Hard-Ons
HARD-ONS

Dear Agnes, I am writing to thank you for a wonderful weekend. Even when we broke down, we had such a good laugh, didn't we, finding out that it was because we'd run out of petrol. But the torrential rain was the icing on the cake! Not that it was particularly cold, but we could have done with some tucker to stoke us up.

The AA was so understanding. What a nice man! It's not often one ends up calling such people by their first names, is it?

Anyway, the hotel was a real hoot, too, wasn't it? Fawlty Towers wasn't in it! Wouldn't have been so bad if the manager had been as funny as John Cleese. What a creepy fellah! He liked us even less than we liked him, didn't he? Said there weren't any reservations in our names. Until we tried to tell him that names didn't matter, only bodies. There was almost a ghost of a smile on his face. In any event how could we have made any reservations, this being an emergency stop-over? He had no answer to that, did he?

The box room at the top of the hotel wasn't too bad, was it? Not exactly the Royal Suite, but serviceable enough. Good job we still had the AA man to lug the bags up there for us - what with the surly bellboy trying to avoid us at all costs and his bosom pal the manager trying to make us feel as if we were in a foreign country.

Anyway, Agnes, if it weren't for you, I'd've'd a lousy weekend, listening to the relentless drumming on the roof. Pity the AA man couldn't have stayed. But his bleeper did keep going off, didn't it, and they do say three's a crowd, don't they?

Here's to the next time, Affectionately, Ample.

P.S. That midget manager looked disappointed when we didn't complain at the end of our stay, didn't he? Good job we didn't give him that pleasure. I very nearly made a scarcastic comment about his bellboy, but think I got away with it. They all spoke another language, anyway. Didn't sound like Welsh, though, did it?

#

Dear Ample,
Thanks for your letter which I received recently.
I'll come clean right at the start - I've unfortunately misplaced your letter, and answering it by means of memory is not exactly the most ideal situation for a conscientious correspondent like me. Anyway, discretion to the wind, here goes.

I was sorry to hear that your trouble flared up again. You shouldn't really keep doing it, if the pain's so bad. If I were you, I'd insist on it. It'd be worse on the inside than on the out, I'll be bound. Still, I wouldn't know, would I? Life has not been much of an experience for me like it has been for you, Ample, has it? - by a long chalk! Be sure to give your latest my love, won't you?

Glad to learn that the twins have settled their differences.

Oh, yes, before I forget, Ample, do not take any cheek from that landlord of yours. All the rights are with tenants these days. And if his harrassment persists, just stick to your guns - he'll soon get the message. By the way, is he the chap I once met? You introduced him as your own personal Rackman - so I assume it was your landlord. A man with the narrowest gap between the eyes I've ever seen in my life. No wonder he looks so shifty.

I've very little news of my own or, rather, if I have, it's so insignificant, it's gone clean out of my mind. (Leaving only dirty thoughts!? Whoops! Godd job you know me.) We'll have to go on holiday together one day. Just the two of us. Then you can teach me a thing or three about life, eh?

Much love, Agnes.

#

Dear Agnes,
What no P.S.? That's the first time you've written to me without a P.S. Did you forget?

Let me say straightaway that I was somewhat nonplussed by your letter. Sometimes I think you must be going doo-lally. I know you had misplaced my letter but... What twins? Which trouble that has flared up again? Indeed, I should ask who the devil is my "latest" but I won't! What's more, I am an owner-occupier and have no landlord - and I could ask who you are. I know we went to college together and struck up a passing acquaintanceship. But is that any excuse for us to spend the rest of eternity being bosom pen friends?

Well, having got that little lot off my chest, how are you, dear? Well, I trust. There's not much news to report. I had a bit of a set to with Clive (that man with "the narrowest eyes in the world" as you so pointedly put it). We almost resorted to fisticuffs. Something to do with rent boys, or something. I didn't really understand (nor want to!). Clive kicked away my crutch and I came tumbling down, tumbling down, tumbling down... Then it was all forgotten after we came to some sort of arrangement. It wasn't entirely satisfactory either of us - more of a consensus than a full-blooded agreement. I expect you can imagine it. On the other hand, my dear Agnes, perhaps you can't. You really ought to get around more - do you a power of good.

Thinking about it, Clive's children happen to be twins! But how could you possibly have known that?

Any way, must sign off. My eyes are aching. Age I suppose. Pity life's only a leasehold.

Take care, love, Ample.

PS: I nearly forgot - do put this letter in a safer place this time. It's not for just any old eyes. And haven't we just been on holiday together?

#

Dear Ample,
I thought I would write to you before you had the chance to write to me. Non-sequiturs in our correspondence seem to contagious, to say the least. Anyway, it was not me who needed thanking when your spare tyre turned out to be nearly as bad as the one it was taken out to replace.

That nice AA man had a lot still to do when he eventually arrived. I hadn't done the nuts up tight enough, he said. And he certainly got plenty of turn with his large spanner, didn't he? The tyre itself was a bit off, he said, but should get us home.

I was amazed at the way he had such healing hands.

So it's him you need to thank, not me. I was only too pleased to help jack up the car, but it was indeed awful when the ratchet broke and I had to wedge one of my high heels underneath.

The scars and welts in the tread, I agree, were the strangest thing. Why did you have such a dicey wheel in your boot, flayed like slave-lover's flesh - if I can admit to the crazy way I thought about it at the time?

It didn't seem to roll true, either - made too much play on the steering. The AA man warned you about that, but it did indeed take me by surprise when you tried to drive back down the M25 in the wrong direction. Still, you got me home and I trust you did, too, afterwards.

I'm just writing this quickly, because there's something nagging at the back of my mind to relay. Incidentally, rubber burns easily come off, thank goodness. So, please don't think anything of it,

Yours fondly, Agnes.

PS. I hope the reverse gear is now working OK.

#

Dear Agnes,
Despite your wishes, I must thank you for your efforts with the wheel change. The AA man was no more than the cherry on the cake. By the way, I had a "home start" a few days later, and it was the same AA man. Something to do with the boot, he said, but he was pleased to see I'd had a complete tyre change all round, including a new spare.

I must admit I didn't know I had such a heavy load in the boot, but it was straining the suspenders, he said, and making the wheel alignment a little dodgy. I was in fact coming to see you, but with all the turmoil, I decided not to go out at all, after he put it to rights. His name, you know, is Clive Williams and he's coming to give me another push start or something next week, which I probably will need, since the engine's not what it was. I've not been under the bonnet to check it for yonks. I think I might try to sell the thing.

You don't want a run-about, by any chance, do you? Only one affectionate owner!

Must go now, see you on the 5th, if I can make it.

Sweet regards, Ample.

PS. Clive says he'll give you a jolly old homestart, if you need one. Any time.

PPS. Off to my new home, this weekend. Can't say I'm sorry.

#

Dear Ample,
When I heard the revving noise outside this morning, I was convinced it was you. But it was extremely early for a Sunday, almost Saturday night. I hoped it was you as you left no forwarding address. It did not sound exactly like a car's engine. More a tractor or juggernaut. It had gone by the time I went to the curtains to see. There was a stain on the road by daybreak, a patch of oil, no doubt, or something. Then it started to rain heavily and I decided not to go out for a walk.

Why not write to Ample, I thought. I'm bound to discover your address, if I wait long enough. But there's not much here to say. Clive of the AA came round yesterday morning, as promised. I didn't have a membership card, so he said he couldn't by rights give me a home start like he did with you. He said I had a good friend in you, but there wasn't much that could be done about the trouble with your sump.

It's next day now. I had to halt writing yesterday, because of a sudden doubt as to why I was writing at all, not having your new address.

The AA are pretty good, aren't they? Clive had a pick-up truck with him parked outside my house the day before yesterday and a broken-down vehicle and its driver, but Clive still had time to make a detour for my home start. Now, he's here again and will be off soon to deliver this letter to you at your new home, when he's finished mending the washing-machine. It got clogged up with oil, he said.

Funny that Bill knew your new address before I did. Must rush.

Love, Agnes

#

Dear Agnes,
It was good to hear from you via Clive.

He's taking me to the seaside today (Southend, I think) in an AA van convoy. That'll be nice. Southend rings a bell. Have we been there together? I've always liked Welsh men.

It's a nice place this new home, but strangely tatty. The man in charge is on crutches. Never washes. I do miss my independence. What's more, I can't bear such black hands touching the food - specially with all those cuts. Still, I've got the trip to Southend to look forward to. He says I can go on the dodgems. Long as I don't have any head-on's.

Yours forever, Ample.

PS. Remember mum's the word about my RAC membership and our other little secret, of course. I sometimes think that secrets are secret from each other, deep down - playing spies and decoys and so forth with each other. Even our letters can't keep up with them, let alone real life. Thank God for postscripts.


(Published ‘End of the Millennium’ 1998)