At home with the Proctors
Alan Proctor was ebullient as he walked back to Headington at midnight. It was the first time that anyone had actually enjoyed walking alone through Headington late at night. Finally, he had a job: a job at Zizzi. It was, according to the harridan who managed the outlet, a very important job. He was the man who stood just inside the door and made customers wait fifteen minutes for a table. There are innumerable free tables, a basement full, in fact.
Making people wait is an unnecessary practice, one pretentiously designed to make Zizzi look stylish and not like an extortionate faux-Italian hellhole. Alan knew nothing of these things; to him, Zizzi George Street was Maxime’s and The Savoy Grill rolled into one. He was euphoric; he could even identify the positive characteristics of members of his family, another first. His wife was, admittedly, a faded beauty, but she remained, in his eyes, enchanting.
Alan felt sure that Steve would eventually become the funeral director that he longed to be. Ron would end up running his own domestic construction company in Boar’s Hill. Alan knew that Katya would do very well for herself from the proceeds of alimony. Alan even believed that sixteen year old Brian’s voice would eventually break. He was pondering these things as he reached his front door. He opened the door and was accosted by the heavy atmosphere of burning unidentifiable matter.
Yet, his positivity remained. “Might not be the cooking, might be something to do with May Day,” he continued his fantasies, “a pagan funeral pyre, like The Wicker Man”. He entertained this prospect until it became clear that the stench was the consequence of another of his wife’s run-ins with the dreaded casserole dish. His euphoria evaporated. “Where’s Katya?” “In hospital. See her tomorrow.” “Is she all right? What she do?” “Fell off Magdalen bridge. She was unlucky.
She was walking on the wall and got knocked off” “Bollocks! She jumped. That girl, all she does is jump off walls or into bed.” “Is jumping off a bridge so serious?” Aside from the fact that his daughter was hospitalised, but would survive the experience, that is unless she was mistakenly pumped full of trial drugs or contracted MRSA, the eldest Proctor had no answer.
4th May 2006