Page 17 of Famous Last

His father had spent the first couple of years working on the bungalow, gutting the interior and getting the overgrown garden up to snuff, so he had been happily occupied. Now, with only the exterior paintwork needing some serious reconsideration, he had more time on his hands. But whereas the Wyrrells of Merton Park had tended to be social magnets with their neighbours—largely because the family home had belonged to Spencer’s grandfather and great grandfather—the retirees of their Bournemouth neighbourhood tended to keep themselves to themselves.

Finally the Volvo slowed in front of their bungalow. In the daylight, with its powder-pink walls, hot-pink front door, white-painted trimmings and white window boxes, the single-storey, three-bedroom abode looked like a doll’s house. All of the men in the family detested the colour scheme, but apparently a woman’s opinion trumped them all. Only Garrett’s motorcycles lent the property a semblance of masculinity. He had acquired another since Spencer had last been home, a new black Triumph standing next to his sleek scarlet Ducati Monster 1200S, both lit up by the home security lighting and parked in the driveway.

“Go say hello to your mother. I’m going to pick up the nosh.”

“Don’t they deliver?”

“They do, but I want to give the old girl a longer run in this cold weather, while I’ve got her warm. There’s your mother now.”

Spencer grinned at seeing a warm light and a familiar silhouette fill the front door. While his father kept the engine running, Spencer got out and grabbed his bag from the back seat. As usual, his mum waited to give him a hug. She was a congenital hugger, and always had been, even when he’d brought friends home from school. Tonight she had on grey tracksuit bottoms and a pale lemon crew neck sweater, which showcased her red curly hair. While his father could happily project manage all the structural changes to their new home including digging up the garden, Coleen Wyrrell provided the interior design and the pretty flowerbed arrangements. Which was why the interior of their home would not look out of place in a home design magazine or on a lifestyle television show. Figuring he’d better get the greeting out of the way, he walked into her waiting arms and had the life squeezed out of him.

“Howareyou, darling?”

Where Garrett had inherited their father’s flinty-coloured irises and mother’s tightly curled, ginger hair, Spencer had lucked out with his father’s thick brown locks and his mother’s sea green eyes.

“Grmph. Mmm’okay.”

“Where’s your father?” she asked, letting him breathe again and peering over his shoulder.

“What? The Karl Lagerfeld wannabe, you mean?” he said, causing his mother to snicker and slap him gently on the shoulder. “I bet that look went down like a string vest and a knotted hanky hat at the Conservative Club.”

“Oh, honestly, darling. Those people. You’d think they were descended from royalty, the way they looked at us over their true blue surgical masks. Have you eaten? You’re looking a little malnourished.”

“Had a quick sandwich on the train, but not really anything much since lunch. Dad’s giving the car a bit of a run and gone to pick up the takeaway.”

“I was going to do one of my lovely casseroles, but Garrett insisted on Chinese.”

Thank you, Garrett, thought Spencer. He remembered the last casserole his mother had conjured containing beef chunks, barley wine—she’d run out of red wine—prunes with the stones still in, mostly shelled walnuts and the plastic top of a spice jar of dried chillies which had somehow found its way into the pot.

“Is he here?”

“Watching American rugby. Go on through.”

After he had stepped past her, he stopped and turned.

“American what?”

“You know, rugby. The kind they play in America. Except they wear those crash helmets, and stuntman padding, and knee-length trousers. And everything happens in fits and starts. No idea what he sees in the game.”

“It’s football, Mum. American football.”

“Pointless, dear, is what it is. At least in rugby they have scrums and you get to see those tight bums, hairy legs and chiselled faces—even if some do have broken noses and more than a few teeth missing.”

“Okay, so on that score, I am totally with you.”

Whenever the family watched a rugby game together, his father and brother would lower their faces into their hands and groan every time Spencer and his mother dissected the better-looking, put-together players, and especially when they started pointing out key physical ‘attributes’, including which one had the tightest arse or the player who was packing the most.

Spencer headed into the living room, to witness his brother sprawled lengthwise on the family couch, watching the flatscreen television.

“Ho-bro,” said Spencer, in greeting.

“Mo-bro,” replied Garrett, without taking his gaze from the sports programme.

Spencer left his weekend luggage by the door and went over and perched on the arm of the chair. After staring at the screen for a couple of seconds, he scrutinised his brother. Unusually for him, he wore decent jeans and what looked like a stylish long-sleeved Paul Smith fitted shirt in black and purple. As usual, his wild red hair had lost sight of its comb.

“Dad says you’ve got some new squeeze coming over.”

“Peony. She’s this hot babe from work I’ve been seeing since before August. Bringing her cousin, too. Friday night, so we’re going to eat here together, then ditch the wrinklies and head for Propaganda,” said Garrett before finally giving Spencer a once-over. “You’d better have brought something badder than what you’re wearing.”

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