The Turnaround

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Typical!’ she snapped. ‘You’re always moaning that you don’t see her, and when you can it’s not a very good time. When would be a good time then?’

  ‘You don’t understand…’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I never did understand you, did I, Nick?’

  Christ, there’s some things people never forget.

  ‘Let’s not go into that, Laura,’ I said. ‘We’re not married now.’

  ‘Thank Christ.’

  It’s strange to think that we used to love each other. That we used to look forward to being together. That we used to sleep in the same bed. I briefly wondered what she looked like naked these days, and couldn’t imagine it. ‘What about school?’ I asked.

  ‘One week is half term. I’ve got permission from the head mistress for her to be absent for the second week. They’re setting her some homework, and I want you to make sure she does it. It’s a good school,’ she added defiantly.

  It was. Better than anything I could have afforded, even at my peak. Which was a laugh. Private, with a uniform like something pre-war. But good. I couldn’t take that away from it. ‘And that suits you,’ I said. ‘Homework?’ I knew I could never have kept Judith out of school for a week.

  ‘She’s very clever, Nick,’ said Laura, ignoring the unspoken rebuke. ‘Almost too clever.’

  ‘That comes from my side of the family.’

  ‘You can say that again! You always were too clever for your own good. I wish she wasn’t. One day she’ll trip and fall. She’s not used to it. It’ll hurt her more than if she was.’

  ‘We’ll have to see that she doesn’t then.’

  ‘No one can do that, Nick.’ Which was true, but didn’t stop you trying. ‘So?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course she can stay.’

  ‘You’re so kind.’ Now it was her that was being sarcastic, but I didn’t mention it.

  ‘So when are you going?’ I asked. ‘I have a few things to take care of.’ I didn’t tell her what.

  ‘This Saturday. I’m sorry it’s such short notice but the trip only came up yesterday.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. It was. It would take my mind off other things.

  ‘Good. I’ll get her and all her things over to your place after school on Friday.’

  ‘Is she there now?’ I asked.

  ‘No, she’s out with Louis. They go to car boot sales together at the weekend.’

  ‘How suburban,’ I said. Laura didn’t take the bait, although I gave her every opportunity. ‘Ask her to give me a ring, will you?’

  ‘Of course. And thanks, Nick, I appreciate it.’ Her tone was a lot softer now. Of course it was. She’d got her own way.

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

  ‘Bye, then. I’ll talk to you soon.’

  ‘Bye,’ I said back, and waited for her to hang up first. It was something I always used to do.

  She did. And when she had, so did I.

  17

  Wanda’s funeral was very simple, just like she wanted. A small service and cremation. A lot of people turned up. The only one I knew was John Rice. Despite what she’d asked, a few people brought flowers. Me included. I laid a single white rose on her coffin. I didn’t order a limo to follow the hearse. I didn’t want to sit in it on my own. I followed it in my black E-Type Jaguar. I’d given it a good clean and waxing, and touched up the whitewalls. It must have looked a bit strange, but I think Wanda would have appreciated it.

  It was a joyless occasion on a joyless day. It had rained overnight and early in the morning, but had stopped by noon. The clouds hung low over South London, and every tree and blade of grass at the cemetery seemed to drip moisture. After the service I stopped the car by the Kellermans’ grave. The bunch of flowers I’d bought were still in the pot. They were long dead. The grave was beginning to look a bit unkempt as if there had been no visitors apart from me for weeks. I stood there for a minute, then went back to the car.

  I’d arranged for a local pub where I knew the guv’nor to open its upstairs bar so that the mourners could drink her health. About everyone who came to the service turned up for a drink. I didn’t want to be the host, but as I’d arranged everything it seemed to fall to me by default.

  Wanda had known a lot of people, and by my count most of them had taken time to come and see her off. She would have liked that. They seemed like a pretty mixed bunch. Some were in black, but a lot had dressed in bright colours which made the whole thing seem less like a funeral and more like a party.

  The room I’d booked in the pub was chilly when I arrived. I felt a radiator and it was warm, but whether or not the heating was coming on or going off I had no way of telling.

  The room was high-ceilinged and flock-wallpapered with a dashingly patterned carpet. Big windows were curtained with full-length maroon velvet curtains. I could see the cemetery through them. Along one wall was a highly polished wooden bar. Behind it were half a dozen spirit bottles on optic. On this side of the bar were a couple of tables with four chairs drawn up to each. There were more folding chairs stacked flat against the wall opposite. In one corner was a covered pool table, a rack of cues mounted on the wall next to it. The room had its own toilets. Two doors. A little sign on each. Silver, with a flat man or woman picked out in black.

  Behind the bar were two real women, both in white blouses and black skirts. One was young with thick blonde hair and a vacant face whose jaw moved up and down, side to side, on a piece of gum. The other woman was older, thinner, tireder, with copper-coloured curls a few years too young for her and liver spots just starting on the backs of her hands. She wore a wedding ring. The younger one didn’t.

  I buttonholed Bob who ran the place, gave him my Access card and told him to give me a shout if the bill looked like going over five hundred quid. At that point it didn’t seem likely. It was half pints or small measures of spirits all round. Voices were subdued and I asked the older woman behind the bar to put a tape on the sound system. She chose a Nat Cole album. It was perfect for the occasion. The tunes were old and sad, the strings lush, and his voice was that of heartbreak and lost dreams marinated in velvet liqueur. I asked her for a very large vodka and orange juice with lots of ice.

  ‘Were you close?’ she asked as she served me.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  ‘You know, to the deceased.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have liked you calling her that. But, yes, we were close. Just not as close as we could have been.’

  ‘That’s often the way until it’s too late.’

  ‘How true.’

  ‘She must have been young?’

  ‘About forty.’

  ‘Such a shame.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘We get a lot of these. Being so near the cemetery,’ she said. ‘Funeral receptions, if that’s what you call them.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They used to call them wakes, didn’t they?’

  ‘A wake’s before the funeral. Preferably with the body in an open coffin.’

  ‘You know a lot.’

  ‘I’m Irish,’ she explained. ‘We’re famous for them. We seem to have more than our share of deaths.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Of course you do.’ She didn’t know the half of it. ‘There’s sandwiches in the back,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Will you let us know when you want them served?’

  ‘A bit later, I think,’ I said. ‘When this lot have had a chance to get a few drinks down them. I’ll give you a shout.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better go and talk to a few people.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I took my glass and walked along the bar. The first person I came to was small, dark, female, in her midtwenties, with big round glasses, a black tailored suit with a very short skirt, high-heeled black patent leather shoes and dark tights on very good legs. ‘Hello,’ I said.
r />   ‘Hello,’ she said back, and smiled, showing even white teeth.

  ‘I’m Sally.’ She offered me her hand.

  ‘I’m Nick Sharman,’ I said. And took it.

  She spoke in staccato sentences, very fast, like she had to be somewhere else half an hour ago. ‘You’re the one who phoned about the funeral. Thank you. I’d never have known about poor Wanda otherwise. I’m so glad to meet you. Although it could be under better circumstances. I hate funerals, don’t you? I still can’t believe it’s true. I’m going to miss her so much. Were you her boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just a friend.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as just a friend. Real friends are rare. What are your favourite daytime TV programmes?’

  The change of direction in her conversation took me by surprise. ‘The Magic Rabbits and Invitation to Love,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘What a coincidence,’ she said. ‘Mine too.’

  At the same time we both realised I was still holding her hand. ‘You’re supposed to give it back,’ she said, and her eyes were big and green behind her glasses.

  ‘Is that so? I must be out of practice.’

  I let go of her hand. ‘What are you drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Irish. Straight, no chaser.’

  ‘A real man’s drink.’

  She smiled and two dimples appeared, one in each cheek. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you want another?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I ordered her a re-fill from the blonde barmaid, got it and gave it to her. ‘Thank you,’ she said and raised her glass to me before taking a sip.

  ‘Had you known Wanda long?’ I asked.

  ‘Years. We used to get together and drink gin and cry on each other’s shoulders. I used to do most of the crying. I have problems with the opposite sex.’

  Beating them off most likely, I thought, looking at her. ‘Don’t we all?’ I said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d have much trouble with women.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  The look she gave me said that it took a lot to surprise her. I was prepared to believe it.

  ‘What do you do, Nick? For a living, I mean.’

  ‘At the moment, nothing.’

  ‘Good job.’

  ‘The hours aren’t bad, but the money’s lousy. You?’

  ‘I’m in TV. PR at Thames.’

  ‘Now that does sound like a good job.’

  ‘It is. Big expenses. Long lunches. Fast cars.’

  ‘You can take me to lunch sometime if you like.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘You’ve got my number,’ she said. ‘Use it. You can tell me all about your women troubles.’

  ‘I will. But it would have to be a long lunch.’

  She grinned and took a hit on the Irish. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I hate to drink and run, but I’ve got to go and talk to some of these people.’

  ‘Are you deserting me?’

  ‘Temporarily. I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

  ‘Count on it,’ I said, smiled and went over to John Rice. I’d only had a chance to have a few words with him at the service. He’d looked pale and strained in the thin light from the chapel windows. If anything he looked worse now. He was talking to a stout party with a red face in a bad suit. Rice saw me coming and managed to raise the ghost of a smile.

  ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

  ‘How are you, John?’

  ‘Not too bad under the circumstances. I really didn’t think I was going to take it so badly. You?’

  ‘About the same. She was a tough one to lose.’

  ‘You can say that again. I lost her years ago. I’m sorry I did. This is like losing her all over again.’ His face tried to smile again, but this time it didn’t happen. ‘This is Dermot,’ he said.

  I shook hands with the big man. His grip was firm and dry. ‘So sad,’ he said. ‘A real tragedy.’ He was Irish. Southern, I guessed from the accent.

  I agreed.

  ‘I loved her, you know,’ he said, and took a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and blew his nose loudly.

  ‘I don’t know anyone who didn’t,’ I said. ‘Did you know her for a long time?’

  ‘Years. We met in Dublin. John here was over there on business with my company. We manufacture beer bottles, would you believe?’

  With that belly and that complexion, I would.

  ‘He brought her with him,’ Dermot went on. ‘She lit up that city like a torch. She lit up everywhere she went.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve seen her do it.’

  He shook his head and blew his nose again. ‘When John told me she was dead, I flew straight over. I had to say my last farewells.’

  I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.

  ‘It was a good turn out,’ said Rice. ‘At the chapel. Standing room only. Wanda would have got a kick out of that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Is your… ?’ It was an awkward question.

  He looked at me and twigged. ‘My wife? God, no. I think she only let me come so that she could be sure Wanda was dead.’

  ‘That bad?’ I asked.

  ‘Worse, if anything. You’ve been married, haven’t you?’

  I nodded. I’d mentioned it when we’d met before.

  ‘Then you probably know what I mean. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed single.’

  I let it go. I didn’t want to get on to the subject of my ex-wife. It might have curdled my orange juice.

  ‘I’m going to wander round,’ I said. ‘Talk to some of these people. Thank them for coming. Not that I know any of them.’

  ‘I do,’ said Rice. ‘Do you want any help? It would take my mind off things.’

  ‘That would be great, John. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘And thanks for organising all this.’

  ‘It wasn’t through choice. You saw the letter she left.’ We stood there awkwardly. Perhaps he was thinking the same as me: that Wanda hadn’t asked him. ‘I’ll catch you later,’ I said.

  I walked round the room introducing myself to people I’d never met before, and probably wouldn’t again. They all had their own stories about Wanda and I listened politely. I watched John Rice moving in the opposite direction. Every so often I broke off and went back to the bar for a re-fill.

  There was certainly an interesting mix of people in the room. I hadn’t invited all of them. John Rice must have gone through his address book and notified some. Others had heard the news from people I’d told and just turned up.

  At one point I was talking to Wanda’s dustman, the guy that had fitted her bathroom, and a geezer who wrote sit-coms for the BBC. They were engaged in a conversation about whether or not Elvis was really dead. The dustman was convinced he was alive and well living à deux with Jim Morrison in a turning off the Stockwell Road.

  I also met Brian and David – no surnames please – who had run a design centre in Notting Hill in the sixties where Wanda had done some temporary work. They told me they were now doing very well in import/export in Docklands.

  By about five the crowd had thinned a bit and those that were left looked like hard-core boozers. I called Bob over and ordered a drink. ‘How are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘Your monkey went ages ago,’ he said, almost rubbing his hands. ‘But some other geezer – ’ he stood on tip-toe and looked round the room ‘ – him,’ he said, pointing to John Rice, ‘stuck his American Express in for another, and his mate the Irish geezer gave me a couple of hundred cash. So we’re all right. When that lot runs out, they can buy their own.’

  ‘You’re loving this, Bob, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s business, Nick. You’ve got to turn a coin. I’m sorry about your friend, I really am. Even though I never met the lady. I can see how it’s cut you up. But life
goes on. Listen, I’m sticking the sandwiches in for nixes and I’m doing the splits at cost, as it’s you. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’ He opened his arms and stood there with a quizzical look on his face and dared me to deny it.

  I laughed. ‘Sling in some pork pies and I’ll believe you.’

  ‘Done, son. And this drink’s on your old mate Bob. Don’t ever say I don’t give you nothing. Drink your friend’s health in heaven.’ He got a triple vodka from the optic, added ice and orange juice and pushed it across the bar to me. I thanked him and took it and looked round the room. The place was buzzing nicely. Nat Cole was long gone and people were shouting to be heard above Madonna’s greatest hits.

  As I looked, the door to the room opened and a young woman’s face, topped with very long, very blonde hair, looked through the gap. It was an unusual face. Not my idea of beautiful. But very attractive, and the hair was something else.

  She pushed the door all the way open and came in. She looked about nineteen, but I guessed she was older. She was wearing a long black coat and black gloves which made her hair look even blonder by contrast. She stood in the doorway and I caught her eye, smiled and nodded. She came over. She had a big, jammy, sticky mouth smeared with bright red lipstick that clashed with her hair alarmingly. On some women it would have been a disaster. On her it was perfect. All of a sudden I wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth. To be swallowed up and sucked in by it. ‘Hello,’ I said, when she got up close.

  ‘Nasty twitch you’ve got there,’ she said. ‘Is it hereditary?’

  Oh oh, I thought. One of those.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m looking for someone called Nick Sharman,’ she said. Her voice was husky and deep and I was intrigued by the way her mouth moved when she spoke.

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  She put her hand on my arm. The pressure was only slight but I felt it all over. Her nails were painted bright scarlet. ‘So you’re Nick, are you?’ she said. ‘Wanda said you were a cutie pie.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  She moved a little closer and her fingers ran up the sleeve of my jacket like a posse of little red cockroaches. ‘Sure is. I think she fancied you.’ And she laughed throatily at the thought.