Summer Daydreams

by Carole Matthews

  Betty’s handbags are not mere bags but are veritable works of art and, as such, are completely beyond my price range. I might be a regular visitor here but I’m not a very good customer. I’m purely a window-shopper, but Betty doesn’t seem to mind too much. I come in to coo and purr at the bags, but I always have to put them back on the shelf.

  ‘Hi, Nell,’ Betty says as I push through the door. ‘All right?’

  ‘Fine.’ The shop is a calm oasis. If I could ever have my own shop one day, this is the atmosphere I’d like to create. It’s done out like someone’s living room and I can feel myself unwind as soon as I’m over the threshold. The only thing that I’m conscious of is that until I’ve been in the shower, I bring with me the lingering odour of cod and chips. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘Get a load of these,’ she moons as she strokes a bag I’ve not seen before. ‘New in today. Bought them from a designer up in Manchester.’

  The bags are all handmade in felt, vintage-style, and smothered in buttons of all different shapes, sizes and colours. They are luscious and I’m instantly in love. I pick up an oversized one in differing, shimmering rainbow tones – red, yellow, green, blue, orange, purple – and hook it over my arm. It’s mesmerising. And it fits me perfectly.

  Ever since I was a child, I’ve loved handbags. My earliest memory is taking my mother’s out of her cupboard and parading round the house with each of them in turn. Looks like I inherited the handbag-fiend gene from her. I am hoping to pass it on to my own daughter, too.

  My mum’s responsible for my interest in fashion – compared to my friends’ parents, mine were a tiny bit bohemian and fun. Every Saturday when I was growing up, we’d go into town and look at what was new in the shops. Even if we couldn’t buy anything, we’d spend hours trying stuff on. She often made my clothes for me so I didn’t look like all the other kids and she taught me how to sew and knit, do patchwork and crochet. We’d spend hours together painting in our old, lean-to conservatory – something I’d like to do with Petal if she didn’t have the patience of Attila the Hun. It’s a shame that I hardly see my mum now that I’m older and she’s moved away. Retirement to a small town in Norfolk was something that I hadn’t seen on the cards for her, but she loves it.

  My own extensive collection of handbags is in a wardrobe in our spare room, which drives Olly mad as he’d like to take over the entire space for his precious collection of vinyl records. Sometimes I take all the bags out just to look at them. Occasionally I let Petal play with them, just as my mum did with me. Men just don’t get the whole handbag thing, do they? Though they come in surprisingly useful when they want us to carry all their stuff in them. Right? All my handbags are in their own dust bags, each one with happy memories attached. A woman can never have too many handbags.

  ‘I love it,’ I breathe, admiring myself this way and that in the full-length mirror.

  ‘Suits you,’ Betty agrees.

  ‘I can’t even bring myself to ask how much.’

  ‘A hundred,’ she says. Then, at my sharp intake of breath, ‘I could do you a discount. As a regular.’

  I don’t point out that I’m a regular who buys nothing.

  ‘Even with a discount, I can’t consider it,’ I say reluctantly. Even though it’s much cheaper than many of her bags, Betty might as well have asked me for a million quid. ‘Olly would kill me.’ In a particularly painful manner.

  My handbag-buying has been severely curtailed in recent years. Frankly, I can’t even think of the last time I bought one. But I can all too easily bring to mind the mountain of bills sitting on our sideboard: gas, electricity, council tax. The rent is due and as always, Petal needs more shoes. The very last thing on earth that I can afford to splash money on is a fancy handbag.

  ‘Want me to put it to one side for you?’ Betty cajoles. ‘I could keep it for a couple of weeks if you put a small deposit on it. A tenner would do it.’

  I can feel myself weakening. In my purse is a tenner. My last one. In my wardrobe there is the perfect outfit to go with this bag. If there’s a greater temptation than the perfect handbag, then I certainly can’t think of it. Running my fingers over the buttons, I chew at my lip. Surely my child wouldn’t mind wearing scuffed shoes for a while longer for the greater good?

  Then I come to my senses. ‘I can’t, Betty. Much as I’d love to.’ Taking the handbag off my shoulder, I reluctantly hand it back to her.

  ‘Another time,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’ I leave the shop, crestfallen. Another time. Another life.

  Chapter 3

  When I finally get home, Olly is playing tea party with Petal. They’re both sitting on the lounge floor, picnic rug spread out, surrounded by dolls. Petal is pouring pretend tea out of an orange plastic teapot and Olly is humouring her by eating a Jammie Dodger in the style of the Queen from a child-size plate. Even our dog, Dude – the least walked dog on the planet – is in tea party mood, with a checked napkin tied round his neck. He is looking longingly at the biscuits.

  ‘Daddy, share your biscuit with Dude,’ Petal instructs as I come through the door.

  Olly does as he is told and Dude whines with relief. He’s very fond of food, our dog, and treats every meal as his last after having been dumped at a rescue centre, half-starved. The kennel girl described him to us as ‘the most minging dog she’d ever seen’. Of course, that made us fall in love with him instantly. He’s a black something or other with a white patch on his chest and a face that looks like it has seen the hard side of life. Happily, those sad days are behind him and apart from in the walkies department, he lives a life of comfort, ease, regular meals and occasional Jammie Dodgers.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘The worker returns.’

  ‘I was just about to call,’ Olly says when he sees me.

  ‘Thought you’d got lost, hun.’

  ‘Needed a bit of therapy,’ I tell him.

  ‘Ah, Betty’s handbag emporium.’

  I throw myself onto a beanbag. ‘Yes.’ Said with a yearning sigh.

  ‘Petal and I had pasta and pesto for lunch,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve left a bowl for you to put in the microwave later.’

  ‘Daddy’s cooking is nicer than yours,’ Petal tells me.

  That is because everything I give her to eat comes out of a packet. ‘That’s why I’m very kind and let Daddy do it so much.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Olly says. ‘You’re all heart.’ We both laugh and, although we’ve been together now for over ten years, I never tire of the sound of it. ‘I’m just going to finish this delicious Jammie Dodger that Petal has prepared for me and then I’ve got to see a man about a disco.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m back on at six.’

  ‘Eat a biscuit, Mummy.’ Petal presses one on me. ‘They’re good for you.’

  I do hope she hasn’t gleaned this slightly flawed nutritional titbit from me.

  ‘I won’t,’ Olly says. ‘I’ll be back in time. There might be a new residency at a punk bar that’s opening.’

  ‘In Hitchin?’

  ‘Don’t knock it. We’re a very diverse community.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little bit late for punk?’

  ‘I’m told there’s a resurgence.’ Olly shrugs his bewilderment at the ways of the world. But then, to be fair, we do still have an unhealthy attachment to all things sixties. I guess some people have never been able to throw away their dog collars and bondage trousers.

  ‘Do you actually know anything about punk music?’ I take in Olly’s crisp white button-down shirt and cords.

  ‘Sex Pistols. Clash. Buzzcocks. Er… ’

  ‘Bob the Builder,’ Petal chimes in.

  ‘Bob the Builder,’ Olly agrees. ‘That well-known pogoer.’

  ‘What’s a pogoer, Daddy?’

  ‘It’s someone who jumps up and down a lot.’

  So, of course, my daughter has to try it. As does the dog.

  ‘I’m outta here,’ Olly says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks for leav
ing me with an overexcited child and dog. Go and knock them dead with your extensive knowledge of punk.’

  ‘We need the money, Nell. If that means I have to become a latter-day expert on punk rock, then so be it.’

  ‘I know. I’m only teasing.’ I lean over and kiss Olly. ‘You’re wonderful. Are you on shift tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll be ready to leave as soon as you get home.’

  And that sums up our life really. Ships that pass in the night, handing over our child as we do. I know that money isn’t everything, but life is certainly a lot harder if you don’t have any.

  Olly works the night shift in a pizza factory, which fits in with him looking after Petal and shoehorns round my shifts too, though it means his sleep is generally random and insufficient. It pays the bills but it’s not exactly living the life. Like my job, it does come with free food. There is, however, only so much pizza one can eat in a lifetime.

  Olly picks up Petal – which does momentarily stop her from bouncing, although Dude does it more to compensate – and squeezes her. ‘Be good for Mummy.’

  She looks at him as if that’s never in any doubt.

  ‘Come and give me a cuddle,’ I say, and my wriggly daughter joins me on the beanbag. As does the dog.

  Petal’s hair smells of strawberry shampoo – Olly must have washed it for her today – and I kiss it softly. My baby looks just like her dad. Dark unruly hair, chocolate brown eyes, rugby player’s legs. ‘Do you know that you’re the best little girl in the whole wide world?’

  ‘Yes,’ Petal says. ‘Can I have another Jammie Dodger?’ Might as well try to push it while you’re in favour, I think.

  ‘Yes. Then you can help Mummy to do a mood board. She’s going to decorate Uncle Phil’s chip shop.’ I remember that I’ve completely forgotten to mention this to Olly or the fact that he will, as a result, be in charge of childcare for the whole weekend. I hope he’s not arranged extra work as he quite often does.

  ‘Pink,’ Petal suggests. ‘Do the chip shop pink.’ And do you know, I might well do.

  Chapter 4

  I’m never happier than when I’m doing stuff like this. The living room floor is covered with scraps of fabric, trimmings, beads and buttons that I’ve collected over the years from goodness knows where.

  ‘Cut out this one for me please,’ I say to my small assistant. Petal has her tiny pink tongue out in concentration and is snipping pictures from my collection of old, battered magazines with her plastic, kiddy scissors and meticulous care. I’m sticking and pasting like a thing possessed and my ideas for the big Live and Let Fry makeover are crystallising nicely.

  The door opens and Olly pops his head round. ‘I suppose my lady would like a cup of tea before she goes to work?’

  ‘Work?’ I glance at my watch. ‘Omigod, is that the time?’ Hours have passed. I haven’t showered, eaten, troubled myself with housework. All I’ve done this afternoon is fiddle with this mood board. ‘I’ve got to fly.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I forgot to tell you that I’ve volunteered to decorate Phil’s place this weekend. We’re really struggling for business, Olly. I felt it was the least I could do.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘That means you’re on parenting duty again.’

  He shrugs. ‘When am I ever not on parenting duty?’

  ‘Soon she’ll be twenty-two and we can have a day off,’ I promise him.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘How did the meeting go?’

  ‘Good,’ he says with a self-satisfied smile. ‘Between now and Wednesday I need to become Hitchin’s answer to the Malcolm McLaren I managed to convince them that I am.’

  I get up and give him a hug. ‘You’ve got such a very clever daddy, Petal.’

  ‘Whatever,’ our child says. She even does the ‘W’ with her hands. I don’t know who has taught her this.

  ‘I’ve checked with Stu Stapleton. He’s got a loft full of punk vinyl that I can borrow.’

  ‘That’s nice. Didn’t know Stu was a closet punk rocker.’

  ‘We all have our dark secrets,’ Olly says. ‘Now,’ he smacks me soundly on the bottom, ‘go and get yourself showered while I make some tea and ping this pasta for you.’

  ‘I can get some chips at the shop.’

  ‘You can’t live on chips, woman,’ he says. ‘If you’re giving up your entire weekend for Phil, surely he won’t mind if you’re ten minutes late.’

  Phil, bless him, never minds what we do. I don’t think that anyone has ever told him that sometimes bosses can actually be in control of their staff. I hope no one ever does either as we love him just as he is.

  ‘I’ll come and give a hand, too.’

  ‘What about Petal?’

  ‘She’s not too young to learn about the working end of a paintbrush.’

  ‘She’s four.’ Going on thirty-four.

  ‘Once upon a time she would have been up a chimney at her age.’

  ‘Knowing our daughter, she would have enjoyed it.’

  ‘I know that you’re talking about me,’ Petal says without looking up.

  Olly and I smile at each other. God help us when she’s sixteen.

  My lover pulls me into the hallway and winds his arms round me. ‘You smell of chips.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I got so caught up in myself, I haven’t even showered yet.’

  ‘I find it quite a turn-on,’ he whispers in my ear.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Hmm. When exactly did you and I last have a night of passion?’

  ‘Er? When was Petal conceived?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he says. ‘I remember it well.’

  But, joking aside, it has been some considerable time since our bodies were horizontal without having a small child wedged between them.

  ‘I promise I will rectify that very soon.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ His beautiful brown eyes glint with mischief. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  Clearly it won’t be this weekend as the only stripping off I have in mind is Phil’s 1980s border from his scruffy chip shop walls.

  Chapter 5

  ‘This is it?’ Phil’s eyes widen at the sight of my colourful mood board. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘It will look fabulous.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He points to one of the cuttings.

  ‘A little twiddle,’ I inform him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Twiddle,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Since when does a chip shop have twiddles?’

  ‘Take a chill pill, Phil,’ Jenny throws in. ‘Nell knows what she’s doing.’ Then to me, ‘You do, don’t you?’

  I do a theatrical sigh. ‘Oh, ye of little faith.’

  This morning I went out and bought the paint before my lunchtime shift, having cajoled the promised three hundred pounds out of my boss. I also got us brushes, trays, white spirit and all the other guff you need for decorating. At least I hope I got everything. Now, at ten o’clock, the shop is shut up for the night an hour earlier than usual and Phil’s small but perfectly formed army of willing workers is about to get cracking.

  I’m so thankful that Jenny has turned up because if she’d had a better offer from a hot, or even slightly lukewarm, bloke it could have gone either way.

  Our co-worker, Constance, is also here. She’s quite a bit older than Jen and me, late fifties probably, and has been with Phil since he first opened the shop which must be more than twenty years ago. She has a great figure, unnaturally red hair and a penchant for leopard print leggings, tight sweaters and hooker heels, which is, indeed, the outfit she has turned up to paint in. Foreseeing this and, in the interest of protecting her clothing, I bought us all white paper overalls in Poundland. Now we’ve pulled them on, we look like some sort of crack team of forensic investigators instead of hapless amateur decorators.

  Phil levers the lid off the first tin of paint and turns pale. It’s the lightest shade of pink I could find.
Think the inside of a shell, sugared almonds, a ballet tutu.

  ‘Pink?’

  ‘Don’t question,’ I tell him. ‘Just paint.’

  Constance has inch-long fingernails, manicured in the brightest of reds, but that doesn’t stop her from picking up a scraper and setting about the skanky border with vigour. Within seconds, scraps of it are lying at her high-heeled feet.

  ‘If you wash down the walls first with sugar soap and then we’ll set to on the painting,’ I tell Phil and Jenny. ‘OK?’

  They both shrug their acquiescence and pick up the cheap buckets and sponges I bought and start to wash down the walls. We’ve already covered the black and white tiled floors with newspaper and grouped the furniture in the middle of the room. While they scrub away, I start to strip the varnish from the glossy, orange pine tables and chairs, which is going to be a long and messy job.

  Constance pauses from her scraping to turn up the stereo. Disco classics pump out. ‘We’re going to need something to keep us going,’ she says. So we all sing along to ‘Saturday Night Fever’. We even throw some moves with our sponges.

  As we happily clean and scrub and strip, the occasional drunk, seeing all the lights still on, bangs on the door in search of chips, only to be disappointed.

  It’s pushing midnight before Phil dips his brush in the paint for the first time. He closes his eyes momentarily, fresh, shiny pink poised over the ancient, skanky peach. ‘For better, for worse,’ he says.

  ‘Go on with you,’ I chide. ‘It will look marvellous.’

  ‘Pink,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘Pink.’

  I don’t confide in him that my four-year-old was my style advisor.

  ‘I’m done,’ Constance says. She stands back and admires her handiwork. The entire curled-up border has gone and the remnants of it have been sanded from the walls. ‘And I haven’t even chipped a nail.’