As the Sunday Funday troops file out the door, waving goodbye for another week, I let out a big sigh and stretch. ‘Shutting up time, Jonnie?’
‘At last.’ The tattooed teen behind the barista’s bar huffs, then adds, ‘No offence.’
‘None taken. I’m can’t wait to clock off too. Having dinner round at my mates’ house.’
He nods. ‘Oh yeah. Happy birthday.’
He chucks a caramel waffle my way and I blush. ‘You heartbreaker, Jon. See you same time, next week.’
With enrolling on my course and adjusting our finances, not to mention getting the community groups up and running in the ‘new’ Hall and settling the Bluebells in with the Scouts a little more permanently, I hadn’t really thought about the big three oh approaching. So I was relieved when Steve said he’d cook me dinner at his place, just his family and me. That’s basically my perfect bubble of fun right there, plus I’m dodging the pressure of organising some super amazing 30th bash that would probably see me in bed by 10.30 p.m. anyway. I want to organise events that put other people on a pedestal, not myself, thanks. It will be just Steve, Luce, Abel and me, homemade pizza and a game of Boggle. Delicious.
I’ve loved Stevie’s homemade pizzas since he took A-Level Home Ec and produced the most amazing deep crust affair, covered in mozzarella and thick with anchovies. It might not be up everyone’s street but it was up mine and right through the letterbox. Yum.
After I press their bell, I hear chairs being scraped back and Abel’s squeaky protests. He must be trying his luck for a later bedtime. Maybe I could cash in some birthday favours on his behalf.
Then I hear Steve’s trademark teacher exasperation shout, ‘No!’ just as a little hand pops through the letterbox. I crouch down to lock eyes with my favourite four-year-old.
‘Can you just stay out here a bit. Your surprise isn’t ready yet.’
‘Abel!’ Luce yells.
‘But it isn’t. We need to finish the bum tint.’
‘Bunting?’ I ask wearily. Honestly, I think I have seen enough of the stuff to last a lifetime. It’s still taking up most of the love seat in the lounge at home. Mum’s threatening to turn it into a big, cheery fishing net and put it in the car for her next trip to Devon.
‘Ssshhhhh! It’s a surprise,’ Abel mouths the word.
‘Well, she might as well come in, then!’ Steve yanks opens the door and I’m hit with a wall of noise.
‘Surprise!!!’
Here are all of my people, smiling at me. Not just Steve and his family, but Susannah, Flip and her husband, the WI crew, Polly hanging out with the A-level girls, Dom standing next to Alex. And even, right at the back, in the conservatory, jiggling on the spot and shaking her head apologetically, are Claire and a noisy Freddie.
Wow!
‘Guys!’ My voice wobbles as I step into the warm kitchen and take in the brilliant festivities: balloons in every corner with big, bold 30s printed all over them. A worktop full with bottles of booze huddled together, like commuters on a tube platform. Big bowls of my favourite Wotsits dotted within easy reach.
They start a bellowing rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, with Abel’s voice clearly audible in singing ‘– dear Ladyyyyyyy, happy birthday to you!’ And finishing with a raspberry. Class.
The best bit, after seeing all my favourites, is the pizza. There’s no bunting on the walls here, I’m glad to see, but the pizza is laid out, slice by slice jauntily angled, like glorious cheesy triangles of edible bunting. Quickly turning the paper tablecloth of the trestle table transparent with grease, so you know it’s good. And between each pizza pennant are a few strings of linguini, as the bias binding! Genius.
I’m agog with wonder and greed. Luce leans in to whisper, ‘I wouldn’t actually eat the pasta, if I was you. Abel did that bit and he’s been quite snotty this week.’
I jump on her with a fierce hug and she’s almost knocked sideways.
‘Oof! You’re welcome, love. Couldn’t let your big birthday pass without a little knees-up.’
Susannah pushes through the throng around the table with two glasses of something bubbly. ‘Happy birthday, dear girl! Here’s mud in your eye.’
We clink glasses and take big, thirsty gulps. ‘Steady on, Susannah. Haven’t you got work tomorrow?’
She bats my joke away with one well-manicured hand. ‘Shush. You know fashion is run on booze, darling,’ she says, enjoying drawing out the last word. ‘Annabel has samples of her next Spring–Summer collection and she wants my opinion. So after a quick trip to the soft play, we’ll put Alfred to bed and get onto the fine knits. I hardly call it work. It’s such tremendous fun!’ Her eyes twinkle as she knocks back another mouthful of fizz and I can see a glimpse of the 1970s Susannah. Not the shoulder pads as such, but the energy and the gumption.
I was feeling so bad about pulling out of the interview with Annabel at the last minute and only with the lame excuse of ‘I’ve realised this is the last job in the world that I want.’ So bad, in fact, I was about to call Susannah and ask for her help in how best to handle it with decorum. I was looking back and forth between her name on my phone and Annabel’s ad, which mentioned her fashion business, when it hit me – Susannah was the perfect fit. She knew exactly what it was like to run a fashion empire AND masterminda hectic family. She could support Annabel in both areas. Susannah would get a taste of the profession she missed and Annabel would get a seasoned pro as a nanny who was unlikely to want to steal her husband from under her roof. Win win.
It all seems to be going swimmingly so far (Susannah credits being partially deaf in one ear with how she rubs along with Alfred so well) and Annabel was so delighted with how things turned out, she’s even promised me a free kaftan. Is that a good thing? I’m still not sure.
‘Presents!’ Abel squeals. ‘Cake! Presents! Lady!’
Stevie pats the top of Abel’s head with a firm hand, to try and keep his son within the same ten-foot vicinity. ‘Remember, it’s not for you, Abie. And it might not be what you consider a present.’
I have a slice of pizza halfway to my eager gob. ‘Presents! Cake! Bring it all to me! I’m the birthday lady, after all.’
‘Your wish is our command!’ Steve booms. ‘Where are the present bearers?’ Polly and her mates give matching sighs of distaste. A primary school teacher has no pull on them. Polly passes a big, squashy package up over the table, to me. ‘It’s like… You know. For you, and junk.’
Susannah moves some of the pizza away gingerly, so I have room to unwrap. Inside the multi-coloured paper is the most beautiful quilt I’d ever seen.
‘Oh. It’s for your bed,’ Abel says, his voice low and sad. ‘I wanted you to get Paws Patrol.’ His hair gets rigorously tussled until he runs away.
The quilt is made up of light blue squares, each one with a different handwritten message that someone has stitched over. I can see the simple scrawl of some of my Bluebells, Veronica’s unbelievably neat hand, happy birthday messages from all of the Society members and ‘Congrats on getting old! ;)’ from Polly. My eyes are too blurred from tears to read them all properly.
The deep border is a zigzag affair and I realise it’s made of sewn-up bunting triangles. A dent in my stash I hadn’t even clocked. Crafty!
I run my hand over the bunting bits, the stitching, the fabric suffused with care and love. ‘Oh. Oh… It’s. The. Best!’
‘Just to stop you crying, here’s the cake,’ Steve quickly interjects, passing me a round chocolate sponge. ‘Don’t weep into the icing. It’s a very nice ganache.’
‘Caaaaaaaaake!’ shouts Abel and the party has begun.
The pizza slipped down in the way only delicious, greasy food really can. The cake didn’t last much longer. I was three glasses of fizz and a rum and Coke down when I finally worked my way round to Alex in the conservatory. He had been given Freddie jiggling duties, as Claire was hoovering up the last cake crumbs and gabbing to Steve about all my embarrassing birthday fails of the past. Oh
joy. It almost dented my amazing happiness at seeing her again. Almost, but not quite. I had missed this brilliant woman in my life, so much. At least my little bonkers trip up to Manchester had made me realise that and reminded me to keep in touch more regularly. We now have an ‘Ork’ WhatsApp group, for her to send me daily Freddie updates.
‘It’s in the knees,’ I whisper to Alex. Freddie is leaving the most adorable dribble marks on his polo shirt.
‘I’m learning that. I’m knackered,’ he whispers back. ‘Joe Wicks should put this in his HIIT routine. Baby bouncing then half an avocado. Happy birthday, by the way.’
‘Thanks. This is great.’
He bounces lightly from foot to foot, Freddie held softly but safely against him. Stirring memories of Athena posters are coming to mind. ‘And were you genuinely surprised?’
‘Oh yes. I mean, who could guess they’d have pizza bunting, but no Paws Patrol?’
‘I’ve got something for you. In my pocket.’
‘Um, what?! I haven’t heard that line since 2007. And even then it wasn’t new.’
His cheeks colour. ‘Actually in my pocket. An actual present. But I can’t reach it right now.’ He nods towards the little fleshy bundle.
‘Ah. Shall I?’ I gingerly reach my hand into Alex’s back pocket, suddenly feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on me.
It’s a slim little present, definitely too hard to be made of bunting. I peel back the brown paper wrapping to see a lanyard.
‘OK. Thank you?’
Alex winces as Freddie twitches in his sleep. In a tiny croak he says, ‘An internship, at the Hibbert Foundation. You’ll need that to get into the office. If you want it, that is. I know you want to build up your charity experience, so I thought you could see how the money is allocated and spent. It’s not UNICEF exactly, but it’s a start.’
All I can do is blink for a few moments. ‘Wow, yes. Please, and thank you! That is so… amazing. Thank you.’
‘You said that.’
‘Well I mean it double.’
Alex continues to sway back and forth on his heels, a human rocking horse. ‘And don’t worry about me cramping your style, I’m off in a few weeks. Seconded to another hospice charity.’
‘Oh.’ I turn the clear plastic badge over and over in my hands. ‘The Scouts will be gutted.’
He smiles sheepishly. ‘Well, I’m not going as in ‘going from Hazlehurst’. I’m going to commute into London. Pretty much feel at home now, what with my encyclopaedic knowledge of the Flames N Chips menu. Plus, the boys never got round to covering Caitlin Moran in their skit, so I can’t just leave them hanging.’
‘I was going to say. It would irresponsible not to teach them a bit of modern feminism, alongside the woggle tying.’
Alex swallows his laugh. ‘Do you actually know what a woggle is?’
‘Nope. And do not tell me. I might be 30 but I’m not ready for that. Have you got a drink, by the way? Claire used the whole ‘ugh my arms ache’ sympathy trick, I take it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing as subtle as that. She just straight up said ‘hold this and keep moving’ and went. So here I am. Don’t suppose you want to switch?’ He mugged an exhausted grimace.
‘Ahhh. No. It’s my birthday! I have to drink and be merry, and that just doesn’t mix with tiny babies and their soft skulls. Sorry.’ At the mention of soft skulls, he goes a bit pale. ‘But I will get you a drink. Hang on.’
Over at the kitchen counter I’m pouring Alex a beer from the local brewery, Horny Goat’s Revenge. Claire and Stevie pincer me.
‘What did that bloke give you?’ Claire pokes me unnecessarily hard in the arm.
‘Ow! Nosey.’
I fill her in and she fiddles with a strand of shiny, clean hair. Sleep and showers must be in greater supply these days as Freddie nears six months. ‘A thoughtful present. That’s interesting, right, Steve? He put real care and effort into it.’
‘Hmm. Real care and effort. And he comes out to the pub with us now, you know. Connie invites him.’ Steve nods smugly.
‘Does she now? Well, hello hello.’
The beer ends up with a stupidly thick head, like my two best friends here. ‘Tweedledee and Tweedledummy, get to the point.’
Steve splutters. ‘That’s rich! You two have been dancing around each other for months, laughing about your Scout Hut antics, buying each other roasted peanuts in the Handsome Hog.’ He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me with each word. ‘Ask. Him. Out. Luce and I are out of box sets and we need a new plot line to become obsessed with. Your romance will do.’
Before I can work out my rebuttal, Claire leaps in. ‘And not just to the pub or some greasy place for chips. A date where you have to change your clothes and redo your deodorant. Maybe go to his place for dinner and a movie?’
Steve points at her, adding, ‘I believe they now call that Netflix and chill.’
I grab the glass of beer; it’s developing a sweat to match my top lip. I mumble something about ridiculous local busybodies and barge my way back to Alex.
‘Horny Goat’s Revenge.’
Alex manoeuvres Freddie a bit higher up onto his shoulder, still dead asleep with an open, wet gob, so he can thirstily gulp back half the pint. ‘Thank god. And, you know, I think they’re right.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your friends. This place is full but the acoustics are pretty good. We should go out, right?’
I can feel my skin flushing around my ears and jaws. What would Taylor Swift do? I think.
‘Um. We should. Am I asking you or are you asking me?’
He bites his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Nope.’
‘Exactly. So, Friday, then? The Giggling Squid in Marlow is a pretty good Thai, my boss tells me. And you most certainly need to wear deodorant to go there. I can come and pick you up in my Fiesta. After that and a few spring rolls, I reckon you’ll be swooning all over the shop.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Wow. A softer side to the Scout Master. Who would have known.’
Alex changes up his swaying pattern to side to side. ‘I’m nice. When have I ever not been nice?’
‘Um, the day of the Easter parade? You blanked me. It was totally public and embarrassing. And you were all mardy at the May Day fete with Flip and me. Told us we were unprofessional. Not that nice, all in all. I don’t feel so bad now for calling you the Demon Scout Master behind your back.’
He studies the grey star pattern on Freddie’s sleep suit with unnecessary scrutiny. ‘Ah, well the parade thing is simple to explain, actually. I knew I was about to deliver some pretty bad news to you and I thought I should retain some professional distance, for the public image of the Scouts, at least.’
‘I get that. I suppose. But the mood change at the fete? You’d been quite pleasant, for you, up until that point.’
He winces a little and some pretty cute lines gather at the corner of his eyes. ‘I was a bit jealous of that journalist guy. And it sounded like you were going to ask him out…’
I clamp both hands over my mouth so my bark of laughter can’t wake Freddie but the noise gets lost anyway in a cheer as the front door opens. ‘Where’s my birthday girl?’ I hear my mum ask. Over my shoulder I see her barging through the crowd, her Devon tan adding an extra twinkle to her eyes. Sheila’s brother got back on his feet ages ago, but Mum has made fortnightly trips down there, shifts permitting. It doesn’t take Jessica Fletcher to know what’s going on beside the seaside.
‘Not now!’ I hear Steve hiss. ‘She’s actually sorting out her love life for once!’
Mum freezes in her tracks and starts to edge backwards, mouthing ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Susannah hands her a glass of fizz and pulls her into a little group to talk tan lines.
Alex exhales over the top of Freddie’s head, sending a little Mexican Wave through his fuzzy hair. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘What is?’
‘Well, at least our d
ate can’t be the most awkward moment of my life now.’
* * *
Hours later, with the food scoffed and the drinks drunk, it’s just Luce and me on the sofa, Steve washing up and occasionally chipping into our conversation from his rightful place at the sink. Everyone else has gone home and I’ve recounted my date plans with Alex for the third time. I’ve so far denied her suggestion of putting the whole evening on Facebook Live.
I managed to grab some time with my mum while the party was still loud and busy. Her time beside the seaside was really paying off – her skin was biscuity brown, her eyes were clear and bright and she’d started wearing all manner of nautical-themed jumpers, which I could let slide because she was so happy. But before I could compliment her on all this, she took me by the shoulders, held me at arm’s length and said, ‘You look so peachy, my girl. It’s because you found your sunshine.’ And with a wink, she headed back towards another white wine spritzer and a gossip with Susannah. It was the cherry on top of my birthday cake to see her so full of vim and vigour.
Though I don’t think I could fit in another slice of actual cake right now. I’m in the sugar-coma stage of post-party bliss. Lucy and I have got my amazing birthday quilt over our knees and Abel is snoring on his bed upstairs, a Paws Patrol figure tucked under his chin awkwardly. Love that kid.
Luce’s eyelids are fluttering closed, but she’s fighting it. ‘Wow. That was a day.’ She smiles.
I stretch my arms above my head. ‘I know. Pizza, cake, presents. Even some work experience.’
‘A date.’ She points at me, like I might forget.
‘That too. And you know, when I spoke to my mum, she pretty much let slip she and Peter are a proper item. Do you date in your fifties? Or do you just move straight into shared jigsaws and slippers?’
‘Let me know,’ Steve hollers, ‘because I might need to get ahead of this for my second wife.’
‘Ho ho ho! With dad jokes this good you’d think you had twenty children, instead of just the one.’
The Bluebell Bunting Society Page 19
