‘What’s it like being the only girl?’ Gemma asked when they’d clinked glasses.
‘There’s a lot of talk about my boobs,’ Clarrie said with a shrug.
‘Davy?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Sorry, Clar. Never thought about you being left to take the get-your-tits-out-love bullet for the team when I went.’
‘God, Gem, I miss you,’ Clarrie said. ‘Can’t you come back? Even if you and Sonny could just be mates again…’
‘That’s his call, not mine.’ She rested her forehead on her palm. ‘I never realised, when Sunil and me broke up, how difficult it’d be to carry on seeing the rest of you. I’ve barely seen Dave and Si since it happened.’
She didn’t say it, but Clarrie felt a stab of guilt all the same. Gem hadn’t been seeing much of her either, at least not compared to before.
It was difficult, when their social life revolved around the group. They couldn’t cut Sonny out when he’d been the wronged party, but they hadn’t wanted to lose Gemma either. In the end, they’d had to let the ex-couple guide them – and for Sonny’s sake Gem had decided to self-exile.
Gemma was staring meditatively into her wine. ‘You lot’ll be off on your boozy camping trip soon, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, next month,’ Clarrie said.
‘Wish I was coming.’
‘Me too.’
‘How many years is it now? Nine? Must’ve been the summer after A-Level mocks the first time we did it.’
‘Ten. We started after GCSEs. Jeff bought us all that cheap beer, remember?’
‘Oh yeah. Bloody hell, don’t think I’ve ever been so ill.’ Gemma’s eyes had a wistful, faraway look. ‘I used to love those weekends. Highlight of the summer holidays.’
‘Couldn’t you talk to him, Gem?’
‘I told you, it’s for him to decide where we go from here.’ She gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘Ah well. Only myself to blame.’
‘Right couple of sad cases, aren’t we?’ Clarrie said, swirling her wine. ‘Crap love lives, the pair of us, drowning our sorrows in a Barbie wine glass and an old man tankard.’
She caught Gemma’s eye, and the pair of them burst out laughing.
‘Oh God,’ Clarrie said, wiping her eyes. ‘You bring any more wine?’
‘Funnily enough…’ Gemma reached into her handbag and yanked out another bottle.
‘Want to stay over and get leathered?’
‘Asking me out, Midwinter?’
‘I should know the drill by now, Si’s been doing it long enough.’ She grabbed the remaining wine from the fridge. ‘Come on, let’s go up to the flat and order pizza. I’ll let you pick the film.’
5
The Hole in t’Wall wasn’t a pub at all in the traditional sense, although at its heart it was more of a pub, a real British pub, than a lot of the Stepford Wives chain efforts that had sprung up around Denworth in recent years. The Hole was exactly what it said on the tin: a couple of cubby holes inside an old woollen mill, banged together to make a dingy space with an inappropriately luscious solid oak bar stuffed into one corner.
The landlord, Gaz, was a local lad with big ideas, determined to create something a bit different for his fellow drinkers. The result was a bleak, scrapbook, speakeasy sort of place, both cosy and sprawling, with a great selection of real ales, iconic movie posters on the exposed brick walls and an atmosphere you could cut with a broken Newky Brown bottle.
Clarrie liked it. The drinks were cheap, and… well, that was it, really. The drinks were cheap and she was skint. A pub didn’t need to work too hard to impress her.
Shame she couldn’t seem to develop the same attitude to men.
She smiled at the scene that greeted her when she entered the crowded pub. A red-headed child of about four was sitting on the edge of the bar clutching a bunch of carnations, talking earnestly to Si. It was Ellie, Gaz’s little girl from his second marriage, who occasionally made an appearance in the Hole when it was her dad’s weekend to have her.
‘Them’s roses, Simon,’ Clarrie heard her telling Si with an air of authority. ‘They grow out the floor. In mud.’
‘Thanks, Els, I’ll remember that.’
The little girl puffed herself up. ‘In my garden we got roses too but lots, lots bigger – lots. They gets big coz my mummy lets me put water on them.’ She looked up at him. ‘Flowers has to drink too, you know. When they get thirsty.’
He smiled. ‘And what about when they get hungry?’
‘They eat, er…’ She paused to think before settling on a suitable meal for a flower. ‘Cheeseburgers.’
‘From Flower McDonald’s?’
She giggled. ‘Yup.’
‘Want to hear a joke about flowers, Els?’
Ellie clapped her hands. ‘Yeh! Joke please.’
‘What do you get if you cross a sheepdog and a rose?’
‘Dunno.’
‘A collie flower.’
Ellie gave a little bark of a laugh, like she always did when anyone told her a joke – whether she understood it or not. ‘Funny joke.’
Clarrie came up behind Si and flicked his earlobe.
‘Heyup, sailor. Show a girl a good time?’
He turned to face her. He was smart-casual in dark jeans and a tight grey t-shirt, a charcoal blazer with sleeves rolled to the elbow hanging open over the top.
‘I’m guessing that’s Clarriespeak for “I’m broke, buy us a drink”.’
‘It is, yeah.’
‘Way ahead of you. There’s a pint on its way.’
‘You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Simon Dewhirst.’ She smiled at the little girl. ‘Hi, Els. Remember me?’
‘I remember. Simon’s friend.’ Ellie thrust out her flowers for Clarrie to look at. ‘Here, you gotta smell these.’
Close up, Clarrie could see the little bouquet was actually plastic, tied with a red ribbon. She made a show of sniffing it deeply.
‘Mmmmm. Nice.’
‘Want to hear a joke?’ Ellie asked.
‘Hit me.’
‘Wassa dog that eats flowers called?’
‘Poorly?’
‘No. Um…’ She paused, frowning with the effort of memory. ‘Cabbage.’
‘Cabbage?’
‘Yeh. Simon says.’
Si shrugged. ‘It’s the way she tells ’em.’
‘Where’s Daddy, Els?’ Clarrie asked her.
A thick-set, shaven-headed man who wouldn’t have looked out of place on the door of a nightclub appeared from somewhere, looking flustered.
‘Here,’ Gaz panted. For some reason he was clutching a towel in one hand and a golfing umbrella in the other, which he stashed under the bar before swinging his daughter down in huge, heavily tattooed arms.
‘Come on, Els. Let’s take your flowers upstairs and put them in some water, eh? Nana’s here to see you.’ He nodded to Simon. ‘Thanks for watching her. My ex-missus has really dropped me in it, dumping her on me like this in the middle of the beer festival. I’ve had to get my mum to drive over from Wakefield. Was she okay for you?’
‘Good as gold. You know, you should get her a spot on Gardeners’ Question Time.’
Gaz laughed. ‘I’ll get her out of your hair. Cheers, Si.’
‘You big softie,’ Clarrie said, nudging Simon. ‘You must be king of the Dad joke.’
‘Hey, I learned from the best. My old man’s got a million of them.’ He smiled after Ellie as Gaz led her away. ‘Sweet kid, that.’
‘Where’s Davy?’
Si nodded to the faded Iron Maiden t-shirt at the other end of the bar that contained Dave, topped off by his short-spiked ginger hair. ‘Waiting for our beers. Come on.’
‘Here you go,’ Dave said when they joined him, sliding a couple of pints over. ‘One for the babysitter, one for the lady.’
Clarrie held hers up to the light, blinking into the russet-hued liquid topped with a half-inch foamy head.
‘What is it?’
&nb
sp; ‘Proper beer,’ Si said. ‘You can’t have lager at a beer festival.’
‘It’s called… wait a minute…’ Dave ran his finger along the bar pumps, stopping on a placard showing a lecherous-looking cleric with some sort of chicken under his arm. ‘… er, Bishop’s Cock.’
Clarrie shot him a look. ‘Trust you two to pick the dirty one.’
‘Hey, don’t blame us,’ Dave said, holding his hands up. ‘They’re all like that.’
She cast her eyes along the labels. Randy Stoat, Old Girl’s Knockers, The Butcher’s Bullocks… yep, this was seaside postcard innuendo at its finest.
‘I think Gaz hand-picked them to embarrass the barmaid,’ Si said, nodding to the girl pulling a pint at the other end of the bar.
Dave grinned at Clarrie. ‘You should’ve seen the colour she turned when Si ordered three Bishop’s Cocks.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Come on, Si, not another barmaid who fancies you?’
He shrugged. ‘Girl’s only human.’
‘You ever get tired carrying that heavy ego around?’
‘Nah, keeps me in shape,’ Si said. ‘So, Clar, how do you like the Cock?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve been waiting for me to get here so you could crack that one out, haven’t you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re a couple of perves.’ She lifted the beer to her nose and inhaled deeply. ‘Mmm, cheeky. I’m getting parmesan, I’m getting treacle, I’m getting—’
‘You’re getting foam on your nose,’ Si said with a laugh, brushing it away for her. ‘Stop sticking your nostrils in it and take a gulp.’
‘Okay.’ She took a long draft, then stuck out her tongue. ‘Ick. Tastes like trousers.’
‘Notes of trousers?’ Si looked thoughtful. ‘Funny how they don’t put that on the label.’
‘I like it,’ Dave said. ‘I’d characterise it as a rich, earthy ale with plenty of nose.’
Clarrie narrowed one eye. ‘I’m sure you said that last time we went to a beer festival. About a different beer.’
‘Well, sounds impressive, doesn’t it?’ He struck a pose, leaning on the edge of the bar and gazing into the distance. ‘If I say things like that and do this, girls’ll think I’m aloof and interesting.’
‘I think that only works with wine.’
‘At least my rich, earthy bitter sounds more appetising than your treacly parmesan.’
‘Come on, ale connoisseurs,’ Si said, putting an arm around each of their shoulders. ‘Let’s nab ourselves a table.’
‘Hey. Have you two seen who’s here?’ Clarrie said, as Si guided them towards a vacant table for four.
Si and Dave followed her gaze to a middle-aged couple wrapped round each other in a corner. The man had one hand on his partner’s backside while he whispered something in her ear – something pretty naughty, judging by the smirk on her face.
Dave groaned. ‘You don’t mean we have to watch Yvonne and Pete licking each other all night? I thought we’d be safe once they dropped out of the League.’
‘Oh, give over. I think it’s sweet,’ Si said, smiling in the couple’s direction.
Clarrie shook her head. ‘What is wrong with you? I’d be mortified if I kept bumping into my parents getting off with each other in the pub.’
Si shrugged. ‘They love each other, what’s up with that? I hope I get to have what they’ve got with somebody one day.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Yeah, you just need to find the right five or six girls and you’ll be sorted, eh?’
He sighed. ’I know, it’s going to be tough making that kind of commitment. But we all have to settle down sometime.’
‘Didn’t you know your mum and dad were coming?’ Dave asked Si.
‘Are you kidding? Since when do they tell me where they’re going?’ He nudged Clarrie. ‘Come on, we’d better say hi. Davy, you go grab that free table before someone else nicks it.’
Si approached the loved-up couple and cleared his throat.
‘Oi. Gaz says to tell you there’s no heavy petting, dive-bombing or running near the deep end.’
‘Oh God.’ Yvonne nudged her husband. ‘Pete, it’s the boy.’
Pete detached himself from her and turned round to face his son. ‘Typical. What do you want, Simon, money for the pictures?’
‘What’re you two doing here?’ Si asked.
‘Your mother’s discovered some American thing called date night,’ Pete told him. ‘I have to take her out once a week and buy all her drinks or she’s threatening to trade me in for a newer model.’
Yvonne smiled at Clarrie. ‘Got to keep the menfolk on their toes, eh?’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Come on. You’d miss him if he was gone.’
‘I suppose.’ Yvonne reached up to run her fingers through her husband’s hair. ‘Still, he is starting to look a bit rough around the edges. Maybe a toyboy on the side wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’
Pete snorted. ‘Toyboy? He could never keep up with you, love.’
She grinned. ‘You say the sweetest things.’
If Yvonne did fancy a toyboy, Clarrie couldn’t imagine she’d have too much trouble recruiting one. Si’s parents always reminded her of the kind of couples you got in ads for life insurance: really far too good-looking for ordinary old people.
Yvonne was still youthful in middle age, not much different now from the giggling, warm, occasionally strict woman in her early thirties Clarrie remembered answering the door to her decades ago whenever she’d been round to see if Simon was playing out. Whereas Pete was a Si of a fifty-odd year vintage – handsome, magnetic and towering, with the same full, wavy hair, only fairer and a little grizzled. Si’s dark eyes peeped out from a few crinkles, glittering with the same wicked sense of humour.
‘How’s the new holiday place then, you guys?’ Clarrie asked.
Yvonne nodded. ‘Looking good. The key’s always available if either of you fancy a cheap break on the coast, by the way.’
Si shook his head. ‘Other men have a mid-life crisis, they buy a Porsche. Maybe a villa in Tuscany. My dad ends up with a static caravan in bloody Filey.’
Pete shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me. I had my eye on a nice little timeshare in Provence, till your mum accused me of class treachery and said I wasn’t the earthy son of toil she’d married.’
‘A joke that’ll come back to bite me on the backside when I’m nibbling soggy chips off a donkey on a rainy beach in Filey,’ Yvonne muttered.
‘That’ll teach you to wind me up then, won’t it?’ Pete said, nuzzling her ear.
She giggled. ‘Give up, you randy sod.’
‘Ahem,’ Si said. ‘You know, I’m right here.’
‘And this is how you got right here,’ his dad said, looking up from his wife’s neck. ‘Go on, our Simon, bugger off. You’re killing the mood.’
‘Yeah, come on, the band’s starting.’ Clarrie took Si’s arm. ‘Let’s go back to Davy.’
‘All right.’ Si waved goodbye to his parents. ‘Enjoy your date night, you two. Don’t tell anyone in here we’re related, eh?’
They left Pete and Yvonne to their public displays of affection and went to join Dave.
‘Your parents almost make me grateful for mine,’ Dave said to Si when they were all sitting down. ‘They might’ve barely spoken in twenty years, but at least I don’t have to watch them doing it in my local.’
‘Oh, let them be,’ Si said, smiling in his parents’ direction. ‘I like seeing them happy together.’ He grimaced. ‘Although I wish I hadn’t seen where my dad just stuck his tongue.’
He shuffled his chair around a bit so they were out of his eyeline.
‘Do they ever get a room?’ Clarrie asked.
He took a sip of his beer. ‘They don’t need a room. They’ve got their bloody shagpad in Filey, haven’t they?’
Clarrie glanced at the empty chair. ‘Shame Sonny couldn’t make it, eh? It’s not the same without him sulking at us.’
> ‘Yeah, hope she’s worth it,’ Dave said.
Clarrie stared at him. ‘How did you know he was seeing a girl?’
‘His mum told my mum in Tesco Express. I won’t half rip into him when I see him, pretending he was revising.’ Dave took a long draw on his pint. ‘Tell you what, this stuff does kind of grow on you.’
‘Poor Sonny,’ Clarrie said. ‘Nobbled by mum gossip over the frozen sweetcorn.’
‘You can’t have any secrets round here, Clar, you know that,’ Dave said. ‘The only three hobbies we’ve got in this community are drinking, gossiping and inbreeding.’
‘Speak for yourself, Davy. In our family we tend to stick to the first two,’ Clarrie said. ‘Apart from my mum’s cousins, Dennis and Shirl, but we don’t talk about them.’
‘So who’s this girl then?’ Si asked.
‘Someone his mum found,’ Clarrie said, draining another mouthful of Bishop’s Cock. Dave was right. It wasn’t half bad, once you got used to the trousery aftertaste.
‘Seema still trying to set him up with a Sikh lass, is she?’
‘Yeah. This one looks like a supermodel though.’
‘Bloody hell, really?’ Dave said. ‘Well he’s got no chance then.’
‘Oh, come on, Dave,’ Clarrie said with a smile. ‘Sonny’s pretty fit for a normal person, that daft goatee aside.’
‘You think so, do you?’ Si said.
‘Why, you jealous?’
‘Of Sonny? Never.’ He turned dark, long-lashed eyes on her. ‘What about me, am I pretty fit for a normal person?’
She could tell he was doing his best to look sexy. It was working, obviously, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She swallowed the obvious answer, that he was pretty fit for a bloody Chippendale.
‘Stop smouldering at me, I’m not feeding your ego. Go ask the barmaid what she thinks of you if you need a boost.’
‘When does he ever need a boost?’ Dave said darkly. ‘Handsome git. Pretty unfair on the rest of us.’
‘Aww, poor Dave.’ Clarrie reached across to ruffle his hair. ‘I’d do you.’
‘Thanks, Clar, you’re sweet.’
‘How about this lass of Sonny’s then? Think he’ll go for her?’ Si asked.
‘No,’ Clarrie and Dave said in unison.
A Question of Us Page 4
