Barry sat. In truth, he often sat, but today there was a particular purpose to his postural inertia. Today he was waiting. And, as most are wont to do, he was performing this act in a room commonly received as most suitable for the purpose; a place generally addressed as a waiting room. His chair creaked unhealthily. Barry was not a slender man. To be more exact, Barry was excessively corpulent. He was hefty. He was large. Many names had been thrown at his cumbersome frame throughout his thirty one year existence, but those most frequented were fatso, lard arse, porker and guts. Jokes were par for the course when you possessed an appearance such as Barry's.
As Barry continued to sit, he postulated on the nature of his forthcoming confrontation. It was a tricky problem he'd come to resolve and not without a sizable serving of embarrassment on his part he was sure. It had been bothering him for some time, but he was a reclusive man and discussing his private bodily functions with a stranger was not something Barry was relishing. A bead of salty perspiration rolled down the side of his rubicund cheek and took a kamikaze leap onto his shirt collar. Barry had acclimatized himself to sweating - it came with the territory when one was sufficiently rotund - but this was a different issue of fluid altogether. A type associated with creeping panic. What if the doctor wanted to look? The mere possibility made him shudder, sending more droplets cascading to carnage on the paisley below. The prospect of an unfamiliar person inspecting an organ which Barry himself had not made direct eye contact with for several years was simply unbearable. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. This was not to be born. He made a sudden decision to bail out of this potential nightmare; what on earth had he been thinking? His dilemma would undoubtedly deal with itself given time... wouldn't it? Barry convinced himself of this dubious truth and rose from his chair. Unfortunately the chair decided to join him. Twisting his head around to examine this inopportune occurrence, Barry found that the seat had become attached to his portly posterior and was resolutely refusing to relinquish it.
"Oh crap," said Barry.
And it was at this moment of acute physical adversity that the nurse entered to summon him.
"Barry Higgins?"
"Oh crap," Barry repeated.
"Mr Higgins, Dr Greenwich will see you now," she continued without looking up from her clipboard.
"I'm terribly sorry," spluttered Barry miserably, grappling helplessly with the chair handles, "but I appear to be stuck."
Nurse Hunter looked up. A ghost of a smirk teetered on her lips, but she masterfully concealed it. Be professional Sandra, she counseled herself, always be professional.
"Oh dear Mr Higgins, we seem to have got ourselves into a bit of a pickle, haven't we?" she cooed, in the tone she usually reserved for small children. "Let me see if I can help you."
The other occupants of the waiting room had taken to paroxysms of poorly concealed amusement to which Barry was feigning ignorance, but his mortification reached its zenith when the nurse yanked the chair so hard that his trousers, already loosened by his own frantic efforts to disengage himself, finally surrendered and collapsed to his ankles. Thankfully Nurse Hunter had managed to remove the chair and, now free, Barry hastily returned his wayward clothing to its original position. An old man, who had been the least subtle in his attempts to control his laughter, stood up and called to the nurse.
"You can tell the doc I don't need to see him now. That bloke's completely cured me; I haven't felt so good in years!"And nodding his gratitude to a crimson Barry, he exited the room, still chuckling and notably sans cane.
"Well Mr Higgins, you can see the doctor now," the nurse reminded, slightly irritated by this departure.To her mind it should be good old fashioned medicine that cured you; not the misfortunes of a comedic fat man.
Barry, anxious to escape any more merriment at his expense, eagerly followed her and it wasn't until he was in the doctor's office and the door was swinging shut behind him that he remembered his earlier misgivings.
"Oh crap," recurred Barry.
Dr Greenwich was a man of about forty and five. A sensible man, a serious man, a man of considerable pomposity was he. His temples were streaked with grey, dyed deliberately for the purpose of seeming suitably didactic and he favoured the use of an ink pen over the more conventional computer. He wore his horn rimmed spectacles precariously tilted at the end of his nose and had the unnerving habit of peering over them, in what he believed was a wise and yet compassionate manner. He was currently peering, wisely and yet compassionately, at the monstrosity of human excess which had just materialised in front of him. He cleared his throat.
"Please sit down Mr Higgins."
"I'd rather stand," returned Barry, hastily.
"As you wish. Now what can I do for you? Concern for your weight is it? We can prescribe several treatment plans. I'm afraid they all contain exercise and dietary control which I imagine you would struggle with initially, but the results have been excellent thus far..."
Barry shook his head.
"It's not my weight that concerns me," he attempted an interruption, but Dr Greenwich was in full flow.
"...you should also consider joining a slimming group; apparently the proximity with those who are similarly afflicted does wonders for self esteem, motivation and so forth..."
"But I'm not here about my weight," Barry corrected for a second time.
Dr Greenwich fixed him with a look of demoralising scrutiny and slowly raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” enquired he, in a tone which plainly implied and why the hell not?
“I’m here to discuss something else with you; something personal. I don’t really know how to say this…,”
“...But seriously, you must be here about your weight in addition to this other problem,” Dr Greenwich persisted, unabashed. “I mean my boy, you’re, well you’re so… horizontally unnecessary.”
“Fat you mean,” Barry simplified.
“Well, I wouldn’t address a delicate subject in such brutal terms - there are those who take great offence to the word – but basically yes,” the doctor agreed, “in blunt terms, you are fat.”
“I know that,” Barry consented easily, “but I’m not here to discuss my eating habits. I want advice with another part of my body entirely. It’s my… my… God, this is so embarrassing…”
“Come on man, spit it out,” the doctor encouraged heartily. “It can’t be as awful as…,” here the doctor paused to look Barry up and down with distaste, “…well it can’t be that bad.”
“It’s my penis.”
In the eventually of there being some confusion as to the location of this item, Barry executed the superfluous gesture of pointing in the direction of his groin. Dr Greenwich suppressed the urge to grimace.
“And what seems to be the problem with the old chap?” he questioned. “Or did you just want me to check that it’s still there? I imagine you haven’t seen it for a while.”
Barry ignored this bald statement.
“I’m sure it’s still there,” he assured him, “but I have been experiencing an uncomfortable burning sensation when I…um, pass water.”
“Sounds like a urinary infection,” concluded the doctor, “probably brought on by your burdensome bulk. I suggest you go on a diet.”
Barry seemed surprised.
“I didn’t know my weight could cause a urinary infection!”
“It can’t,” admitted the doctor, smirking, “but you can’t knock a man for trying. So,” he continued, “has this problem been affecting you in any other areas?”
“What do you mean,” Barry looked confused.
“I’m referring to sexual intercourse. Although,” the doctor assumed uncharitably, “I suppose a man of your carriage doesn’t regularly have the opportunity to engage himself in that particular sport. Ha!”
“I have no problems whatsoever with that thank you!” Barry was adamant. “It only stings when I urinate.”
“In that case it can’t be too severe. I’ll prescribe you some pills for it. Should clear up in a week or so and if not, come back and we’ll review the situation. Now, about your weight…”
“Just the pills will be fine,” Barry reiterated, holding out an expectant palm.
“Are you absolutely certain?” asked a tenacious Dr Greenwich.“Quite positive.”Shaking his silver striped head, the doctor scribbled out a prescription note and passed it to Barry.
“If you change your mind…,” he made a final stab at persuasion.
“I’ll let you know,” Barry guaranteed, backing away and fumbling with the door handle in his impatience to vacate the premises.
Once alone, Dr Greenwich started at the considerable space which he patient had so recently occupied.
“Christ he was fat,” remarked he to no one in particular.No one in particular did not reply.
Meanwhile, Barry had left the surgery with only a vestige of dignity to his name. On his way out, the nurse had presented him with a fifty pound invoice for damage to NHS property - apparently the chair had not survived its run in with Barry’s behind – and as a concluding punishment, a ten year old boy had followed him all the way onto the street chanting “who ate all the pies.” A forlorn Barry puffed his way to the nearest taxi rank, located the nearest available car and got in.
“Newcombe road,” he addressed the driver.
The driver observed him suspiciously in the rear view mirror.
“Double fare,” he announced, stubbing out the fag he’d just been smoking and flicking it unceremoniously at a passing tramp, who swiftly pocketed it.
“Sorry?” Barry assumed he’d misheard.
“Double the size, double the fare,” the driver replied dispassionately.
“Are you having me on?” stammered Barry with incredulity.
“Company policy,” the driver lied.
“What? Why??” questioned our outraged hero.
“Look mate, you take up twice the room so you pay twice the fare. See it from my point of view; I can only take half the amount of people in my cab if the passengers take up two seats each.”
“But that’s ridiculous - I’m the only one in here!” Barry argued reasonably and with ire.
“Take it or leave it.”
It was a gamble alright, but Frank (as was the appellation of this mercenary character) had played enough punters in his time to know it was a relatively safe one. After all, the big oaf was hardly likely to walk home. As usual, his avaricious instincts paid off.“Alright,” Barry conceded wearily, sinking back and allowing the faux leather to mould itself to the contours of his physique.
“Don’t put too much weight on me upholstery,” warned Frank, eyeing him greedily, “or I’ll charge you for new seats and all.”
Barry sighed. He was grateful that the journey wasn't a long one; although the surgery appointment hadn’t taken as long as he’d feared and the hour was not yet three, he was anxious to get back to Belinda. Frank had also noticed the time but was considerably less appreciative. He was fond of introducing “top up” charges for late afternoon clients.
Belinda was studying her reflection in the mirror. On the whole, she was satisfied. She had been preparing herself all day and the results were certainly striking. Belinda did not share the equivalent tastes of those her age, being preferential instead to the era of the neglected eighties. She was partial to horrific hair styles, shiny shoulder pads, lurid leg warmers and lime green Lycra, a look she usually opted for in its entirety. The outcome of Belinda’s dress sense was a fusion of sensory data so intense it had been known to cause, it the most extreme cases, sudden bouts of violent sickness and, in the less severe, the necessity for the witness to spend extended periods in a darkened room.
However, this disheartening reaction did not deter Belinda. On this occasion she had chosen to attire herself in a particularly garish collection of apparel, mixing clashing neons with jarring patterns. She knew he would love it. He was a member of the minority group who actually admired Belinda’s predilection for gruesome garments.
They had met at a church fete last May when she had promoted her Victoria sponge and he had procured it. It was all for some charity or other, the importance of which was lost of Belinda - she didn’t hold with all that altruistic nonsense – but her husband had justified her exertions by explaining that a bit of benevolence “does wonders for one’s standing in the community.” These things mattered to her spouse. To Belinda they did not. But the instant she had seen him approaching the cake stall, glimpsed the greedy lust smeared over his face and beheld him fervently feasting on her rock cakes… well, Belinda was utterly smitten. And when he had told her, with a look of such sincere and earnest admiration, that he adored her gold lamé jumpsuit, she knew her Adonis was reciprocal in his desire for her.
Belinda applied a last soldering of hairspray to her poodle perm and clattered downstairs on six inches of heel to fix herself a dry martini. She was the proud proprietor of an extensive anthology of alcoholic beverages and had even insisted on having her own optics installed. Her husband had not approved, but then he had no concept of class. Popping an olive between her crimson lips, she gave her drink a self-satisfied stir. Mercifully that imbecilic dolt would be occupied all afternoon at the surgery, giving her and her lover plenty of time to do as they pleased.
A tremor of expectation darted the length of her spinal column as she wondered how long it would take Casanova to arrive. Having finished her first drink, Belinda surveyed the multitude of multicoloured liquor bottles, idly toying with pouring another. Oh what the hell, thought she, throwing caution and liver to the wind by mixing a double. No doubt her reservation in the afterlife was already in severe jeopardy, Belinda reasoned, so surely another little drinky wouldn't tip the balance. Better not have too many though, she warned herself inwardly, no need to jeopardise the other kind of paradise she had planned for the evening!
“Oh crap,” lamented our Barry.
Frank had turned the wrong corner for the third time.
“I’ve told you, it’s the second turning after the traffic lights,” Barry pleaded.
“I know where I’m going,” smirked a much more cheerful Frank. “My brother lives on Newcombe road. Been there hundreds of times.”
“Then why do you keep taking the wrong turn?” his passenger enquired through gritted teeth.
“Oh stop your whinging,” Frank dismissed him carelessly, deciding it was time to let the pitiful plumpster off the hook.
“We’re nearly there.”Doing an abrupt u-turn, the unscrupulous driver screeched the vehicle back on course and swerved onto the pavement, breaking with jarring speed.
“Where abouts do you want letting out?” he enquired innocently.
“Here is just fine,” shot Barry with alarming alacrity, struggling to squeeze his concertinaed immensity out of the chassis.
“Twenty seven pounds then mate. A cheque is fine.”
Dr Percival Greenwich was seated in the public house adjacent to the surgery, awaiting the imminent arrival of his brother. He had decided to take the afternoon off with the express purpose of dealing with this unruly family member and had a few choice sentiments to share with that beloved brethren, the majority of which he was certain his sibling would not take kindly to. However, it was his duty as the older and wiser Greenwich to take this matter in hand, and take it in hand he most certainly would.
The most recent offspring of the Greenwich household was “le mouton noir”, the thorn in their side, the death of conversation at family picnics and it simply would not do anymore! The Greenwich lineage must be preserved with dignity and honour, and it was he, Percival Jervais Greenwich who would perform the act of salvation. Imbibing a snifter of port, the great man felt the potency of his resolve redouble within his bosom. Auspiciously, Greenwich junior arrived just in time to receive it.
“Alright bruv,” Frank cockneyed mercilessly.
Greenwich senior resisted the bait.
“Francis, we have much to discuss. Please seat yourself.”
“Fair play geez, but get the drinks in first eh? Can’t concentrate when there’s too much blood in me alcohol system, know-what-I-mean?”
The doctor placed a solemn hand on Frank’s shoulder and thrust him into a chair.
“I will, on this occasion, purchase you a beverage, but on the proviso that you apply your ears to every syllable I speak.”
“Eh sure,” Frank assented half-heartedly, gazing wistfully at the fruit machines.
“Very well then.”
Percival went to the bar. Frank took this opportunity to frisk his brother’s coat for valuables, but with no substantial success. Still five quid ain’t bad for nothing, the purloiner conceded, depositing the pilfered note in his own pocket. Percy returned shortly with his pint.
“So how’s business?” enquired the doctor, as Frank applied the amber nectar to his face and took a voracious gulp.
“Made a killing today; scammed a fat bloke out of thirty knicker,” Frank enthused, wiping foam from his lips.
Dr Percival did not appear impressed. Quite the antithesis of impressed in fact. To be honest, he appeared substantially less than pleased. One might even say displeased.
“Francis, I wish to be frank with you,” he began.
“Well you can’t – I’m Frank and I’m not sharing myself with anyone,” Frank guffawed, covering his brother in beer-flecked spittle.
Percy wiped himself down with a monogrammed handkerchief and tried again.
“Still playing the joker I see,” the good doctor sighed. “Very droll I’m sure, but you must be serious for a moment and listen to me.”
“Okay doc, what’s the diagnosis?” Frank mocked cheekily.
“You Francis are a scoundrel. What’s more, you’re a bounder, a cheat, a liar and a thief.”
“Don’t sugar coat it then.”
“I’m sorry Francis, but it’s for your own good. You need to learn the error of your ways; you have a responsibility to the Greenwich family name! Men of substance are we, men of honour, men of decorum and etiquette. Take my day for example. I too came into contact with a man of disproportionate mass, but instead of filching the feckless fellow, I offered him my sympathy and assistance. That the foolish chap chose not to heed my words of wisdom is no failing of mine; I did my best to help him, but there are those who are blind to their faults…”
Frank took another voluble slurp from his pint glass, so raucous that several patrons rotated their heads to stare, but his vociferous relative persisted in his reprimands undaunted.
“I want to help to you Francis,” he intoned. “It is my responsibility, my bounden duty as your only brother, to assist you onto the path of morality.”
“Immorality suits me fine,” Frank reassured brazenly, sucking on a roll up and exhaling foul smelling smoke into the eyes of his sanctimonious sibling.
Percy took a deep breath for the purpose of retaining his composure and soon wished he hadn’t as he inhaled a lungful of second hand carbon monoxide. After a thirty second interval of guttural coughing, he attempted another deep breath and was rewarded with oxygen.
“I realise you think you’re happy,” he persisted, “but this hedonistic lifestyle will ruin you eventually. All that smoking, drinking, gambling and illegal behaviour – it is not the Greenwich way. And have you considered the consequences if you ever got yourself incarcerated? Mother would positively perish with mortification; she may never attend the parish flower arranging society again. And consider how dangerously you could undermine Father’s reputation at the golf club.”
Frank tipped the last remnants of beer into his mouth and sat silently with a look of mute boredom on his face.
“All I’m asking,” resumed Percy, “is that you stay with me for a few weeks. I’ve had a word with my wife and she has agreed. I could even put in a word for you at the surgery, see if we can get you started there. It would only be a few jobs to start with, but it’s honest work.”
Frank looked decidedly unconvinced at this proposition, but was surreptitiously pondering the advantages. His landlord was demanding all his overdue rent payments and Mickey Pyke had threatened to thrash him most soundly if he didn’t settle his gambling debts. He could go into hiding – be in cognito, in communicardo, etcetera et al. Frank liked the sound of that; very spy film, very secret service. Plus he might get a chance to knob Percy's old bird...not that he hadn't ridden that horse before, ha! He decided to graciously acquiesce.
“Okay then.”
“What?” Percy sounded startled. He hadn’t actually expected Frank to agree.
“Sounds good to be bruv, I could do with a bit of dinner. Got any whiskey at home?”
“Um, splendid; I’m so pleased,” the doctor bluffed, not entirely sure if he was or not.
“Shall we be off then?”
Frank had just noticed the arrival of the aforementioned Mickey and was anxious to depart unnoticed. Fortunately Mickey was presently preoccupied with another corporal collection and had not, as yet, acknowledged Frank’s presence. Frank stood up hurriedly, ready to make himself scarce.
“Yes yes, let’s,” his brother followed.
For his part, Percy had resolved to make the best of it. After all, he would be justly revered for this act of noble self sacrifice at the next family picnic.
The doorbell of twenty Newcombe road rang out a piecing note and Belinda, who had just terminated her fourth cocktail, wobbled unsteadily into the entrance hall. Nonetheless, spying the form of her expected aficionado standing in the porch was more than enough to whet her appetite and make up for her questionable sobriety. Flinging the door wide with unashamed delight, she fell upon him with sinful gluttony. Only just making it into the sitting room, Belinda barely had time to turn up the sensual serenading of Barry White before they collapsed onto the carpet, writhing and squealing their sexual glee.
At a similar point in the space-time continuum, the two brothers were wandering amiably in the direction of Dr Percy’s residence. They were both under the impression that they had got one over on the other and, as such, the general feeling between the pair was unusually good-humoured.
“After you my dear fellow,” insisted Percy, bowing cordially as he held open the garden gate.
“Why ta very much,” Frank grinned, walking up the path to the front door.
Then there was silence for a moment as the couple listened intently.
“Is that music coming from your house?” Frank asked, as a flicker of puzzlement crossed his nefarious features.
“I don’t know,” answered the doctor, equally bewildered.
Putting his key in the hole designed for this very eventuality, Percival rapidly released the lock and entered the house. The blaring bass blazed like a bullet through his brain and, with Frank in hot pursuit, the mystified doctor crossed the hallway and into the sitting room. There, on the cerise shag pile, was Dr Greenwich’s porky patient in the midst of porking Percy’s not so patient partner.
“Fuck me!” put Frank succinctly, speaking first.
Dr Greenwich just gaped.
Turning to face the unwitting detectives, Barry and Belinda’s features resembled that of the rug on which they had so recently been ragging.
“Oh crap,” said Barry.
