Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  The woman paused for breath a moment, before continuing in the same excitable fashion. ‘Anyway, the next morning he rolls in here to report the lost ring but, as the days go by and no one hands it in, or gives him any news, he gets more and more pissed off at the thought of having to make do with some old cheapo ring, because no way can he afford to buy another proper gold one.’

  Primrose glanced at her own ring, remembering how Arthur had saved up for months and months, sacrificing his usual pints in the pub, cutting down on tobacco and filling his pipe with shreds of bark, instead; even selling his treasured stamp collection, to raise some extra cash – and all to give her a ring so dazzlingly extravagant it would reflect the depth of his love. Perhaps this young man had done the same. Certainly, he was gazing at his bride with the same devotion and adoration Arthur had shown to her during more than six blessed decades.

  ‘But, wait till you hear this!’ the woman crowed, nudging Primrose in the ribs, to regain her full attention for the remainder of the story. ‘They phoned him – literally, half an hour ago, to say someone had handed in the ring at that very moment. So he rushes straight here with his bride – I mean, actually en route to their wedding, because they’re now a bit pushed for time – and, once the ring is safely in his pocket, he’s like a dog with two tails and starts pouring out the story to all us people waiting in the queue. And we all say congratulations and take pictures on our phones and stuff. Then the manager hears the kerfuffle and he comes out and wants a proper photograph – I suppose for the records or something. That was just a minute ago. See the guy with the camera, in the blue trousers and white shirt?’

  Primrose nodded, enchanted by the tale, which brought back such cherished memories. Her own wedding day had been so supremely happy, even the war couldn’t spoil it – not the bombing, or the rationing, or the fact her wedding dress was made from a pair of dingy, once-white lace curtains. The only thing that mattered was that she was marrying the most wonderful man in the world. In fact, as soon as she had finished here, she planned to go to Arthur’s tree to tell him the whole saga. And she shouldn’t be kept too long, because the bridal couple were just this minute leaving, headed for the Register Office, to a chorus of ‘Good luck!’ and ‘Congratulations’ from the onlookers. A cluster of people went trooping out along with them; folk who’d obviously been hanging around only to witness any further developments – fortunate for her, because there was no one left in the queue now, save the woman who’d been talking to her, who offered to let her go ahead.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ Primrose smiled. ‘And thank you for telling me the story. It’s certainly a drama!’

  ‘Well, this place must see all human life. And death,’ the woman added, with a grin. ‘There’s this bloke I know at work who went and left his dad’s ashes on a number twenty-four bus. You’d think he’d be more careful, especially as they were in a proper fancy urn, not just a plastic bag or something.’

  ‘And did he get them back?’ asked Primrose, feeling less guilty now about her own carelessness. Arthur’s ashes were in pride of place on the mantelpiece. Why scatter them, when she could keep him safe at home?

  ‘Yes thank God! There was a plaque on them, engraved with the old boy’s name, and I suppose that must have helped.’

  Primrose felt very nearly happy, what with this long, engaging chat and the free diversion of the bridal couple, not to mention her precious bag about to be returned. And, once she had finally paid the fee for the restoration of her property – a mere four pounds for a bag worth hundreds – she left the Lost Property Office with a definite spring in her step.

  On the tube back, she kept the tightest hold of her booty, first stowing the house-keys deep inside her pocket, so they’d be instantly at hand and she wouldn’t have to fumble in the recesses of her bag. She’d had a new set cut, of course, but she preferred these original ones, because the heart-shaped key-ring (now tarnished, sadly) had been a gift from Arthur. She sat, marvelling at the fact that someone had actually resisted the temptation of stealing such a valuable bag, proving that people were decent, as Mr Mohammed Ahmed said. She had seen him on duty at the station, several times during the last three weeks, and he had not only recognized her but seemed happy to converse. She now knew the name of his wife (Omera) and his two sons (Faisal and Bashir), and had even seen their photos on his mobile. Omera looked a lovely young lady – beautiful and gentle, with a bashful smile and huge black eyes.

  However, when she came through the gates on this occasion, he failed to notice her – although hardly any wonder, since he was dealing with a group of aggressive lads, all shouting and shaking their fists. So she left the station and made straight for Page Green Common, shocked to see Arthur’s tree now completely bare. On her previous visit, only forty-eight hours ago, it still had a thin cladding of leaves, but today its naked branches were silhouetted against the leaden sky, and dead brown leaves were heaped in fragile drifts beneath the trunk.

  ‘Arthur, my sweet,’ she whispered and, once he’d registered her presence, she told him about the bridal couple and how their mutual devotion had reminded her of her own wedding, despite its very different setting in a peaceful little country church. Listening intently, she seemed to hear his reply in a sudden crackling and rustling from the moving carpet of brittle leaves, as they were bullied by the wind. He was telling her that not even his death could negate their marriage or their solid and unshakeable bond and, in light of that consoling fact, the loss of mere possessions scarcely mattered. So, even if Violet’s bag had failed to turn up, she would still be rich and blessed, because she and Arthur had each other.

  She stood stock-still as a sudden thought occurred to her: did she even need possessions, now that she’d reached so advanced an age? After all, they could be as much a source of grief and worry as of pride and pleasure. Perhaps Arthur was trying to tell her that it was time to yield to nature, as these wise old trees were doing; to accept being bare and denuded, in the hope of a re-greening in the spring. She had long ago lost her belief in any conventional sort of heaven, with angels playing harps and God in a long white robe, but, as the years wore on, she had begun to sense the existence of some mysterious realm where leaves were always green, the air invariably warm and mild, and where she could live with her husband for ever, in love and tenderness. And maybe Violet would be there, as well – her dearest friend restored, a greater blessing by far than the return of a mere bag.

  Suddenly decisive, she told Arthur she’d be back, before turning on her heel and retracing her steps to the tube, walking urgently, determinedly, despite her clumsy stick and the persistent nagging of the wind. Fortunately, there were no longer any customers distracting Mr Ahmed, who was standing by the automatic gates, with no one else in earshot.

  ‘This is for you,’ she said, passing him Violet’s bag. ‘To thank you for your kindness. I’d like you to give it to your wife.’

  His face expressed both astonishment and worry, as if he feared she might have taken leave of her senses. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly take it, Mrs Simpson. That’s a very expensive handbag, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Yes, top quality – I can vouch for that. But I have no more need for it, you see, whereas Mrs Ahmed might find it useful and it should certainly last her a good long time.’

  ‘But you lost your bag. I mean, that’s how we first got talking. And you’ve been telling me about it ever since – how distressed you were that it hadn’t been found and that you were giving up all hope. So, did someone return it, after all, or is this a different bag?’

  It was impossible to explain and, anyway, she didn’t want a whole rigmarole of refusals and protestations. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stop, Mr Ahmed. My husband’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Your husband? But I thought you said—’

  ‘Things have changed,’ she said.

  Nonetheless, he continued to demur, insisting he couldn’t take, and would never dream of expecting, any sort of gift for simply doing h
is duty.

  Finally, she was forced to push the bag almost rudely into his hands, shaking her head with such vehemence when he attempted to return it, he looked a little startled. But they could stand arguing for ever, so she had to take a firm line. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ahmed,’ she said, in her most resolute tone, ‘but I really do have to go.’

  And, with that, she turned her back and left the station and, although she was a little worried about having seemed brusque or even overbearing, she knew his wife would be delighted and might even understand.

  Once out in the street, she headed again for Arthur’s tree, feeling strangely lighter without a handbag or possessions.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ she whispered, her voice lost in the roar of the traffic, the hiss of the buses’ automatic doors, as they opened and shut, disgorging passengers. Yet the noise and the crowds barely registered. She was aware only of her husband’s love, cloaking her, awaiting her, enduring for eternity.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she murmured and, despite the dingy High Road and the sleety rain that had just begun to fall, she felt totally suffused with the peace and joy and beauty of her Wedding Day.

  Boiled Eggs

  ‘Hey, guess what I read about Prince Charles in the Mail today?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’ Neil pulled out into the fast lane, to overtake the erratic elderly driver in front. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, they said he likes boiled eggs for breakfast, but, instead of having a couple cooked hard or soft, or whatever, he insists on having a whole range of them prepared – one boiled for exactly three minutes, one for three-and-a-half, one for four, one for four and-a-half, et cetera, et cetera, just so he can take his pick, according to his whim at the time. I ask you! What a spoilt prat!’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Neil checked in the mirror on the elderly driver, in his equally ancient Rover. The traffic ahead was slowing, prompting the old fellow to come up dangerously close. ‘Perhaps he’s just a perfectionist, or taking a close interest in the eggs from his various farms – seeing how they taste at different degrees of hardness and softness. After all, he is passionate about food, not just growing it organically, but making sure every process in the supply-chain is up to the mark.’

  Lara gave a non-committal grunt. In her opinion, Charles was a wimp, a bore and a hypocrite, but Neil was clearly more tolerant. In fact, she’d been struck by his basic decency when they’d first met at Carole’s party and he’d helped her mop up her spilt drink; even sponged her jacket in the sink to prevent the wine leaving a permanent stain. Of course, the fact he was so much older probably accounted for such thoughtfulness but, already, after just two weeks, she was beginning to get a taste for going out with a guy in his forties. Neil had a proper job as a civil engineer in a big construction firm, and a decent car, and his own two-bedroomed flat, which made her student friends seem rather gauche and shallow in comparison; all, like her, stuck in rented flat-shares in grotty parts of London, and with no transport beyond second-hand bikes.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having minions cook me eggs and wait on me hand and foot,’ she said, with a grin, thinking of her messy flatmates who couldn’t even be bothered to wash up. ‘Mind you, it probably means His Royal Highness would starve if the servants all walked out. I doubt he can boil an egg without a huge amount of help!’

  ‘Maybe not, but he’s hardly a slouch when it comes to other things. I mean, he campaigns for the environment, and cares intensely about climate change, and heads a whole raft of charities. In fact, I knew this young guy once, who came from nothing and was going nowhere, but his entire life was changed by a grant from the Prince’s Trust. It made all the difference that someone was actually there for him – to give him hope and encouragement and make him feel he wasn’t crap.’

  So Neil was also an idealist, she mused, feeling slightly guilty that her own energies were focused on herself – her ambition to achieve fame as an actor, rather than leave drama school and spend her life waitressing in Starbucks. To be honest, she didn’t give a toss about the environment. She also now regretted her remark about HRH being unable to boil an egg, which seemed a tad hypocritical, when her own culinary skills were nil. Indeed, she couldn’t help worrying that, during this weekend away, Neil might be expecting her to cook, or at least to have packed some provisions for supper in the cottage tonight, or tomorrow morning’s breakfast. She was so used to eating in the student canteen, or phoning out for takeaways, food-shopping rarely figured in her life, and she’d actually been more concerned with packing the right clothes for a romantic idyll in Devon than with sparing a thought for milk or bread or teabags.

  ‘Shall we stop at the next services and have a bite to eat?’ Neil suggested, as if tuning in to her fears.

  ‘Yeah. Great idea!’ Thank God she was let off the hook as far as rustling up some Gordon Ramsay creation was concerned, although her worry about cooking was vastly overshadowed by her worry about sex. She barely knew this guy. Admittedly, they’d kissed – and he was a pretty fantastic kisser – but they hadn’t taken it any further, so he was blithely unaware of her inadequacies.

  She stole another glance at him: his hair so thick it was like a horse’s mane and much darker than her mousy crop. And his long, lean legs, emphasized by tight blue jeans, seemed a reproach to her own plumpish, fleshy thighs. Did she measure up in any way, she wondered? Her face and figure were passable, but she didn’t have the sort of looks that could inspire the heights of passion or devotion.

  ‘The only problem is,’ Neil said, picking up on his previous remark, ‘there isn’t another service-station till Exeter. The last one was only three miles back.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m enjoying the drive.’ In truth, she felt much more at ease in the car than actually arriving and being faced with the reality of going to bed with someone more or less a stranger. It would be horribly embarrassing, at such an early stage, to try to discuss her sexual fears and failings, and, with every mile they travelled, it became increasingly clear that she should have got to know him better before agreeing to this weekend. On the other hand, it had sounded so idyllic, staying in his parents’ cliff-top cottage (with his parents safely out of the way, in Provence), and she’d felt an urge to be spontaneous, for once, and just say an impulsive ‘yes’, instead of being ruled by her usual swarm of insecurities. And, anyway, she yearned for more experience, if only to deepen and inspire her acting, which needed to be fuelled by a full, adventurous life. A weekend with an older man in a sixteenth-century cottage, once inhabited by a notorious pirate, and with wild waves crashing on the strand beneath, would definitely be a change from her normal run-of-the-mill weekends, mugging up on play-scripts or chilling out in the pub.

  ‘Well, we’re lucky as regards the traffic. It’s surprisingly light, especially for a Friday.’ Neil accelerated again, finally throwing off the battered black Rover, which up till now, had been tailing them with obstinate persistence. ‘Even with a stop for supper, we should be there before dark. And remember, we’re coming up to the longest day, so it’ll be light till ten or so. Hey, why don’t we celebrate – have a picnic on the beach or something, the night of the summer solstice.’

  ‘Oh, yes – light bonfires and dance naked through the waves!’ She longed to be more daring; throw off all her fears and break away from the influence of her mother, who had probably caused them anyway. Her mum lived a confined and conventional existence, stuck in a poky bungalow, and barely able to cope since her husband walked out, five years into the marriage. After his desertion, their life had changed entirely, not just because money was short but because her mother had become cowering and diminished; her only remaining thrill collecting triple points at Tesco’s. And she was forever sounding off about the treachery of men; how they couldn’t be trusted and never stayed around, so, as the child of such a marriage, she’d vowed, long ago, that, if there was the slightest chance of her partner doing a bunk, she would get in first and be the one who did the leaving.

 
‘Darling, you’re turning me on already.’ Neil placed his hand on her thigh and began stroking it, suggestively. ‘The thought of your body glistening-wet in the moonlight, and your mermaid hair streaming down your back, and your nipples stiffening in the breeze, and… .’

  Hell, she thought, her apprehension growing with his fantasies. He was bound to be used to the kind of females who gasped and moaned like porn-stars and had breasts so huge they’d need scaffolding to hold them up, rather than a bra, so it would be a definite disappointment to bed a nervous, uptight student, with almost no experience. He might even decide to break off their relationship and return to his wonder-women, whom she imagined having orgasms with such frequency and ease they would qualify for the Guinness Book of Records. Appalled by such a humiliating prospect, she shut her eyes and tried to blank out everything except the drone of the engine and the steady, lulling rhythm of the road, broken only by a sudden whoosh, when some speed-fiend hurtled past.

  ‘Please, God,’ she prayed – although uncomfortably aware that He probably didn’t exist – ‘let us never arrive. Neil desires me now – which is fabulous – but I want to keep it that way, not have him disillusioned.’

  ‘Oh, Neil! Oh, Christ! It’s wonderful.’ She collapsed against him, out of breath, heart pounding, body sheened with sweat. His own heart was beating so wildly against her chest, his arms clasped so tight around her, she had lost all sense of where she ended and he began. He didn’t speak – no need. If a guy had to ask ‘Was it good for you?’, then patently it hadn’t been. But Neil had used his own experience and skill to sweep her far beyond her normal timid boundaries and, for the first time in her life, she’d come with a man, at the exact same moment.