ERIC LUCASTEES

A party was taking place on the deck of a cruise ship in Southampton docks. Fine white linen covered a long trestle table, fairy lights swung in the breeze, and high notes of sweet sickly perfume mixed with the heavy undertow of diesel.

It was time for goodbyes. Eric Lucastees was there of course. Eric Lucastees was always there. Only soon he would be gone.

‘I was dreaming about you,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember if I was fucking you or you were fucking me; either way your wife seemed to like it.’

What could I say to something like that, so I said, ‘what did you say?’

‘You heard,’ he said.

‘I did,’ I said.

‘Anyway, where’s the lovely wife?’

‘She couldn’t come.’

‘Oh dear, poor old girl,’ he said, offering one of those evil, thin, cracked smiles he liked to save especially for me.

‘I could wipe your smile off here and now,’ I said

‘You couldn’t,’ he said.

I couldn’t. He was right.

‘There are things I know about you,’ I said.

‘You know nothing about me,’ he said.

Things I know about Eric Lucastees:

First thing:  My wife used to say that she never liked to enter a sauna if a man was already there because the room and her skin would invariably end up smelling of sweaty testicles. It’s as if Eric Lucastees must always have been taking a sauna just before we met because after we shook hands, my hand would end up smelling of testicles too – his testicles.

Second thing: Eric Lucastees nursed his (inappropriately named) wife Joy for six years when she was dying of cancer. He was proficient and dutiful. ‘I’d have made a fantastic nurse,’ he liked to say with a flutter of his eyes, and a glint of suggestiveness. This devotion cut him a lot of slack with the ex-pat crowd, allowing him to behave erratically, to entertain unusual alliances with other husbands’ wives, and to re-name his pet Labrador after his wife when she died.

‘Come here, Joy,’ he’d say. ‘Roll over and I’ll tickle your tummy,’ a party game on the carpet at parties, a little vaudeville when too much had been drunk and the lights were dimmed, the poor male dog bemused with all the laughter and attention, longing to be called Buster again.

Third thing: Eric Lucastees’ father was a lion tamer and had learned his craft from a Kikuyu shaman in the Nakuru valley, who’d taught him to utilise a local purple plant – Valium for big cats – to calm the lions and make them more amenable to basic instruction.

Fourth thing: Eric Lucastees possessed a perfectly symmetrical physique. ‘Take a long piece of string, secure it at your foot and then run it up to the top of your head,’ he’d say. ‘Then take that length of string and coil it around your waist twice. If the string is used – no more, no less – bingo, you have symmetry. Any more string required, then you must exercise and diet, one without the other will not be enough to save you.’

‘Why don’t you just halve your height and see if your waist is bigger?’ I suggested.

‘Where is the romance in that, Robin?’ – he went through a phase of calling me Robin, Robin Reliant, after a laughable three-wheeled vehicle of the time.

‘The name’s not Robin.’

‘What size is your waist then?’ he asked.

Fifth thing: Eric Lucastees scored 67 at snooker as a boy and I know how he built the score, every ball, every position, every angle. The story never changed the hundreds of times he told it, so I can still visualise the sequence now.

‘It would have been a hundred, only my opponent had already scored 65. I had to clear the table, utilise every opportunity of taking the black to rack up 67, which as you know I did, to beat him. Blue. Pink. Black. Boom, the place erupted!’

There is also a list called ‘Things about Eric Lucastees that keep me awake at night’ but more of that later.

It was a small raggedy group that assembled on board to wish Eric Lucastees bon voyage and fond farewell. For many, having reached that uncertain age where plans were measured ahead in months rather than years, it would likely be the last time they’d ever see him. Eric Lucastees, for one, had said he wouldn’t be returning to the motherland ever again. He’d made his bed – ‘wink, wink, should anyone want to join me in it’ – and was returning to Kenya where we’d all met many moons before, the rest of us marooned in England to see out our days, draw our pensions and fill up the local hospital beds. Anyway, it was common knowledge that Eric Lucastees’ finances had not fared so well during his stay in Blighty. The taxman was coming, and as Eric Lucastees was wont to say: ‘what is a man to do except pull up his trousers and get the hell out of it before his penis gets trapped in the door.’ Eric Lucastees’ penis: a thing of legend.

When I first met Eric Lucastees in Kenya, de-mobbed from army duties, he still had a leftover post-war malnutrition stare, his requisite baggy khaki shorts voluminous and pouring over his spindly white legs, a slug of moustache stuck to his upper lip giving him the rakish, already tarnished charm of a black-market spiv. 

At an early boozy get together he introduced what would become a regular party trick (one of many) involving an accomplished shirtless headstand, taping back his ears with sellotape, removal of four frontal dentures, two above and two below, so his tongue could prod in and out in time with the breathy cuckoo chorus of the Laurel and Hardy theme song. The effect was initially grotesque and had the effect of making him appear like an upturned rodent but somehow it also wrong footed us, and before long we were laughing, and the more he did it the more we laughed, until the room was filled with a kind of mass hysteria.

Afterwards his act received a more sober reaction. Most of the women said that it was ‘disgusting’ and the men found themselves instinctively protesting that it was just a bit of fun but in private we were as unsettled as the women. It was over our wives though that Eric Lucastees cast a lingering secret spell, the image of his reckless upturned skeletal frame entering their private and collective consciousness, his daring physical uninhibitedness violating conformity, enticing anarchy and abandon.

Maybe his allure had something to do with him performing his grotesque comic contortion dressed in only a pair of shape-defining brilliant-white Aertex Y-fronts. So brilliantly white that the women came round later to ask Joy what washing powder the house girl used to clean their clothes. As they did, they couldn’t help but notice that Joy looked washed out herself, as if she’d been put through some giant mechanical wringer.

‘Insatiable,’ Joy replied. ‘He’s like a whippet humping off my legs day and night.’

‘Poor you,’ the women consoled out loud, different thoughts gestating within, and a libidinous Eric Lucastees was busy taking hold of their fantasies.

My wife told me that before congress he apparently shouted, ‘stand and deliver’, at the same time as his pants fell magically to the ground.

‘Hey presto! You couldn’t make it up,’ she said with an unusual smirk I’d not seen before.

Eric Lucastees’ lifetime as a colonial Don Juan amongst the disaffected neglected ex-pat wives had begun. And my wife was not immune to his charms.

‘I don’t get it. What’s the appeal?’ I dared to ask her years later.

‘He made me laugh and he was a relentlessly attentive lover,’ she said.

Which brings me to the first thing on the list of ‘Things about Eric Lucastees that keep me awake at night’ – or more accurately variations on one particular thing – what exactly did Eric Lucastees do with my wife in the weeks she was with him after his wife died? And what did “relentlessly attentive” mean in practice? I needed to know.

One clue might be something my wife said only recently: ‘Eric Lucastees was not what you think. He was maddeningly egotistical, of course, but he could be vulnerable too.’




I’ve only seen him vulnerable twice; once, twenty years ago when we still lived in Mombasa. It was the middle of the night, and the phone rang – never a good thing – and it was his voice on the other end.

‘Joy’s collapsed, she’s not making any sense and I can’t get her off the floor. Please come and help.’

‘She’ll be drunk,’ my wife said. ‘Don’t go.’

But something told me I should. When I arrived, their front door was open. I walked in. Eric Lucastees was sitting on an armchair in the lounge nursing a whisky; Joy sprawled on the tiled floor under a throw by his feet. Her mouth had collapsed on one side, and she was breathing loudly, moaning.

‘She’s so cold,’ he said.

‘She’s had a stroke,’ I said.

‘Like her mother, a time bomb, after the cancer she knew it was coming. We shouldn’t have been so vigorous, but Joy likes it on the floor, you know. Hard on the knees though, poor thing.’

‘We need to get her onto the sofa. Have you called the doctor?’

‘On his way,’ he said. ‘You take her top half and I’ll take the bottom but mind yourself, she’s naked under there.’

We lifted Joy up and he sat down on one end of the sofa, lifting her head so it rested on his lap. He positioned her so she could look out of the window towards the sea, and the blinking boat lights on the horizon: the Lucastees’ were famed for the sea views from their house.

He stroked her hair, soothing her: ‘It’s going to be okay, the doctor is coming and Robin Reliant is here, so nothing bad can happen,’ and he winked at me. ‘Fill this up and get yourself one, dear pal,’ he said, gesturing at his empty glass and the bottle of Johnny Walker.

This was the old colony days before ambulances and response teams and the doctor was taking ages. So, as we checked Joy was still breathing and as comfortable as she could be, we chatted and drank.

‘My brain is on fire,’ Eric Lucastees said. ‘Some diversion if you’ll allow: my snooker score! Did I ever tell you my father was watching?’

‘No, but is this the right time?’

‘I think it is and Joy won’t mind, so it’s up to you: is this the right time?’

‘Take your cue and off you go.’

That momentarily wrong footed him – the only time I ever had – and he paused, smiled tenderly at me – another first – before continuing: ‘As you know, Jimmy Brambles had racked up 65, and there was a maximum of 67 left on the table if I took every available black. Not something you’d know about,’ his off-key joke unsettling me because Eric Lucastees was known to have slept with many local black women.

‘Not in front of Joy,’ I said.

‘Joy knows all about that. She forgave me a long time ago. She’s a forgiving kind of women, aren’t you, Joy?’ he said ruffling her hair.

I found myself looking at her to see if it was true, but her expression still lolled to one side, her eyes staring, full of confusion and fear.

‘My father witnessed the first flurry of shots, red, black, red, black . . . then left the room. I couldn’t wait for him to return so carried on – ‘

‘There’s one thing I’ve always wanted to ask. Is this story true? Did you ever actually score 67?’

‘Two things you’ve always wanted to ask,’ he corrected, and suddenly started crying, his whole body shaking, so Joy’s head bounced up and down on his lap.

‘Careful, Eric!’

‘The point is,’ he said, collecting himself. ‘My father didn’t return, didn’t get to see me pocket the final black; didn’t hear the crowd going mad.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, just as the doctor arrived.

‘Ah, Jonny Walker!’ the doctor said. ‘Eric Lucastees, you read my mind.’

Back on board, Eric Lucastees had the microphone, a hint of the seasoned well-lubricated redcoat in his delivery: ‘I suppose I should thank everyone for being here – but I won’t – and thank the crew for doing such a good job – so badly – ‘ 

A large older woman in a formidable tweed coat stepped out of the crowd and snatched the microphone off him.

‘Whatever stories Eric has told you they’re lies, whatever lies he’s told you they’re not necessarily lies and whoever he’s slept with, go and see a doctor. Oh, and if you have children and wish to corroborate any dates, don’t bother, if your child is a liar and thief, then it’s probably my brother’s.’

Eric Lucastees sighed and leaned against the woman’s ample bosom and began to laugh. ‘For Fuck’s sake, everyone, please meet my sister, Hattie!’

I expect there was barely anyone present who knew Eric Lucastees had a sister.

Hattie sought me out later. ‘You must be RR, or Robin Reliant as Eric likes to call you.’

‘It’s not my name.’

‘I know my dear, it’s sport that’s all.’

‘He never told us he had a sister.’

‘We’ve been re-united on his return here. I’ll miss him when he goes. You and your wife will too, I expect.’

‘What?’

‘Are you in the love camp or in with the haters? I mean with my brother you either hate him or love him, don’t you?’

‘Neither, but closer to hate I imagine.’

‘I thought you’d say that. Did he ever tell you we’re orphans? We were adopted by different parents, I got to stay here, and he took the passage east.’

‘He never told me. Why are you?’

‘So, when you write about him, you can fill in the gaps.’

‘I’m not going to write about him.’

‘You will,’ she said, and disappeared to find someone else to unsettle.

Joy mercifully didn’t last long after her stroke. Her funeral brought a loyal turnout, the hard unforgiving African earth requiring a mechanical digger to make a hole big enough to take her coffin. The Mombasa crowd were all present: Joy’s friends sat on one side of the grave, some of them Eric Lucastees’ lovers from the past, his present harem huddled around him on the other side. Expensive black dresses and oversized Sophia Loren sunglasses were the order of the day, the sweet swirling mix of Channel No 5 and Fidji nauseating in the heat. My wife stood dutifully by me, but kept looking over at Eric Lucastees, who grinned sheepishly every time he caught her eye.

A week later he came round to see me.

‘I’d like to borrow your wife for a few weeks if you don’t mind.’

‘If I don’t mind?’

‘Yes, you’re the husband, after all, so much better for everyone if you’re in agreement.’

‘And if I’m not?’

‘Daggers at dawn, Robin R – ‘

‘Call me Robin Reliant today and I’ll personally pull out your dentures and shove them down your throat.’

‘That’s a no then, is it?’

‘If she wants to go, I have no choice.’

‘Good man,’ and he went to hug me.

‘Get your filthy ball-smelling hands off me.’

‘Oh, yes, you don’t like to be touched.’

‘Not by you, I don’t.’

‘Not quite what your wife says.’

And he scooped his dentures from his mouth and shoved them in his pocket, his open cave of a mouth and sunken jaw making him look instantly older and ridiculous.

‘Can’t have these, Robin, they cost too much, but I promise to bring her back in one piece, the least I can do,’ and with that he was gone.

My wife arrived later to pack her bags.

‘Eric Lucastees needs me, but it won’t be for long my darling.’

‘He told me that.’

‘We’re going to Nakuru, to his father’s old place. It’s still standing years after the old man passed on.’

‘Oh, yes, the lion tamer.’

‘Was he? That’ll be one of his fanciful stories I expect,’ and her nose crinkled in amusement, even though she tried her best to hide it by pretending she was about to sneeze.

‘Let it out,’ I said.

‘Must be the change in the weather,’ she said with a shiver. ‘Anyway, we’ll keep out of your way, so it won’t be too embarrassing for you.’

‘It’s really good of you both to consider my embarrassment in all this. Only, don’t you think it might be a little odd for me to have to explain how you’ve both suddenly disappeared at the same time, and for so long? It’s not like you’re just popping down to the shops, is it?’

‘Tell them I’ve had to go and see my ill sister in Edinburgh.’

‘You don’t have a sister in Edinburgh. You don’t even have a sister.’

She looked like she was about to laugh but righted herself: ‘Make something up; you’re good at that. And I do love you, you know.’

‘I expect you do. And where shall I say Eric Lucastees has gone?’

‘Tell them grief got the better of him and he jumped off a cliff.’

Only, I told people the truth, the whole truth. It earned me sympathy at first but soon people were turned off, repulsed even – what kind of man was I? – and the visits and invites quickly dried up. I turned to drink but I wasn’t very good at that either, and the third bottle of wine usually left me gagging, passing out in a pool on the floor.

I took to howling, howling uncontrollably, so one night my howls became so loud and persistent that they alerted a pack of wild dogs, who congregated in my garden under the moonlight wondering what was going on – perhaps one of their own was trapped inside or a potential prey in distress was calling out to be finished off? The biggest dog looked in at me through the lounge window. He looked puzzled at first and then his eyes narrowed, his expression turning to cold disapproval.

It was a sobering look. As our eyes locked, I resolved to toughen up, and I shouted the dogs away.

Eric Lucastees returned my wife several weeks later. She looked shredded, washed out, when he left her at the door.

She became a crier, and the antidepressants and tranquillisers she was prescribed allowed her to sleep but made her slow. She was unfailingly polite to me though, a first, her bite diminished, her spark snuffed out.

If I did anything for her, fixed her a drink, fetched her pills, she’d say in a strange flat voice: ‘You’re such a good man.’

I didn’t see Eric Lucastees for a long time after this, but late one night he came knocking at our door – the second time I’d see him vulnerable. He wanted something of course.

‘What I’m about to tell you, it can’t go further, you understand?’

‘You want me to help you?’

‘Yes, I do, please, there’s no one else I trust.’

‘God! Okay, go ahead.’

Eric Lucastees had been driving back from a weekend in Malindi – another favourite hideaway for his dalliances – and it was dark and raining. It was common in those days of fewer cars, for local children in the villages to come to the roadside and wave as you drove past. A little boy on his own had ran out from behind a bush and edged too close to the road as Eric Lucastees’ car went by and it hit him. Eric Lucastees stopped the car and got out to investigate what had happened – that part, at least, showing him in a reasonable light – but when he located the boy, he was apparently already dead. Feeling there was nothing he could do – his neglect to find someone to tell or to look for the boy’s parents surely showing him in a less good light – and panicking for his own safety – he didn’t want to be lynched and had been drinking and didn’t want to lose his licence – he left the boy by the roadside and drove away.

By the time he’d got to our house, he’d cleaned the front of the car as best as he could and had attempted to push out the dents in the bonnet and bumper rail, and was wondering if he could stash the car away in our garage until things had blown over.

‘A lot to ask, but what are friends for?’

‘For things like this,’ I said.

‘Okay, thank you.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Will she see me?’ 

‘I think we might leave her out of this, don’t you?’

When Eric Lucastees left, I used tweezers to take out fine strands of debris from the car grill and placed them in a plastic container and took numerous close-up photos of the still obvious damage to the car.

When the party on the boat was over and it was time for goodbyes, I made sure I got in mine.

Eric Lucastees was drunk and sitting on his own at the table.

‘None of us can know how long we have, so let’s part as friends,’ I said.

‘No hard feelings?’

‘None.’

‘A hug?’

‘Let’s not go that far.’

‘Ha, you just look after your wife.’

‘I intend to, thank you.’

A month before I’d sent an envelope to the Kenyan constabulary with the photos I’d kept of his car, along with the saved matter (what else to call it?) – amazing what forensics can do these days. I detailed time and place and told them that Eric Lucastees was drunk and had fled the scene. The unsettled political climate there was advantageous; a white ex colonial to make an example of could be useful. So, they were very grateful when I informed them that he’d be arriving in Mombasa in three weeks, and said they’d be waiting for him as he disembarked.

I told him all this.

‘Well, well, and you’ve waited all this time to turn?’

‘It seems like the right time to me. But don’t worry, I hear Kenyan prisons have improved since our day: half-decent food, fewer cockroaches, dorms with less than twenty inmates in them. You may even get a bed if you pull in a few favours.’

‘Checkmate?’

‘Oh, I’d call it snookered, wouldn’t you?’

‘She was a wonderful fuck your wife.’

‘Bye, my friend, and try and keep your end up, I’ll be rooting for you.’

In England my hobby has been gardening; never without a spade in my hand.

My next-door neighbour commends my recent spadework: ‘bloody hell, Robert, you trying to dig yourself to Australia, or what?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘You could do with a digger.’

‘In Africa it might have been useful but here the earth is more forgiving.’

Eric Lucastees never disembarked at the first port of call in Malta. When a cleaner found his belongings laid out on the bed in his cabin, along with a small pile of addressed envelopes on his bedside table, the coastguards were alerted and a search put in motion. After a few days his naked body – naked, naturally, an exhibitionist to the end! –  turned up entangled in a giant trawler’s fishing net.

A fortnight later, Colin the postman is at my door.

‘Hi, Robert,’ he says, holding out an envelope. ‘Do you know anything about this one? It’s addressed to Mister Robin Reliant.’

‘The car? Funny that, but I can’t say I’ve heard of anyone with that name.’

‘Okay, I’ll keep it; mark it as addressee unknown. Bit odd, but there’s one here for your wife too – same foreign postmark, same handwriting.’

Nosey these people in English villages.

‘Oh, she’s off with her terminally ill sister in Edinburgh and is going to be gone a long time by the look of things. I’ll make sure she gets it though. Now, sorry, I can’t stand around chatting forever, I better get back to the garden.’

‘Still digging for victory, Robert?’

‘Something like that,’ I reply.

*

Eric Lucastees recently came third in the Plaza Short Story Prize judged by Damon Galgut, who wrote: ‘I really liked this whacky, unexpected story, especially its unusual and fluid narrative approach.’