Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘I know.’

  Alex chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. ‘My crazy friend,’ he smiled into her hair. ‘I’m sorry I freaked out, mate. It was just a bit of a shock.’

  Harri hugged him back, relieved by his words. ‘That’s OK. You were entitled to be upset.’ Breaking the hug, she looked up at the welcome sight of his broad smile. ‘We’re still friends, right?’

  ‘Well, it was touch and go for a bit there, you know. And you owe me big time.’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’

  ‘Yes – for mental anguish caused by Justine Moore and her friends.’

  ‘All of whom, you said yourself, were perfectly lovely.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  ‘So actually, forgetting the conspiratorial nature of the plan – and the national humiliation thing – it wasn’t exactly an unpleasant experience for you, was it?’

  Alex smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t believe you’re trying to win this argument, Langton, after all you’ve done.’

  ‘Admit it, Brannan, I have great taste in women.’

  Alex’s laugh was loud and welcome.‘You know, you really should get a T-shirt with that on. Fine, yes, OK, your choice wasn’t half bad.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘But, that said, I still think I should demand some recompense from you for the mental cruelty I’ve endured.’

  Uh-oh. Harri had seen that look in his eyes before and it could only mean trouble. Come to think of it, it was almost a carbon copy of the one Viv displayed before she proposed her Big Idea. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Keep going.’

  Harri could hardly believe her ears. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Well, now I know why the women I’ve met so far were acting so strange, I’m not worried about meeting the others. And I have to admit, you picked some stunners.’

  Indignation pumping through her, Harri shook her head violently. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  Alex laughed. ‘I don’t think you have the right to refuse, given your recent deception.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I’ve done more than enough to help your love life.’

  ‘Er, that’s debatable, Harri. I think it’s the least you can do to make amends.’

  ‘No way, Al! Do you know how much of my life has been taken over by arranging those dates for you? There’s not a hope in hell of you persuading me to do this again.’

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. ‘I’m not asking you to meet them and all of that stuff. Just call them up, see if they sound half sane and then give them my number. Think of it as excellent event management experience.’ His eyes became still as he added softly, ‘I really would appreciate the help, H. Please?’

  Harri stared at him. ‘I suppose I could do that,’ she conceded. ‘Excellent. Consider yourself forgiven, then. Now, you better get going to see that boyfriend of yours and I need to make myself look irresistible for – um – thingy . . .’

  ‘Charlotte.’

  ‘That’s her. See, H? We make a great team. I think this could really work.’

  Harri nodded. ‘I think you might be right.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Business as Usual . . .

  The door to the ladies’ opens and a pair of heels click in. Self-consciously, Harri lowers her breathing, as if in doing so she will somehow blend into the fixtures and fittings of the toilet cubicle and disappear altogether.

  ‘Harriet, are you still in here?’ Viv calls softly.

  Harri doesn’t answer.

  Viv waits for a moment. There is a creak and a thump as the pneumatic door hinge shuts and Harri listens carefully, unsure whether Viv has left or not.

  A gentle knock on the cubicle door confirms her worst fears: Viv isn’t likely to be halted by silence. ‘Oh, Harri, what a mess. That friend of yours shouldn’t have come tonight. I don’t know why Alex invited her. All that rubbish about “truth and justice” . . . I mean, what on earth would that young woman know about either of those words? But you don’t need to hear that, I suppose. Are you OK? Harriet?’

  It’s obvious that Viv won’t be satisfied until she gets an answer. Harri shivers. ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice is small and resigned – it almost doesn’t sound like hers.

  There is a scraping sound as Viv drags the old, orange plastic chair by the washbasins to the cubicle door and sits down. ‘Well, if you aren’t coming out, I’m going to stay with you for a bit. You shouldn’t be on your own after . . . well, after an experience like that.’

  Harri’s groan is silent in the cubicle but deafening in her head.

  Stella didn’t call when her plane landed. Neither did she call for the next few weeks – and as July ended and then August gave way to September, Harri’s disappointment began to ebb a little. After all, it made sense: Stella was off touring a remote part of the world with the man she loved, so why on earth would she remember to get in touch? Still, the hurt remained that Stella was embarking on Harri’s dream adventure without her.

  Only when the last week of September arrived did Harri finally bring herself to revisit one of Dan’s books.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re still reading that,’ Rob said, appearing from her kitchen carrying a large pizza box and a bottle of Dr Pepper, ‘considering that the chap stole your best friend.’

  ‘I think he might just be what Stella needs,’ Harri replied. ‘And I still admire his work.’

  Rob planked a kiss on the top of Harri’s head. ‘See, that’s what I love about you, you’ve so forgiving.’

  Harri grimaced. ‘I didn’t say I’d forgiven him yet. I just like his books.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rob opened the box and they helped themselves to large slices of hot pizza, the stringy cheese wrapping greasily round their fingers.

  ‘So I was thinking,’ Rob said between mouthfuls, ‘how about I take you away somewhere for Christmas this year?’

  This took Harri completely by surprise and she stared at him. ‘Really?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, really. Don’t look so shocked, Red! I just thought, you know, I’ve been away so much this year and you deserve a treat for putting up with me.’

  Harri nudged him. ‘Well, I can’t argue with that!’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’d love to. Where were you thinking of going?’

  A sparkle appeared in Rob’s eyes. ‘Funny you should mention that because . . .’ He pulled a folded brochure from his back pocket and put it in Harri’s lap.

  Harri grabbed a piece of kitchen roll to wipe her fingers, gazing in wonder at the turreted, pink-hued granite castle sitting within immaculately manicured gardens and reflected in an ornamental lake. ‘Inverguthrie Castle,’ she read, heart racing now. ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Yeah. A friend told me about it and said it was pretty special. It’s near Oban and the scenery is amazing round there – it’s near a campsite Nick and I went to with Dad a couple of times when we were kids.’

  Harri slowly turned the brochure pages, drinking in the details. Of all the gifts he’d given her this year this one was the most special. Inverguthrie Castle was more than a treat: it was the kind of place where memorable moments happened . . . Heart racing, she dared to entertain the possibility of what else Rob might surprise her with while they were there . . . ‘This is amazing, baby. Thank you so much!’

  ‘So, it’s OK if I book it?’

  Harri threw her arms around him. ‘Yes! Absolutely, yes!’ Rob ruffled her hair. ‘Good job I booked it already then, isn’t it?’

  Snuggled against his chest, euphoria lighting up every atom of her being like a billion stars twinkling inside, Harri was thrilled to hear his heart beating as fast as hers. This was it: it was finally happening.

  ‘Scotland? For Christmas?’ Viv repeated, her face a picture of disbelief.

  ‘Yes,’ Harri smiled, picking a blade of field grass from the overgrown verge as they walked towards Stone Yardley’s allotments. It was a surprisingly warm Monday e
vening and clouds of swirling midges rose from the road before them.

  ‘Well, I’ll be. And you’re sure he’s actually booked it?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’ Harri was enjoying this. She’d already told Alex, Tom, Nus and Auntie Rosemary the news, but it was Viv she was most looking forward to telling. Seeing her so surprised by Rob’s revelation was pure, unadulterated joy.

  Viv batted away a swarm of midges with an irritation perhaps not wholly directed at them. ‘Blasted things,’ she growled. ‘Why is it the minute we get any decent weather they come and ruin it for everyone? They’ll be all over the allotment, you’ll see. If they get in the sloe gin, Merv’ll be impossible all evening.’

  ‘Viv, calm down,’ Harri giggled. ‘Merv’s a lot bigger than them. I’m sure he’ll cope.’

  ‘Yes, well, they’re still annoying,’ Viv muttered, flapping her hand melodramatically in front of her face.

  The lane turned a sharp left and a bright, golden shaft of low early evening sunlight made Harri and Viv shield their eyes as they rounded the corner. Casting a cursory glance at her friend, Harri patted Viv’s shoulder. ‘Is everything OK?’

  Viv scowled. ‘Well, it would be if my son had deigned to forgive me yet.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I mean, he’s perfectly pleasant to me most of the time, but whenever I make any observation about his life he becomes the most beastly individual.’

  ‘Well, you have to admit, Viv, he has the right to a bit of payback.’

  Viv gave an exasperated groan and folded her arms. ‘Sure, a little bit of revenge is perfectly justified, but two months? Besides, he can’t say it wasn’t worth it in the end, can he? Look at all the beautiful women you’ve put him in touch with recently.’

  This was true. Since Ivy Evans had unwittingly rumbled Viv’s Big Idea, Harri had spoken to no less than twenty women and passed on fifteen numbers to Alex. The five that didn’t make the grade included one who admitted sending a photo she’d found on the internet, three who had quite clearly lied about their ages and one who had such a monotone voice that she sounded like a robot with a personality bypass.

  As for Alex, he seemed completely satisfied with the current state of affairs. A couple of dates a week with ladies that were obviously interested in him were certainly good for his ego, if not ultimately likely to bring him any closer to finding The One.

  ‘He’s certainly working his way through the Contenders,’ Harri said, watching a peacock butterfly flutter up in front of her. ‘If he carries on discounting them we’ll be on to the Possibles soon.’ Harri found herself increasingly mystified at the women he ruled out. The beautiful barrister from Lornal – who Harri would have laid odds on being perfect for Alex – lasted less than a week, and all he could say to justify her dismissal was that she was ‘a little scary’.

  ‘There just has to be a suitable girlfriend in all those replies,’

  Viv moaned. ‘He’s too picky for his own good. I just wish he wouldn’t keep doing the “I was betrayed by my mother” routine with that mocking smirk of his.’ She tutted, loudly. ‘Just like his father in that respect, although mercilessly not in any other way.’

  Stepping over a weather-worn wooden stile, they began to cross the strip of field grass that separated the allotments from the road. Featherlike, gold-edged clouds ambled lazily across the deepening blue sky as Viv and Harri approached runner bean poles, staked chrysanthemums and cane tepees filled with the last throes of sweet peas. Viv unlocked a large iron gate with her allotment key – the ownership of which she was incredibly proud, especially considering the waiting list for these small pieces of Stone Yardley – and they walked down along the narrow. gravel path, passing row upon row of lovingly tended strips until they reached the middle plot.

  A group of people were sitting on a haphazard collection of chairs at the far end of the allotment in front of a large, double-fronted green and blue painted shed. The seating arrangements ranged from scuffed, wooden chairs to gaudy linen deck chairs and a couple of shabby-looking sunloungers. At the centre of them all was Merv, sitting magnificently in a moth-eaten Dralon armchair like a fifty-something ragamuffin king holding court in his verdant kingdom.

  ‘Ah! And thus the lovely ladies approach!’ he boomed as the assembled gardeners turned and called out their welcomes.

  ‘Mervyn, have you gone and started without us?’ Viv feigned offence.

  ‘He’s been leading us astray,’ laughed a tall, broad man with a beard that could hide several species of wildlife with ease. ‘We wanted to wait for you, of course.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt, Bill,’ Viv replied, giving him a hug.

  A middle-aged lady with wild, greying frizzy hair smiled. ‘Proper persuasive, he is!’

  ‘Too persuasive for his own good, Elsie, trust me. So, what are we on tonight then?’

  ‘Elderberry wine!’ chorused the group, raising their glasses in a noisy toast and laughing raucously.

  Viv shot a weary look at Harri. ‘Well, it looks like we arrived just in time. I trust the bar is open?’

  Merv sprang out of his chair with a sprightliness only ever witnessed when alcohol was mentioned and opened the stable door of the shed. Above the door was a sign, painted in bright, yellow letters on a black background: ‘THE ROSE & SLUG’.

  ‘Now, what libation can I tempt you with tonight, dearest?’ Merv called from the lit interior of the shed.

  ‘Have we any sloe gin?’

  Merv’s multi-chinned face appeared in the doorway. ‘Have we any sloe gin? What a preposterous question! Of course we have, woman! Alf furnished us with more supplies only this afternoon.’

  A short, wiry man wearing a khaki polo shirt and jeans that looked as if they hadn’t seen a washing machine for years raised a swarthy brown hand. ‘Guilty as charged, m’lud.’

  ‘Sloe gin for my beloved!’ Merv handed Viv a White Horse whisky glass filled with glistening purple spirit. ‘And for the fair Lady Harriet?’

  Harri walked carefully around the chairs to peer in through the pine-scented doorway. This was Viv and Mervyn’s pride and joy: the real reason they ‘popped to the allotment’ most evenings and weekends. Far from being the humble wooden shed it first appeared to be, the Rose & Slug was, in fact, a pint-sized fully functioning pub, complete with beer pulls, optics, towelling beer mats and even a polished oak bar, made from an old beam Merv had rescued from a reclamation timber yard in Ellingsgate. Over the years, the hostelry had assumed many guises, from the Anderson shelter left over from the war, which was rusting on the plot in the late seventies when Viv first took tenancy, to the rickety but well-loved potting shed that served faithfully from 1986 to 2002, when it was finally retired. The current construction, a surprise Christmas gift from Merv, was palatial by comparison with the former buildings. Through the decades the selection of alcohol on offer had widened considerably too: Elsie and Norm’s home-made wine in the Anderson shelter; Bill’s lethal home-brew beer in the potting shed; and now, Alf’s sloe gin, the ubiquitous wine, whisky blends and beer from the local Latham’s craft brewery (Bill’s infamous brewing skills now thankfully retired).

  Harri chose to play it safe with a glass of Viv’s home-made lemonade, and settled down on a dusty, blue canvas director’s chair. The jovial conversation lapped her ears as she inhaled the fragrant evening air. She loved it here; as with so many aspects of Stone Yardley, this was a place laden with friendly ghosts from her childhood.

  When Viv was first granted the allotment, Harri’s parents had helped her to clear the unkempt wreck of weeds and rubble – a mammoth task, considering the diminutive size of the plot, which took several weeks to complete. That first summer, Harri spent many evenings during the holidays playing amongst the newly planted beds with her cousins, James and Rosie, as Auntie Rosemary, Mum, Dad and Viv chatted, weeded and dug over the soil. At the time unremarkable, these moments were precious to her now; endless, carefree hours of childhood that would all too soon be tamed and const
rained by the cold shadow of illness.

  As she sipped her lemonade, she remembered the thrill of eating tea outdoors – jacket potatoes cooked in tin foil nestled in the embers of the rusted tin incinerator bin and slices of pork pie and sticky flapjack brought in old Quality Street and Roses tins by Viv – young Harri swinging her legs on the red and blue checked fold-up chair, sucking up lemonade through two green stripey straws. Sitting here now, Harri realised that Alex must also have been at those al fresco events but, being a few years older than her (a gap of gargantuan proportions at the time), he just blended into the gang of ‘the big boys’ whose rough games always ended up being banished to the strip of field beyond the allotment gate by his flustered mother.

  ‘Entering the S of the Y comp this year then, Merv?’ Elsie asked, her face flushing from one too many glasses of her elderberry wine.

  Merv scowled and pulled a face. ‘Nah. Can’t be bothered to go through that rigmarole again, to be honest with you. Flamin’ nightmare from start to finish, it was.’

  ‘Shame,’ Bill piped up. ‘I was rather hoping for a repeat performance of Councillor Pollock’s renaming ceremony!’ He let out a huge guffaw, his ample beer belly jiggling up and down.

  ‘It was an honest mistake,’ Merv protested, a wicked twinkle in his eyes as the rest of the allotment holders broke into helpless laughter.

  There were certain moments in Stone Yardley history that had become almost mythical, and Merv’s presentation of his winner’s rosette and certificate in the regional finals of the Shed of the Year competition had quickly passed into these hallowed ranks. Almost one hundred people had gathered at the allotments for the occasion, and the Rose & Slug was bedecked in Laura Ashley fabric bunting created by Viv (ever the Country Living devotee). Stone Yardley’s Conservative town councillor, Bert Pollock, had been tasked with delivering Merv’s prize – a job he clearly considered beneath him, judging by his haughty expression, yet, owing to the impending council elections and the presence of a photographer and journalist from the Stone Yardley Chronicle, unfortunately necessary. Unbeknown to the local politician, Merv had spent almost the entire previous night highly amused by a slip of the tongue he had made after consuming a particularly large quantity of Elsie’s blackberry wine, where he mistakenly swapped the first letters of Councillor Pollock’s name, thus christening him ‘Pert Bollock’, to the utter hilarity of the allotment gang. On his big day, slightly nervous about speaking in front of the unexpectedly large crowd, he tripped over his words and, with all the aplomb of a Shakespearean actor, eloquently thanked ‘Councillor Pert’ for his prize. Realising his mistake, he began guffawing uncontrollably as a chorus of ‘Bollock!’ from the allotment holders finished what he had started.