I know you’re going to want to meet me. My number’s at the top of the letter and my photo’s on the back. Call me – soon.
Chelsea Buckden
A wry grin spreading across her face, Harri looked at the photo, which was fastened to the letter with a silver, sparkly paper clip, and guffawed so loudly that Auntie Rosemary appeared in the doorway. The thought of how horrified Alex would be when faced with this orange-tinged, platinum-blonde-haired plastic Jordan wannabe made tears roll down her cheeks.
One thing Alex was always more than happy to rant about was what he called ‘plastic salon junkies’. ‘Why in the world would any sane male choose to date a fake, plastic stick insect with more silicone than skin, who is more orange than an Oompa Loompa? You can’t have any kind of meaningful interchange with someone who can’t move their face. Honestly, you’d be better off dating a Barbie doll – at least you can chuck her in a cupboard when you get bored of her . . .’
Harri’s sides were aching as she struggled to catch her breath. ‘Alex and the fantastic plastic Chelsea – now there’s a match I’d like to see.’
‘Harriet Langton, stop being so cruel. You’re doing this to help your friend, remember?’
‘I know, I know, I’m just joking, Auntie Ro. Look, I’m dumping Chelsea on the Not Likely pile.’
‘Good, well, make sure you dump her right at the bottom of that pile, please. I don’t think my poor nostrils can take much more of that dreadful stench.’
From the beginning, Harri never imagined that trawling through Alex’s fan mail would be fun; yet as the hours passed, she found herself relishing the unexpected time spent with her aunt. As they made steady progress through the second sack and headed towards the third, she was filled with a comforting sense of peace and belonging that she hadn’t experienced for such a long time. Her mind drifted back to another living room, twenty years before, where the laughter warming its walls was that of her parents, long before cancer appeared.
Dad was a natural comedian – a serial practical joker and purveyor of an arsenal of devastatingly funny one-liners – and all sources of hilarity in the Langton household could be traced back to him. Mum, on the other hand, was the straight-woman in the outfit: ‘The Ernie to my Eric, the Corbett to my Barker,’ Dad used to say. Whilst her dad’s witticisms would reduce everyone within earshot to giggling wrecks, Harri’s mum’s face remained unmoved – which made the joke even funnier. Occasionally, she would crack, grabbing her husband and kissing the bald patch on the top of his head as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘I love you, you nutter!’
When someone you love dies, the things you miss are often surprising. In Harri’s most private moments, her parents’ laughter was the one sound she longed to hear again; memories of the silliest conversations would cause sharp slivers of pain to stab at her heart. One of the most memorable was a running joke that started whilst driving home from a Cornish summer holiday in Looe. Dad had decided to take a detour through Bodmin, but they ended up stuck behind a bin lorry driving through the narrow high street and because cars were double-parked along the length of the road, they were forced to stop every time a large, gruff-faced bin man jumped out to throw rubbish sacks into the wagon’s waiting jaws.
As usual, Dad started it. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry in Bodmin.’
Mum smiled. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry with a big bin man in Bodmin.’
‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry, with a big burly bin man in Bodmin.’
Dad started to giggle. It never ceased to amaze Harri how such a tiny, elfin sound could come out of such a tall, broad-shouldered man like her dad. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry, with a big, burly bin man with a big, black, bin bag in Bodmin . . .’
And so it continued for the next hour. By the time they arrived at Grandma and Grandpa Langton’s cottage on the edge of Dartmoor, the three of them were helpless with laughter. Dad practically fell out of the car, Harri emerged clutching her sides and Mum had lost every last vestige of her famous composure. The look of complete confusion on Grandma Langton’s face at the sight of her guffawing, gasping family is something Harri would never forget.
Now, sitting next to her aunt, Harri felt a glimmer of that feeling again: safety, familiarity, humour. A bittersweet shiver ran through her.
Auntie Rosemary turned to look at her. ‘Are you all right?’ Harri swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled back. ‘I’m fine.’
By eight o’clock that evening, only half a sack remained. Harri had caught her aunt surreptitiously glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece several times during the past hour and decided to make the decision for her.
‘Hey, it’s late. I’d better let you go.’
Rosemary made a valiant effort to hide her relief. ‘But you still have some left to sort through. I can’t just leave you.’
‘Yes, you can. Look, you’ve been an amazing help and I really, really appreciate everything you’ve done. But you need a weekend too and I’m more than capable of dealing with these.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’
Harri wrapped her arms around her aunt. ‘Completely sure. Thank you so much – it’s been really lovely to spend the day with you.’
‘It’s been fun, hasn’t it?’ Rosemary’s cheeks flushed and she reached up to cup Harri’s face with both hands. ‘No, more than that, it’s been wonderful. I don’t get the chance to spend Saturday afternoons with my own little girl now she’s so far away.’
‘You miss Rosie a lot, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, very much so. Even though it’s been seven years since she left for America. So it’s lovely to spend time with my niece.’
‘Aw, thanks, Auntie Ro. It’s been ages since I had a family day too. Mum and I didn’t get many days like this.’
Tears sparkled at the corners of Auntie Rosemary’s dark eyes. ‘Niamh would have been so very proud of you, my darling. You remind me of her more and more, you know.’
They walked slowly to the front door and Auntie Rosemary stepped out onto the porch step, then turned back. ‘Just promise me that you won’t waste a single day, Harriet. For your mother. For me?’
Harri smiled. ‘I’ll try not to.’ She watched her aunt leave and then closed the door. As if by magic, Ron Howard appeared at her feet and started to rub around her ankles, purring lovingly. ‘Creep,’ she smiled down at him. ‘You only love me because I feed you.’
By ten p.m., the lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. Harri’s eye sockets ached and her stomach felt like someone had placed a heavy weight inside it. She filed the last letter in the Possible pile and sank back into the sofa as Ron Howard rolled on his back, waiting to be tickled. ‘That’s me done, Ron.’ She ruffled the soft white fur on his belly as she looked at the completed piles of letters on the coffee table. To her surprise, the Contenders pile was looking quite healthy – at least thirty letters had made the grade. Leaning forward, she took the top letter and blinked a couple of times to focus her weary eyes on its contents.
Hi Alex,
I’m Annie. I’m twenty-nine and actually looking forward to thirty, odd though it sounds. I work as an office administrator for my friend’s design business and one day I’d like to run my own bookshop, preferably somewhere near the sea.
I tried to think of a ton of clever things to say, but in the end I reckoned it was better to just be myself. There’s no point pretending to be someone I’m not – it only ever causes problems. So, this is me. I’m a great listener, I love meeting new people and I enjoy great conversation – preferably over excellent coffee, but I have been known to settle for bog-standard instant if the company’s good enough! I’d just like to meet someone interesting, someone who’s seen a bit of this world and isn’t obsessed by life in a small town.
Anyway, I’ve enclosed a photo, so see what you think. Hope to hear from you soon.
Annie Brookes
Harri smiled at the photo of the pretty blonde with pale blue eyes. ‘Well, congratulations,
Annie Brookes. It looks like you’re about to meet my mate Alex.’
The next morning, Harri woke early and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast before feeding Ron Howard, grabbing her bag and keys and stepping out into the warm June morning. As she closed the gate, she saw Mrs Littleton, her octogenarian next-door neighbour, who was balancing on an incredibly rickety-looking wooden stepladder in her garden, a rusty pair of shears in hand, attacking a large privet hedge with alarming vigour. Even on the top step she barely reached five foot tall and was truly a sight to behold, dressed in baggy light blue velour tracksuit bottoms tucked into her white sports socks, tartan bobbled slippers and an oversized white T-shirt with the legend ‘I Am The Stig’ emblazoned across it.
‘Morning, Mrs L!’
‘Ooh, morning, chick! Forgive me, I’ve not got my Sunday best on today.’
‘That’s fine. Are you OK?’
Mrs Littleton pulled a tissue out of the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms and wiped her brow. ‘Never better. It’s just this blasted privet – it’s been blocking my view for too long. So I’m showing it who’s boss.’
Harri smiled. If this was how her neighbour dealt with troublesome shrubbery, it was no wonder her eighty-seven-year-old husband always looked so worried. In all the time Harri had lived in Two Trees Cottage, she had never seen Stan Littleton look anything but pale and nervous, following his bustling wife around the shops or trailing behind her as she marched purposefully along Stone Yardley’s streets. She remembered Merv quipping once that, ‘Imelda Littleton may look small and frail but she’s got balls of steel.’
‘How’s Stan?’
Mrs L gave her false teeth a disapproving suck and shook her head. ‘He says he’s sickening for something. Reckons he caught a cold at the market last Wednesday.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Give him my regards, won’t you?’
Mrs L nodded. ‘I will. Even though it’s just a bad attack of the “don’t-want-tos” in my opinion. We’re meant to be going to Ethel Bincham’s for afternoon tea today and he’s trying to get out of it. But I told him, “Stan,” I said to him, “we’ve been invited, so we’re going!”’ She swung the shears and angrily lopped off an offending branch of privet.
Harri stifled a giggle: if the choice was between enduring the dubious culinary delights of Mrs Bincham at her most creative, and staying at home feigning the flu, she was definitely with Stan on that one. The memory of Lemon Meringue Flapjacks was still firmly lodged in her mind. One cake was bad enough; the thought of afternoon tea was enough to put you off your food for months.
She was still smiling about the plight of poor Mr Littleton when she climbed the stile from the field opposite her house and walked up the gravel path to St Mary’s. The quietly elegant red sandstone building was surrounded by cedar trees, its large stained-glass windows catching the morning sunlight. Its tall spire rose magnificently towards the heavens as the beautiful sound of bells filled the air – although in reality this sound was not from Stone Yardley’s enthusiastic campanologists, but rather a looped track from a BBC sound effects CD played through speakers in the bell tower: a much safer option as any attempt to ring the church bells could end in the tower collapsing.
Harri paused to take in the view. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself as a small girl, running up the pathway to catch up with her parents on the way to church. At the sound of her footsteps on the gravel, Dad would spin round with a huge smile and scoop her up into his arms, swinging her round and round in circles whilst Mum protested: ‘Put her down, Mick, you’ll make her dizzy!’ So Dad would obediently oblige, winking at Harri when Mum wasn’t looking, and Harri would hold both their hands and walk in through the large wooden doors. Even now, a tiny part of her still expected to turn and find them there, waiting to accompany her into church, despite the fact that Harri knew their graves lay side by side at the western side of St Mary’s, where the afternoon sun warmed the earth. Harri rarely visited the graves – only to replace the flowers when Auntie Rosemary was away. Mum and Dad weren’t in the graves – she remembered her mother explaining that when people die, ‘all that’s left is the empty packet: all the good bits go to heaven and are more alive than they ever were on earth.’ Harri liked to think that Mum and Dad were jumping about somewhere right now – indulging in tickle-fights like they used to do, making up ridiculous word-play games that would go on for hours, or just giggling like a pair of lovesick teenagers as they watched their daughter bumbling through her life on earth. She hoped they would like what they saw . . .
‘Harri! Woo-hoo!’ Her reverie was shattered by the noisy arrival of Viv, arm-in-arm with Merv.
‘Greetings, fair maiden,’ Merv boomed, giving a flamboyant bow. ‘How doeth thee on such a fine summer’s morn?’
‘Pack it in, Mervyn,’ Viv giggled, playfully punching his arm and hurting him more than she had intended. ‘Ignore him, Harri. He has some ridiculous notion that the Stone Yardley Players are going to cast him as Shylock in their next Shakespeare-in-the-Park production.’
‘Thinking of giving the Bard a run for his money, eh?’ Harri asked.
Merv’s collection of chins fell. ‘Mock all you like, ladies, but I’ll have you know that Cynthia Eccles was more than impressed with my audition piece on Friday.’
Viv pulled a face. ‘Cynthia Eccles is more interested in auditioning you on the casting couch than she is for any of their productions. Honestly, since she got divorced she’s been like a flipping rabbit on heat. Anything remotely male isn’t safe from her advances.’ She poked an accusing finger into Merv’s ample stomach. ‘So watch out, mister. Or else.’
Merv turned a whiter shade of beige and suddenly bore a startling resemblance to Stan Littleton. ‘Yes, dear.’
Viv hooked her arm through Harri’s. ‘Sit by us, sweetie, and then you can fill me in on all the news with those lovely letters.’
The morning service was busy as usual, filled with the jovial chatter of Stone Yardley’s finest as warm sunlight fell in multi-coloured trails through the stained-glass windows to the paved floor below. A gaggle of children scampered from their parents’ grasp and ran up and down the aisle giggling loudly, almost knocking over Pete, the young curate, as he made his way to the front of the church.
‘Blimey, it’s like Le Mans in here this morning,’ he joked with a broad smile. Conversations ceased as a rumble of laughter rolled across the congregation and the service began.
It was all Harri could do to fend off Viv’s urgent whispers throughout the sermon, which served only to intensify her curiosity. By the time the final hymn finished and the blessing was spoken, Viv was so wound up she was in danger of drilling down into the ground like a Laura Ashley-attired Black & Decker.
‘SO?’ she demanded, grabbing Harri’s sleeve. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘All sorted.’
Viv’s plum-painted lips fell open. ‘Wait – you’ve been through all the letters? I told you I was going to help with those. Really, darling, you shouldn’t have done it all alone.’
‘I didn’t. Auntie Rosemary helped me.’
Viv’s face fell. ‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry, I told her not to give you too hard a time.
Anyway, I’m contacting the first lucky lady this afternoon,’ Harri replied breezily.
If Viv’s eyes had opened any wider, her eyeballs could conceivably have popped out and rolled down the aisle. ‘Name? Age? Details?’
Harri stood up. ‘Annie Brookes. She’s twenty-nine and works as an office administrator. She’s blonde, pale blue eyes and I’d say she’s quite pretty.’
Viv’s smile lit up the whole pew. ‘Ooh, well, she sounds lovely!’
‘More to the point, she seems relatively sane – and, trust me, that’s the most enviable quality we could hope for with the general standard of replies.’
‘Surely there were a lot of Possibles, though?’
‘Thirty-two, to be exact. And over three hundred Not Likelies.’
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‘You’re kidding.’
‘Anyway, the good thing is that Annie Brookes seems to be the nicest of all of them,’ Harri continued, hoping that she sounded confident in this fact.
Viv wasn’t listening. A wistful expression wafted across her features as her train of thought whisked her away to a town called Improbable. ‘Annie Brookes . . . what a sweet name. She sounds like a lovely young lady – and how odd that her initials are exactly the same as Alex’s! Annie and Alex Brannan,’ she giggled, clamping a hand to her breastbone like an overexcited silent movie heroine. ‘Perfect!’
Merv pulled a face and shook his head. ‘You won’t get any sense out of her for days now, you realise.’
‘Hmm, I know. Looks like you’re in for a lovely week, then,’ Harri smiled.
Merv’s shoulders slumped as he made a slovenly exit from the church.
‘They could be perfect with the same initials – like Abba!’
Viv breathed, as Harri took her arm and escorted her out into the sunny afternoon.
‘The couples in Abba got divorced.’
‘Ah, but Alex and Annie won’t be like them,’ Viv smiled, ‘because they’ll be truly in love! I just know they will! Oh, this is going to work like a dream!’
Harri groaned. No pressure, then . . .
‘Hello?’
‘Hi – can I speak to Annie Brookes, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Oh, hello, I’m calling about your reply to the “Free to a Good Home” column in Juste Moi.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line, followed by an audibly nervous sigh. ‘Right . . .’
‘OK, this is going to sound a bit odd, but I’ve been sorting through the replies and was very impressed by your letter.’
Silence.
This was not the response Harri had anticipated. ‘So – um – I was wondering if you’re still interested in meeting Alex Brannan?’
Welcome to My World Page 13
