The Remote

"It's here somewhere, I know." Margaret plunged her hands between the bulbous leather pads at the back of the settee. A couple of toffee papers, layers of thick dust and a six-penny-piece dated 1949 greeted searching fingers.

"Bloody hell, how long's that been there." She mused.

"They did away with them in the seventies." The settee search completed, she moved on to the chair mostly occupied by herself.

"Aargh! What's that!"

she spoke out loud as her fingers brushed against something or other, that was damp and sticky. The white paper bag prised from the cushions resembled a science experiment, more penicillin than anything else. Further investigation revealed half a dozen 'Uncle Joe's Mint Balls'… Circa 2000.

"The buggers never knew where I kept them." She chuckled to herself, adding. "Neither did I by the looks of things."

Clearing foreign bodies from the chair, she progressed to the grandest chair in the room, with its electric recliner action and built-in ashtray. Before starting the search, she stood, almost reverent in front of it, a glisten materialising in her eyes.

"Useless old sod." She murmured.

The eyes in her head were filling, the eyes in her mind could see him, right there, squeezing the last rites from a 'Players No.5'… Blowing smoke out with the satisfaction of King Edward on his famous cigars. Every grain of tobacco was exhausted, a jump, the tip burning his fingers, stubbing it out before the lighted end dropped.

"Tight Sod, wouldn't see anything wasted." She smiled before allowing herself to sit in the chair with its uncluttered view of the television screen.

"Always there, though, George. Always there. No matter what."

For several seconds, perhaps a minute she wallowed comfort of the chair before deciding to resume her search.

"Not like that remote control, though? Where the hell's that got to?" She rebuked.

Easing from the chair, suddenly the search became irrelevant.
Daytime TV paled down Memory Lane. Slumping back, she pressed the button at the side of the chair. The footstool emerged as the whirring furniture re-arranged its angle.

Laid back, she recalled him snoring, fast asleep as they watched TV, supposedly, together.
Careful not to disturb him, she'd stealthily move across the room to secure possession of the remote and press the standby switch. His eyes opened wide the second she touched it.

"What've you turned it off for?" He'd ask like a kid denied his lollipop.

"It's the news! Time for bed." Like pressing that button, clockwork, the same response.

"I was watching that!"

The smell of cigarettes remained, despite unpleasant connotation, it was somehow comforting.
Closing her eyes, her mind drifted.

"Even our first date wasn't a date." She recalled.

"I knew you'd be at the hall, made sure I was there before you came.
Elsie told me you liked me, but you never said. So useless, I had to literally peel you away from your mates." Her memory brought a smile.

"Then, that first kiss! How did that happen?
‘Didn't have a clue?

You must've thought I was your auntie or something, a peck on the cheek?
Your lips were like tyres, I thought my tongue was a tyre lever." The smile broadened.

"You were good at it though, I'll give you that. A quick learner.
They made me glow like a Christmas tree in the dark, those kisses.

Then, babysitting? You must've thought all your Christmases had come at once… Well, I did, anyway." She stroked the leather of the chair.

"It all changed then." There was a hiatus as her memory evoked consequences.

"Your Dad was brilliant!
That wedding. Did he know, do you think? It was up to my Dad really, but he was nowhere to be found, as usual." Her thoughts were streaming.

"When I come to think, they weren't that surprised when we told them," she recalled. "The cock and bull tale about a freak pregnancy, only five months? They just accepted it. My Dad called them stupid, for believing us… we were just crazy.
Your Mum and Dad were so kind." Another broad smile swept across her face.
"You… no, we were so lucky.

Christine knew.
We'd been so careful with the dates, always one year ahead of her birthday.
But she knew.

Our silver wedding, remember that?
A year early. The full deal, Chris joined in with the kids and grandkids, helping with the do and the celebrations.

Not a word.

She's your daughter, that's for sure.

Then the next year, a silver cigarette case and that beautiful silver brooch?
She knew alright, that was her way of letting us know.
When she handed me the pin? Her smile? If it was written in lights over Piccadilly Gardens, it couldn't be more explicit. Our secret was safe. She loved us, anyway."

Staring the blank screen for some seconds, she settled back into the leather.

"Best seat in the house, this. I don't know why I just don't use this myself."

Another pause for thought.

"Nah. I like to have it in the corner of my eye." She giggled.

"Years of keeping tabs on you, you old bugger."
Comfortable, she laid back and again momentarily closed her eyes.

"You managed to slip the net though, all the same?”

“Down there, the Ponderosa.”

“Taylor Road Allotments.”

“Cucumber Conference Centre of the North." She laughed out loud.

"Hilda Rawlings?" She laughed out loud again.

"A model?… Yeah!... from a Blackpool postcard!”

“More on show than the pleasure beach… And those shorts? How they managed all that cellulite, I’ll never know. ‘Like the beach with the tide out.”

"Ooooh! George, aren't your cucumbers big!" I can still hear her.

“Christine was still at school, even she found the strumpet's performances hilarious. But when she told me that 'Jezabel' bought you a packet of Players No. 5?”

“A runner-bean too far.”

“It was embarrassing, I know, a joke's a joke, but, No. 5's?
Believe me, It was only a matter of time before she'd be cultivating a carrot!

She had to go.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, you didn't stand a chance… too lovely, putty in her hands.

I remember storming past Martin Jones.

"We don't see you here often." He shouted.

I was livid, ignored him completely!
You were in the greenhouse, both poised in adoration of the tomatoes when I got there.
Music from 'The Good, Bad and the Ugly' was buzzing around in my head.
She was cradling a tomato, still attached to the plant. Saying something about 'Money-maker. I grabbed her hair.
The look on your face?
I trundled her backwards through the door with the tomato crushed to pulp still in her hand. She fell awkwardly into a patch of cucumbers, and the gossamer top she was wearing somehow became a necklace.

"Now! Get out of here!"

I remember bawling, and tangling with a cucumber plant as I dragged her to her feet. She recovered the reservoir of exposed flesh with what looked more like a hammock than a bra and broke into innocent tears. I couldn't resist it. The cucumber caught on my wrist got stuffed between her melons before I turned her around bodily.

"That's the best on offer here, Now get out, and if I catch you here again, that might end up in a more painful spot!"

I almost felt sorry for her when she waddled, waddled? No wobbled like a saucy Fred Bamford centrefold. High heeled shoes? On an allotment?”

You just stood there.

"A bit harsh." You said before disappearing, back to your beloved money-makers.

At least Martin Jones and his cronies appreciated it, the round of applause was quite gratifying as I walked back to the gates."

After a few moments, her eyes fell upon her quarry.

From the stand-point of Georges position, she spied the TV’s remote control where she now remembered leaving it, wedged between the set and a framed photo of herself and George.

“Ahh! There it is. See George, your not a useless old sod after all.” A thoughtful pause and a smile.

“You were the best!”

Retrieving the remote, she sat in her designated spot, Georges chair firmly in the corner of her eye and turned the television on.