by Fiona Gibson
For a moment, everything seems to stop as I stare at her across the table with its myriad of scuffs and stains. Something else is happening too. Perhaps it’s the restorative properties of the tea, or the Penguin biscuits, or her disparaging comment about Bruce that causes the final residue of my drunkenness-stroke-hangover to disappear instantly. It’s as if I have sprung back, and fully regained my faculties. Although I’m sure a police officer would believe otherwise, I feel as if I would be perfectly capable of conducting a driving test right now. ‘Patriot crap?’ I repeat. ‘No – that’s not what he’s about.’
Tanzie’s eyes widen. For the first time, I register how intensely green they are, the effect perhaps heightened by the strange purplish hue of her hair. ‘What is he about then?’ she asks, resting her pointy chin on her hands.
‘Well, I assume you mean Born in the USA …’
‘Yeah, of course …’
‘It’s not a patriotic song,’ I say firmly. ‘In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Have you ever listened to the lyrics properly?’
She shrugs and shakes her head. ‘Can’t say I have. Like I said, he’s not my cup of tea.’
‘Well, it’s about a guy coming back from Vietnam with all the promises of, “Oh, America will look after you because you’re a hero. You’ve been off to fight and now you’ll be given a good job and be properly taken care of.”’ I study Tanzie’s rapt expression. ‘Only, it doesn’t happen that way,’ I continue, ‘and all the promises count for nothing because he’s just flung on the slagheap like he doesn’t matter at all. It’s the very opposite of the American dream. It’s ironic, don’t you see?’ She nods mutely. Even Gordon Ramsay seems to have piped down. ‘It’s about someone who’s given their all, only to be tossed aside like a piece of crap …’
‘Like you!’ Tanzie interjects, at which I laugh, mirthlessly, astounded at her bluntness.
‘Well, I haven’t fought in Vietnam,’ I point out. ‘The only fight I’ve had in recent years was with a candidate who tried to grab at my shirt, and all I did was restrain him.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she retorts. ‘I mean, you’ve given your all too, haven’t you? To your family, I mean?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I bluster.
‘Oh, come on, Nate. I can tell what kind of guy you are. You’ve got a good heart. I know that for a fact …’
‘Do you?’ I ask, confused now. What is she on about?
‘Yes, I do. I mean, the way you’ve brought up your boy and dealt with all that stuff. He has a disability, right?’
I stare at her across the table, prickling with defensiveness now. What has her daughter been saying about him? ‘Well, yes – he has mild cerebral palsy,’ I murmur.
‘Yeah, I know,’ she carries on in her matter-of-fact way. ‘Kayla’s mentioned him. But anyway, never mind that. With you—’
‘What on earth does this have to do with—’
‘The way you just spoke,’ she cuts in, ‘with that forcefulness, like you cared so much. And I assumed you were just this shy, retiring, buttoned-up kind of guy!’
‘Really?’ I ask, dumfounded.
‘Yeah. And all you were talking about was some clapped-out middle-aged bloke in a bandana …’
‘He’s not just a middle-aged bloke in a bandana! What’s all this focus on his clothes?’
‘Technically a bandana’s an accessory,’ she says with a grin.
‘But no one cares what he wears,’ I retort. ‘He’s a musician, not a fashion model—’ I break off as Gary saunters in. He throws Tanzie an irritated look as he helps himself to a can of lager from the fridge. Perhaps he reckons she should be waitressing here too, replenishing his supplies? Tanzie glares at him, relaxing again only when he disappears back to the living room.
‘So, what’s going to happen with you and your wife now?’ she asks.
I shuffle on the wooden chair. ‘Well, er, I’ve come up with a sort of plan, actually.’
‘What kind of plan?’ She leans forward with interest.
‘Um, what I thought was, if I could work through Sinead’s list, point by point, then maybe she’d decide our marriage was worth another chance after all.’ I pause, wondering why on earth I am telling her this. But then, she is sort of forcing it out of me – and at this point, I am beyond caring what anyone thinks of my situation. Maybe I should just take out an ad announcing our split in the Hesslevale Gazette? ‘But, actually,’ I add, ‘I don’t think it’s working.’
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘Well, it seems to me like her mind’s made up.’
Tanzie frowns at me. ‘Are you sure?’
I drain the last of my tea. ‘Looks like it. I mean, we’ve talked since, and she’s spelt it all out – and I took her some flowers the other day but that didn’t seem to go down very well at all.’
‘Really? I love flowers …’
‘Hmm, well, she didn’t seem too impressed.’
Tanzie flutters a hand as if trying to waft away my negativity. ‘So, apart from that, what have you actually done off the list?’
I pause, really keen to order my cab now. The last thing I need is to delve into all of this. Plus, I have Scout to let out when I get home, and these damp, dirty clothes to deal with.
‘Erm, I’m just starting out really,’ I mutter.
‘Right, so which of these have you put right?’ She jabs at the crumpled sheet of paper on the table.
Oh, to hell with it. I might as well give her all the information she needs, then I can call my taxi and leave. ‘Okay, so you see where it says I leave too much to her?’ Tanzie glances down and nods. ‘Well, I’ve done loads in the house. It’s probably the cleanest it’s ever been …’
Her eyes narrow. ‘You think your wife will come back just because you’ve run the hoover about?’
‘No, not just because of that,’ I reply irritably.
She throws me a stern look. Now, I reckon, she is perfectly capable of standing up to the Lino King through there. ‘So, what else have you done since she left you?’
Christ, she’s really wasted as a burger bar waitress. She’d make a first-class interrogator. ‘I’ve, er, mown the lawn …’
‘Big deal!’
‘Not just that,’ I say quickly. ‘See where she put “Your mother”?’
‘Uh-huh …’
I swallow hard, feeling as if I am being interviewed for a job, and failing badly. ‘I made it clear to Mum that it wasn’t on, her bad-mouthing Sinead …’ I tail off, registering a distinct lack of approval. ‘And I’ve called a guy who’s coming round with a view to buying my record collection.… ’
‘Your Bruce Springsteens?’ she gasps. Ah, now I can see she’s impressed. Hang on. Why do I care what this woman thinks of me?
‘They’re only records,’ I say blithely. ‘If they’re bothering Sinead that much, they can go.’ I shrug, to demonstrate that it’s of little consequence really. ‘Oh, and I’ve mentioned the flowers …’
Tanzie raises a brow. ‘What kind were they?’
‘Carnations and things – I forget what the others are called – from the garage …’
‘From the garage?’ she gasps.
‘Yes, I was late back from work—’
‘Did you grab her a bottle of anti-freeze while you were at it?’ she crows, sliding the list back to me.
‘I thought the flowers were enough,’ I mutter, deciding not to add that I ‘arranged’ them in a bucket.
‘So, that’s it, is it?’ she says curtly. ‘That’s basically all you’re planning to do to win her back?’
‘No, of course not,’ I protest. ‘I’m going to do lots more …’ I pause and glance at my bare wrist, then check the time on my phone: 12.20 a.m.
‘Can I just say something?’ she remarks.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Well, I just think you’re going about this all wrong.’
I look at her, knowing I should try the taxi company again right now. But I a
m also desperate, and if she can offer a crumb of advice, then I’m prepared to sit here for a few minutes more. ‘What d’you mean?’ I ask.
She pushes back her still-damp hair. ‘If you really want her back, I think you should forget about the crappy flowers and the hoovering and concentrate on the important stuff. If you don’t mind me saying …’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, reading that list, as a woman … I think I know exactly what she’s getting at.’
‘Do you?’ I ask. Tell me then, I will her. Tell me what the hell to do because I really could do with some help.
‘Yeah. I mean, just try to understand what she’s actually trying to tell you here. It’s not really about shelves or records or mousetraps, is it?’
‘Isn’t it? I have no idea. My mate Paolo reckons—’
She shakes her head impatiently. ‘Never mind what a bloke says. This list – well, it’s about feeling neglected, un-cared-for and probably depressed. I mean, she’s had years of this, hasn’t she? Years of looking after the family and feeling put-upon …’
‘D’you really think so?’
‘Of course she has. She’s done the lion’s share of looking after a disabled child …’
‘Tanzie, d’you mind not referring to him as—’
‘And maybe she’s lost herself along the way. Lost her identity, I mean, and any sense of how to be happy. Have you ever asked her if she’s depressed?’
‘Er, not really. She did see the doctor a while ago …’
‘And what happened then?’
‘She got some pills,’ I reply, ‘but I think she stopped taking them.’
‘You think?’ she exclaims, with an eye roll.
I nod, aware of a gnawing sense of shame now. But then, how can Tanzie possibly know anything about my marriage, when she hasn’t even met my wife?
‘What you need to do is show her you care about her properly,’ she continues, ‘as a woman, an individual, and not just Flynn’s mum. Never mind setting the mousetraps and shouting at your mother—’
‘I didn’t shout …’
‘You know how you talked about Bruce Springsteen just then? How revved up you were?’
I nod wordlessly.
‘Approach it like that. Show her you’re passionate about putting things right – and I don’t mean by squirting a bit of Mr Sheen about the place …’
‘We don’t use Mr Sheen,’ I mutter.
‘I mean, show her that you love and respect her.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘I can’t believe you belittled her job …’
‘Honestly, I don’t think I have!’
‘Well, she thinks you have. What does she do anyway?’
‘She works in a gift shop called, uh, Tawny Owl or something.’
‘Tawny Owl?’
‘Or Snowy Owl …’
‘Nate, what kind of owl is it? You don’t even know!’
No wonder she left you, she means.
I scrunch up the Penguin wrapper. ‘I’ve just forgotten. God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, actually,’ she retorts, ‘but it’s not too late to show her how much you want things to change.’ She leans back and smooths down her damp hair. ‘Self-pity is terribly unattractive,’ she adds. ‘So, when you’ve calmed down and stopped drowning your sorrows and collapsing in Wendy houses—’
‘I didn’t collapse,’ I protest.
‘Then you can get yourself some gumption, a backbone, and start to be the kind of husband and father she wants you to be. Do all that, and I promise you everything’ll work out.’
I blink at Tanzie, momentarily lost for words. I have never met anyone quite like her. I had no idea she could be so forthright, so presumptuous – so damn bossy actually – when she sat there sobbing in her driving instructor’s car. ‘D’you reckon that’ll work, then?’ I ask finally.
She nods. ‘Yeah, of course it will. But next time you buy her a present, don’t stop off at the petrol station, will you?’
‘No, I definitely won’t,’ I say, quite bewildered now as I pick up my phone and finally manage to speak to an actual human being at Hesslevale Cars.
Fifteen minutes later, I am wearing my almost-dry jacket, having thanked Tanzie profusely and called out a cheery goodbye to Gary, who didn’t even turn around from the TV.
Installed in the back of a pine-scented minicab, I look out at the wet, black night, feeling somehow lighter as we speed along the country lanes.
Maybe that’s why my wife has been seeing a therapist: because she simply needed to offload. Well, I understand that a little more now. While I still have no idea what the future holds, a new sense of purpose has settled over me; it’s time to look forward, to be positive and strong for Sinead, for Flynn – for all of us.
By sheer fluke tonight I found someone of my own to offload to. And as Sinead once told me after a Rachel session, it’s good to talk.
Chapter Eighteen
Tanzie
Burger Bill’s is unusually busy this Sunday afternoon. There have been rumblings about the place closing, which would be a real pain. I mean, I moan about the buses, and sometimes having to arrive in Hesslevale two hours before my shift starts. But being jobless would be worse. It’s just getting terribly competitive around here with so many restaurants all jostling for attention in the middle of town.
Dressed in the particularly unattractive uniform of tangerine tunic and my own shapeless black trousers, I deliver burgers, ribs and chicken wings – plus fries, copious fries – to the party of eight who are all drinking beers and wine and shouting over each other at the circular table by the window.
‘Could I have pickles? Did I ask for pickles when we ordered, love?’
‘Yes, you did. There are pickles on your burger …’
‘And we wanted extra mustard on the side?’
‘Yep, I’ll bring that right now …’
‘Is there barbecue sauce on this?’
‘Yes—’
‘Are you sure?’ A paunchy thirty-something male with a silly, greasy little ponytail whips the top off his bun and examines the burger, as if it might jump up and snap at his face. ‘Okay, darling, there is sauce – but you’ve been a bit mean with it, naughty girl. That’s just a dribble …’
I fix on my bland, nothing-ruffles-me face. I’m as adept at putting it on as I am my lipstick. ‘I’ll bring you some more,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not a problem.’
‘Well, yeah. I’d like a lot more than that!’
I can bring you the giant plastic tub it comes in, if you like – and tip it over your fat, smug head. Would that be enough sauce for you?
‘She doesn’t assemble the burgers,’ remarks a blonde girl in a tight pink top. ‘She just brings them to the table.’
‘And she does it very charmingly too,’ ponytail man says with a patronising smile.
I smile back – tersely – managing to resist telling them that I’m not just a ‘she’, in fact I do have a name, it’s why I wear a badge saying TANZIE. But heck, who cares what they call me? As I collect a dish of extra sauce from the kitchen, I find myself thinking instead about Nate – as I have numerous times over the past two weeks, since I virtually frogmarched him back to my place. Should I have left him alone, all wet, muddy and disorientated in Liv and Steve’s garden? I know I went a bit over the top, lecturing him on how he might win his wife back. As if it’s any of my damn business! In fact, I’ve looked out for him, pretty much every time I’ve been in Hesslevale – just for the chance to say, ‘Sorry, I really didn’t mean to go on at you that night. I felt sorry for you, and I just wanted to help you really.’ But there’s been no sign of him around town. Maybe he’s glanced into Bill’s and spotted me in my terrible uniform. After sobbing when I failed my last driving test, and then banging on at him about his wife’s list, he probably has me down as a nutjob.
Anyway, I’m one to talk about how anyone should get their life together. Six shifts a week, I’m doing at the moment, puttin
g up with the attitude that any woman who works in a place like Bill’s is fair game when it comes to the comments. The near-constant stream of ‘darlings’ and ‘babe’; the assumption that I enjoy any kind of male attention. ‘Cheer up, honey,’ some creep drawled last week. ‘Is it your menopause or something? Are you drying up?’
Unfortunately my boss, Stefanos – known as Stef – was there at the time, so I just gritted my teeth and fell into my joking-with-the-punters tone: ‘Not quite yet. But don’t worry – I’m a ticking time bomb. I’ll let you know when it all kicks off.’ It might not be arse gropes and boob stares like the younger waitresses have to put up with, but it’s bad enough.
Until three years ago, I had a great job. I was PA for the Managing Director of Brogan Mitchell Pies, a company that started small, selling savoury pies around the Pennine towns of Yorkshire, and grew quickly, expanding to supply all the main supermarkets; it was phenomenal. I’d been there from the start, when it was just Brogan himself – who I knew from secondary school – and four women in the nearby factory, on a small industrial estate towards the northern edge of Hesslevale.
When the factory could no longer cope with demand, Brogan bought a bigger place, closer to Solworth, although our offices remained where we had always been. But there were teething problems with the new factory. The pastry was wrong, the meat substandard, and customers complained. Brogan realised he would have to make regular checks to ensure that the new, twenty-strong workforce were doing things properly.
The stress was taking its toll. One morning, following a late-night mash-up for his birthday, Brogan was stopped in his car by police and breathalysed. Still over the limit from the night before, he was fined and given a two-year ban. Now he needed a PA who could drive him back and forth from office to factory every day.
‘I’d like that to be you, Tanzie,’ he said. I’d had a few driving lessons, and vowed to knuckle down and pass my test as quickly as possible. He said he could get by with taxis in the meantime, if I could book a test right away and pass either that one, or the one after that – two chances. Talk about pressure! But Brogan had given me a real opportunity in hiring me, and I knew I was lucky to have that job.
