Man at the Helm by Stibbe Nina

Author:Stibbe, Nina [Stibbe, Nina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9780241967812
Google: BiJBAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00IPXLLLQ
Goodreads: 22015256
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2014-08-28T05:00:00+00:00

16

While we waited for Mr Oliphant to come good, I’m afraid to say a dispute arose regarding control of the Man List. I’d always known my sister was pretty much the boss, but I thought there was an understanding that we both had to agree before any man was added.

Mr Nesbit was an oldish man with a full beard who had apparently once lived in a section of our house. He often sat on the street bench almost opposite, sucking Nuttall’s Mintoes, shouting out about the Suez Canal and inviting children to knock on his wooden leg.

Looking at the Man List one day, I was surprised to see Mr Nesbit’s name had been added without prior discussion, albeit with a question mark. I knew only too well that men were a bit thin on the ground in the village and our mother was in need of cheering up after the disastrous attempt to re-engage with the wider family, but I was 100 per cent anti-Mr Nesbit. It was a notion too ludicrous to even discuss, but his name was there in blue pen so I had to.

‘Why have you added Mr Nesbit to the list?’ I asked, hoping it might be a different Mr Nesbit, a doctor in the next village or something.

‘Why not?’ she said.

‘You mean to say it actually is the Mr Nesbit?’ I said. ‘He’s virtually a tramp.’

‘He’s a war veteran, Lizzie,’ said my sister.

‘He’s got mental problems,’ I said.

‘He’s been through some trying times,’ said my sister.

‘Mum would never cope with the wooden leg,’ I said.

‘She’d bloody well have to get used to it,’ said my sister, sounding very cross.

‘It would be a disaster,’ I said.

‘We said we wouldn’t rule anyone out,’ my sister reminded me.

‘I’m ruling Mr Nesbit out,’ I said.

‘Well, I’m saying give him a chance,’ said my sister.

‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s temperamentally unsuitable for the helm.’

I felt uncharitable but very sensible. We couldn’t have someone on the list who habitually shouted, ‘Get off and milk it,’ as we rode past him on our ponies. Plus, how could we work together if she could act in that unilateral manner? Not that I would have used those words at that time. Obviously.

‘How would you like it if I added someone without your say-so?’ I said.

‘You can add whoever you like,’ she said.

So I did. I added an equally undesirable man to the list – someone I knew my sister would never want at the helm. Someone on a par with Mr Nesbit.

Mr Terry the butcher was one of those cheerful, involved-in-the-village types who collected money for the Xmas decoration committee and donated pieces of meat and premium sausages to the Summer Garden Party.

‘You’ve added Mr Terry to the list,’ said my sister.

‘Yeah, I know, he’s nice. He’s a redhead. Mum loves a redhead,’ I said.

‘He’s a butcher, Lizzie,’ said my sister.

‘Is that bad?’ I asked.

‘I’m a vegetarian,’ said my sister.

‘You can’t rule him out just because you’re a vegetarian,’ I said. ‘He’s a redhead.’

‘Mum’s a vegetarian,’ said my sister, clutching at straws.

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