by Lynda Renham
‘Alright Grandma?’ yells a lad, as he passes me on his bike.
I’d throttle the little monkey if I could get hold of him. Surely I don’t look sixty. Maybe I’ll get my hair done. Properly that is, at the hairdressers. Maybe I’ll have some highlights. After all, I can afford to spend a bit on myself now.
‘I’m going to have to get the bus,’ I tell Sam. ‘Someone’s nicked my car.’
‘The little rotters. Look, don’t go getting buses. I’ll come and pick you up. Our Michael can keep an eye on dinner. It’s only pie with mash. I’ll be ten minutes.’
I pop the mobile back into my holdall and look around. You never know. I may have parked it somewhere different to where I thought I had. I do that sometimes, and that’s when I don’t have a lot on my plate. Let’s face it my plate has been overflowing recently. I’ve had quite a few shocks and I don’t just mean Frank’s death. Just about everyone is claiming Frank owed them money. You can take bets on how long my five grand will last. It won’t be long before everyone knows I’ve had a little windfall. Only this morning John, from the off-licence, sought me out in Waitrose. I did consider not going back to work so soon after Frank’s death, but I figured staying at home wouldn’t bring him back from the dead and it’s much better to be with people isn’t it? I like my job at the store, especially when I’m on the till. I get to meet all kinds of people that way. They’re very good to their staff at our branch and did tell me to take the week off. What am I going to do with a whole week off work? I’d go mad. Mind you, if I’d known John was going to seek me out, I would at least have taken the day off. I know he only came in to see me, because he always does his shopping at Aldi. He’s a tight sod, so I knew something must be up for him to be in Waitrose. He only bought a roll and then queued for ages at my till, even though there were others free.
‘’eard you had a win at the bingo,’ he’d said the moment he reached me.
‘Is that what people are saying? Liars aren’t they?’
‘A few thousand, I ‘eard.’
‘You need to get your hearing checked then. I won ten quid,’ I’d said, deliberately scanning his roll twice.
‘Two pound forty.’
‘How much? They’re 50p in Aldi.’
‘This isn’t Aldi is it?’
He’d fumbled in his jeans pocket and handed over the money.
‘Well I ‘eard it was a few thousand.’
‘Well, you ‘eard wrong.’
‘Your Frank owed me eight hundred.’
He’d been lying. Frank had owed him eighty quid. I knew that much because they’d found an IOU in Frank’s jacket. It had been made out to John. Frank had obviously been taking it to John the night he was hit by the pizza van. What a pig trying to get eight hundred out of a defenceless old woman.
‘He was going to pay me the night he popped his clogs.’
‘Is that right?’
‘They say you’ll be getting something from Domino’s too.’
He wasn’t wrong there. Domino’s had sent over ten large pizzas. Nice ones too. They had attached a lovely note.
We know this won’t bring back your husband but we very much hope you enjoy.
They’ll do nicely for the little do after the funeral. After all, he was run over by a Domino’s Pizza, so it’s kind of fitting isn’t it? They also included a crate of coke and some garlic bread. You can’t complain at that can you? They’ve already made it clear that I won’t get any money from them. Frank was as pissed as a newt when he stepped into the road. He was probably hoping to stop the van for a ham and pineapple. We’ve got pizza coming out of our ears now. Frank always did like pizza. I’ll say they’re in memory of him. I won’t admit I can’t afford the food for the wake. I’ll use the coke too. If Frank’s cronies think they’re going to get free beer, then they’ll get a surprise, won’t they?
‘I’ll be round after the funeral,’ John had threatened.
‘I’ll be sure to be out then,’ I’d retorted.
So, here I am. Widowed at sixty and sitting on a graffiti-decorated bench on the notorious Tradmore Estate. I look at the inscription on the bench. In memory of Sid Johnson, Headmaster and long-term resident. Except now it has been morphed by colourful graffiti to read Sid Johnson, masturbator and long turd resident. No respect. It was probably the same little rotters who took my car. Frank always said he wanted a bench with his name on it. I don’t know what planet he was on when he said that. He must have thought we were rolling in it; first a horse and cart and then a bench. I’m surprised he didn’t want a memorial at Millwall. I could ask if Domino’s would name a pizza after him in his memory. It could be called ‘Franks Feast’ or ‘Franks for the Memory.’ Maybe I could get a job writing slogans. No, what I need is a proper job. Doris’s daughter said she’d pay me cash in hand. I told her I didn’t want to be cleaning up after murders though. Can you imagine? I’d never sleep at night. I never knew that there were that many murders in our area.
‘You’d be surprised,’ Becky had said. ‘The more murders there are the more work for me.’
I couldn’t be that mercenary myself. It occurs to me that maybe Frank was knocked off. He had a few enemies. Although, I don’t suppose they’d use a Domino’s Pizza van, would they? It attracts too much attention. I feel a hot tear on my cheek and quickly wipe it away. I don’t want Sam to see I’ve been crying. I don’t know what I’ve done with my life. Not really. I’ve never owned my own home or been abroad apart from a day trip to Calais to visit the hypermarkets. I should have gone to Paris while I was there. I should have done a lot of things. I always wanted to study, but we never had the money. I didn’t think I’d still be stuck on the Tradmore Estate when I reached pensionable age. I don’t know where I thought I would be, but I didn’t think I’d still be here. I should have left Frank when I was younger. I did think about it, but it was difficult with a child. I know I can’t blame anyone else for my mistakes. It was my fault for settling. But you do, don’t you? You just keep thinking things will get better next year, but of course they never do, and before you know it, twenty years have passed and you’re still in the same shit hole. I miss Frank. He was a difficult bugger but at least it had been company. I never realised how much company he was. They say you don’t appreciate things until they’ve gone. It’s lonely without someone to talk to in the evenings.
I check the time on my watch. Sam should be here soon. I don’t want to sit here for too long. It’s getting dark. The last thing I need is to get mugged and if word has got around that I won five thousand then there is bound to be some little rotter that’ll chance it. They think nothing of beating up old ladies these days, do they? There I go again. I must stop it with the ‘old’.
Sam’s car roars around the corner and I sigh with relief.
‘It needs a new exhaust,’ he explains. He kisses me on the cheek. ‘You okay, Mum?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m alright,’ he smiles.
He’s good looking is my Sam. I like to think he takes after me. Mind you, Frank was a bit of a looker in his younger days. The booze took all his looks as time went on.
‘It’s only pie and mash. That’s okay isn’t it?’
‘Lovely.’
‘We can watch something on Netflix later if you like?’
‘Doris asked me out tonight. There’s a new pub opened in town, she thought it would do me good.’
He’s relieved, I can tell.
‘That’ll be nice,’ he says.
‘You don’t think it’s too soon?’
‘You and Dad weren’t exactly Gavin and Stacey, were you? It’ll do you good,’ he says, tapping me on the knee. ‘I’ll sort you out a little car. I’ve got something at the garage.’
Sam owns a garage. It does okay. He’d be doing better if he didn’t have to pay that nasty little cow he divorced. Still, I won’t bore you with that sob story. I’d blather on all night if you gave me the chance. Frank always said I
was a blatherer.
‘I’ll pay you. I don’t want you out of pocket.’
‘Don’t be daft. Have you told the police?’
I shrug.
‘I’m not sure if your dad had it insured.’
He sighs.
‘I’ve just got to stop off and get some baked beans.’
That’s how we handle things in our family. We just change the subject.
Chapter Eight
Alfred
Moira strolls into the living room carrying a silver tray. She places it carefully onto the coffee table and nods to Harry. He jumps up to get the holiday photo place mats. There’s a decanter of sherry on the tray and three sherry glasses.
I turn my eyes back to the tele. I don’t understand what my son is doing with a woman like Moira. I never brought my son up to be posh. Perhaps we had too much money. He didn’t want for anything. He had a good education, we made sure of that. I didn’t want him fighting tooth and nail for everything like I did. It didn’t do me any harm, mind you. I worked hard for what we have. I stepped on a few toes, but you have to in business, don’t you? There were times, at the beginning, when we only had newspaper to wipe our bums, but it makes a man of you, if you want my opinion. Not wiping your bum on newspaper, I don’t mean, but struggling. Struggling doesn’t do you any harm. My Harry isn’t a man. He’s a doormat. I’m disappointed in him. That’s what a university education does for you. Bugger all, if you marry the wrong woman.
Moira raises her eyebrows at Harry and I fight back a sigh. Here we go.
‘We thought we’d have a little chat, Dad,’ says Harry, carefully pouring sherry into the glasses.
‘Well, don’t worry about me. You chat away. I’ll watch the sport on the tele.’
Moira clicks her tongue in agitation.
‘With you, Dad,’ she says with a smile.
Two-faced whatsit, pretending she likes me.
‘Would you like a sherry Dad?’ Harry asks.
Huh, they’re plying me with drink now.
‘No ta. Have you got any whisky?’
‘We’ve got a bottle of Bell’s haven’t we Moira?’
‘I don’t want that rubbish,’ I scoff. ‘I’ll have a G and T.’
Moira flounces from the room and I turn to Harry.
‘You don’t drink Bell’s, do you? That’s not a proper whisky.’
Harry fidgets under his starch white collar.
‘Maybe sometimes.’
‘You want to buy decent malt.’
Moira bounces back into the room carrying another silver tray. I can’t think where she keeps them.
‘Just a little chat,’ says Harry. ‘Only I’ve got my theatre group tonight.’
‘That play coming along okay is it?’ I ask.
‘We have a great cast …’ begins Harry.
‘Time,’ says Moira, pointing to the clock on their mantelpiece. ‘You don’t want to be late.’
‘Right, yes. It’s about the future Dad,’ says Harry.
‘Not much you can do about that, son.’
Stop making it difficult for him, I tell myself. Let him spit it out and then we can all get some peace. I might even be able to watch something decent on this tele of theirs. I might as well put them out of their misery now as later.
‘The thing is … well, Moira said you mentioned about going back home …’
‘That’s my plan.’
Moira nods eagerly at Harry. I look at him expectantly.
‘Don’t you think that house is a bit big for you now Dad?’
‘You never thought it was too big when I was living there with your mother. It’s only one less living there now.’
I take a large gulp of the G and T and thump the glass onto the tray.
‘It was different when you were both there …’ splutters Harry.
I intimidate him. I should be softer with him. Cath was always telling me.
‘You’re far too hard on him Alf. He’s more sensitive than you,’ she would say.
‘I’m not going into some residential home and I’m not selling my house either.’
‘I’m not suggesting you sell it as such. What we thought was that Moira and I could move in and you could live with us.’
‘We need a bigger house,’ pipes up Moira.
‘What for?’
They look at each other.
‘Well, it would be nice to have a detached for a start,’ she says. ‘We have a lot of things and …’
‘So, you want me to give you my house?’
Harry looks at Moira, his cheeks reddening.
‘It’s not quite like that it’s …’
‘You’ll leave it to us anyway,’ says Moira bluntly. ‘Harry says that if you hand it over now then we won’t have to pay the inheritance tax.’
There, she’s said it, as bold as brass.
‘Oh he did, did he? I say, giving Harry daggers. ‘You’ve got a decent house here. It’s got three bedrooms, a dual-flush loo, en suite and heaven knows what else. You’ve both got cars in the driveway. If you were homeless I might think about it.’
‘You’ll never keep it clean,’ argues Moira. ‘What about meals? You’ll need to eat and you’ll get lonely on your own.’
‘If I go into a home I’ll have to sell the house to pay for it.’
‘That’s not true,’ Moira snaps. ‘You’ve got plenty in the bank. You could buy a little retirement flat and still keep the house.’
‘But you don’t have to buy a retirement flat,’ adds Harry. ‘You could live with us.’
‘He’s just being difficult,’ says Moira, her face reddening
‘Keep calm Moira,’ warns Harry.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ she says, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘He’s deliberately making us wait and …’
‘What makes you think you’re getting it anyway?’ I say standing up.
My dodgy knee gives way and Harry jumps up to support me.
‘Alright Dad, don’t upset yourself.’
‘Six months your mother’s been dead and all you’ve been thinking about is that house. Well, you’re not having it. If you want a detached house in Emerson Park, get a mortgage and buy one. That’s if you can afford it. You need to get a promotion instead of letting every upstart jump over you for theirs. Show yourself to be a man,’ I bark.
I limp to the door and curse my knee.
‘I’m off to my bed. I’ll go home tomorrow. My home,’ I shout. ‘Do you hear me, my home?’
I slam the door behind me. Kids, sometimes I wish Cath and I hadn’t bothered.
Chapter Nine
Rosie
Palliser’s, the new pub, is noisy. They’ve got a Happy Hour. That’s why Doris suggested it. I don’t really like pubs. I’m not sure why I agreed to come. I must look a right tit carrying all my gubbins in a holdall. All the other women have sparkly clutch bags but not me, oh no. I have a nice holdall. Some guy at the opposite table keeps giving me funny looks. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a terrorist. I must look a bit suspicious. It’s a bit rough this pub. I can’t help feeling a bit on edge. After all, I’ve got five thousand in cash on me. I know I keep saying it, but it’s a fact isn’t it? Well, I say five thousand. It’s a bit less now. It’s freezing tonight. I need to buy some new bras. Mine have had it. Every time someone opens the doors my tits turn blue. I’ll get some tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have one of those bra fittings. Although I’m not sure I want some strange woman feeling up my breasts. I know there’s nothing sexual about it, but all the same.
‘It’s not bad ‘ere is it?’ Doris calls over the music.
‘It’s for youngsters,’ groans Shirl.
‘Everything is for youngsters,’ I say.
‘You’re as young as you feel.’
‘I haven’t felt anything young for some time,’ giggles Shirl.
I spot Johnny Crabbers sitting at the bar and cringe. I hope he doesn’t see me. He’s always fancied me, or at least that’s what he’s told peopl
e. I look terrible. Not that I care what Crabbers thinks of me, or any man come to that. But I don’t want them saying, ‘that Rosie Foster’s let herself go.’ I did make an effort and put on a bit of make-up, but I’m in mourning so it didn’t seem right to put on too much. Sam said not to be daft.
‘Go and enjoy yourself. God knows, you never do.’
I told Sam I’d won some money on the bingo.
‘A few hundred,’ I’d said.
I don’t know why I wasn’t truthful. My grandson Michael got a bit excited. I said I’d give him thirty quid. It’s important not to spoil them isn’t it? Not that I’m ever going to be in a position to do that. The thing is if I let on about the five thousand then it won’t be long before everyone knows. I don’t want the landlord knowing I’m flush. I’m surprised Doris and Shirl have managed to keep quiet about it.
‘Who’s getting the next round?’ Doris asks, looking at me. ‘We’ve got thirty minutes left of Happy Hour.’
‘Oh, I will,’ I say, even though I’ve been nursing a Pernod and orange for the past half an hour.
It feels wrong being here. I should really be at home writing a poem for Frank’s funeral. Although, what makes me think I can write a poem, I don’t know. I’ve never written a poem in my life. Sam said he’d read the eulogy. I can’t think what he’s going to say. Well, not if he speaks the truth anyway. He said he and Michael will carry the coffin in. I feel bad about the horse and cart. I wonder if I can hire one on the cheap from somewhere.
‘Rosie Foster, what are you doing ‘ere?’
I look up to see Crabbers lolling in front of me. He’s rubbed gel in his hair. It looks greasy. He thinks he looks great. He tries to swagger but there are too many people around, so he just looks like he’s dying for the loo.
‘You’re looking nice. Being widowed suits you.’
