Flashing On the Riviera

by Elizabeth Ducie

  The following week, we make moussaka; I’m sure my children will enjoy that. But halfway home, I start to panic. It's too rustic, too healthy, too different; they're not going to be convinced. I stop the car at the local supermarket and dash inside.

  Later, the kids enter the kitchen, sniffing suspiciously.

  "What have you cooked this time," asks Rachel?

  "Nothing too healthy, I hope," chimes in Joey.

  "Sit down," I say with a grin, placing plates containing neat squares of food in front of them, and pointing to the empty cartons on the worktop. "I give in. If you don't like home-made cooking, we'll go back to the old stuff, although I thought we'd try a different brand."

  Rachel picks up a wrapper and nods approvingly:

  "Mediterranean bake; ready to eat in ten minutes; just heat and serve. That's more like it mum." And she shovels a large forkful into her mouth. There are no more comments or complaints from either of them.

  So that's my Thursday afternoons sorted from now on; my wonderful cookery class followed by a quick dash to the supermarket for suitable packaging. And I reckon peace will reign so long as the kids never notice the ready meals discarded in the recycling bin—but as they rarely do the washing up, that's unlikely to happen.

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  The Reluctant Bridegroom

  The wedding was in just three weeks time. How was he going to get out of it? Mikey was starting to panic.

  The church was booked twelve months ago, as was the posh hotel up on the moors.

  'The village hall? The village hall,' her mother shrieked when Mikey suggested it, 'my Katy's not getting wed in the village hall!' Only the best was good enough for her daughter, apparently.

  The flowers were agonised over; the colours exactly matching the bridesmaids' dresses—or so he'd been led to believe. He wasn't allowed to see any of the dresses. "Bad luck, that would be,' he was told.

  The cars would be matching limos; stretch things, all in white, although he had no idea how they were going to get through the narrow lanes up on the moors.

  The guest list ran to three pages of A4; most of them he'd never met, or even heard of.

  As time ran out, Mikey felt a finger of fear walk over his spine every time he thought of it. He had to get out of it some way or other.

  A week before the Big Day, he finally cracked. Katy's mother was a bit of a tarter, but he'd got on well with her dad right from day one.

  'I can't do it, Joe,' he said, head in his hands, as the two men sat in the back garden watching the sun go down and sharing a bottle of wine. Her father looked at him sharply.

  'Can't do what, lad? Marry our Katy?' Mikey looked up in alarm.

  'No, of course not; I mean yes, of course; I mean...' then he took a deep breath and looked his future father-in-law straight in the eye. 'I love your daughter, Joe; I can't wait to get married.'

  'Then what is it, lad?'

  'It's the dance,' said Mikey with a sigh, 'the first dance. I just can't stand on the dance floor and make a fool of myself like that. I've never been able to dance; I look ridiculous, and everyone always laughs at me.' Joe was laughing himself by now, but stopped as Mikey looked at him with tears in his eyes. 'I don't want to let your Katy down but...'

  'You know,' said Joe, 'I was exactly the same when I wed her mother.' Mikey looked surprised. He'd always thought Joe was good at everything, so confident, so calm in all situations. 'Tell you what lad; I'll do the same for you that my father-in-law did for me.'

  And one week later, Mikey led Katy onto the dance-floor to great applause from all their guests. He gave her a little grin and took her in his arms. The band started playing, but before they could take more than a step or two, Joe walked across to them, tapped Mikey on the shoulder and said: 'my dance, I think; just one more time if that's OK?'

  And Mikey watched in pride as his new wife waltzed around the room in her father's arms to the sounds of 'I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen'.

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  A Gift for Annie

  He stood in the shop, biting his lip. Which scent would Annie like best? Rose? No, that would be too forward for a first date. Lavender? No, far too old fashioned. How about Lily of the Valley? Yes, that would be perfect. His mind made up, he grabbed a couple of the waxy cones from the display, paused, pulled out a third, had a look at the price, and put the third one back. He needed to keep some money in case she wanted chips on the way home.

  The shop assistant who'd been watching him from a distance smiled gently as she took them from him.

  "Would you like them gift wrapped, sir?" He looked at her uncertainly until she added, "no charge—it's a special for Valentine's Day," when he nodded vigorously.

  As he carried his beautifully-wrapped parcel carefully down the street towards the Rialto, he had a moment of panic. Would Annie laugh at the idea of candles? Should he have brought her flowers after all—as his mum had suggested. But flowers were so expensive this weekend, and there would be nowhere for Annie to put them as they watched the big movie. And he knew Annie liked candles. He's heard her talking to her friends about them.

  That was before he'd had the nerve to ask her out. Or even to speak to her for that matter. She was so beautiful, so popular, always surrounded by friends—and with a string of boys panting for her favours. He didn't think he's got a chance.

  And if he was honest, it wasn't him that had asked her out. It was the other way round. He'd been sitting on his own, reading, in the canteen and she'd come in with some of her mates. He'd seen them whisper something to her and giggle, Then, to his shock, she'd come over and sat down beside him, asking about his book. They seemed to have the same taste and as they talked, his initial blush had cooled down and he'd started to relax. It was as she stood up to re-join her friends that she'd said casually, "There's a great film on this weekend. Do you fancy going?"

  Now he stood outside the Rialto, glancing at his watch and staring up the road in the direction he knew her bus would come. Finally, when he was beginning to panic that they would miss the start, a large red vehicle appeared on the horizon, drove up the road—and sailed straight past the bus stop.

  He looked up at the upper deck, just in time to see Annie, with two of her friends, grinning out of the window at him and waving as they went on their way.

  He slumped back against the wall; how could he have been so stupid? How could he have believed that someone like her would really have wanted to go out with someone like him? Looking at the parcel clutched in his hand, he heaved a deep sigh. Maybe his mother would like them. He could give them to her for Mother's Day. Although he'd have to change the wrapping first.

  "Stood you up, has she?" A sudden voice made him jump. It was the girl from the candle shop. "I saw the little cow waving to you from the bus. That's a mean trick to play." She paused and looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You know, I was hoping to see this film," she went on, "but I didn't want to go on my own." He looked at the tickets in his hand, then smiled at the girl and nodded. She linked her arm through his and they strolled towards the front door together. "By the way," she said, "my name's Annie—and Lily of the Valley is my favourite flower.

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  Networking

  "So in conclusion, I would urge you all to network as much as possible, whenever you can, with whomever you can—you never know what will come of it."

  The elegant woman at the front of the room sat down with a smile, acknowledging the warm round of applause. I assume she must have taken some questions over the next few minutes, as I could see her mouth opening and closing, but frankly, I didn't hear a single word. I was in love! Not in a sexual way, not even in a fraternal way—but in the way that I wanted to be her. I wanted to be a rich, famous, spectacularly successful author—just like her.

  When I came to, the formal session was ended and a queue was forming at the table where she was signing her latest book. I didn't have any money; at lea
st, not enough to spend nearly twenty quid on a glossy hardback. But I wanted to talk to her; I needed to have a conversation with this vision in front of me, see if some of her advice would rub off. She'd said in her speech that she was always happy to help others further down the ladder than her—at least, I'm sure that's what she said.

  So I joined the queue. It was really long so I had plenty of time to plan my question. And then I had time to get really nervous about it. And finally, I had time to think "hell, it's only networking; and that's what she recommended." But before I could get to the front of the queue, the worst happened. She sold out of books! Her agent made an announcement: "that's all folks, sorry." My idol stood up, smiled sweetly at everyone—and was gone.

  And that should have been it; my chance was lost. Until I was strolling down the High Street a little later and spotted her, with her agent, sitting in the bar of the local Italian restaurant. They looked relaxed, off-duty, sipping white wine and reading the menus. It was early evening and the place was nearly empty.

  I didn't give myself time to think. Pushing open the door, I enquired if they had a table for 1. The waiter smiled, grabbed a menu and walked me across the room, right past where SHE was sitting. I stopped and held out my hand.

  "Well hello," I said with a bigger smile than I was feeling, "how nice to see you. I loved your talk."

  She looked taken aback and her agent jumped up, trying to step between us. She put her hand on his arm.

  "No, it's alright," she said. Then to me, "Sorry, have we met?"

  "Well only in the sense that I am one of your biggest fans," I said "and I wanted to talk more about your networking advice."

  "Yes?" she looked a little less certain now.

  "Look," I said, "I can see you're trying to relax. I'll not disturb you now. Can I ring you next week to ask you a few questions, I was hoping you might give me some pointers; I've written this novel, you see."

  "I tell you what," she said, "I don't have any cards on me. Why don't you give me your number and I'll ring you."

  So I grabbed a bit of paper, scribbled my number on it and handed it to her. She glanced at it and pushed it in her pocket. As I walked on to my table, I heard her laugh at something her agent said.

  She hasn't phoned yet, but I'm sure she will. I'm really looking forward to having another conversation with her.

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  The Making of an Heirloom

  Not many people get a kitchen table as a wedding present. Especially when it's only on loan.

  'I want it back, mind,' Gran said as she watched us load it into the back of Joe's van. 'Means a lot to me, does that table; family heirloom, it is.'

  'Just for a few weeks,' I said, hugging her. 'As soon as we've got some money together, we'll buy another one and you'll have it back, good as new.'

  She'd sniffed, not really believing me—but then, I didn't really believe it was a family heirloom. I don't think Formica goes back that far, does it?

  We'd had it all planned, Joe and me; a couple of years' engagement; saving every month; then a big wedding for all our family and friends and a new home of our own. Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans and all that...?

  So there we were in a tiny bedsit, unfurnished apart from a mattress, a couple of boxes to sit on—and Gran's table on loan. Joe worked all the hours he could, especially after I had to give up work. No-one wants to look at a waitress who's up the duff, now do they? But there never seemed to be any spare money at the end of the week. Or, if there were a few shillings left over, they'd go towards things for our Maisie. So the table on loan became a permanent feature.

  And then, suddenly, it was too late to return it.

  Over the years, as things improved, we bought the new furniture and our own home, first a tiny flat, then a tiny house and finally a much bigger house. The table was no longer needed in the kitchen, so I moved it into my workroom. It was just the right height for my sewing machine, standing under the window, where the light is best. Then when the business grew and I moved into one of the units in the industrial estate, I had proper workbenches.

  The table migrated to Joe's shed and he used it as a makeshift tool bench.

  Next week, our Maisie's getting wed. They've got a nice little place, down by the river. Bought all their furniture together, they have. It looks really nice.

  Tonight, when they pop in for their tea, Joe's got a surprise for them; he's converted the old table into a computer stand; fitted a little shelf underneath for the printer, and painted it to match Maisie's study walls.

  'You look after that,' I’ll say, 'that's a family heirloom, that is.'

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  Playing Chess with Tommy Newland

  Our Dad and Tommy Newland from down the road played chess every Saturday afternoon. They would go down the pub, have a couple of drinks, then come home and play three games. Always the same arrangement. Whoever won got to chose where we bought supper—and the loser paid.

  Now, Dad was a former star of the game. He'd learned when he was at school, was junior regional champion at fourteen and even represented the county in the national finals one year. So he was on to a pretty safe bet. And he always won.

  Tommy was a great sport; he never complained when he lost three-nil. And on the odd occasion he took one game off Dad, you would see him grinning all week. But when I looked at his eyes, I could see, he really, really wanted to win—just the once.

  Dad always made sure he picked a pretty cheap place for supper: the chippie on the corner, the Indian down the road, or the Chinese next to the library were our favourites, and I found out one day that he had a private deal with each of these places. They would charge Tommy about half the real cost, and Dad would pop in and settle the rest of the bill later in the week.

  "But don't you go telling Tommy," Dad said, when he realised I knew what was going on. "The lad's got his pride, y'know."

  Then came the weekend when it all changed. Tommy had been studying hard for months; every time I saw him, he had some book or other about chess in his hand. And this Saturday, it all came together for him.

  Mum and I were used to the games lasting about an hour each; but when we poked our head around the front room door at 6pm, they were still on the first one. And just as we turned to go, we heard Tommy's quiet voice:

  "Mate!" and Dad laughingly agreeing.

  Two hours later, we were getting really hungry, so we went back in—but they were still on the second game; and when it was over, Tommy was two-nil up.

  Well, we weren't going to miss history being made, so Mum and I made some sarnies, figuring the take-aways were going to be shut by the time they were finished. And we were right. By the time Tommy won the third game and made history, it was nearly midnight! But it was worth it to see the light of pride shining in his eyes as he said goodnight and wandered off home.

  Tommy Newland never played chess again. He was found dead in bed two days later by his land lady. The doctor said it was a massive stroke and he wouldn't have felt a thing,

  And as Dad and I stood at the graveside and watched Tommy start his final journey, I was so glad he'd finally had his wish.

  "Wasn't it lucky he managed to finally beat you, Dad," I asked.

  "Luck," said Dad, "nay lad, I don't think luck had anything to do with it."

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  The Job Interview

  There isn’t a mirror so I’m making do. The image is distorted—and I can only see my mouth—but that’s all I need to redo my lippie. I smooth a layer of gloss over the strawberry fizz and push the shiny top back on the plastic tube. Right, I’m ready.

  “I’m in the market for a job,” I say to the old geezer behind the desk. Well, he called it a desk...

  “Do sit there on the other side of the desk and we can have a chat” he said

  ...but I can see it’s really an old kitchen table. Nice though, oak, and someone’s put a bit of work into cle
aning it up. Wasted really, stuck here at the back of a junk shop.

  I’ve been here a couple of times before. First time, I brought in a load of Gran’s jewellery; well she never goes out these days and it’s a bit old-fashioned for me, so we agreed I’d sell it and put the money towards a nice new TV. She does love Corrie, does Gran.

  That day, the old guy wasn’t there—just his young assistant, Tim. I gave him lots of chat about what the stones were, how much it was all worth, the price of gold, that sort of thing; I’d looked it all up on the internet before I came in. He’d got a smart new laptop sitting on the counter beside him and I thought he was going to check my facts, some of which might have been a bit exaggerated, but he just nodded and offered me a hundred quid. Dead chuffed, I was.

  Then a couple of weeks later, I was at a loose end, so I popped in one morning. Tim was on duty again. In fact, if I do get this job, I’m going to make it clear I expect some proper training and support; no leaving me on my own until I really know what I’m doing. Well, I had a wander around; chatted Tim up a bit, he looks quite sweet when he blushes like that. And then I spotted it. A pretty pink vase just like the one on that Antiques programme the night before. I couldn’t see what was so great about it, but Gran was really taken with it. Mind you, we were both shocked by how much it was worth. Some folks have more money than sense, as Gran said. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to spend all that on a tiddley little vase, even if I had it, which I don’t. So I walked right away from it, to the other side of the shop, and started looking real close at an old suitcase. There was a stack of them, leather, a bit battered but sturdy looking. When I picked up the top one, it had a train ticket stuck in the label holder, a single from Brighton to Clapham Junction. Well, my Gran was born in Brighton, so I took that as a bit of an omen. Tim wanted twenty five quid for it, but I offered him a tenner; we haggled a bit and then settled on fifteen.