A Question of Us

by Mary Jayne Baker

  Si smiled softly and held up his board. ‘How’d you guess, Clar?’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s what I’d have said if it was my question.’

  Two rounds later, Greg and Kath were eliminated and the remaining pairs were left to fight it out.

  ‘Okay, Davy,’ Yvonne said. ‘For this round, you both answer. So I want you and Lyndsey to tell me…’ She looked at the card in her hand. ‘Oh God, your mother’s going to kill me.’ She flashed an apologetic glance at Dave’s mum. ‘Sorry, Polly, I got these online. Er, right, young Henderson. What’s her favourite sexual position?’

  Dave blushed. ‘Do I have to answer that?’ he mumbled.

  ‘If you want to win.’

  He sighed, carefully avoiding his mum’s glare. ‘Not that badly. Pass.’

  ‘Lyndsey?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Pass too.’

  Dave chucked her a relieved smile.

  Yvonne grinned. ‘Prudes. Right then, our Simon, your question for the win. Tell me one thing about your partner that no one else in this room knows.’

  Si shrugged. ‘That’s easy. She’s wearing odd socks.’

  ‘All right, Clarrie, shoes off,’ Yvonne said, giggling.

  With a sigh, Clarrie pulled off her trainers and waggled her feet in the air to reveal one yellow, one black sock. There was a loud cheer from the pub.

  ‘How’d you know that, Simon?’ Yvonne asked.

  ‘She never has a matching pair on. Reckons life’s too short to pair your socks.’

  ‘Her mother must be very proud.’ Yvonne caught Kath’s eye, who gave a resigned shrug.

  ‘Okay, your turn, Clarrie,’ Yvonne said. ‘Got anything to tell me about this lad of mine he doesn’t want his mum to hear?’

  Clarrie smirked at Simon. ‘Getting you done.’

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Serve you right for making me show everyone my socks.’ She turned to Yvonne. ‘He’s got a pretentious tattoo on his hip. A little lightbulb.’

  Yvonne glared at him. ‘Oh no, Simon. You haven’t defiled the body I gave birth to with a tattoo.’

  ‘I’ve been defiling it for years, Mum.’

  ‘That is more than I wish to know, ta muchly.’ She turned to the audience. ‘Did anyone else know that before I award the point? Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather my only son didn’t have to get his backside out in the pub.’

  ‘I did. Sorry, Clar,’ Sonny called from their table.

  ‘What?’ he said, turning to meet Gemma’s raised eyebrows. ‘Saw it in the gym.’

  ‘Er, me too,’ a female voice from the back called out.

  ‘Who is it, Si?’ Clarrie asked.

  He peered into the crowd. ‘Charlotte Hird.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lass I went out with a couple of times.’ He waved to the girl.

  Clarrie shook her head. ‘You are such a slag.’

  ‘No I’m not. I just get more action than you.’

  Yvonne cleared her throat. ‘All right, kids, there’s only so far my selective deafness can stretch.’

  ‘Dad’s grinning at me, look,’ Si said, nodding to Pete.

  ‘That’s because he’s a lecherous old man.’ She held her arm up for silence. ‘Right. After that round, Dave and Lyndsey score no points, Simon and Clarrie one. So Clarrie and Simon win.’

  She ignored the cries of ‘fix!’ mixed in with the applause. ‘Your beer’s behind the bar, kids. Well done.’ She brought the mike back to her mouth. ‘Okay, folks, that’s it. Tim’ll be back in half an hour for the proper quiz.’

  ‘Get your mam and dad to do it, Simon,’ a heckler from the back shouted out. A chorus of tipsy cheers from the rest of the pub suggested this was a popular idea. An afternoon of charred meat and beer clearly brought out the romantic side of the Denworth pub quiz regulars.

  Si raised his eyebrows. ‘You heard them, Mum. Your turn.’

  ‘Oh, no, Simon. Not us two old fogeys.’

  ‘Sorry. This is by popular demand.’ Si pulled an empty barstool to face Pete. He guided his mum onto it and took the microphone from her.

  ‘I’m not playing with her sitting there,’ Pete said, dropping his score-keeping notebook to the floor. ‘When a woman’s borne two of my children, she gets upgraded to the first-class seating area.’ He drew his wife over to his stool and hoisted her onto his lap with a ‘hup’.

  ‘Okay, and how do we write our answers, first-class seating area?’ Yvonne said, smiling.

  ‘Whisper them to our Simon and he can shout them out.’

  ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s why I wear the trousers in this marriage.’

  ‘Don’t know who told you that, Dad.’ Si turned to Clarrie. ‘What shall we ask them?’

  ‘Something embarrassing. Get our own back.’

  Si looked over at Dave’s parents. ‘Jeff? You’re Dad’s best mate, give us something juicy.’

  ‘You sure you want it, Si?’ Jeff called back.

  ‘Go on. We’re all old friends here.’

  ‘All right. Ask your mum where you were conceived.’

  ‘You’re awful, Jeffrey Henderson,’ Yvonne said, frowning at him. ‘Your godson doesn’t need to know that.’

  Pete shrugged. ‘He did get that tattoo though, Vonnie.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he?’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Go on then, Pete. Tell him.’

  Si leaned towards his dad and wrinkled his nose when he heard the whispered answer. ‘Ew, you what?’

  Clarrie grinned at Yvonne. ‘Come on then, where was it?’

  ‘Not saying.’

  Kath giggled. ‘I know,’ she whispered to Clarrie, resting a tipsy hand on her daughter’s leg. ‘Here, Simon, give us the mike.’

  ‘Oh God. All right.’ He passed it to her.

  ‘Behind the Cow and Calf rocks up on Ilkley Moor.’

  There was a chorus of raucous ‘waaaays’ and table slaps from the pub, with a few thumbs-ups for Pete and, bizarrely, a couple for Si as well.

  Si reclaimed his microphone and shook his head at his mother. ‘Classy, Mum. Really classy.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, it was our third wedding anniversary. And we did have a picnic first, Simon.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘It shows there was wooing, doesn’t it? Your mother’s not a complete trollop, you know.’

  Pete poked his head round her to smirk at his son. ‘Your father is though. Didn’t even wait for her to finish her sausage roll.’

  ‘Right. And it’s too late to put myself up for adoption, is it?’ Si asked.

  ‘Not my fault I’m so bloody virile,’ Pete said, shrugging. ‘Anyway, you’re just as bad. Where do you think you get it from, lad?’

  Si pulled himself up to his full height and flicked an invisible speck of dust from his jacket. ‘I, sir, am a gentleman. I assure you I have never molested a woman mid-sausage roll in my life.’

  Dave nodded. ‘He always waits until she’s finished her Penguin before he touches her up.’

  ‘Ah well.’ Yvonne gave Si a fond pat on the arm. ‘Our Simon had his mother to teach him good manners, you see. Strictly no bonking before pudding.’ She wriggled off her husband’s lap. ‘Come on now, time to break up this bit of daftness. Simon, give Tim his mike back, it’s nearly quiz time.’

  Clarrie jumped down off her barstool, but as she prepared to follow Si back to their table, she felt Yvonne put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Clarrie. Can I have a word before you go back?’

  ‘Okay. What is it?’

  ‘Not here. Come outside a minute.’

  ‘Um, okay.’ Clarrie shot a worried look at her mum as she followed Yvonne outside.

  ‘What’s up, Yvonne?’ Clarrie asked when they were alone. ‘Are you feeling okay? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘One thing. A promise.’

  ‘Course, anything you like.’

  Yvonne glanced through the
window to where Simon was chatting with the others about the picture round sheet Tim had just handed out. ‘Look after my boy for me, will you? He doesn’t say anything but I know he’s having a tough old time of it.’

  ‘Of course I will. My mum too, and the gang. We’ll always be there for him.’

  ‘I don’t just mean now. I mean… I mean, if anything happens during the op next week or… you know, after. Take care of him, eh? He’s always loved you.’

  Clarrie felt her eyes filming with tears. ‘Don’t talk like that. You’re not going anywhere, we won’t let you.’

  ‘I won’t be going without a fight,’ Yvonne said with a smile. ‘Still. Promise me, Clarrie, just in case. Favour to an old friend.’

  ‘You know I will, always. Cross my heart.’

  ‘You’ve always been a good girl.’ Yvonne gave her a grateful hug. ‘Come on, let’s go in.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ Si asked when she got back to their table.

  ‘Oh, nothing important. Just girl stuff.’ She slid the picture round sheet towards her. ‘Come on, let’s get quizzing.’

  Once the quiz was over and the papers had been marked, it became clear that an afternoon of drinking had done nothing to help the Denworth Quiz League members’ trivia-summoning powers, with low scores all round. Still, the Flower Arrangers managed a tidy second with sixty-four, propelling them to just four points behind the leaders, Les Quizerables.

  ‘Worried?’ Si whispered as Clarrie accepted their tenner prize.

  ‘No.’ Clarrie frowned in a puzzled sort of way at the note. ‘No, I don’t think I am.’

  23

  Clarrie had just closed up on the following Friday, the night of their girls’ night out, when Gemma flung open the door of The Bookshelf and slammed it shut behind her. She rested her back against it and exhaled slowly through her teeth.

  ‘Bit early, aren’t you?’ Clarrie said. ‘I’m not dressed yet.’ She looked Gem up and down, taking in her outfit. ‘And neither are you, by the looks of it. You been for a job interview or something?’

  ‘I need a drink,’ Gemma said, pointing vaguely over her shoulder as if something scary from the big bad world outside was hot on her heels.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘I was thinking something stronger.’

  ‘I’ve got some Carlsberg in the fridge. Nothing for you winoes though.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  Gemma followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the dining table. Clarrie handed her a can of Carlsberg, then cracked one open for herself.

  ‘So what’s up, Gem?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Gemma took a gulp of lager and grimaced. ‘Ick. Dunno how you drink this stuff, Midwinter.’

  ‘You don’t want it?’ Clarrie reached for the can, but Gemma hugged it to her protectively.

  ‘Hands off. S’mine.’ She took another long swallow.

  ‘You’ve been to see Seema, haven’t you?’

  Gemma arched an eyebrow. ‘What, are you psychic now?’

  ‘I recognise the parent-meeting symptoms. I already went through this with Sonny at the barbecue.’ Clarrie narrowed one eye. ‘You’re not going to start talking about testicle removal, are you?’

  ‘Amazingly, no. Is that what he talked about?’

  ‘There was some conversation on those lines, yeah.’

  Gem gave an amused snort. ‘The sexy bastard.’

  Clarrie put a sympathetic arm around Gemma’s shoulders. ‘Go on, tell me the worst. How bad was it?’

  ‘It… wasn’t.’ Gemma shook her head as if she couldn’t quite believe it herself. ‘She was really sweet to me. Hugged me, told me I was too good for him but she hoped it worked out, that sort of thing. Nerve-wracking though. I felt the need for some sort of liquid restorer.’

  ‘So she doesn’t mind you’re not a Sikh?’

  Gem shrugged. ‘If she does she’s keeping it to herself. I think she just wants to see the lad happy more than anything.’

  ‘Good old Seema, I knew she would. So where’s Sonny then?’

  Gemma scoffed. ‘Been sent to his room without tea, probably. I’m in the pink but he’s well grounded.’

  ‘Why, what did he do?’

  ‘Told his mum we went out for two years and he forgot to mention it. Pillock.’

  ‘What? What did he go and tell her that for?’

  ‘I think we made him feel guilty at the barbecue the other week,’ Gemma said, smiling. ‘You know, he’s really putting some effort into this. In a way it’s like we’re picking up where we left off, but somehow it’s different, more…’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yeah. How’d you know that’s what I was going to say?’

  ‘That’s what Sonny said. At the barbecue, when he was terrified about seeing your dad and stepmum again.’

  ‘Did he? Aww.’ Gemma twisted her face into what could only be described as a soppy simper, but Clarrie didn’t have the heart to tell her.

  ‘You’re not going to be loved up and sickening all night, are you?’ she said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Jesus. Just remembered, I can’t make it.’

  Gemma grinned. ‘All right, Midwinter, I’ll rein it in. Come on, let’s go get ready while we finish these. You can lend me a top, I can’t be arsed going home.’

  *

  ‘So where’re we going, Gem?’ Clarrie asked while she straightened her hair in the flat above the shop. ‘Pub crawl?’

  ‘No, we’re off to Ritz for cocktails,’ Gemma said. She was rifling through Clarrie’s cupboard, looking for a top that might suit her. Not that there was much to choose from. ‘I told Lyndsey we’d meet her there.’

  Clarrie groaned. ‘Cocktails, really? What is this, Sex and the bloody City?’

  ‘Yep. We’ll talk about orgasms, fabulous shoes we can’t afford, men’s fear of commitment; it’ll be awesome.’ Gemma pulled out a blue halter top and held it against her, then shook her head and stuffed it back in the cupboard.

  ‘Right. So the lass who went into meltdown because she thought her long-term boyfriend had got her preggers and the one who won’t go out with her fit best mate because she’s illogically terrified of grown-up relationships are going to make a case for men’s fear of commitment, are they?’

  ‘Okay, smartarse. We’ll just drink Cosmopolitans and giggle then.’

  ‘All right, I can manage that.’ Clarrie ruffled some mousse through her hair to add a bit of volume. ‘And the orgasm conversation’s okay too, we can use it to tease Dave at the next quiz.’

  Gemma turned from the barren wasteland of Clarrie’s cupboard to shake her head. ‘The pair of us need to stop doing that. He’s got Lyndsey now.’

  Clarrie shrugged. ‘Don’t see why when he still asks us to get our tits out every five minutes.’

  ‘Okay, fair enough.’

  ‘Last time I worked in banana yogurt.’

  ‘Ha! He cross his legs?’

  ‘Yep. Shame you weren’t there.’

  ‘Well, I’m back now.’ Gemma finally selected a strappy pink silk top and chucked it on the bed. ‘Back for good.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Clarrie turned to smile at her. ‘Good to have you in the gang again, Gem.’

  *

  Ritz, Denworth’s best, worst, and only nightclub, was a puzzle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a bleak concrete crust.

  How it had stayed open for thirty years was one of the town’s great mysteries. But somehow, while the zeitgeist changed, there was Ritz: terrible as ever, filled with its regular clientele of underage drinkers, middle-aged men on the pull and anyone who wanted to keep drinking after the pubs had closed. It was tucked away up a side street in town, sandwiched between a Ladbrokes on the left and Absolutely Kebabulous, home of infamous local delicacy the Tray O’ Meat – strapline ‘It Does What It Says On The Tin!!’ – on the right.

  It wasn’t even called Ritz. Currently it was called Nexus, but next month it could be something else. The name, like the propriet
ors, was in a state of constant flux (Flux, that had been another one: for about three months in 2010). Not that it mattered. Somehow the original name of Ritz had stuck, much like any drink left for too long on the tables, and the surest sign of a newcomer to the area was that they called it anything else.

  The current owner, determined to make Ritz into the kind of glamorous, sexy nightspot she’d probably seen in an episode of CSI: Miami, had recently had the whole place refurbed with black gloss tables and pink neon lighting. Even worse, she’d then had the bright idea of introducing a cocktail menu to the downstairs bar. Clarrie could imagine the poor woman crying into her pillow every night when she tallied up and realised VK Ice and Jägerbombs were still her biggest sellers.

  They said their good evenings to Mo, the long-time bouncer, and walked in.

  ‘Oi! Over here!’

  Clarrie nudged Gem and pointed to where Lyndsey was waving from one of the boothed tables.

  ‘Hiya,’ Clarrie said after they’d navigated through the smattering of dancers, lifting her voice over the cheesy nineties pop. What was it: Peter André, ‘Mysterious Girl’? Well, it was bearable enough. The best and only compliment Ritz had ever earned from her was that since it had reinvented itself as a nightclub-cum-cocktail bar, the music had been both inoffensive and quiet enough to hold a conversation over.

  She chucked herself down on the pink leather couch and nodded to a jug of something icy. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mojito,’ Lyndsey said.

  ‘Oh.’ Clarrie eyed the liquid suspiciously. ‘Why’s it got leaves floating in it?’

  ‘I think that’s mint.’

  ‘What else goes into it?’

  Lyndsey shrugged. ‘Dunno, the barman recommended it. Smells all right though.’

  ‘It’s mint, lime and sugar,’ Gemma said. She pulled the jug towards her and poured out a glass each for them. ‘Plus the secret ingredient, rum.’

  ‘How do you know this stuff, Gem?’ Clarrie asked.

  ‘Comes with being the girly girl. Go on, Midwinter, get it down you.’

  Clarrie took a sip and pulled a face. ‘Hngh.’

  ‘What, don’t you like it?’ Lyndsey asked. She knocked back a mouthful of her drink. ‘Tastes all right to me.’

  ‘No… it’s not bad actually. Just a bit sweeter than I’m used to, that’s all.’