Old Friends, New Friends

by Margaret Thornton

  Debbie was hoping, though, that Graham might contact her soon; there was the promised visit to his flat pending. She was not to be disappointed. Graham called at the flat the following evening, just as they were finishing their meal.

  ‘Cup of tea, Graham?’ asked Karen. ‘We’re just going to have one; well, a mug of tea to be more correct. You don’t mind a mug, do you?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replied. ‘Good old northern custom, isn’t it? A cup of tea at the end of every meal. That’s the way I was brought up.’

  ‘Like the rest of us I reckon,’ said Karen. ‘There’s nowt like a nice cup of tea.’

  Debbie noticed Fran’s raised eyebrows and slightly contemptuous glance in Karen’s direction, although she made no comment. Fran, coming from Cheshire, liked to show that she was not used to such working-class customs. She was also aware that Karen, so far, was doing most of the talking.

  ‘How do you like your tea then?’ Karen asked now, picking up the large brown earthenware pot.

  ‘Oh hot and strong, please,’ said Graham.

  ‘Just like you, eh?’ retorted Karen, just as Debbie might have expected her to do.

  Graham smiled weakly, looking a shade embarrassed as he took the large-sized mug, adorned with a fierce-looking tabby cat, from Karen.

  ‘And two sugars, please, if you don’t mind,’ he said.

  Debbie offered him the sugar bowl. ‘So … what brings you here?’ she asked. ‘We’re pleased to see you, of course.’ He hadn’t, yet, said why he was there. It had been Lisa who had answered the ring at the doorbell.

  ‘I’ve come to invite you for a meal at my flat on Saturday,’ he said to Debbie. ‘Nothing special, you know, but I thought it would be … rather nice,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Ooh, that sounds good!’ said the irrepressible Karen. ‘Can we all come? Only joking,’ she added at Graham’s startled expression. She winked at him. ‘Two’s company, but three, four, five, would be a crowd.’

  ‘We haven’t room anyway,’ Graham commented. ‘Mark – he’s my flatmate – he and I don’t do much entertaining, Not that he’ll be there on Friday. We have an arrangement that the other one goes out if one of us wants to entertain … depending on who it is, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Of course,’ said Karen, smiling. ‘Sounds like a good idea. ‘Like I said, three’s a crowd.’

  Debbie threw a ‘shut up, can’t you?’ sort of glance in her direction before turning to Graham. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t stay long now,’ he told her. ‘I’ll go when I’ve finished my tea and leave you girls to your washing up. I’m meeting a chap at a pub in Leeds. I answered an advert saying that members were wanted for a newly formed brass band, so I’m going to find out about it tonight.’

  ‘Oh, how nice! What do you play?’ It was Lisa, surprisingly, who asked the question. ‘My dad likes brass band music,’ she added, ‘being a Yorkshireman; and so do I.’

  ‘I play the French horn,’ he replied. ‘I was in a band at school, and at uni as well; so I’ve been looking for another opening.’

  ‘French horn; that’s a round curly thing, isn’t it, with lots of twiddly bits?’ said Karen.

  Graham laughed. ‘Not a bad description,’ he said. ‘It has a lovely tone, if it’s played well, of course. I’m a bit out of practice. I don’t like to play when Mark’s around, and I’m worried about disturbing the neighbours. We’ve got the upstairs flat, and there’s a couple with a baby downstairs.’

  ‘So I’ll be all on my owny-own on Saturday,’ said Karen, after Graham had gone. She gave a mock sniff and pretended to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Debbie, although there was nothing unusual about one of them being alone in the flat. They had all agreed that they must each ‘do their own thing’. They were not tied to one another in any way. Debbie knew, though, that Karen might be feeling rather vulnerable, being the only one at the moment without a male companion, despite her vow to give men a wide berth.

  Debbie had said goodbye to Graham downstairs, away from the rest of the girls, especially from the outspoken remarks that Karen was apt to make. Graham always seemed rather embarrassed and wary with Karen, although Debbie knew that what she said was only meant to be in fun. They had agreed that Debbie should find her own way to Graham’s flat in Headingley. He had offered to come and collect her, but she assured him she was a big girl now, quite capable of getting a bus for the few stops, then walking the short distance to the flat. He said it was quite easy to find, situated on the corner of a road that led up to Beckett’s Park.

  ‘It will give you plenty of time to prepare a sumptuous meal,’ she told him. ‘I’m expecting great things, you know, Graham.’

  He laughed. ‘Then I hope you won’t be disappointed! I must admit I’d never done a damn thing in the kitchen before I left home. My mum spoiled me rotten. I learned to fend for myself a bit at uni, so I’m rather more experienced now. Not cordon bleu, though, by any means.’

  ‘It was just the same with me,’ Debbie assured him. ‘I was spoiled as well by my doting mum. But I’m learning! Fran and Karen are pretty good in the kitchen, but they insist on Lisa and me taking our turns.’

  ‘Is there anything you specially like?’ he asked her. ‘Chicken, beef steak, salmon …?’

  ‘Oh, I like most things,’ she told him ‘Surprise me, Graham! I’m sure it’ll be great, whatever it is. I’m looking forward to it already.’

  ‘That’s good!’ He grinned at her, then he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m looking forward to it as well, just you and me. Bye for now, Debbie.’

  Eleven

  Debbie wondered whether this evening with the two of them alone together in the flat would be the time when their relationship took a step forward. Graham had made a point of telling her that his flatmate would be out for the whole of the evening.

  She deliberated about what she should wear. Nothing too dressy; it wasn’t as if they were going to a posh restaurant in town. All the same, Debbie wanted to look her very best. She knew which colours and styles suited her, and always tried to make the most of herself. She was reasonably satisfied with her looks – her dark brown hair that had a natural curl, her warm brown eyes and her rosy complexion – without being too vain. Her figure was not too bad either: a trim waist and quite adequate bust measurement, and her legs looked OK in a miniskirt.

  A few weeks ago, in the Leeds Marks and Spencer’s store, she had treated herself to a black and white checked pinafore dress – short length, but not too short – and a cherry red sweater made from a soft acrylic fibre, much easier to wash than the conventional wool. She had worn them only once, during her weekend with Fiona and Simon, at the triplets’ birthday party. Fiona and her friend, Joan, had commented that the colour suited her perfectly. For this Saturday evening date she complemented them with red floral earrings from the John Lewis store, and sheer tights in the shade called barely black.

  The evening was chilly, and she was glad of her long tweed coat, almost ankle length, to cover her legs. Her mother always laughed at the modern juxtaposition of miniskirts and extra long coats, but it made good sense when you thought about it. Like most modern girls, though, she seldom wore anything on her head, however cold it might be. Neither did she wear a vest, something that her mother could never understand!

  She found the house easily from Graham’s directions, and he answered promptly to her ring at the doorbell. He greeted her affectionately, kissing her cheek and remarking that it felt cold.

  ‘You’ll soon warm up in here though,’ he told her. ‘The central heating’s on and we’ve a gas fire as well.’

  He led her up the floral carpeted stairs to his flat. She could tell at once that this flat was far superior to the one where she lodged. The rent would he higher, of course, but then Graham and his friend were both earning a satisfactory salary, even though they were just starting out in their careers.

  He led
her through a small vestibule into the living room. It was spacious, and warm, too, as Graham had said, and was comfortably furnished; far more luxurious surroundings than Debbie was accustomed to, if somewhat old-fashioned. There was a large settee and two armchairs in brown velour, far less worn than the ones in her own flat, a sideboard with a mirror at the back, which she thought must be Victorian, and a table surrounded by four chairs with carved backs. The table was covered with a white cloth, and already set for two with shining cutlery, table mats with pictures of hunting scenes, and two different sorts of glasses, one for water and one for wine.

  ‘Very nice.’ Debbie commented. She looked admiringly round the room, taking in the floor-length green damask curtains, matching the green leaves in the floral carpet. ‘And warm, too, like you said.’

  The gas fire, unlike the rest of the fittings on the room, was a modern one with imitation coals, but in a conventional tiled fireplace. ‘Quite luxurious,’ she added. ‘I’m very impressed. You’ve done well here, Graham.’

  ‘Yes, I must admit that I have. The furniture’s a bit antiquated for my liking. The flat was fully furnished, so there’s not much we could do about that. Still, it’s OK for a rented place. The rent’s not too bad with two of us sharing. It’ll give me a chance to save up and get a place of my own … one of these days!

  ‘The bedroom’s more up-to-date, though.’ He opened a door leading off the main room. ‘Let me take your coat, Debbie, and if you want the bathroom, it’s through there, opening off the bedroom.’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll just … wash my hands.’

  The bedroom was at the front of the house. It seemed that Graham and Mark shared, as there were two twin beds in the room, and utility-type furniture such as was in the girls’ flat. The bathroom was modern, too, with a fitted bath, wash basin and toilet in pale green, and half-tiled walls. On the top of a small cupboard there was the shaving equipment of the two men, toothbrushes, soap, and Old Spice aftershave and talcum powder.

  She made use of the facilities and dried her hands on a matching green towel. It seemed as though Graham and Mark were remarkably clean and fastidious, unless there had been a tidy-up for her benefit. She thought not, though; Graham was a tidy person, in appearance and in his mind and manners.

  She went back to the large sitting-cum-dining room. ‘Mark and I usually dine in the kitchen,’ Graham told her, turning round from the window where he had been adjusting the curtains. ‘It’s a fair-sized kitchen, you see …’ He opened a door at the back of the room, and an appetizing aroma wafted on the air. Chicken, thought Debbie; possibly in a casserole. A sensible choice in that nothing much could go wrong.

  She looked through the kitchen door. ‘Gosh! That’s terrific!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not a poky little cubbyhole like ours.’

  The kitchen was far larger than the one where the girls cooked. There was a Formica breakfast bar – no doubt used for most of their meals – an electric cooker and a fridge, built-in cupboards, and still enough space to walk around.

  ‘And something smells good as well, Graham,’ she told him.

  ‘Let’s hope it tastes as good,’ he said, laughing. ‘I’ve got everything ready, so we’ll have a drink first, shall we? Come and sit down, Debbie.’

  She sat on the settee with her knees pressed together demurely. Miniskirts were apt to reveal too much if you weren’t careful. Graham opened the sideboard cupboard. ‘Now, Martini with a dash of lemonade? That’s what you like, isn’t it, Debbie?’

  ‘Yes; lovely, thank you,’ she answered politely. He handed her the drink in a nice crystal glass, then poured himself a tot of whisky, adding a small amount of dry ginger. He sat down next to her on the settee.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, and they clinked their glasses. ‘Here’s to a happy evening. It’s so nice to see you on your own, Debbie, and not in a crowded bar.’

  She smiled and nodded, suddenly feeling a little shy and ill at ease. ‘Mm … lovely,’ she said again, sipping at her drink. ‘Posh glasses, Graham! Are they part of the fittings?’

  ‘Oh no; I brought them from home,’ he replied. ‘Mum had an abundance of glasses, of all kinds, so she gave me a nice selection; crockery as well and knives and forks. She’s had two lots of wedding presents, of course, and Charles had been married before – then widowed, like Mum – so they ended up with two of everything!’

  ‘How is your mother?’ she asked, as a matter of course.

  Graham replied that she was well and happy with her new husband. ‘We all like Charles,’ he said, ‘and we’re pleased that she’s not on her own now that we’ve all fled the nest … You’ve never met my mum, have you?’ It was a rhetorical question, and he went on to say, ‘We must arrange a meeting, quite soon, if possible. She’s heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ said Debbie. She had not met Yvonne, but she knew the story, of course, one more facet of the complicated family – or families – to which she and Graham belonged.

  She had learnt that Simon, whilst serving in the RAF during the Second World War, had met Yvonne, a WAAF stationed at the same camp. Their friendship had developed, heightened by the danger that Simon experienced as a navigator and the traumas he had faced. When Yvonne had suspected that she was pregnant she had asked for a transfer to another camp whilst Simon was at home on leave. He had not known that he had fathered a son until Gregory Challinor had arrived on his doorstep some twenty-two years later.

  Graham was Greg’s younger brother – half-brother, to be exact – and there was also a sister, Wendy, who was a schoolteacher. Yvonne’s husband, Keith, had been a doctor, several years her senior. He had died in 1967, and that was when Greg had decided to find the man, who, unknown to him until then, was his real father. Yvonne had now remarried and, as Graham had said, was happy again.

  The situation had become more complicated when Debbie had turned up on the rectory doorstep the following year, seeking the woman who was her real mother. It could have caused trouble a-plenty, but Debbie’s adoptive parents, Vera and Stanley, had been very understanding.

  Debbie found the family relationships – who was related to who, and how – very complicated to fathom. She had worked out that Greg was her stepbrother – sort of! – but no blood relation. And Graham, his younger brother, was her boyfriend – sort of! – but he was proving to be something of an enigma. The two of them were now sitting primly side by side on the settee as though they had only just met.

  ‘I spent a few days with Simon and Fiona last week,’ she told him, ‘and the triplets, of course, and little Stella. It was the babies’ second birthday party.’

  ‘Oh yes; so it was,’ said Graham. ‘I sent cards and a postal order so that Fiona could buy them something … How are they all?’

  ‘Quite well, on the whole,’ Debbie answered. ‘Fiona has another lady to help her now, so I’m hoping she will improve. She’s been very tired and down in the dumps as well.’

  She did not elaborate on the story of the new helper, Glenda. It was too involved and personal to talk about. Fiona had been very much in her thoughts. She did so hope that her fears were groundless, but she had sensed that things were by no means right in that household.

  ‘I’m not surprised that things get her down, with four small children,’ Graham observed. ‘And how is my special little godson, Mark?’

  ‘He’s doing well,’ replied Debbie. ‘Starting to talk and be more alert. He’s a well-behaved little boy, compared with Matthew.’ She didn’t tell him that it was feared, particularly by Fiona, that Mark was not progressing as well as he might; that he was possibly a little retarded in his development. It was just one more thing to worry Fiona, and better not to be talked about.

  ‘I must pay them a visit soon,’ said Graham. ‘Perhaps we could both go?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Debbie.

  Graham clasped his hands decidedly and stood up. ‘Now … let’s eat, shall we, Debbie?’

  ‘A good idea
,’ she replied. She was glad to bring the chit-chit to an end, and she was quite hungry.

  Graham pulled out a chair for her in a gentlemanly way, and she sat down. ‘I’m afraid one thing I don’t have is posh napkins and rings,’ said Graham. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with paper serviettes.’ The green ones which matched the decor were, however, artistically folded and placed in the water glasses.

  Debbie laughed. ‘I’m afraid we don’t often use serviettes at all … This is all very nice and civilized, Graham.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with the ‘starter’; prawn cocktail in small glass bowls with dainty triangles of bread and butter at the side. A popular dish to be found on most menus of the time, and one of Debbie’s favourites.

  They ate in comparative silence at first. Graham took her dish away, refusing her offer of help to bring in the main course, It was, as she had guessed, a chicken casserole; succulent breast portions with onions, mushrooms, celery and diced carrots in a creamy sauce. He placed a piping hot helping in front of her, and dishes of fluffy mashed potatoes and broccoli in the centre of the table.

  ‘This looks lovely,’ she said, wishing she could think of a more original comment. But it did look appetizing, and it tasted so as well.

  ‘Delicious!’ she enthused again. ‘You’re a good cook, Graham.’

  ‘I’m afraid the sauce came out of a tin,’ he confessed, ‘and I just followed the directions.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ she said, ‘But it still has to be cooked properly, and this is perfect.’

  ‘Oh!’ He jumped up again. ‘I almost forgot the wine.’ He poured out a German Riesling. ‘I hope this is to your taste, madam!’

  ‘I’m learning to like all white wines,’ she said, ‘so long as they’re not too dry.’ He poured out glasses of water as well, which was very acceptable as the chicken sauce was a little spicy.

  Conversation flowed a little more easily as the meal progressed, Graham talking about his work, and Debbie about the courses she was enjoying. They finished off the meal with a lemon meringue pie, which Graham admitted he had bought from a local bakery.