Be Careful What You Wish For

by Vivien Brown

  ‘Yeah, okay, tease me, why don’t you? But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to stay safe. A country girl like me, not used to the dangers of city life …’

  ‘To be honest, I think I’d be more worried about the dangers of country life. All those winding roads with bloody great tractors trundling towards you, and bees and stinging nettles, not to mention the rampaging bulls.’

  ‘Ha! It’s not all like that, I promise you. Not in Shelling anyway.’

  ‘So? How about Saturday then? For the photography lesson. We could head out in the afternoon, before it gets dark, and go down to the embankment. South Bank maybe, watch the entertainers, and the people going by, and the boats, take in a couple of bridges? Go up on the London Eye too, if you fancy it, and take some aerial shots.’

  ‘Not too sure about that. I’m not good with heights. Can’t even manage the rollercoaster at the fair.’

  ‘Well, that’s heights and speed, to be fair, and the Eye’s hardly superfast!’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ she said, without committing herself either way.

  ‘Oh, go on. Be bold for once. I dare you!’

  Prue laughed. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘And I know I said it’s not a date, but we will need to eat something at some point, if you can bear my company for that long.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Right. I’m going now. Out to meet some mates for a drink while I don’t have a night shift to worry about, and I’m sure you want to get back to your book. What is it, by the way?’ He leaned down and picked the book up from the path. ‘Hmm. Thriller, eh? And I had you down as a Mills & Boon kind of a girl.’ He stood up and dropped the book into her lap. ‘See you Saturday. I’ll come up and knock for you. Five-ish okay?’

  Prue nodded and watched him walk away. Mills & Boon? All hearts and flowers, and hunky heroes. Was that really the image she gave off? She felt a bit insulted until she remembered she had actually been reading a romance not too dissimilar to that just the other day. Nothing wrong with romance though, as long as she saw it for what it was. An escape, a fantasy. She was only too aware that real life wasn’t much like the way things were depicted in mushy novels. It didn’t always come with happy endings, for a start.

  Chapter 17

  MADI

  ‘And how is our Flo this afternoon?’

  Since word had got around Madi had had a constant stream of callers, asking after everyone’s favourite little cat and offering what help they could, including twice-daily visits from the young vet Ralph to administer Flo’s meds and check on her progress. This time it was Tom Bishop from next door, standing on her front step, carrying a box of Jaffa Cakes and a tin of tuna.

  ‘Much better, thank you. She’s up on my bed, having a nap.’ She nodded towards the box in his hand. ‘But I’m not sure cats eat Jaffa Cakes.’

  ‘Oh, no. The tuna’s for Flo. Nice and soft, while her gums are still sore. The cakes … well, they’re for you. Well, actually I was hoping you might like to share them with me, over a pot of tea …’

  Madi laughed. ‘I know. Just having you on. Come on in.’ She went into the kitchen to fill the kettle, and Tom followed. ‘So, how are things? How’s your wife doing?’

  ‘No change. But then, there never is really. But how are you? I see you’re …’ He gestured towards her head.

  ‘Not wearing my wig? No, I’ve decided to brave it out, be the real me, while I’m indoors at least.’

  ‘Good girl. That’s the right attitude. And may I say that it did you no favours, that wig. You look much better … more natural, more real … without it.’

  ‘Thanks, but you didn’t see me when I was totally bald. As a coot, as they say. Not a pretty sight anyway, I can assure you. But now my hair’s starting to grow back, I’m feeling a lot more positive. Things can only get better.’

  ‘They can indeed. And are you better? You didn’t say a lot before, about your illness, your treatment. Cancer, I’m assuming, and chemo. Is it gone now? The cancer? For good?’

  ‘No one can ever promise that, but it’s looking hopeful, yes. Should be able to think about getting back to work when I go home.’

  Tom took the tea she handed him and they moved across to sit at opposite ends of the sofa. ‘And is that what you want? To work? I’d have thought maybe you’d like to do something different now. You know, take a world cruise or do a bungee jump or something. One of those life-affirming, getting-your-life-back moments you read about people doing. Or just take it easy and enjoy being alive?’

  ‘I am taking it easy, while I’m here, but I can’t do nothing for ever. Work is all I know.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing? Doesn’t sound like a very good reason to go straight back to it. Not to me. How old are you, Madi, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Not something I could keep secret if I tried, in my profession. A quick internet search would tell you all you wanted to know, right down to my shoe size, even my bra size, I shouldn’t wonder, although that won’t work in quite the same way it did before, will it? One cup or two!’ She smiled, feeling proud of herself at being able to make jokes about it all, and after a moment’s hesitation Tom smiled with her. ‘I’m sixty-two,’ she went on, coming back to his question. ‘Not quite ready for the scrap heap just yet.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you were! But certainly young enough to live out a few dreams. Tell me, what have you always wanted to do?’

  Madi shrugged. ‘Act.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’ve already done that, a thousand times over. Nothing left to prove. What else?’

  ‘Learn to swim.’ Madi sipped at her tea and took a Jaffa Cake from the packet Tom had just opened and waved in front of her. ‘Something I never got around to. And see the pyramids, I suppose. Finish a Times crossword without cheating. Be a better mother …’

  ‘And what’s been stopping you?’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From doing all those things? There are lots of swimming classes for beginners, for older people, even women-only classes if that’s your bag. And we’re not far from the sea here. What’s to stop us going for a splash right now, if we wanted to?’

  ‘It would be freezing!’

  ‘True. Maybe not the sea then, or not today anyway. But the pyramids? A holiday to Egypt? How hard can that be to arrange? Plenty of specialist singles tour operators out there if you’re worried about going on your own. And what better time to perfect your crossword skills than on a long lazy holiday? Or buy a book to help you learn. As for the better mother thing …’

  ‘That’s the one I really can’t do much about, isn’t it? I was a poor mother while my son was growing up, and now I’m paying for it. I haven’t seen him, or spoken to him, in months.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Tom offered her another Jaffa Cake and she took it, nibbling at the edges so she could save the orange filling until last. ‘Because it’s never too late, you know. You need to fix these things while you still can. There might come a day when you realise your chance has gone. When something happens to him, or to you …’

  ‘You’re talking about your wife?’

  ‘Exactly. Not that we had any unresolved arguments to settle, but you never know when it might be the last time you see each other or spend time together, being happy, enjoying a normal life … the last time it’s possible to say what you want to say and know it’s been heard and understood. You always think there will be another day, another opportunity, and then suddenly there isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, I could have died, I know that, but I didn’t want to burden George with my illness. He has troubles of his own. They couldn’t have children. Or he couldn’t, apparently. And his marriage was breaking up. Probably has by now.’

  ‘Even more reason to talk. Sounds to me like you stopped communicating just when you needed each other the most.’

  ‘And what advice could I give him? About hanging on to a relationship, making a marriage work? I never married. His father was married to som
eone else. Hardly role models, were we? And my only pregnancy happened by accident.’

  ‘We all make mistakes. No son should judge his mother because of something she did, or didn’t do, years ago, before he was even born. It’s what you do now that matters.’

  ‘And what is that exactly? Rock up at George’s door with one boob, no hair, and say I’m sorry with a bunch of flowers? His wife was … is … desperate for a baby. They found it difficult, impossible. I think, in the end, that future non-existent baby she couldn’t get out of her head meant more to her than he did, and she’s probably already found herself a conveniently fertile bloke to give her what my George couldn’t. And then she’ll dump him, when she’s got what she wanted, just like she’s dumped George. The power of the maternal urge, eh? Another thing I’m not qualified to understand.’

  ‘You’re very hard on yourself, Madi. And on her. Do you know that?’

  ‘I’m a cynic, Tom. People do what they have to do, to get what they need. Look after number one. It’s what I did for all those years, palming my only child off on my parents. I always thought it would be just for a while, that I’d come back and be a real mum, that we’d fall into each other’s arms and live happily ever after, but then I’d get offered another show, a leading role in a play … Like you said earlier, you never know when it’s going to be too late, do you? When the chance to put things right has gone by? Maybe she’ll go back to him. George’s wife, Jessica. Maybe she’ll get pregnant by someone else and he’ll take her back, take the baby on, because he loves her and it’s what she wants more than anything, and because it’s the only way he can ever be a dad …’

  ‘Madi, you don’t know if any of this is true. What about IVF? Adoption? There are any number of solutions that don’t involve her sleeping with some random stranger. Their marriage was under strain obviously, but you don’t even know if it’s definitely over. Or why. Anything could have happened in the months since you last spoke to your son. A reconciliation. Counselling. Medical intervention. A miracle conception, even. And you’ll never know unless you make that first move and break the ice.’

  ‘I did try. Just the other night. I tried to call but it went to answerphone.’

  ‘And? What message did you leave?’

  ‘I didn’t. I chickened out.’

  Tom sighed. ‘Oh, Madi, what am I going to do with you? You know, if he was here, your George, I’d bash your stubborn heads together. Still, there’s only so much nagging I can do. The rest is up to you, so I’ll back off now and we’ll change the subject. Have another Jaffa Cake before I eat the lot, and let’s check on Flo, shall we? It is what I’m supposed to have come round for. Feeling poorly or not, I bet if we open this tuna, the smell will have her down those stairs like a shot!’

  Flo appeared, right on cue, as soon as the tin was opened.

  ‘She knows which side her bread’s buttered!’ Tom said, draining off the liquid and forking the fishy contents into a saucer. ‘What a life, eh? A comfy bed, a sunny garden, her own entry door, not to mention people falling over themselves to come and visit her, and even her own personal physician on call. This cat is pampered to within an inch of her life!’

  ‘Sounds pretty idyllic, when you put it like that.’

  ‘She’s certainly on the mend, isn’t she? Do you think maybe you could bear to leave her for a few hours later and join me for a meal? Oh, only local. The Brown Cow do a fantastic steak and kidney pie. Best for miles around. Chips or mash, a pile of peas, homemade gravy. What more could you ask for?’

  Madi hesitated. She had been meaning to give the village pub a try ever since she’d arrived, but somehow she hadn’t got around to it yet. The thought of all those regulars sitting at the bar, their eyes turning in her direction as she walked in alone, hovered at the back of her mind. Silly really, for an actress used to being watched by strangers, to feel almost shy about drinking or dining alone. She’d done it often enough before, but going with Tom, having a companion to sit and chat with over a meal in a quiet corner, sounded wonderful. The trouble was, he was a married man. She knew, better than anyone, where a relationship like that could lead. The trouble it could cause. And what would the locals have to say about it, she wondered?

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. Your wife …’

  ‘Barbara has nothing to do with this, Madi. Look, I’m not asking you out in a romantic way. Friends, okay? You’re away from home, away from work, and you spend your days, and your evenings, in this cottage by yourself. I think you might be lonely. I know I am. Nothing more.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. I just wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.’

  ‘As long as we have the right idea, it’s none of anyone else’s business, is it? I don’t hold with village gossip. It can be hard to avoid listening to it sometimes, but I don’t create it, or abide by it. It’s my life, and my Barbara would want me to live it, and enjoy it, while I can. So, are you coming, or not?’ He winked at her. ‘Could be your last chance. My hurt pride just might mean that I never ask again.’

  Madi took her time deciding what to wear. Tom was a married man, a friend, and this was not a date. She kept telling herself that, trying to convince herself that dressing up was not necessary, that Tom would not be expecting her to look overly glamorous, just for an evening eating pie and mash in a small village pub. Not that she had the sort of clothes with her to create a glam look even if she wanted to. No, trousers it would have to be, and a nice top. Just a hint of make-up, and she would discard her flat shoes for the one good pair of heels she had brought with her. She stood in front of the bedroom mirror and toyed with the idea of not wearing the wig, putting it on and then taking it off again several times. Tom had said she looked better without it, but she knew he had only said that to boost her confidence. Her half an inch of pale stubble might look okay when sitting at home sipping tea, but out for a meal? No, she would feel more like her old self with a decent head of hair. Long hair. It would make it less likely that she might be stared at, talked about, pitied.

  He arrived right on time, ignoring the doorbell and tapping gently on the glass in the front door. He was wearing jeans. Good, very dark, blue jeans, with a leather belt looped through at the waist and a crisp white shirt tucked in, open at the neck. She was so glad she hadn’t forced herself into a dress. This was not a date, and keeping things casual started with looking and feeling casual. So far, so good. She saw him looking at her head, but he said nothing, just smiled and nodded, making it clear that the choice was up to her. So far, even better.

  He took her arm as they walked down the lane, tucking it carefully into his own.

  ‘There’s sometimes a singer, on a Saturday night,’ he said. ‘I rang to book us a table, in case they’re busy, but I didn’t think to ask.’

  ‘That would be nice, if there is. I’m looking forward to the meal anyway, with or without, but I do like a bit of entertainment.’

  He laughed. ‘I should think you do, in your line of work. Ever done any yourself? Singing, I mean. Musicals maybe?’

  ‘I’m no singer, believe me. I did try it out, at drama school, as we all did. Tried a bit of everything actually. Comedy, tragedy, mime, dance …’

  ‘But you settled on straight acting?’

  ‘It’s where my heart is, I suppose. Not that I don’t enjoy an occasional go at something lighter, hence my ill-fated foray into soap for a while, but I prefer something challenging. And the older I get, the more I’m offered the more interesting parts. You know, the sinister old woman, the evil murderer, the old battle-axe. I even played a female King Lear once. A rather modern version, obviously! But singing? No.’

  The pub was warm and noisy and packed with people as they pushed open the door and Tom led the way to the bar. There were paintings of all shapes and sizes on the whitewashed walls, all of which appeared to depict cattle or horses or sheep, and there were long red candles in waxy wine bottles on the tables, and a real fire glowing in the grate.

  ‘
What would you like to drink?’ Tom asked, having to raise his voice above the hubbub. ‘Or would you rather go straight to the table and order a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Wine, I think. But just a glass. My pills …’

  ‘Righto.’ He spoke to the girl behind the bar and Madi saw her check her reservations book before picking up two menus and leading them to a small table in the far corner.

  ‘Thanks, Sally,’ Tom said, waving the waitress away and pulling Madi’s chair out for her to sit down. ‘I chose this one because it’s nicely tucked away, so we have more chance of hearing each other speak. And you get a good view of the garden too, with the fairy lights on. A few hardy folk do go and eat out there, under the canopy, even at this time of year. Probably so they can smoke, of course, but at least they can do it in pretty surroundings.’

  Madi picked up her menu and studied it. ‘I thought you said pie!’ she said. ‘I’d imagined a choice of maybe two or three pub staples, but I didn’t expect this. There’s more choice here than you’d see at a lot of top London restaurants. Crab, mussels, venison, black turkey – I’m intrigued to know what that is – and roast lamb …’

  ‘All good local fare, Madi. You can’t live off the land and be this close to the sea without benefiting from the freshest, best-tasting local food going. Please don’t tell me you’ve been eating all that frozen and tinned stuff Patty sells in the shop. What a travesty! I must introduce you to a fantastic butcher I know. Brings his meat over in a van. To Shelling and all the other villages around, twice a week, so you don’t even have to go to him. And his turkeys are something else … well, they’re pretty much our national dish around here! I know you probably can’t eat a whole one, but I’m always willing to come over and share. In the interests of not wasting good food, obviously. As for the lamb … well, you must have noticed all the fields of fluffy little white sheep around these parts.’

  ‘Oh, don’t. I don’t like to think about that. Give them a face or a name, and I have an almost immediate urge to turn vegetarian.’