by Jan Ruth
‘Fran!’ She was already up on her feet by the time he got down there, leaning against a dilapidated fence, panting and pointing at the horses. He caught two of them easily, both with their noses greedily buried in sacks of pony nuts. He couldn’t blame them, they were like hat-racks. The other one had clattered over the dismantled ‘jumping course’, a selection of old oil drums and poles. He left it to pick its own way out, and turned to look back at Fran.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, just lost my footing,’ she said, then yelped and clutched her ribcage. Her face suddenly drained to the colour of bleached straw and she slumped to the ground. She argued about going to get checked out, so in the end he just picked her up, carried her into his car and laid her across the back seats with both seat belts pinning her down. Her lack of a struggle confirmed his suspicions.
Another afternoon hanging around A & E, this time in very damp clothes. An X-ray revealed that Fran had a fractured rib, but by far the most debilitating aspect would result from the bruising, which was quickly developing across her left side, and then there was another, hoof-shaped imprint on her bony hip, which required cleaning and dressing. The nurse told her she was lucky the horses were not wearing iron shoes. They strapped her up, gave her a selection of pain-killers and a tetanus shot, and wished her happy Christmas.
‘What a mess!’ she said, close to tears by the time they were back home, no doubt down to the shock. She could barely hobble around the kitchen, let alone resume normal duties outside. ‘What a bloody miserable Christmas we’re going to have with me like this!’
‘I can help, and Becca will be off school in a couple of days.’
‘What about all the cooking and shopping?’
‘Seriously?’ he said, trying to make her laugh. ‘Fran, I don’t recall you ever cooking Christmas dinner.’
‘The farm alone is a full-time job, Al.’
She had a point. He rubbed his jaw. ‘So, er… who’ll be here, over Christmas?’
‘Just family. Why?’
‘Does that include Kate? It’s just that she’s a whizz in the kitchen, and a natural with the horses.’
She thought about this for a moment. ‘So are you.’
‘But like you say, there’s a lot of other stuff.’
‘You fancy her, don’t you?’
Where the hell had that come from? ‘I like her.’
‘In that case, you can ask her. Ask her if she’d like to spend Christmas shovelling shit and sweating over the stove and getting in the middle of all the arguments.’
‘When you put it like that, I reckon she’ll jump at it.’
*
Fran’s mood was born out of frustration, he was sure. The fact that he’d created a good reason to ask Kate if she intended to come over to Chathill for Christmas, was something he put down to him being sensible about the situation. It had taken hours to get round all the animals and start cooking dinner, while Fran lay on the sofa by the fire with the dogs, barking instructions and watching the Charity Animal channel on Sky.
He logged on to the Internet. No new e-mails, nothing from Kate. He read over their previous conversations and following the initial enquiry after Nora, it was all about the books, how to do this and how to do that. She’d found a graphic designer too and they’d chosen a new image for Jim Silver. Other than his old agent, he’d never had anyone interested in his work to this degree, and he was slightly in awe of her expertise and enthusiasm. The first book had gone out onto the virtual bookshelf, but since he needed to get his head around promoting them, nothing else had happened. Occasionally, he looked at his book on e-book Emporium, and sent the link to Maisie and a couple of other people he used to know from his literary world, but other than his daughter, no one seemed to think his news was worth a reply let alone a virtual pat on the back.
He’d fiddled about with Facebook too and Jo had helped him make an official Author Page and it all looked very good but in truth he didn’t have much patience with social networking and just wanted to get on with writing.
Jo had laughed when she’d looked at his personal profile.
‘Seven friends? Who on earth has only seven friends?’
Al thought seven friends was quite a lot, but maybe he needed to add a few more and look at all the book groups Jo had added him to, although from what he’d seen it was a horrible mix of posturing, boasting and begging.
He typed Kate Roberts into the search instead and a whole load of them came up, but she was unmistakable with that red hair. She responded to his friend request within seconds but before he could look properly or type anything, a private message from Jo popped up like an invisible eye.
‘Hi, online at last? Found any more friends lol?’
‘Lol?’
‘Laugh out loud.’
He browsed Kate’s page and looked at pictures of her and her late husband while he typed messages back and forth with Jo, but it seemed a bit indecent somehow, sort of secretive and shady. He saw it was Kate’s birthday on Saturday, the 21st of December and she’d be fifty. That made her a Capricorn. Helen used to be an expert on all that stuff, she was always looking at a website called Star-Crossed, which plotted the planets and declared relationships to be either harmonious, difficult or turbulent. He looked it up and carefully entered Scorpio man and Capricorn woman into the love section. Almost immediately, a row of five pink hearts flashed across the results box, followed by a red flashing harmonious sign held by a blushing, winking cherub.
He dropped the page down, feeling slightly silly.
‘Are you coming over tomorrow?’ Jo had typed.
‘Not sure, so much to do here with Fran laid off. You could come here though? I’ll even let you use my homemade pig board lol!’
He deliberated sending a message to Kate, then decided to make an old-fashioned phone call instead, in case he posted something where he shouldn’t. Kate took an age to answer. Again, all about the books until he steered the conversation elsewhere. He asked after her mother and told her about Fran’s accident. She sounded really down in the dumps and when they ran out of all the obvious things to say, he asked her what she was doing over Christmas.
‘Working for most of it. I’m on the rota for sad people. The old singletons get all the unsociable hours you see, but at least a lot of it’s double-time.’
‘No chance of coming over, then?’
‘I’ll have to see how the land lies with Mum, and then there’s Tia… I’m fairly committed, if I’m honest.’
So basically it was a no. He told Fran and she laughed, but her shriek had a ring of hysteria to it rather than any real merriment. ‘She’d rather work in that store than come to this madhouse!’
‘Maybe she needs to earn a living?’ George said, gently and sarcastically, then shook out his copy of the Financial Times and retired to his room with a large glass of single malt.
This was a new trait; condescension. Where a couple of months back Al felt he’d conquered a problem of sorts, now he began to feel uneasy. If he talked to Jo about it she’d want to dig out all the crap about their past and then it would be Helen all over again, which didn’t bear thinking about.
Upstairs, Al dragged the Freddie box out and scored a pen nib down the parcel tape holding it all together. Inside, his fun-pants costume and all the props and paraphernalia belonging to his clown act gave off a musty smell. Marge got up for a look inside then retreated and lay slumped on the mat, head on paws.
‘Sad too, huh?’
Nothing, not even a tail thump from her. Another patient for Maisie. Gathering everything into his arms, he padded downstairs to the utility room and placed the billowing yellow trousers, the red tee-shirt and a sparkly green waistcoat into the washing machine and set it on a short, lukewarm wash. He didn’t chance the black jacket and shoes. Twenty minutes later and the fibres from the felt buttons had made a mess of the door seal, but the suit came out looking passable. When he was throwing
everything over the drying rack, his brother did a double-take.
‘Christmas party work?’
‘Nope. A free-of-charge cheering up job, that’s all.’
This produced a sneer. ‘God help us.’
*
Saturday the 21st of December wasn’t a bad day weather-wise, which was good news if you had felt shoes. He decided to do the full face make-up as well, then it was clear to any innocent bystanders exactly what he was doing.
When he rooted out his special bag it was to find the white foundation had separated a little as it was an oily base, but the face paints were still surprisingly good and there was just enough red left to draw a big curving grin. He found some hair gel in the bathroom and made some passable spikes but his hair was too old and floppy and so resorted to the smelly orange wig. He stuffed his pockets with some of Becca’s sweets, grabbed the magic flowers, and managed to get out of the house unnoticed. His real fear was stopping at traffic lights. That stare-into-space moment, when the person in the lane alongside casually glances across, then looks quickly away, avoiding any further eye contact.
Rounding the bend on Bodnant Road it soon became clear that Kate’s car wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t, it was the last weekend before Christmas. That meant she was probably at work; hadn’t she more or less told him this? Shit. He drove thoughtfully into town, slumped low in the seat and with his hat rammed well down, wondering if any of his plan was such a good idea.
Bargain Home Stores was a large unit on the new retail park. It was horrifically busy. The positive aspect was that he blended fairly well with all the general festivities of buskers and Father Christmas floats. He pushed through the huge glass doors to find the shop floor rammed with customers. He attracted a lot of stares, some smiles and the usual screaming from children under the age of five. He waved at them all, handed out a few sweets and had a good look around. The stock was cheap and old-fashioned, and he just couldn’t imagine where Kate fitted into this artificial world. Maybe she was in one of the offices.
He spotted her hair.
She was dusting and replenishing a tower of children's games, displayed somewhat unimaginatively on a large flat plinth, with a plastic tree in the centre. When she turned around to delve into a box of new stock, he dodged behind a rail of underwear and caught his over-sized revolving dicky-bow on an empty hangar. Several flowery nightgowns fell to the floor but it was difficult bending down with a hoop in your pants, so he had to leave them there. A couple of small children giggled and pointed at him. He waved back and put a finger to his lips, then peered stealthily through a curtain of large, brightly coloured bras and knickers; colour-wise, a good concealment. Since the store was so noisy, it would be easy to creep up behind her and ashamedly, he couldn’t really think of anything more original.
As if by telepathic agreement, she leant across the display, fully preoccupied with bunches of tinsel, presenting the perfect opportunity. Moving quickly on silent feet, he managed to get so close behind her that he could almost smell the rain-soft perfume of her hair. He touched his head close to hers. ‘Happy Birthday.’
She spun around, almost falling over the empty boxes but within seconds of looking him up and down, her attention was solely concentrated on his face. Fumbling in his pocket then for the hidden prompt, he cued the singing flowers, relieved as they dutifully opened into huge blooms with faces, their mouths a perfect O. To his dismay a couple of the heads drooped, but they kept on singing Happy Birthday well enough. After the first few bars he sensed complete and total apathy, and switched it off.
She still didn’t smile, just stared with an ice-blue indifference.
‘Al?’
‘What gave it away?’
‘You idiot!’
He should have agreed and left it at that; instead, he snaked an arm around her waist and kissed her, on the mouth. It only lasted a few seconds and it was quite chaste but since she didn’t recoil, he figured it made borderline harmonious. ‘Come and have lunch with me?’
‘Dressed like that?’
The harsh reality of this observation pulled him up short and he looked around wildly, aware then that a lot of customers were watching with interest. ‘I’ll buy something to wear. You don’t look so hot either, anyway.’
‘Well thanks! Now, go away, I’m working.’
‘You’re too good for this place, let’s just run. Live dangerously!’
She folded her arms. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘You need a reason?’
She softened visibly then, and there was a smile poised to light up her eyes, but then her gaze went beyond him, to somewhere behind his left shoulder. A burly security guard took hold of his arm.
‘I’ve been watching you, Coco, on the CCTV. Now, if you’d like to come with me please, sir?’
Chapter Ten
Kate.
So far as recent birthdays had gone, the day was certainly proving notable if not traditional. After some twenty minutes or so, Al was escorted off the premises and out into the fresh air with the rest of the world. She watched him walk through the foyer in his ridiculous outfit and the feeling of being trapped inside a glass bubble was painfully acute, as if she were the clown and not him. Leaving the mess of boxes behind, she walked briskly across the store and shadowed his progress along the huge windows.
He walked unselfconsciously, with the flower heads hanging down and an almost regal air. Within seconds, he was lost in the crowds and she was forced to go back to the job in hand. Wide Load was looking for her, arms folded under her enormous breasts, smug loathing emanating from every pore. The loathing was mutual.
‘Tracy wants to see you in the camera room.’
‘Now?’
‘Straight away. Take the time out of your break, we’re busy down here.’
Kate plodded up the stairs, swiped her security card at the staff door and headed for the management offices. She knocked on the door of the camera room. The security guard and the store manager - a frightening twenty-three year old - asked her to sit and watch the monitor. They played the footage of Al entering the store, falling about in the lingerie section and then creeping up behind her. She watched avidly, noting all the expressions on his face. When the flowers began to sing, she had the most uncontrollable fit of giggles, which quickly broke down into proper belly laughs.
In the darkened room, the security man and the stone-faced manager had a problem with her attitude.
‘Do you know this man?’ Tracy said tartly.
‘Yes, it’s Freddie Fun-Pants.’
‘I’m sorry, Kate, but I’m giving you another warning. Snogging on the shop floor is way out of line. And please, tell your friend to stay away, he is not to approach children and hand out sweets on these premises, and as for the stock damage, you can deal with that after your lunch.’
‘Right, okay,’ she said, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. No sooner had she disposed of the wet tissue when the giggles started again. She walked back down the long corridor, the corridor of shame. The locker room was empty, which was very good indeed. She pulled off the uniform and slung it, inside out and tangled up, to the back of her locker. When she looked in the mirror it was to find a greasy red smear of paint across her mouth and down one side of her chin. It was the very devil to wash off. She took her time getting dressed, did her hair and lipstick and then walked calmly out of the store, and kept on walking.
The quiet satisfaction of it thrilled her. Part of her wanted to go back in and be a fly on the wall for when they discovered she’d just disappeared. They’d buzz about like demented blue-bottles, checking the toilets, the stock-room, and the fire escapes. In time, she’d write a full resignation but for now it was gloriously simple. Watching herself back on that monitor she’d been horrified by the image of herself, working away in her snow-globe of existence. Until the arrival of Al, and then it was suddenly clearer.
She walked almost a mile along the wide prome
nade. The tide was roaring in, bringing with it a freshening sea breeze and throwing the loops of Christmas lights strung out between lampposts into a frenzied, flickering swaying, but despite the chill it wasn’t unpleasant. Seagulls fought over the scant pickings in the litter bins, and the squawking reminded her of the half-price maroon and gold table settings at the store; the colour-combo no one wanted this year, but were seemingly worth a fight if they were cheap enough. At the end of the seafront she came to a long wooden bench, and sat for a while until she was thoroughly cold, then walked briskly through the main shopping street and on impulse, straight into a very expensive hair salon.
As she sat in the chair, the implication of what she’d done sank in a little deeper. Yes, she’d hated her job but it was the only aspect of her life that gave it any structure. Now, she had even more time to fill. Whether she had the strength to motivate herself without it, remained to be seen, but then maybe she’d needed to kick the crutch away. And she had to admit, the relief of not having to deal with the store and all of its petty establishment rules, was truly liberating.
At home, she soaked for an hour in the bath, read some of her current book and then cooked herself a fillet steak and opened a bottle of wine.
‘Happy Birthday and Merry Christmas to you,’ she said to the face in the mirror. It felt strange, having shorter hair, and she turned her head this way and that. It fell to jaw length now instead of resting untidily on her shoulders, and it was slightly graduated, longer at the front and sides, but revealing the nape of her neck. It was shiny and silky again too, like it used to be. The rich conker shade with bright highlights had been startling at first glance, but she was already getting used to that, and at least it no longer looked like Al’s wig.
Taking her glass of wine, she went to her desk and made a list of phone calls and jobs. Speaking to Tia had become the priority, but as usual, there was no reply and so enquiries regarding plans for Christmas were sent via a laborious text. Next was Fran, but it was George who picked up the call, and although he was surprised by her news, seemed grateful for the promise of organisation and the offer of grocery shopping.
