I watched her in the yard chatting with Esmerelda, Serena having a fag, leaning against her Barbie-Doll-pink Ka. I would kill for that car. Literally. She looked relaxed and was smiling and laughing, tossing her hair around. Today her hair was platinum blonde – not streaked – but a block of bright pale lemon which I also envied like crazy. What I wouldn’t give to have her hair. Long, silky, blonde. Not just brown. In skintight jeans with ripped-out knees and an off-the-shoulder silver T-shirt, she was gorgeous. And always immaculately turned out from head to foot. I loved her and hated her at the same time. In a sudden fit of jealousy, I thought if I wouldn’t actually kill to look like that I could at least scratch her Ka. If I had looked like that Tommy Farraday would have fallen at my feet. And maybe Steven Taverner would at least have noticed me. But my mum was right. I am just me. Dull, ordinary, plain. I would never attract someone glamorous like Tommy or even decent like Andy. All I’d end up with would be the collection of misfits who had searched me out on the internet, the detritus of the dating world.
Scarlet too was watching the two hairdressers on the CCTV screens. ‘Manufactured articles,’ she said. ‘All paint, false hair, false nails …’ She giggled. ‘False eyelashes. And who knows what else?’
I giggled too. ‘Well, I wouldn’t mind being manufactured if the finished article looked like that.’
She laughed and tapped my shoulder again. ‘Come on, Spinning Jenny, let’s get on with the VAT receipts.’
ELEVEN
The day was long and felt heavy and threatening, the skies so dark as to seem like night. I switched the light on in the office and watched black clouds gather over the yard. Any minute now, I thought. Any minute now the summer storm will break. When I left at almost six o’clock it felt more like midnight. As I was locking the gates behind me the heavens opened; there was a great clap of thunder and, seconds after that, a flash of proper forked lightning lit up the yard, the road and beyond, silhouetting the bottle kilns of Burslem. Typical, I thought. I hadn’t brought a mac as the day had started fine and warm. It was June, for goodness’ sake. So, ignoring the weather warnings, I’d come to work in jeans and a light jacket. So now I was going to pay the price and get bloody well soaked. Out of the gloom I saw the white Ford Focus, dazzling me with lights on full beam. Since he had left more than an hour before, he must have hung around or else come back with more stuff, but he’d missed the boat. The gates were locked.
Through windscreen wipers battling with the cascade of rain he caught my eye, raised his hand in a half-friendly wave and pointed at the locked doors. Surely, I thought, he doesn’t expect me to open up for him? In this weather? He pulled parallel as I waited, getting drenched, but already smiling as I anticipated the warm interior of his car, thinking for sure he’ll offer me a lift? But he didn’t. After another wave he slipped the car into gear and rolled off, soaking me in the process.
Thank you so much, I thought, tempted to stamp my foot at the sight of his retreating car. You might at least have …
The only response I got was another flash of lightning and the rain got even heavier. Quite cross now, as well as cold and wet, I trudged to the bus stop, rain dripping from my hair and clothes. Down my neck. I felt miserable as I waited almost half an hour for a bus, getting colder and wetter as the shelter had been smashed to pieces. Vandals, I thought viciously, as I boarded. I would like to get my hands on them too.
The route took us through Burslem, passing Port Vale football ground, down the great hill at Smallthorne before rising to Norton and the little coal truck that had been placed on the village green either as an ornament or a reminder of the industrial past. I hardly noticed it. In my frustration at this nadir of my life, everyday objects had become invisible. I felt bitter resentment. Some people have cars. Some people have nice cars. And then there’s me, waiting for the bus, getting splashed as they speed past in their nice cars, despising me for being on foot. Some people have homes. Lovely, warm, comfortable places where they are welcomed. I have one room in a house where I am treated like an intruder.
At that moment I felt that everyone’s life was better than mine. And I hated them for it. Why should my parents have chucked me out when they’d divorced? Why had they spent their last couple of years together arguing and fighting? Why had they both preferred my nasty, smarmy little brother to me? Why had life dealt me a dump of shit? Why did all the boyfriends I ever had turn out to be rotten?
I tried to tell myself not to be so pitiful. Some were worse off than me. They experienced hurricanes, landslides, ethnic cleansing, malaria, starvation. But these were faraway people seen through the TV screen. Not in rainy Staffordshire in what should have been summer. I peered through the bus window, seeing my life stretch ahead of me – bleak, uneventful, one piece of bad luck following another. I would be eighty-something one day and would still be standing at a vandalized bus stop, an old woman, her shopping in a bag or pushing a Sholley, getting splashed by other people’s nice cars as they headed for their nice homes. I felt vicious.
I carried on peering out of the bus window at an unrelenting grey urban sprawl. It should have felt more like summer. Blazing June. But here, in Stoke-on-Trent, it seemed that summer was passing us by. When I got off at my stop in Brown Edge, I still had a long walk, trudging for twenty minutes through driving rain, threading along the tangle of lanes, passing church and village hall and climbing the small bank to the row of terraced houses, within which one room was my home. For now. I let myself in.
Jodi was in the kitchen, washing up, hands in yellow Marigolds plunged into soapy water. There was a strong scent of cleaning: bleach and synthetic spring flowers.
She half turned. ‘Cup of tea?’
In that one bland movement combined with the question, I had caught a hint of evasion.
Instead of simply accepting the offer and saying, ‘thanks’, my mind was busy, trying to work out what she was about to say. As she filled and switched on the kettle, I had worked it all out. On top of my dripping clothes and generally shitty projection of my life for the next sixty years, I anticipated the story she was about to relate.
She’s missed her period, suspects she’s pregnant and wants me out of what will no longer be my room but the baby’s.
And then where would I live? I knew I’d been lucky finding here. For £300 a month, all my bills were paid. I had a small but nice bedroom, beautiful views. Jodi and Jason were a quiet, civilized pair and I loved the rural location and feel of the Victorian terrace with its blackened stone walls. It was warm and felt secure. I had a TV in my room. I could use the bathroom more or less when I liked and the place was lovely. Clean, smelling of lavender. Not like some of the grotty, filthy, mouldy places up for rent in Hanley. I had my beautiful view. When I opened my window, I inhaled the scent of that glorious valley, trees and fields, and behind me the Staffordshire Moors. If I had to leave I would lose all this. Even with my increased wages and generous bonuses I would struggle to afford much on my own. I would never be able to buy a house or even a flat. But my two closest friends were in relationships. They didn’t want to share a flat with me. I felt a snatch of panic as though on the edge of an abyss. Where would I live? My hand actually shook as I reached out for the proffered mug of tea. I was terrified of going back on the streets.
Jodi was quiet as we drank our tea and I caught a snatch of her guilt. I didn’t say anything but I sensed we both felt awkward.
In the end I blurted it out. ‘Is something wrong?’
She shook her head, tried to brighten up, but it didn’t work. Then, unexpectedly, she reached across the table and touched my hand. ‘Doctor says.’ Then she bubbled up. ‘Apparently I’m going to have a problem getting pregnant. I have some weird chemistry inside me that does something to Jason’s sperm and it means …’ And she burst into tears, leaving me feeling awkward and guilty. But I also felt a rush of relief. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
‘So you don’t mind me staying?’
She jerked her
head up then. And there was hostility in her eyes. Too late, I realized she’d expected sympathy – not her lodger looking out for herself. The sense of insecurity flooded back. She looked affronted at my selfishness and something hard and brittle changed her face into a gargoyle. I knew then that I would be given my marching orders one day. There was no longer any pretence at friendship. Her bitterness at not yet being pregnant was going to displace on to me, as though it was all my fault. Well. I was used to taking the blame for things that were nothing to do with me. No change there.
My father and mother’s affairs and destroyed marriage, my brother’s practical delinquency. Oh yes. Josh’s TWOC-ing, substance abuse, and the ABH charge that was still hanging over his head. All my fault obviously. And added to that list of sins now was Jodi’s failure to have a baby.
I used my wet clothes as an excuse to take my half-drunk mug of tea upstairs. I stripped off right down to my underwear, towelled my hair dry, sat on the bed and stared out at the view feeling glum. I looked over my pretty valley but this time it was spoilt with Mr Budge’s diggers and dust and the dismal moonscape of open-cast mining.
TWELVE
We had a bit of excitement at The Green Banana that week and it finally broke the ice between myself and my newest customer. Three unmarked navy blue vans pulled up simultaneously one afternoon. Some police – not the ordinary sort, but with face masks, bulletproof vests, shields and guns came, demanding to be given entry to E14, Tommy Farraday and The Oracles’ store. Apparently they’d had a tip-off that drugs were being stored there. One of the police, a bit younger than the rest, a guy with warm brown eyes and the beginnings of a paunch, gave me that in an excited aside.
‘Drugs bust,’ he said, speaking like James Cagney through the side of his mouth, hoping, I’m sure, to see me either open my eyes in stark amazement or swoon into his arms, like a Jane Austen heroine.
I did neither. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘Well, fancy that.’
I think their plan was to break in using some boltcutters. But … Scarlet winked at me, took a key from around her neck, unlocked the top drawer of her desk and produced an odd-shaped skeleton key before marching to the head of the queue (which included two very excited sniffer dogs) brandishing it and leading the force in the direction of E14.
Though I would loved to have gone along with them and witnessed the drama, someone had to stay in the office! And that someone was bound to be me. Scarlet was far too fond of drama to let me go with the police. Besides, she was the one with the skeleton key. So I sat on the bar stool and watched what I could on the silent screens, following teams of men coming and going, carrying stuff, the dogs straining on the leash. They were there for over four hours. Obviously doing a very thorough search. I thought of ringing Tommy Farraday myself and letting him know what was going on, but I thought I’d probably get charged with obstructing justice or something like that. Anyway, the drama continued. And at three o’clock who should saunter in but Tommy Farraday himself, probably going to pick something up for a gig. Luckily he obeyed the rules for once and called in to the office to sign in. I signalled with my eyes, jerking my head meaningfully towards the screen. He looked at me curiously for a moment, perhaps wondering whether I’d had an epileptic fit, then he said, in his lazy, half-interested voice, ‘Jenny, love, either you’ve got a nasty disease – tetanus or meningitis or else …’ I jerked my head one last desperate time towards the screens. This time he followed the direction of my gaze, stared for two long minutes and then saw what was happening. ‘Shit,’ he said. Then he laughed. ‘Good job we, umm … tidied the place up last week, isn’t it, Jenny Wren?’
Why was it that everyone had some silly epithet to add to my name? Spinning Jenny, Jenny Wren. What was that all about?
So I didn’t respond apart from a smile, and I avoided casting my baby blues meaningfully on the notice which specifically forbade the storage of drugs.
He frowned a moment longer at the busy little screens and then, while I was still watching the drama, he slipped away. When I looked around the office was empty, the door still swinging, the book unsigned. And there was no white van in the car park either. Just the sound of skidding tyres and a vague smell of exhaust.
I was still watching, open-mouthed, when Steven Taverner walked in.
The rule is you have to sign yourself in and sign yourself out. This is a requirement of the fire service so they know who’s in the building and who isn’t and don’t go charging into a burning building, risking life and limb to rescue someone who actually left the place half an hour before. And hopefully it stops people from being accidentally locked in when the outside steel shutters slide down and the unfortunate customer forgets the emergency code. You may smile but it has happened. Once. There is no emergency alarm inside and the stores themselves are hermetically sealed. God help any of our customers if they were locked inside. Another reason why we are so fussy about the signing in and signing out. Of course, all our clients don’t always comply. But Mr Taverner almost always did, except when he forgot. He struck me as an obedient sort. A rule-observer rather than a rule-breaker, unlike Tommy Farraday who would always challenge authority. Serena always signed in too but it was nothing to do with the fire service (she’d have loved to have been subjected to a fireman’s lift). Oh no, it was because she was claustrophobic and terrified of being locked in one night. I have to admit it would be a horrible experience, imprisoned by locks and keypads, floors cold concrete, running out of air, trapped with the stuff of dead people and things nobody wanted, unable to escape the steel roller shutters. When no one was watching the CCTV monitors you could shout and scream all you liked. No one would see or hear you. And mobiles didn’t work inside the units.
Maybe Mr Taverner was claustrophobic too and, rather than simply observing the rules, his compliance was a symptom of his secret fear.
I suppose that because of the excitement and the obviously dramatic events that were taking place right in front of my eyes, I was a bit more babbly and excitable than usual that day. My defences were down so I didn’t even hold it against him that he’d let me get soaked a couple of nights before. ‘The police are here,’ I said flatly.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ I looked at him and added, ‘In the units.’
‘Not in mine, I hope,’ he said with an unconvincing smile.
I held my breath while he stared up at the activity on the CCTV. I could have prolonged his concern but I didn’t. ‘No, Mr Taverner, not in yours. E14. Looking for drugs. In the band’s.’
‘Ah,’ he said, scribbling his name very quickly, adding the time and his unit number while I focused back on the screens, though right now the police seemed to be standing around, chatting. When I looked back, Mr Taverner had gone. It seemed he had changed his mind. He had filled in an exit time too.
I looked for him on the CCTV and watched his car easing out of the gates and slide out on to the main road.
The police spent all afternoon coming and going and, judging by their disgruntled faces, it looked as though they hadn’t found anything. Which made me a bit more admiring of Tommy Farraday. He’d pulled one over on them because I knew they did keep a great big stash in there, whatever the rules. Maybe someone had tipped him off about the police.
When Scarlet came back she was still giggling. ‘Bloody full of drums, guitars, sheets of music, amplifiers. All stuffed in one on top of the other. Falling all over the place. You should have heard the noise.’ She made an effort. ‘Clunk, Bang, Tweet, tweet. Da-da-da-rah-rah,’ she sang before collapsing across the counter. ‘Not so much as a spliff in sight. The dogs’ tails weren’t even wagging.’ She put her hands on her skinny hips and roared. Today she was dressed Country & Western in a fringed leather skirt that just about covered her bum and a checked blouse teamed with leather boots. She looked amazing, but I did keep expecting her to burst into some Doris Day ‘Whip Crack Away’ type of song and smack her sides.
She was chewing gum too, which added t
o the cowgirl image. ‘Nothing like a great big raid, unsuccessful too, to make the police look absolutely friggin’ stupid.’ She put the gum in her cheek and dragged on the e-cigarette she’d recently switched to, releasing a cloud of scented steam. ‘You gotta laugh, haven’t you, Jen? They was convinced they’d get a massive haul of cocaine or heroin or something. And all they found was an ancient, dried-up dog turd.’ She roared again but I was squirrelling something away. Already sensing the possibilities this knowledge might bring I schooled my voice to sound casual.
‘I didn’t know you had a skeleton key.’
She gave me a sharp look before replacing it very deliberately in the drawer, locking it, removing that key too, threading it on the chain and tucking it back into her cleavage. Then she tapped her nose. ‘Insurance policy,’ she said. ‘You never know what dirty tricks people play on you. They leave the stuff there when they’re fed up with paying. You never see them again. At least I can get some compensation. And sometimes they do put forbidden stuff in so I charge them a little bit extra. Can’t have The Green Banana compromised, can we?’ She jabbed my chest with a meaningful forefinger, her eyes wide open and very bold. ‘We could get prosecuted for that, even if we didn’t even know it was there. So it pays to be vigilant, Spinning Jenny. You keep your eyes open, love, and don’t trust anybody. And I mean anybody. Not even Mr Innocent-Looking Steven Taverner. People are not always what they seem. Some people only want to take advantage. They put stuff in, pay up for the first three months, give out a false address and stolen credit card details, remove it bit by bit when the fences are buying the hot stuff and that’s the last you see of them and their hoard. This business wouldn’t survive if it depended on trust.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘You need this. Nous. Instinct.’ Then she got sharp and her jabs harder, almost hurting me with her long, pointed nails. ‘Don’t you go tellin’ anyone about that key. OK? I don’t want our clients knowing I’ve a way of checking up on them.’
The Subsequent Wife Page 7
