Kenwood House.

Today I will be cleaning a carburetor. It’s not too hard. Make sure you have some thin wire for clearing the jets. Also make sure you don’t drop any pieces overboard or you will be making a trip to Marine Depot in Road Town for replacements. Half the fun of doing mundane tasks is letting your mind wander.

Thinking about Simon for instance and his life. Does he feel like a success? Does he read this blog? And Samantha of course. I have this recurring dream where I’m back in England, walking across Hampstead Heath. I pass a pond with some anglers sitting around. Catching anything are we? I ask. They laugh. Bloody great carp down there, says one bloke. In German. No one’s ever seen it though. 

Next I’m wandering through Kenwood House looking at all the big paintings. They've got some nice stuff there. Reubens, a Rembrandt or two. All from the Iveagh Bequest. Guinness family. And then I’m in the cafeteria and there’s Sam sitting with a pot of tea. She looks up at me like I’ve just come back from the men’s and says, “So Dick...who are you fucking these days? Still enjoying the little Thai girls are we?” That’s exactly the way her lot talk these days. They like to use the F word a lot. Not sure why. Makes them feel more liberated perhaps. Anyway there’s no point in trying to explain. Anything you say is sexist. And the way she said it was very clear. Tired she looked. Wasted. Lines on her face underneath the expensive make up.
“Oh I keep going luv. There’s worse places than Thailand.” I say.
“Still a male chauvinist paradise is it? You don’t have to be patronizing Dick.”
“Patronizing? In what way luv?”
“Just the way you talk to women Dick. Even to me. It gets tiresome.”
“Can’t help it sweetheart.”
“That’s what I mean. Why do you have to stick ‘luv’ or ‘sweetheart’ on the end of every bloody sentence?”
“Don’t know darlin’”. Two blokes walk past carrying a painting. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Didn’t know they had any Chagalls here.”
“They don’t. Aren’t you going to ask me about Jane?”
“How’s Jane?”
“You make it sound as if you care.”
“Course I bloody care.”
“Well you know how young people are Dick. She’s been better since she left the clinic. Still on ecstasy I think but nothing serious. She’s living with some friends. Put on weight. Works part time in a tattoo parlour. She could do much better. I’m trying to get something at the Beeb for her. But of course she thinks I’m interfering.”

Who’s Jane? Jane is my daughter. Our daughter. I haven’t mentioned  her before. It’s hard. I can talk about Samantha no problem, she it was who taught me how to speak proper. I have trouble talking about Jane. But I’m obviously expected to say something.

“Has Simon put two and  two together yet?”
“He never mentions it but I’m sure he’s figured it out. Not that he’d ever ask for a DNA test or anything. What would be the point? And anyway it’s not the kind of publicity he wants.”
‘Well he can’t talk. Everybody was bonking everybody else in them days.”
“Those days.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re right though Dick. It was the Sixties. Nothing to get hung up about. Don’t worry. You’re not responsible.”

Meaning what exactly? That I’m irresponsible? Can’t argue with that either.

Two more blokes walk past carrying a painting. Another Chagall I think but I wouldn’t swear to it.

“I’ve been in BVI.” I say.
“And?”
“Thought of sending you a postcard.”
“But?”
“I was worried it might be misunderstood.”
“So?”
“Didn’t send one.”
“Shit.” Says Samantha. She’s looking at her cellphone and her mood has suddenly changed.
“What?”
“Just remembered. Tonight’s Salman’s launch. Hugh Grant will be there. And Amis.”
”Kingsley?”
“Kingsley’s been dead for years Dick. Martin. Look, can you pay for this darling? Oh almost forgot. Jane would love to see you. I’ve got to fly…. ” 

And that’s exactly what she does. First she hovers over her chair for a few moments then she flies...out through the French windows and away across the heath. And that’s it. She’s gone and I’m looking at a carburetor. 

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