And the promised tea rarely materialized on completion of the task.
But none of them had been like Adam.
They were usually a bit more like Jim, one of Helen's earliest conquests.
Poor Jim, to give him his full title.
He was lanky and skinny and went around wearing black all the time and all year round. Even at the height of summer, he wore a long black overcoat that was miles too big for him and big black boots. He dyed his plentiful hair black and never looked me in the eye. He didn't talk much, and when he did it was usually to discuss suicide methods. Or to talk about singers from obscure bands who had killed themselves. He once said "Hello" to me and gave me a kind of sweet little
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smile, and I thought that I had misjudged him but I later discovered that he was blind drunk.
He always carried a decrepit copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or American Psycho in the torn lining of his black overcoat. He wanted to be in a band and kill himself when he was eighteen.
Helen absolutely hated him.
He was always calling her, and whenever he did, Mum would speak to him on the phone and lie through her teeth as to Helen's whereabouts. She would say something like "No, Helen's missing, presumed drunk" while Helen stood in the hall looking at Mum, waving her arms frantically and mouthing "Tell him I'm dead."
After Mum had hung up the phone she would shout at Helen.
"I'm not doing any more lying for you. I'm putting my immortal soul in peril. And why won't you talk to him? He's a nice lad."
"He's an asshole," Helen would reply.
"He's just shy," Mum would say in his defense.
"He's an asshole," Helen would maintain, louder this time.
On occasions like Valentine's Day or Helen's birthday, at least one bunch of black roses would be delivered from him. Handmade cards would come in the post with very graphic pictures of shattered hearts and blood, or a single red teardrop. Terribly symbolic.
There was a time when you couldn't go into our kitchen without finding Jim in there, still wearing the long black coat and talking to Mum. Mum had become his best friend. His only ally in his quest to win Helen's heart.
Most of Helen's would-be boyfriends spent far more time with Mum than they ever did with Helen.
Dad hated him. Possibly even more than Helen did.
I think he felt disappointed by Jim.
Because Dad was so starved of male company he had hoped to do a bit of male bonding with him, what with Jim being a more or less permanent fixture in the kitchen along with the oven and the refrigerator.
One evening he came home from work, and as usual found Jim sitting in the kitchen with Mum. Helen went straight to
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her room as soon as she heard that Jim was on the premises. Dad sat at the kitchen table attempting to talk to Jim.
He said, "Did you see the game?"
Jim just looked at Dad completely blankly.
So that was the end of that: now Dad also thought Jim was a dead loss. He said that Jim should put his money where his mouth was and stop just talking about killing himself and actually get on with it.
Mum said that Jim was really a little pet, once you got to know him. And that it was a sin to encourage someone to take his own life.
It felt as if Jim was always around. Whenever I came home from London he seemed to be drooped over the kitchen table, with a little black cloud hovering over his head. But I always said "Hello, Jim" to him. At least I was polite.
Even if he totally ignored me.
Then I discovered why he had been ignoring me.
On my second day home from London the doorbell rang and I went and answered it and found a haircut wearing a big long black coat standing on the front doorstep. I wasn't sure whether he had come to see Helen or Mum, but Mum was out so I called Helen.
"Helen, Jim's at the door."
Helen came down the stairs looking puzzled.
"Oh hello, Conor," she said to the gloomy youth on the step.
She turned to me.
"Where's Jim?" she asked.
"Well...here...isn't he?" I said, a bit startled, indicating the boy in the long black overcoat.
"That's not Jim, that's Conor. I haven't seen Jim in about a year. I suppose you'd better come in Conor," she said ungraciously. "Oh, and by the way, that's my sister Claire. She's home from London because her husband left her."
"Nice one, Claire," she hissed angrily at me as she herded Conor into the sitting room. "I've been avoiding him for the last month."
There is no doubt but that she will burn in Hell.
At least that explained why Jim ignored me every time I said "Hello, Jim."
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Because it wasn't Jim at all.
But it looked just like him.
Then every time I saw Jim, I would say "Hello, Conor."
Apparently I was still wrong.
His name was William.
But he was the absolute image of Jim and Conor.
But Adam was a different proposition entirely from Jim and his clones.
Handsome, intelligent(ish), presentable...you know, normal! He had one or two social skills, didn't look as if he would crumble into dust if he was caught in a direct ray of sunlight, and could do more than just stare glassy- eyed at Helen and dribble.
After he had shaken hands with us all he then said politely to Mum, "Can I help you to set the table?"
Mum was very taken aback. Not just at the offer of help. Which was in- deed remarkable in itself.
But at the suggestion that we set the table at all.
You see, people tend to fend for themselves at mealtimes in our house and eat their dinners in front of the television watching Neighbours instead of at the kitchen table.
"Erm, no, that's all right thanks, Adam, I'll do it."
And looking slightly bemused, she did just that.
"You're in for a treat tonight," she said girlishly to Adam. Honestly, it was so embarrassing. A grown woman and she was behaving like a star- struck teenager. "Claire has made the dinner for us."
"Yes, I heard that Claire was a great cook." He smiled at me, throwing me into pleasurable confusion. He really shouldn't smile at me like that while I'm draining the pasta, I thought, as I nursed my scalded hand.
I wondered who had told him that I was a great cook, because I was sure that it certainly wasn't Helen.
Maybe he was just being charming. But, hey, what's wrong with that?