You Must Be Jo King

by Moira Murphy

  The thing that was really peeing her off though, was that Nigel was a Lib Dem and getting more Lib Dem every day. He was putting himself forward as a party candidate and he was doing three laps round the park every morning before breakfast, to get fit to fight the Council elections. She said she wouldn’t mind so much if he looked anywhere near decent in Lycra shorts and a bum-bag, but he didn’t. And as Alison had no desire to see the park at dawn, she had told him that her allegiance lay in being apolitical and he said it that was just the sort of attitude that had the country on its knees. Which, she had told him, was how she would be after three laps round the park before breakfast. He was going to knock on doors canvassing as a Lib Dem candidate and he would like to think he could count on her support. Was he kidding? she said, wearing a yellow rosette and knocking on doors around their area! They’d get knocked out. She said it was eco this, eco that and eco the other. Talk about an Eco Worrier! He said she should be more concerned about the planet, but she said she was doing her bit she really was.

  She was becoming as eco-friendly as anything. She had stopped using hairspray, mainly because her new hairstyle didn’t warrant it, and she separated her rubbish into the various recycling bins, although she knew it all got chucked in together when the men collected it. She was all for people using public transport which was no more than she’d had to do since the clutch went on her car, but somehow, gaining and retaining knowledge on carbon footprints, was prohibited by a distinct lack of enthusiasm. She had tried watching Question Time to improve her mind and to impress Nigel, and to be honest, what else was there to do on a Thursday night before the weekend got going. But, try as she might, she either fell asleep or she found her finger clicking onto the shopping channel.

  I sympathised… men… I poured some more wine.

  “What’s that sack thing hanging on that hook?” Alison said, pointing to the back of the kitchen door.

  I reached it down. “Sack thing!” I said, in mock astonishment. “I’ll have you know this is a natural, top-notch, made-in-India, hessian peg apron.”

  “What the hell’s a peg apron for?”

  “To hold pegs of course.”

  “As in?”

  “Clothes pegs. For pegging out washing.”

  “Bloody hell, Jo.”

  I told her she wasn’t the only one saving the planet, because not only had I been saving the planet for my children’s future but I’d also been saving money on my electric bills by pegging the washing outside instead of using the tumble dryer. And, my mother, to show how impressed she was by my economy, had bought me this peg apron.

  “And the upshot is?” Alison asked.

  “Not good. You see, being the simpleton that I am, I’d always thought you just stuck pegs in the clothes and the wind blew them dry. But, oh, no. My mother came round and re-hung everything it had taken me ages to hang out. She wasn’t altogether sure the line had been wiped down properly. Then the clothes should have been hung inside out so that the sun wouldn’t bleach them and with the openings hung in the direction of the wind. The pegs should always be put in the thickest part of the garment, i.e. the waistband, and sheets should be hung from their four corners. And to top it all, as I was bending over to get the clothes out of the washing basket, the bloody pegs fell out of the pouch of my apron all over the garden and I thought, bugger this for a game of soldiers so I gathered up the pegs and the washing basket and made for the tumble dryer. So, if you’d like to be the proud owner of a peg apron, be my guest.”

  Alison said, she’d pass on that.

  I lit the oven and turned the gas on under the pans. We were having salmon in a dill and rocket dressing, with new potatoes and green beans and for dessert, pears poached in red wine with scrunched up meringue and clotted cream. I said I hoped I wasn’t dishing up too many calories. Alison said not to worry as she’d never known a calorie she didn’t like. She said it sounded lovely, it was ages since she’d had salmon.

  I said, “Ah yes, but this isn’t any old salmon. This is Marks and Spencer salmon. Prime salmon caught in the clear cold waters around the Scottish coast by fourth generation conservation minded fishermen from the small fishing town of Peterhead in the North of Scotland.” (And in case there was any doubt of that, I had the label to prove it.)

  Alison said of course it was, and the dill and rocket for the dressing had been grown in soil of fairy stardust before being teased from the earth by the wave of a magic wand, to be then picked by the soft, gloved hand of Alan Titchmarch. Then, and only then, was it sprinkled with Lourdes water for cleansing before being gently floated into extra, extra, extra virgin olive oil. Oil produced from rendering down ripe, eighteen year old virgins from the remotest corners of Sardinia, where the excesses of man were virtually unknown and where were to be found the only eighteen-year-old virgins inhabiting the earth.

  Then we ate it.

  We cleared the table, stashed the dishwasher then went into the lounge with our glasses and the bottle. A Grease CD was playing on repeat. This was nostalgia. This was school disco time. We put down our glasses and sang Grease is the Word into each other’s faces.

  We flopped onto the sofa and giggled.

  We sang along with John Travolta and with breast stroke arm movements to Greased Lightning, but the strains of Sandra Dee was our cue to pump up the volume, kick off our shoes and jump onto the sofa. I was Olivia Newton John and Alison was Stockard Channing.

  Alison had just finished the ‘Elvis! Elvis!’ bit, when struggling to focus through blurred eyes, I became aware of the figure of Lucy, standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching us. I nudged Alison and we wobbled to a halt.

  “Are you two drunk?” Lucy demanded to know.

  “Drunk?” I slurred.

  “Drunk?” Alison slurred.

  “Course not,” We slurred together, indignantly.

  “Well that’s what it looks like from where I’m standing.”

  I nearly slurred, ‘Well stand somewhere else then.’ But I didn’t.

  We tried our best to straighten up, look sensible, sober, adult, but it wasn’t easy, bleary-eyed and wobbling about shoeless on a sofa.

  Lucy went to the stereo and turned it down. “For goodness sake, Chloe and I can’t hear ourselves think!” And with that she flounced out muttering something about some people never grow up.

  Never grow up! We pulled faces and stuck out our tongues at the closing door, then fell into hysterics.

  It was the most I’d laughed since George was chased around the bird sanctuary by Percy the Pelican. Although then I’d actually wet myself.

  Alison said it was the most she’d laughed since we’d met Gemma Graham, who had her baby in its pram. Being baby-phobic, Alison had held back, while I’d gone straight for it, peered into the pram to say what a cutesy little thing it was, but was struck dumb by how un-cutesy it actually was. Alison said the expression on my face was the funniest thing she had ever seen and we missed the next two buses while she calmed down.

  It’s amazing how the thought of un-inebriated parents coming to collect their off-spring can transform tipsy, overgrown, overblown disco queens into something resembling normal.

  Strong coffee, a fresh slick of lipstick, a comb through our hair and Chloe and Jack were called down to be dispatched to their sensible, sober parents and then Nigel came to collect Alison.

  He had with him, by virtue of killing two birds with one stone, a wad of Lib Dem fliers which he had decided he might as well push through neighbouring doors while he was in the area. He also had a carrier bag filled with lager bottles and cans which he had collected from the streets on his way over and which he was going to take home to ‘dispose of properly’.

  Alison looked at me, rolled her eyes and said she’d be in touch.

  16

  HEN PECKED

  “Mam”, said Jos
h, looking up from his homework, “you know how you’re sort of soft and squidgy?”

  “Hmmm,” I said, wondering what was coming next.

  “Well Fran isn’t like that. She’s like a cardboard cut-out and when she kisses you on the cheek it’s like being pecked by a hen.”

  “OMG,” said Lucy, “as if you’d know what it’s like being pecked by a hen! You are such a nerd, Josh.”

  “I can imagine it, can’t I, Mam?” he said.

  I didn’t say anything, I wasn’t sure where this was leading.

  “Well, I like Fran,” said Lucy haughtily, “she gave me a really nice nail polish the last time we visited.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like her! I just said she’s like a cardboard cut-out and she kisses like a bloody hen,” said Josh, indignantly.

  “All right, Josh, that’s enough of that and don’t let dad hear you saying things about Fran because he won’t like it.” I said.

  “For God’s sake! I didn’t say she goes around killing people!” And with that he picked up his books to finish his homework upstairs.

  O-kay, I shall consider that little episode as number two on my ‘goals to achieve’ list, ticked off. No need to overdo it.

  17

  HI GUY

  The most gorgeous man I have ever set eyes on has unexpectedly jumped into my life. He is an artist and for this week only, he is a guest speaker at my interior design course.

  His name is Guy.

  Oooo. Hi Guy.

  Naturally of course, there has to be a downside and it is this. I have come straight to the class from work. I am wearing a plain white blouse, which somewhere along the line has acquired a coffee splash on the front, a naff length, well-worn pencil skirt which has the beginnings of knee indents and a shiny bottom, yukky flesh coloured tights and low heels. This boring ensemble constitutes my business-like work wear and is not a good look. Add to this my make-up, which hasn’t been touched since it was put on in about three seconds flat at seven thirty this morning and my hair (which has a mind of its own) is pulled back tidily but boringly into an elastic scrunchy and you get the picture. This is not the look I would have decided upon to meet the man of my dreams, but hey, Sod and his law and all that.

  Guy came into the room and introduced himself. He unhooked a haversack and a guitar from his back and stood them in a corner before perching himself crossed legged in a sort of Hari Krishna chanting pose on the front desk. He shuffled about on his backside, making himself comfortable while at the same time flicking back both sides of his slightly wavy, ash blond, shoulder length hair, which then fell back into exactly the same position. His Daniel Day Lewis cheek bones accentuate the most amazingly beautiful sea green eyes, and a vaguely discernible bit of stubble gives him a sort of Jesus Christ Superstar look. Of course the guy from Jesus Christ Superstar, didn’t wear a wide necked tie-dyed tee shirt, a plaited leather thong necklace and Jade beaded bracelets, but otherwise…

  He has come to teach us about colour; the language of colour, colour and light, colour and proportion and colour combination.

  He looked around the room, bringing colour to the cheeks of the assembled females, well mine anyway, with the most stunning smile, then said:

  “Colour is a basic human need… like fire and water, it’s raw, it’s indispensable to life…”

  –I’m drooling, I just know he’s using colour as a euphemism for sex.

  “… It’s a universal language, it stimulates emotions, it evokes nature and personality traits and has a human dimension which is irresistible. It affects perception and mood…”

  –Told you.

  “… Seeing colour, using it and surrounding yourself with a personal palette that works for you, produces a calming backdrop for daily life…”

  –I’m mesmerised, the only colour I’m interested in being the turquoise of those spectacularly beautiful eyes.

  “… The colour wheel works by linking the primary colours of red, blue and yellow with the secondary colours of violet, orange and green and with the tertiary colours…”

  –I’m using the power of consciousness to get him to notice me.

  He untangled his legs, pushed himself off the desk and produced from his haversack a colour wheel which he proceeded to stick onto the blackboard. He’s wearing loose fitting jeans; low slung, turned up at the bottom, bohemian looking. I could do bohemian. I could live with gorgeous Guy in a commune at Stonehenge singing ‘Kumbaya’; in fact, I’m there now...

  Meandering waist deep through fields of golden barley in my gypsy top and beads and my long tiered skirt and Doc Martens. My untamed hair is hanging loose and wild about my shoulders with the occasional burdock burr in its tangles. The barley ebbs and flows, waving about me like tinsel. The wicker basket looped over my arm is filled with the fruits of my labour. In the near distance I see the rising smoke of camp fires, joss-sticks and Marijuana. Plaintive notes coaxed from the mouthpiece of a harmonica, waft on the breeze.

  My mother, dressed in a hessian sack tied round the middle with a hemp rope belt, is in a corner knitting fingerless gloves. Her hair is standing on end giving her a vaguely mad look, like Ken Dodd but without the teeth. She is waiting for me to return with my spoils, the nettles for soup and the dandelions for tea. She has picked over a drum of elderberries for winemaking and she has some milk thistle pods brewing to extract a medicine for a healthy liver. She is saying things like, ‘What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world yet suffer the loss of his own soul’. Sadie, with a beanie hat pulled low on her head and wrapped in a bit of old carpet is whistling something non-descript while giving the milk thistle pods a good stir round with a hawthorn twig. Lucy, with a circlet of bluebells and ivy in her hair, blows the seeds from a dandelion clock then blows into her panpipes and prances and frolics a barefooted little wood nymph dance while Josh, a dirty little urchin, kicks an inflated pig’s bladder into a makeshift goal.

  Chairs scrape the floor. Coffee break time! Hell! I’d drifted off. I hope he’s not going to ask questions, although it’s possible I could hazard a guess as to his jeans size.

  I was about to join Christine and the others to goz about gorgeous Guy, when he called my name and asked if I had a minute.

  He waited until everyone had gone then he asked if I’d be interested in sitting for him in his studio. Sit! I’d run up the walls and hang off the chandelier. He said I have an unusual profile which he would like to get onto canvas. Sort of Barbra Streisand-ish. He wondered if I might be Jewish. Bloody hell! Perhaps he is Jesus.

  The power of consciousness had worked. He had singled me out. He wanted me to sit for him. I wasn’t used to attention from gorgeous men, I had to grab the moment, hold onto it. I said, “Actually, I’m not Jewish, but my maternal grandfather worked for Isaac Cohen in his raincoat factory before the war.” I felt lightheaded. Perhaps I should have eaten more at lunchtime. I babbled on. I told him about the tatty old envelope my grandmother had kept in her cutlery drawer with the yellowing paper flyers in it. The ones I used to take and out look at when I was small and having tea there. I even recited a couple of the versus:

  If it’s raining, don’t be blue,

  Step inside for something new,

  You’ll stay dry and you’ll look posh,

  In your Isaac Cohen mackintosh.

  And:

  Why drip,

  When you can drop,

  Into Isaac Cohen’s

  Mackintosh shop.

  Then I stopped. Here was the Artist Adonis who wanted to draw me and I was gabbling on about the stuff in my Granny’s drawers! What was wrong with me? Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have been listening. He was studying me but I was wishing I had gone with the others. Then he surprised me by saying how much he liked the definitive cupid’s bow of my lips and the hazel-green colour of my eyes with thei
r gold flecks which seemed to reflect the freckles on my nose and the burnished copper of my hair.

  Bloody hell!

  My classmates trooped back from their coffee break wondering where I’d got to. I shrugged and smiled enigmatically; who needs Gold Blend when you’ve got gold flecks…

  When the lesson was over, Guy picked up his haversack and guitar, said he was hurrying to meet a friend for a jam session and handed me a scribbled note of his address and phone number and the time of Saturday morning at 10am.

  Saturday at 10am would be perfect. Lucy will be in Starbucks with Chloe eyeing up the new waiter who had, and I quote, eyelashes to die for and Josh will be at five a-side.

  I vaguely remembered saying goodbye to my classmates as I levitated into the car park. I somehow found the car, got into it and turned the ignition key. The car engine hummed as I sang the ‘My Guy’ song from the sixties.

  Perhaps I’d driven home or perhaps a passing cloud had towed me. In any event the car found its way into its space on the drive and I floated to the front door.

  My mother had given the children their tea. “Joanne,” she said, “I’m worried about the children’s health. Lucy has told me computers can have viruses and I heard on the radio recently that penicillin is in short supply so I don’t think it’s a good idea for the children to be around viruses.”