A FAMILY AFFAIR

A FAMILY AFFAIR

What the hell are you doing back here, James, old chap? I ask myself this for the umpteenth time. I’d sworn never to set foot in this house again after the debacle of the will but, maybe, just maybe, she is now looking to make things right. I smoke another spliff. At the thought of my mother, my bete- noire, I feel the sudden craving for a real fix possess my body.

Surely to God, logic dictates that, as the eldest, I should be named as the rightful heir to Blandford. It’s what father would have wanted, would have ensured, if they could only have found his bloody will. It’s traditional; always has been that way before this bloody wokeism appeared out of nowhere. Calm yourself, Jimmy lad, no negativity allowed, remember? Positive thoughts only. I’m feeling a bit woozy now but, bugger it, I light another joint.

Of course, my sister has always been her favourite, females united and all that. Marcus, my younger brother, could usually wrap her around his little finger, her newest baby toy, but they, too, had found themselves shocked and out in the cold when father had popped his clogs and no will had been discovered. Everything had reverted to her, causing you to storm out of Blandford, five years ago, swearing never to return. Well, it was a matter of principle, after all. Then, out of the blue, she wrote you and her letter had hinted that she wished to talk to all three of us about our inheritance, so, voila, here I am and my siblings as well.

A knock on my door.

“Are you coming down, James?”

Jenny, my sister.

“I’ll be down shorty”, I respond, unable to help myself, deliberately omitting the letter l, as I used to do when we were younger. It always drove her potty. I can sense her, on the other side of the door, hesitating, wondering if she has heard me correctly. Then, her footsteps recede.. Well, she is short...although she has huge knockers; I’ll give her that.

Now, where was I before that uninvited interruption? Ah, yes, me being the eldest...

Another knock. Jesus, it’s like bloody Piccadilly Circus all of a sudden.

“I’m going down, bro. You coming?”

Marcus, my annoying, little brother.

“Two ticks”, I answer.

Tick...tick.

He is taking me literally, I know, and still waiting outside. I keep him in suspense for a moment or two, then put the poor sod out of his misery.

“I’ll see you down there”.

I can feel his disappointment. It, literally, seeps through the doorway.

“Oh...okay. Righty oh. See you... down there... then... bro”.

He shuffles away. What’s with all this bro thing? Or am I being too harsh? I mean, I am his big brother, after all. It stands to reason that he looks up to me. Yes, I’m probably a hero in his eyes. That’s quite a thought, actually. I like that. A hero and the rightful heir. I breathe in deeply. I feel positive, ready to face the gorgon. Let’s do this, Jimmy.

I saunter down the huge Blandford staircase and swan into the library “making my entrance again with my usual flair”. Huh? “Sure of my lines, no-one is there...”. It’s bloody empty. We’d always meet here for drinks when father was alive, then go into dinner together, once everybody had arrived. These bastards haven't waited for me. I feel close to tears. I shouldn’t have had that last joint; it always has this self pitying effect on me. I make my way, less assured now, to the dining room.

“James. How good of you to join us, at last”.

My mother’s voice still has the effect of making me want to vomit.

They’re all seated, my brother and sister having claimed their places either side of mother at the head of the table. I turn to my rightful place at the opposite end to my mother but somebody is already sitting there.

I stagger back, completely flustered. A man, about the same age as myself, dark, good looking. I bumblingly pull out a chair and sit; horror of horrors, a seat normally reserved for guests of no importance.

I struggle to regain my composure. I steal a glance at this stranger; it’s...like...looking in the bloody mirror.

“James, this is Hank”.

Hank? Dear God! He must be American. He proffers a hand which I ignore.

“Hey, how are ya?”

He is American! What the hell? I stare at him, study his face; the resemblance is uncanny.

Wasting no time, the ogress gets straight to the point.

“Darlings I have asked you all here, tonight, so that you could all meet Hank...”

My stomach begins to cramp.

“Hank is my... beau”.

Beau? She’s been watching too many black and white movies.

I glance at my siblings who both look as white as our tablecloth. I, at least, have regained a stoic facade.

I glance again at Hank. He even has that same, self satisfied smirk that people usually hate about me.

Somewhere, through my drug haze, I hear an annoying buzzing. A fly? No, I realise, it’s my mother still talking. I do my best to zone in to what she is saying.

“I realise that this must come as a shock to you all but I want you to know that I am settling an amount of ten thousand on each of you...”

Ten bloody thousand? Not even enough to pay my dealer what I owe him. This is farcical.

On and on, she drones.

‘You all have your careers and are making your own way in the world...”

Careers? I’ve never had a job in my bloody life...unless professional indolence counts. Jenny manages by flashing her boobs on Only Men and Marcus has a small share in a used record stall in Camden Market. They are both equally as shocked as myself and I would describe their pallors, now, as ash grey.

Why have I allowed myself, for even one minute, to believe that she would do right by me; sod the others. But worse is to come for, out of nowhere, lover boy, Hank, pipes up in his irritating cross Atlantic twang.

‘I want you all to know that you’ll always be welcome at Blandford...”

Did he really just say that? He, this total stranger, telling me, the rightful heir, that I’d be welcome in the house where I was born? It’s too much. I need a fix. I breathe deeply, prepare myself and rise majestically, give my mother a glare of utter disdain and flounce from the room.

As I slam my bedroom door, I hear the slamming of other doors and surmise that Jenny and Marcus have followed my lead. I should never have come back. I should have known no good would come of it.

I go to my ensuite and take out my drug paraphernalia when, suddenly, I hear a persistent tapping on the opposite side of the staircase.

Tiptoeing to my own door, I ease it slowly open and espy the look-a -like figure of Hank slipping into Jenny’s room. What the hell???

My need for a fix forgotten, I slump to the floor, my eyes peeled to the crack and, thirty minutes later, I am rewarded when the dishevelled philanderer emerges, jacket off, bow tie askew. Jesus bloody Christ, he’s screwing my sister!

Unable to tear my eyes away, I watch as he walks around the top of the staircase and, bloody hell, taps gently on the bedroom door of Marcus before entering. What???

Head spinning, heart thumping, I sit transfixed and a half hour later, he re-emerges, looking like the proverbial cat after slurping the cream.

I confess, I am shocked. I, a person who has frequented the most sordid, debauched bordellos known to man is astounded by what I am witnessing. Oh no, he’s heading my way. It's like watching a home movie of myself as he approaches. I ease the door closed. Surely, this Casanova extraordinaire is not going to try and seduce me, too? I wait with bated breath, an involuntary erection throbbing. He knocks. My heart is in my mouth but he simply says:

“Your mother would really like to speak to you, James”.

He walks away. You have to be kidding me!

Seriously? You are shagging my mother, buggering my brother and doing, God knows what, with my bloody sister but you don’t find me attractive?

Carl Jung, I’m sure, Freud, also, would have a more illustrative term for describing what just happened but, right now, my drug befuddled brain can’t quite work it out. All sorts of words swim around in my head: self-love, incest...even Oedipus is in there, somewhere.

I find her in the library, seated in a wing backed chair beside the fireplace; the yank standing behind her like the patriarch he thinks he is.

“Ah, James. You departed rather rudely and I had something else to impart to you of great importance...”

That screechy voice, her ancient vocabulary...I feel my stomach begin to churn but, also, unable to help myself, that tiny morsel of hope resurfaces. Could she be about to do the right thing and confirm my status as the eventual heir of Blandford?

“ You need to know that I am...with child...”

With child? Who, the hell, speaks like that in this day and age? You mean you’re bloody preggers, you old cow. Yuck!. You’re almost 54 years old, for pity’s sake.

“It’s a boy and I mean for him to inherit Blandford...”

My tiny morsel scurries back whence it came but, amazingly, I see poor old Hank the Yank’s face take on a puzzled look; he seems even more startled than I.

“Hank and I will marry, of course, but...” she turns her head to face up at him. “ I expect you to sign a pre-nuptial agreement...”

I’m mesmerised as the poor chap’s face turns various shades of puce. He looks as though he is about to spew all over mother’s carefully coiffed hair. Now that would be a sight to behold!

“I will, naturally, provide Hank with the same ten thousand settlement as you and your brother and sister, should our marriage not work out”.

The yankee cat now looks as though that cream has begun to curdle in his stomach. He actually believed that he had hit the jackpot and Blandford would be his pot of gold. How badly he had underestimated my mother’s devious self preservation. Yet, strangely, his distress actually makes him seem quite attractive to me, all of a sudden. Disillusionment is a powerful aphrodisiac and, after all, he's so bloody gorgeous.

Aroused, I walk across to console him; kindred spirits. Vainglorious? Narcissistic? Who gives a damn?

“Fancy getting high?”

He nods and, together, we leave the library...hand in hand.