by Mandy Baggot
All the ‘we’s’ being thrown in there were more distracting than the asking for a signed CD. Did Brenda live here? With his dad? Was she ever going to let him go? Finally, there was a release and Brenda stepped back and ushered him with both hands.
‘Come in! Come in! Len, your Ray is here!’ she bellowed, letting Ray step over the threshold before her.
He held his breath as he stepped into the narrow hallway that was the corridor to all the other rooms. Before, it had always been painted a rather gruesome shade of red. The paint had been discounted at the shop and his dad had said it wouldn’t show up any marks. Now though it was wallpapered, a soft, creamy colour with a fluffy dandelion head pattern. Brenda was behind him now, a hand at the small of his back.
‘Go on. Go on through. Your dad is in his usual spot in that bloody old reclining chair. I said to him, I said, that thing must have fleas living in it by now and it doesn’t go with anything else we’ve done, but he insisted on keeping it. Go on through, love.’
Such was Brenda’s insistence he keep on moving into the lounge, there was no time for thinking about what he was going to say once he was face-to-face with his dad. In seconds there was Len, sitting in the ancient chair, its white, heavily embroidered upholstery stained and faded. The rest of the lounge was transformed like the hallway. It was muted greys and light yellows with a new sofa and fluffy cushions. It was very different to how it had been before.
And his dad didn’t even turn his head to greet him. He remained stoic, eyes on the television showing the Challenge channel, bald head covered by slithers of silver, swept back with Brylcreem, cigarette between his fingers. He looked a little thinner, Ray decided. Was he ill? Was this why Brenda was here? Was she just a friend? Or was she a girlfriend? He didn’t know how he felt about that last idea. He had never thought his dad would want to share his life again. Naïve, Ray. Always still so naïve when it came to matters of the heart.
‘It’s Norway, you berk, not Iceland!’ Len took a draw on the cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke that seemed to expand quickly into every inch of the room. ‘I don’t know where they drag these contestants in from, Brenda.’
So, Len didn’t appear ready for reconciliation. He didn’t seem to want to acknowledge Ray’s presence at all. This wasn’t a good start and Ray was beginning to regret coming here.
‘Turn that bloody thing off!’ Brenda ordered, striding past Ray and grabbing the remote control from the arm of Len’s chair. She pointed it at the television like it was a Taser set to maim and Bradley Walsh and The Chase disappeared from the screen.
‘I was watching that!’ Len exploded. ‘Now I won’t know who wins or what money they end up with!’
‘Your son is here!’ Brenda said, pointing at Ray.
Ray wanted to step backwards, out of sight, down the corridor and back out into the cold. This was definitely a mistake.
Len forcefully stubbed his cigarette out and picked up a newspaper.
‘Len!’ Brenda exclaimed. ‘Speak to your son!’
‘Tell him I’ve got nothing to say to him,’ Len growled.
‘Leonard!’ Brenda shouted.
‘It’s OK,’ Ray said. ‘I’ll go. I shouldn’t have come.’ He was going to find the nearest pub and top up his alcohol level before finding a hotel for the night. One of his credit cards had to have something left on it. Or, even if it didn’t, he could go old-school, find an all-night café or a park bench. His mum had often been found asleep on more benches than London had cabs.
‘No, you won’t go!’ Brenda ordered him. ‘You’ll sit down, and I’ll make us some hot chocolates. We’ve got the one from Whittard’s with coconut in.’
‘That’ll be wasted on him unless it’s filled with whisky,’ Len remarked. ‘Just like his mother.’
‘Leonard!’ Brenda snapped straightaway. She looked at Ray, her eyes soft. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him today,’ she said. ‘I ordered us the kebabs as a treat as well.’
‘It’s OK,’ Ray said. ‘There’s actually somewhere else I need to be so…’
He wasn’t going to let his dad’s words hurt him. His dad had always blamed his mum for everything. Except Ray had seen both sides of things. It hadn’t been a perfect marriage by any means, and he believed his father’s long working hours, no matter how desperate they were for cash, had definitely contributed to his mum’s drinking hobby. She was bored. She wanted more from life. She found solace at the bottom of a bottle. Maybe everyone was a little bit to blame…
‘Oh, I bet there is,’ Len said, hands on both sides of the chair, pushing himself up to a standing position. He did look a little weaker than Ray remembered. ‘A pub, is it? Then back home to beat your girlfriend?’
He should feel anger and disappointment. But, looking at Len’s expression of disgust he just felt sad. Len had shut him out when his mum had died. And in the end, music and Ray’s fame had driven them further and further apart. There was no pride in what his son had achieved, only disdain that Ray hadn’t pursued plumbing. No one made anything of themselves by forgetting their roots.
‘We don’t believe what they’re saying,’ Brenda said quickly. ‘I said to your dad earlier that everything on the news these days is faker than those handbags on Camden market.’
‘You don’t have to apologise for him,’ Ray said, through gritted teeth. ‘My mother always said he’d been angry at the world since Tottenham lost the 1987 FA Cup Final.’
‘Your mother,’ Len snarled, ‘has been facing the world with a vodka in her hand since about the same time!’
‘Had,’ Ray said coolly. ‘She had been facing the world.’
‘Lovey,’ Brenda said, all diplomatic envoy. ‘Take a seat. Let me make a hot chocolate.’’
‘He’s only here ’cause he wants something,’ Len carried on, picking up his cigarette packet then selecting a fag with his lips and pulling it out. ‘Mark my words.’ He lit up the cigarette and sucked greedily. ‘He’ll have pissed his money down the urinal at The Black Dog and his career’s in the shitter because he couldn’t keep his fists to himself and he’s probably heard about our luck on the gee-gees.’
‘Still down the betting shop every day then,’ Ray commented.
‘Piss off!’ Len shouted, arms flying out. ‘Don’t you come here thinking you’re better than us. I’ve told you before, having your fucking name on a sign at the Palladium doesn’t make you fucking Frank Sinatra.’
‘And spending all day studying form in Ladbrokes doesn’t make you Sheik Mohammed!’ He took a deep breath and faced Brenda. ‘Listen, you seem really nice, but you’re deluding yourself if you think you can change him into a half-decent human being. It was good to meet you and…’ He was running out of things to say but he knew he was leaving before the takeaway arrived or before the hot chocolate could be offered for a third time. ‘I like what you’ve done with the flat.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Len shouted as Ray made his way down the hall towards his escape. ‘Fuck off when the going gets too tough for you. As I said, just like your mother!’
‘Ray, love, please, don’t go yet,’ Brenda called as Ray rushed down the corridor and quickly opened the front door.
He wasn’t stopping. The freezing cold air blasted him as he stepped outside, and he almost barrelled into a girl on a bike wearing a Deliveroo tabard.
‘Kebabs?’ she asked, holding them out to Ray.
‘Inside,’ Ray replied roughly. ‘And if you’ve forgotten the chilli sauce, I wouldn’t hang around waiting for a tip.’
Nine
Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington
Raul had had the most gorgeous dark eyes. But he had also talked at a million miles an hour, mainly about his endless number of cousins who Emily had suspected would all have been visiting her apartment over Christmas singing Feliz Navidad if she had accepted him into her spare room. Working at a primary school, she didn’t have a complete aversion to noise, but her flat was her sanctuary, it was whe
re she came to escape the models of ‘What Christmas Means to Me’ and Orange Justice dance routines in the playground. It was where she had cosied up with Simon.
Leaning a little from her curled-up position on the sofa she reached for one of the photo frames she had put back in place as soon as Jonah had left. She brushed a finger over Simon’s mousey-coloured hair, down his cheek then over his bright smile. Simon had smiled more than the average person smiled. It might be a cliché, but it was true, he really had been one of life’s beautiful people, inside and out. And their meeting had been so completely random there could have been every chance they might never have met at all… if her Oyster card had worked like it worked on every other day.
That fateful evening, Emily had tapped her card on the pad and made to push on through, but the barrier had remained closed and she had banged into it with such force it had prompted an audible grunt, which was most unlike her. She’d taken a step back and tapped again, very aware that at rush hour on a Friday she was holding up a long queue of commuters all equally desperate to make it home or to their favourite pub. Still the gates remained shut. She turned around, looking at the large man stood very close behind her waiting for his turn. She either had to try for a third time or she needed to shimmy out and try an alternative gate. But then Simon had arrived, asking very politely for people to move out of his way. He’d slipped through the not-really-there space between gate and large-man-behind-Emily and handed her his Oyster card.
‘Thank you. Ever so much. But, I can’t take that,’ Emily said. ‘How will you get through the gate?’
‘Ah,’ Simon had said, a twinkle in lovely deep blue eyes that she’d noticed instantly. ‘If you don’t use it you won’t get to find out.’
‘Come on! This is madness! Some of us actually want to get home tonight!’ The large man was getting beetroot cheeks despite it being November cold.
‘Go on,’ Simon urged. ‘Honestly.’
Emily had pressed his card to the pad and the previously unmoving grey gates had flipped open almost joyously. Through to the other side, she turned, preparing to give her saviour back his card, only to be greeted by the sea of travellers edging backwards again. Simon had dropped to the floor and was commando-crawling underneath the gate, his smart grey trousers and thin-knit cream jumper rubbing the floor of the Underground like a human mop. He was going to be filthy when he got up. He was ruining his clothes to save her an extra fare.
Simon had got up now, brushing down his dirty clothes like it was inconsequential. ‘Well,’ he said, smiling so genuinely. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve done that.’
Emily hadn’t been able to help smiling back at him. His good nature had always been so infectious. ‘So, you make a habit of helping female commuters in distress?’
‘Oh no,’ Simon had replied. ‘I don’t limit it to females. The last time I went under the gate it was for a Hungarian weightlifter who was on his way to a tournament, carrying actual barbells.’
Emily had giggled. She vividly remembered everything about their very first conversation and how it had instantly made her feel light inside.
Simon had smiled again. ‘I know you’re meant to ask someone for assistance but at rush hour there never seems to be anyone around to ask… and, what can I say? I’m English, we don’t like to make a fuss. We keep calm and carry on.’ He pumped a fist in the air.
‘Or keep calm and crawl under a gate,’ Emily had answered.
‘And long for a cup of properly brewed tea,’ Simon had added.
She had longed for a cup of tea from the moment Simon’s suggestion had hit the air of the Underground. The simplest of ideas, practical yet oddly romantic. And he had continued the theme…
‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or a coffee? Or beer?’ He had pushed up one sleeve of his jumper and looked at his watch. ‘It’s officially past five o’clock so we Brits can have a beer without feeling a modicum of guilt.’
Emily had laughed again. ‘Actually, a cup of tea would be lovely.’
‘Great!’ Simon had replied, seemingly elated. ‘I mean, very good.’ He brushed more dust from his jumper. ‘I’m Simon by the way.’ He had held out his hand.
‘Emily,’ she’d answered, shaking his offering rather formally.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Emily.’
‘You too.’
They’d both nervously smiled and lingered, the rush of the Friday commute carrying on around them. It was like they portrayed in those romantic films, two people connecting, unaware of anything else in the moment…
‘I have to say,’ Simon had begun, ‘just for the record, I didn’t offer the Hungarian weightlifter a cup of tea.’
Emily had laughed and Simon had laughed, and they’d walked side-by-side out of the station and into a cosy coffee shop where they’d ordered tea and two slabs of a chocolate fruitcake. And that’s how two entirely separate people had become an ‘us’.
Emily sighed now, replacing the photo frame on the lamp table. She was still sad. It was still so hard to move on when part of her thought that making that transition would be putting Simon and what he had meant to her in a box along with their memories…
The phone rang and Emily got up to answer it. It could only be one of two people. Either Two L’s under instruction from Jonah to try and cajole her into giving renting out her spare room proper consideration, or it was the woman from the diet plan who had phoned last night and had been very persistent about ringing again at a more convenient time.
She answered. ‘Hello.’
‘Julian, I can’t do Tuesday or Wednesday, I told you that already.’
Emily sighed. It was her mother. Multitasking as usual. Alegra Parker making a call while chatting to one of her minions at the same time was par for the course and Alegra saw no problem with it. Emily always thought it was the height of rudeness but even when she pointed this out – diplomatically of course – it went straight over her mother’s court wig. She should say hello again, prompt her mother into realising she had actually picked up. But sometimes it was more fun to listen…
‘The Nobles are anything but, Julian. These people think because they own a house in Madeira it puts them right up there with the Duke of Westminster. We need to remind them that isn’t the case every now and then.’
Emily bit her lip. Her mother the snob. There was never any change there. She had definitely heard enough.
‘Hello,’ Emily greeted again, this time super-loud. She took the phone back to the sofa and sat down, pulling a blanket up around her. The tropical climate had changed to sub-zero now and despite much button pressing on the boiler the appliance seemed to have developed a mind of its own. She had tried to phone her landlord – three times – and it had kept going to voicemail. She hadn’t left a message yet.
‘Oh, Emily, you’re there already,’ Alegra answered.
She could imagine Alegra in her barrister’s chambers, one hand on the phone, the other at her diary – manicured fingernail running down a list of appointments – eyes calling her assistant to get her a coffee or bring her a file she could peruse while she was having a conversation with her daughter.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ Emily said. She really didn’t have the energy for this conversation after the day and evening she’d had. She needed to conserve a little oomph in order to remove all the modern Christmas decoration props Jonah had put up and replace them with ones she actually liked. And, just for tonight, she was completely ignoring the fact she had been put in charge of the school’s Christmas show…
‘I can’t talk for long,’ Alegra began. ‘But keep a week next Friday free.’
‘What?’ Emily asked, sitting forward, the blanket falling from under her neck. ‘Why?’ A deep chill invaded her bones now. Her mother wasn’t coming here, was she? Near to Christmas her parents did usually, in some sort of fit of guilt, decide to phone more, turn up more, engage better… but it never lasted through to the new year.
‘Why, she asks?’ Alegra repl
ied with a tut. ‘Emily, we have this conversation every year.’
Oh God! Emily now knew what was coming next. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten. It was the only time her mother really needed her and admitted to it… that was, almost admitted to it.
‘It’s the St Martin’s Chambers Community Day Planning Committee’s get-together. It’s the one day this side of Spring free in all our diaries. Would you believe it?’
And, of course, Emily’s diary was completely free of anything all the time unless it involved sticky back plastic. ‘Day?’ Emily checked. ‘I work in the day.’
‘We all work in the day, Emily. I meant the one “date”. So, pencil it in. A week next Friday. Dinner with Mummy and Daddy and all of Mummy and Daddy’s clever friends planning our doing good day for next year.’
Still, how they hated doing good. Like when she was ten, they only did good to look good, in the eyes of the law – literally all their colleagues and other counterparts – and in the media. Emily had long since stopped worrying about their reasoning for charity work. It should matter, but ultimately it was more important to her that they used some of their wealth for worthy causes no matter how they spun it in the press. And any chance she got to see her mother and father in overalls with rubber gloves on was a bonus she didn’t hesitate taking photos of. It had been her suggestion they spent a day at the dog shelter, and she made sure to let the manager know how keen her parents were to really muck in… or actually, muck out.
‘Pencil it in?’ Emily asked. ‘As in, the date isn’t officially, 100 per cent decided yet?’
‘No, it’s decided,’ Alegra said pointedly. ‘I said it was decided. The only date we all had free in our calendars. Aren’t you listening to me?’
‘You also said “pencil in” which means “to tentatively or temporarily schedule something”.’
