Read Online Murder Most Fab by Julian Clary - Free Book Online Page A

vegetables and got our eggs from
the six new hens that clucked about the garden like mini Dora Bryans. Where
possible everything, from logs to loganberries, was born and bred on the
marsh. We were organic before the word had been invented.
    The
next morning Mother dusted down her bicycle and was off, as excited and bubbly
as if she were to be reunited with a long-lost love. Our roles now somewhat
reversed, I worried about her all day but, flushed and invigorated, she made it
home about six o’clock, celery and watercress sprouting from the basket
attached to her handlebars. She was back to normal. Or so I thought.
    I
enjoyed school and was moderately good at all subjects, but I had become so
used to being responsible for everything at home that I was a little bemused by
authority when I had the misfortune to encounter it. If I was told off at
school, I raised my eyebrows and smiled — but I wasn’t told off very often. It
wasn’t in my nature to be rebellious so I didn’t clash with authority, which
helped to disguise the fact that I had no respect for it whatsoever.
    Besides,
my mother’s illness and curious behaviour were common knowledge. I sensed that
the teachers were particularly kind and tolerant towards me on account of the
‘situation’ at home.
    It took
a while for the rumours to reach me — rumours that my mother would leave her
bicycle in a hedge if a shirtless farmhand caught her eye. Then she’d trudge
across the field to reach him, discarding her clothing as she went. The boys at
school teased me about it, of course. I defended my mother’s honour in a couple
of playground scraps, but my informers were full of admiration rather than
scorn. They were hoping I’d invite them over so they could see what a brazen
hussy looked like.
    Then
she was said to have been spotted emerging from behind a haystack with three
‘Folkestone-type lads’. That she had come home a few nights previously and
asked me to help her pick out the straw clogging her bicycle chain seemed to
back up the story. And there was straw in the bath plughole next morning, too.
    It was
true, then. Mother had rediscovered the free love and going-with-the-flow she
had found in her youth — and after her breakdown she went with the flow in a
big way, seemingly at the mercy of her sexual desires.
    The
village was scandalized. She had always had a reputation for strangeness, but
now she was regarded as little short of a loose-moralled nutcase. The shops
along our modest high street were abuzz with sharp intakes of breath and the
hurried exchange of fresh information, and always fell silent when my mother
and I walked in.
    Mother
wasn’t bothered to find herself the subject of village gossip. ‘I always have
been. It’s nothing new. Pardon me for not having a blue rinse and cobwebs
between my legs.’
    As a
consequence, I wasn’t bothered either. I knew that my mother was part of
nature, so whatever she was doing must be natural. When the winter cold kicked
in and the marsh was bleak and windy, she enticed men home to do the deed.
‘This is Peter’ she’d say to me, or ‘Meet Bob,’ or ‘Charlie’s come round to
inspect the joists,’ while she pulled some bewildered-looking man into the
sitting room. ‘Why don’t you go and change your library books?’
    I was a
bit put out that she didn’t have as much time to spend with me as she used to,
but I was of an age now when I wanted to lock myself away and play records
anyway.
    She
applied the same come-one-come-all approach to men as she did to her garden. If
it was green she’d nurture it, if it had feathers she’d feed it and now, if it
wore trousers, she’d show it a good time.
    I grew
accustomed to my mother’s menfriends and their frequent visits. I was
fascinated by her never-ending quest and the variety of booty she brought back.
After all, the village was agog and I had a ringside seat. I was even quite
proud. If my mother did something, she did it well.
     
    It was with