on the footpath. You attempted to
say hello, but I pretended to be looking incredibly interested at a
none existent object on the floor at the crucial point of eye contact.
I would
have said hello, I wanted to say, "Hello, you are my friend," we go
back a long way, well not exactly ages but at least the four months
I've been living in your road. I was disappointed you didn't come to my
recent party. No, I never invited you, but I never invited the
man at number eight but he turned up, ate all the chicken, did three
laps of the garden in a solo conga and was sick down the back of the
telly. D.E.R are not going to be pleased. How's your family? I must say
your wife looks particularly good in those Scholls she's
been wearing to nip to Mr Patel's in lately. What a fine figure she
cuts as she glides across the road. Now my friend you have it all, a
beautiful wife and tremendous wealth. On the other hand, I your good
friend, have nothing,not even a statuesque wife to nip over to Mr
Patel's for an ounce of baccy. Not that you'll be sending her over for
baccy anymore. You'll go on the proper ciggies from now on and I
suspect you'll get them delivered by Benson and Hedges in packs of ten
thousand in a black velvet sack. You'll probably use a
solid gold ashtray that you'll throw away after every cigarette. You
could buy out Mr Patel ten times over and replace those cakes he has
filled with shaving cream for something decent like pasteurised cream.
Speaking of Mr Patel, I'm sure he's got his own best by date stamp.
He's had that Tom Allinson small wholegrain on the shelf for at least
two weeks and I know it's the same loaf 'cos there's a scuff mark where
that bit about 'Nowt Taken Owt' should be. You could be my friend at
the newsagent's, with fresh bread and real cream doughnuts. Your good
lady wife my friend also, could mark up the papers dressed in a
designer overall, you could even I bet, get Mr Jeffery Banks, also my
friend, (as I got his autograph at a Leeds Marks and Spencers) to
design some nice new paper bags for the paperboys and girls. He could
even design uniforms like he did for British Airways. Then instead of
snotty-nosed children in sportswear with bright orange bags, we'd have
smartly- dressed youngsters with some pride in their appearance. You,
my friend, can achieve all this, you and your lovely wife. However,
with a heavy heart I must bear my soul to you my good friend. you see,
I have a request, a ransom demand if you like, that's really the
purpose of this letter, apart of course from cementing our friendship.
You see I need eighteen thousand pounds. "Ha," I hear you say, "A drop
in the ocean to a rich man like me." but I really do need it, otherwise
my
friend, they will come and take away my house and the body of your dead
wife in the cellar. Yes I said 'dead wife' 'cos if you don't make this
act of financial friendship, then I'm afraid I shall have to kill her.
Fine friend I am you must be thinking. Well, needs must as
they say my friend. Please don't bother telling the police, although
being a pal like you are, I'm sure you wouldn't rat on me to the
rozzers.Yours X.

I had no choice but to reply. I took a pen and a pad of paper,
surprisingly calmly all things considered and began to write. 'Dear X,
Thank you for your ransom demand for the safe return of my wife.' How
terribly English this was. This lunatic had my wife and here was I
thanking him for the note. Still old habits die hard. Back to the
letter. 'I was somewhat surprised by your letter and the news that
my'statuesque' wife
was imprisoned by your good self... There I go again, 'Good self ',
Good self! this monster was holding my nearest and dearest trussed up
in some dark cellar and I was calling him good. 'As a former small
business development officer, I was impressed by your plans for the
newsagent's. If you weren't a kidnapper I'm sure you'd have a bright
future as
an independent newsagent. I particularly liked the part about the image
of the paper boys. It has long been an opinion of mine that our
paperboys and girls are poorly kitted out. Only the other week I
mentioned to my wife, (who you have trussed like a Christmas goose in
the cellar), that young people of today dress in shabby sports gear all
of the time. As for the bread, I must say I couldn't agree with you
more. Usually
myself and my now sadly imprisoned wife purchase two wholegrain loaves
from the Asda. However, on two occasions, once when my sister Eunice
came unexpectedly and ate us out of house and home and once when the
freezer defrosted late at night and
the economy fish finger juice soaked through a airhole in the
defrosting loaf, have I had to purchase it from Mr Patel. I was
disappointed and too hungry to complain so both myself and my hostaged
good lady ate a displeasing supper of stale bread toast.As for the
'cream cakes', well I'll take the word of a friend on that point.
Eighteen thousand pounds is a lot of money. Not that my other half
imprisoned is not worth that. oh no, you can't put a price on a life.
why you could get that for one of her kidneys on the South American
black market. Not that I'm trying to get you to break her for spare
parts like some old MG, oh no my friend, I'm just pointing out that
eighteen thousand pounds is a lot of money, but not a lot in comparison
for what you could fetch by selling her individually.My lovely wife
being not greater in value than the sum of her parts. I think I
remember you. Are you the bloke who wears the second-hand army clothing
and the T Shirt of Che Guevara that looks like a chubby Robert Lindsay?
I hope that is you. I mean, it's good to have a mental image of the man
who has enforced custody your soul mate. Are you feeding her? She's
very fussy you know, too fussy I say. What ever you do, remember, no
added salt. as her ankles will swell up and you won't hear the last of
it. I myself made the mistake of being too liberal with the sodium
chloride on some young carrots from the allotment. She had her feet up
on a piano stool and a a chair from the kitchen for four days. If looks
could kill. She still blames me for the fact that a nice pair of flat
court shoes- 'the most comfortable pair of shoes she's ever owned',
still don't fit her. Between you and me, the fact that she sits in a
chair and stuffs Fry's Chocolate cream after Fry's Chocolate Cream into
her mouth, might have something to do with the fat ankles. As you
probably know if you've had to carry her bound body anywhere, it's not
just her ankles that are fat. you've probably noticed, shall we say
'her broad beam'.It used to be as tight as a drum in years gone by,
tight as a drum. you could bounce a table tennis ball on it. I often
did on those summer Pontins weekends when
all those snotty-nosed kids buggered off from the games room. Happy
days before The Fry's Chocolate Cream lifestyle and the orange peel
legs. She may look good to you trussed like a spring goose in the
half-light of the cellar, but believe me, in the cold light of
wednesday morning, she's no oil painting. oh no, more like a cheap
photocopy on a second-hand
machine that's low on toner. Not that I don't love her. I didn't say
that, oh no. Just that your description of her in your very nice letter
seemed to play her part up a bit. You gave her a starring role in my
life instead of a walk on part. I'm not unhappy, oh no, happy as
a
sandboy. She gets on with her life i.e. her fist in a bag of sweets
packing more fat onto those cow hips of hers and me having my pint and
a special relationship with Sandra, who's the bingo caller at the club.
When I say 'special' you know what I mean. It's not love, no
we're
both too old for that. We both have needs shall we say and luckily
enough, the fact that Sandra's need to be taken' shall we say, every
second wednesday whilst in full stocking and suspenders rig out ties in
quite nicely with my desires on that front. The woman you have
lashed to a central heating pipe in the bowels of your house gave all
that up years ago. Oh yes, one evening when I had one too many rum and
peppermints I was a bit rough with her,nothing violent, just more
dominant than usual. After we'd finished she calmly said, "that'll be
it for that sort of thing from now on." That was it, my sex life was
over. I went to the shed and wept. the next day when I was putting a
copy of the Examiner in the bin I saw the nylon tangled clump of all
her suspenders. The fat bitch you justifiably have clamped at your
house was watching from the kitchen window, face like the smell of gas.
It's hardly surprising, is it my friend that I had to go elsewhere.
Saying that, Sandra's 'need' has been on the increase of late. she even
suggested we lay together as man and bingo caller in between the first
full line and
the full house link the other evening, although that might have been
down to the gin she'd been swigging from her bag. It always makes her
randy. Some drinks are like that aren't they? I mean, my brother is as
placid as anything, but give him a whisky and he'll want to take on the
world. That ugly lump of chip lard screwed to the floor of your
basement used to cry when she had gin. It used to sicken me when the
fat-gobbed sow would sit balloon-faced, sipping gin and watching those
stupid soap operas. She'd shush me loudly and whine about how Wayne had
found out Charlene was his sister on the eve of their wedding. She'll
not like it in that cellar of yours, oh no, she'll be missing the
soaps. Serves her right. It'll do her good
to have her lard arse dragged away from the television. Anyway, back to
your request for her
release. You've guessed haven't you, You little tinker? That's right,
you can bloody keep her! I'm off with Sandra for a week on Southport
sands. It's a nice eight berth caravan left to her by her former
husband. A nice chap by all accounts. A welder. Anyway, yes, keep
'chunk legs'. As for the lottery win, your information was indeed
correct. I am a winner, but it was only a bloody pound on a
scratchcard. I'll send you a postcard 'my good friend'.