Just as Doreen had turned the corner from Land Lane into Warren Street, a scruffy yellow Volvo pulled up doors short of the Hardcastle home.
‘Drop me off here, will you, Gary mate,’ said David to the driver. He didn’t want anyone peering out of the window and seeing him carrying his bag of tools. ‘Have you got my money?’
‘I have,’ said Gary, levering on the hand-brake then fishing deep in his pocket for a brown envelope. ‘Cash in hand as agreed.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve got a couple of soffit jobs for you next week – I’ll ring you on the moby. Probably Wednesday or Thursday, providing it’s not pissing down.’
‘Smashing,’ said David. Fixing soffits onto the roofs of houses was a good little earner and he was loaded at the moment because of all the work Gary had put his way. But he didn’t want to overdo it or risk the benefits people rumbling that he wasn’t incapacitated, after all. Or worse – Olive finding out that he was fit and well enough to run after himself. He couldn’t do without her molly-coddling him, or his mum mothering him; he had got far too used to that.
David climbed out of the car and swung his huge bag of tools onto his strong back, giving Gary a friendly wave as he drove off. Slyly, he opened the door to the garage at the side of the house and threw in his bag. Then he began his preparation for entering the house. His shoulders slumped and a hang-dog look of back pain crept over his features. He hobbled the few steps to the front of the house and took out his key, fully – and safely – back in character. He was so chuffed with himself, he didn’t see the figure across the street hiding in the alley.
Ven’s mobile rang just as she was checking her ‘money, tickets, passport’ for the zillionth time. She didn’t recognise the Barnsley number on the caller display so answered it tentatively. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s me,’ said Olive, her voice shaking.
‘Hiya, Ol. You okay?’
‘Oh Ven, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Whatever’s the matter, love?’ said Ven. ‘What’s upset you?’
‘Upset? Ha!’ said Olive in a suddenly very strong voice. ‘I’m not upset, I’m bloody livid. You were both right. I am stupid and I deserve the biggest slap . . .’
‘Ol, calm down and talk slower,’ said Ven firmly. ‘Where are you?’
‘The phone box just outside the post office on Ketherwood Street,’ said Olive, breathing in and out so hard, it was as if she was revving herself up for a fight with Muhammad Ali.
‘Don’t move. I’m driving round for you now.’
Olive was in a terrible state. One second she looked as if she was going to burst into tears, then her mood suddenly segued into homicidal mania.
‘Blimey, what on earth’s up?’ said Ven, as Olive threw herself into the passenger seat of her car and buckled herself in.
‘I believe you. I believe David has been swinging the lead and claiming benefits for a bad back when there’s bugger all wrong with him, and I believe that Doreen can get up off her fat lumpy arse and tottle down to the shops. I also believe that the whole bloody Hardcastle family thinks I’m a doormat and I’ve been pathetic enough to let them treat me like that. Will I ever learn?’
‘Wow,’ said Ven, with her eyebrows raised so high they needed oxygen. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘I saw them,’ said Olive, the tears pushing through now and making themselves an exit. Hot, angry tears that Olive couldn’t wipe away fast enough. ‘I had a headache and didn’t go to my second cleaning job and I didn’t have enough credit on my phone to ring David and say I’d be home early. Anyway, I was just in the alley opposite and I saw our door open. Then I saw Doreen peep out to check the coast was clear. Then . . . then – she ran down the road like Sebastian Coe and was back, presumably from Warren Street newsagents, with a packet of cigarettes before I had a chance to blink.’
‘Oh crikey,’ said Ven, really clamping down on the urge to say, ‘Told you so.’ Any joy she felt in seeing the scales ripped from Olive’s eyes was offset by her friend’s distress, which she didn’t want to see.
‘Oh, hang on, there’s more!’ laughed Olive in a very dry, humourless way. ‘In between Doreen leaving the house and coming back, a car pulls up at the other end of the street and out springs – like Wayne Bloody Sleep – my husband with a massive bag of tools over his sore delicate shoulder. Then, when the car drove off, I watched him hide the bag in the garage, flop into his usual “ooh, me back’s killing me” shape and drag himself into the house. It was like watching a Jesus miracle in reverse.’
‘Oh heck,’ said Ven.
‘So I left it five minutes,’ Olive went on, ‘then I did a really slow walk in to give them all a chance to rearrange themselves in their usual tableau, and sure enough upon my entrance I found that David was “in agony” leaning over the sink, and Doreen was hobbling on her zimmer frame to the kitchen to get a “slice of dry bread” to see her poor starving twenty-stone stomach through till I got home to make their tea.’
Ven opened her mouth to sympathise, but Olive still hadn’t finished.
‘Wait, there’s even more. Then lovely Kevin appears at my back with a plastic basket full of rancid clothes. How that man manages to get that many stains on a pair of underpants is beyond me! “Any chance of getting these ironed for tomorrow?” he says. “They aren’t washed!” I say back. “Well, I meant, washed and dried and ironed,” he says. “I’d do them myself but I’ve got a date.” “Sorry, but I can’t stop now, I’m working,” I say, and grab a bottle of bleach and pretend I’d just called home for that. And then I rang you from the phone box.’
For the first time Olive felt the boil of anger bubble through to the forefront of her feelings. She really had been a first-class idiot. She had washed Doreen and hauled her over to the toilet and pandered to her every whim, she had supported her lazy sod of a husband who hadn’t put a penny in the housekeeping pot for years, and all the time Doreen was probably more able-bodied than she was. And if David was back-pocketing money on sly jobs, he wasn’t declaring any of it – to her or the taxman.
‘Do you know, if I could come with you on holiday, I bloody well would,’ said Olive, wiping away the fat drops which were now spurting from her eyes.
‘Then do. Come with us,’ said Ven, seizing on the delicious moment.
‘Yes, well, if I had anything decent to wear I’d throw it in a suitcase. But I haven’t. Come to that, I haven’t even got a bloody suitcase.’
‘You’ve got a passport, that’s enough.’
‘Aye, I’ll sew a couple of straps to it and use it as a thong.’
Ven checked her watch. ‘Look, Meadowhall doesn’t shut until ten this week because the sales are on.’
‘I didn’t put the cheque in the bank . . .’
‘Never mind that, we’ll sort it out later. I’ll stick what you buy on my Visa. We’ve got about two hours to get you a holiday wardrobe.’
‘It can’t be done,’ said Olive.
‘Oh yes, it sodding well can,’ said Ven. The miracle was that Olive was coming with her. Anything else was child’s play.
Chapter 12
Fifteen minutes later, they were in Meadowhall hurtling towards Marks & Spencer. Ven was grabbing clothes off rails and shoving Olive into changing rooms. By nine o’clock, Olive had a basic capsule cruise wardrobe: trousers, shorts, new undies, T-shirts, two posh blouses, two skirts, sundresses, a sarong and a couple of little black cocktail dresses, which Ven assured her could be tarted up with the loads of scarves and costume jewellery she was taking. Oh – and a big pink suitcase. Anything else she could buy on the ship or in a port. Olive packed it all at Ven’s house, then rang all her clients from Ven’s phone and left messages on their voicemails to say that she wouldn’t be able to come for at least a fortnight because she had caught a contagious virus and had to be quarantined. If she returned home to find they had dispensed with her services, well, so be it. Because nothing was going to stop Olive from getting on that ship now. She was rid
ing on the crest of a wave of anger that refused to bring her back to a sensible shore.
Ven’s ancient tabby cat jumped on Olive’s case and scared her to death.
‘Ethel, you made me jump!’ she said, giving the purring cat a scratch under her chin. Ven had got Ethel from a rescue centre when the cat was nine, and that was well over thirteen years ago. Ethel had no teeth now and cloudy sleepy eyes. Ethel spent her life journeying from Ven’s rocking chair to the food bowl, fitting in a couple of loo visits in the garden along the way, and was always on the lookout for a visitor to scratch her head. Flaming cat has a better life than me, Olive thought suddenly.
‘My Cousin Jen is picking Ethel up in the morning. She has the life of luxury on their farm – gets petted to death by the kids.’
‘She’s a lovely lass, is Jen,’ agreed Olive.
‘She is, bless her. Poor as a church mouse but a heart of gold.’ Ven smiled fondly at her friend. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re coming with us, Olive. You’re going to have such a great time.’
God, I hope so, thought Olive. She had a feeling she would be facing hell when she got back. So she’d better make it worth the punishment.
As Ven dropped Olive and her bag of cleaning stuff off at the end of Land Lane, she was thrilled to bits that the gods had been looking out for Olive, after all. As Ven said, ‘Goodbye, see you in the morning,’ she almost went on to tell Olive her secret. But at the last second, she shut up. If everything went tits up, she alone would take the blame.
Chapter 13
When Olive got home, Doreen had a face like a vinegar-sucking Shar Pei.
‘Where’ve you been till this time? I’ve been waiting for you to put me to bed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Olive in her usual meek way, but she was sorely tempted to give her mother-in-law a mouthful. Dutifully, she helped Doreen change into her voluminous nightie and bore her weight as she helped her onto the toilet, nursing the thought that she wouldn’t be doing this again for another two and a half glorious weeks. Then she pulled the lounge sofa out into a double bed – the same routine she had done for nearly eight years now, when Doreen decided it was too much for her to go up the stairs to sleep. She put Doreen’s teeth in a glass to soak, made her a Horlicks with the usual six teaspoons of powder and full fat milk, then she switched off the big light leaving the small lamp on next to the sofa bed so Doreen could read a few pages of her latest Mills & Boon. As she went into the kitchen, she tried not to look at Kevin’s washing basket, which he’d asked her to sort out for tomorrow. She also tried not to breathe in the cheese and vinegar sock smell which was heavy in the air. The washing machine was ancient but easy enough to use. Even an idiot could load it and press the button that said either ‘On – quick wash’ or ‘On – long wash’. Then again, maybe it was still a bit highbrow for Kevin.
She’d only had the slice of lemon drizzle cake to eat all day and decided she’d better get something to fortify herself before she collapsed. She had made a huge shepherd’s pie that morning to be heated up for tea. True to form they hadn’t left her any. The dish was scraped empty on the work surface. She picked it up to soak it in the sink, then had a rethink and put it down. No, let them do it. She smiled to herself as she toasted two slices of bread and spooned some coffee into a cup. There was no point in having decaff – she wasn’t going to sleep much anyway.
Olive then had a quick bath and packed some underwear, toiletries, her best shoes, a couple of nice tops, her only decent dress and passport into one of the bags she used for her cleaning stuff. David was snoring like a pig whilst she crept around their bedroom. He always said that medication didn’t help his back pain so it wasn’t worth taking; however, beer knocked him out and at least allowed him to get some well-needed sleep. She had always accepted that as a feasible argument. How the Hardcastles must have laughed at her. Well, they wouldn’t be laughing again for a while.
She took her bag back downstairs into the kitchen and then got a writing pad and pen out from the drawer and wrote:
Dear All
I’m going on holiday and will be back on Tuesday 2nd September.
Olive
Then she ripped out the sheet, stuck it in an envelope and propped it up against Doreen’s fag supply next to the kettle. That way, she knew it would be found first thing.
Olive checked the clock; in less than seven hours’ time a taxi would be calling for her. She didn’t think she would nod off in the easy chair in the never-used dining room, but she did – and dreamed of being naked on the ship and that Cephalonia had turned into a seedy seaside town.
DAY 1: AT SEA
Dress Code: Smart Casual
Chapter 14
Manus was standing at the side of Roz’s bed with a cuppa as her alarm went off and she jerked awake.
‘Wakey, wakey, Penelope,’ he said, then immediately clarified that before she broke into: ‘Penelope? Can’t even get my name right nowadays. Who’s Penelope? Not one of my friends, for a change.’
‘Penelope Cruz as in cruise, I meant – you know.’ Manus coughed, wishing he had never made the joke. ‘Anyway, here’s a caffeine shot for you. Thought you might need it.’ He was dressed only in boxer shorts; he suited them. He had strong muscular thighs that her eyes settled on until she ripped them away and took the coffee, thanking him politely.
‘I’ll get some clothes on,’ he said, thumbing to the spare room in the manner of someone suddenly realising he was inappropriately attired. Another sign of the ever-increasing divide between them that he could be embarrassed to be half-naked in front of her after seven years.
When Roz came downstairs, showered and dressed, it was to the smell of hot buttered toast which he had made for her. ‘I could have taken you and Ven myself to the bus station, you know, instead of you having to get a taxi,’ said Manus.
‘The competition people are paying for it,’ replied Roz, taking a half slice of the toast. She was far too stirred up to eat any more.
‘Do you want me to come and see you off?’ Manus asked. Had she imagined it, or was there a little note of hope in his voice that she would say, ‘Yes, please come’?
‘No, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I grew out of waving through windows when I was twelve.’ Her insides were at war with themselves. Why didn’t she just say ‘Come and wave me off,’ like she wanted to? It hurt her that he didn’t press it.
‘Fair enough,’ was all he said with flat emotion. She deserved nothing more than his indifference, she knew.
Roz was halfway through brushing her teeth when a taxi horn sounded in the street.
‘Jesus, they’re early!’ she flapped, drying her mouth, expertly applying two smooth lines of lippy and dragging an afro comb through her wild, wavy hair as she ran down the stairs.
Manus had already taken her suitcases out and was hugging Ven and wishing her a happy birthday for next week.
Roz grabbed her handbag from the hall-stand and checked inside for her money and passport again. She didn’t know how to say goodbye to Manus appropriately. He wasn’t giving any impression to Ven that they were hanging on by a thread as he helped the taxi driver load the cases into the boot. Nor did he allow Roz time to stage their parting because he bent to her cheek and laid a soft kiss there.
‘Have a lovely time,’ he said. He was scared to give her more, she knew, and she momentarily hated herself for it. Then she hated him for not fighting back. Hate, hate, hate. She felt full of it and it exhausted her.
‘I will,’ she said with a dry smile. Then she climbed into the back seat of the taxi and kept her head facing forward, and defied those tears that were rising within her to make a show.
Olive switched her alarm off after the first ring, panicking in case it alerted anyone else in the house, but she needn’t have worried. The shrill ring would have more luck waking the dead on Cemetery Road. It was like an awful choir as she tiptoed to the bathroom: Doreen snoring contralto in the lounge, Kevin – alto from the spare
room, and the mighty bass – David, in their bedroom. They would have turned to dust, getting up at six on a Sunday morning. She wondered how they would feel, rising after eleven and finding there was no comforting smell of bacon and eggs drifting from the kitchen. They’d combust! Dutiful feelings started to creep in and poison Olive with guilt and she galvanised her resolve and batted them away. They needed this wake-up call. For all their sakes, they needed to realise that Olive wasn’t a slave. It wasn’t good for Doreen to be immobile for such long periods of time either, she reasoned. Obviously nipping out for fags was the most exercise she was getting, if that wasn’t ironic. And Kevin might be a more attractive prospect if he could clean his own clothes, though brushing his teeth might help a bit as well. The tortoiseshell-glaze look would never be in vogue, although by the number of women he’d pulled in his time, maybe he knew something the dental world didn’t. As for David – well, having to do what Olive did for the family day in, day out might just make him learn to have some respect for her. Yes, they would all benefit from her being away, and she needed to keep that thought fully in focus, especially when those guilty feelings started gathering again, as she knew they were bound to.
At seven forty-five, she crept down the hallway with her bag and was just about to open the door and go out into the street so that the taxi didn’t beep its horn on arrival, when Kevin’s voice hit her from behind and scared her half to death.
‘Where are you off to at this time, Olive?’
Olive turned to see Kevin, yawning and looking like an anorexic xylophone with his skinny bare chest. He was clutching the pink toilet roll he had just come downstairs to fetch and wearing only a red thong with a porn-star bulge pushing at the material, which was drawing Olive’s attention where she didn’t want to give it. Ah, so it wasn’t the tortoiseshell teeth that was the hook, after all.
Here Come the Girls Page 5
