by Katey Lovell
She looked at her watch for the umpteenth time. Half-past five. He should be here by now.
‘What’re you doing sneaking about?’ Deirdre asked. For someone who relied on a walking stick she moved surprisingly stealthily, and Clara jumped at being caught out.
‘Nothing. Just checking the notice boards are up to date,’ she replied, full of innocence. ‘I wanted to make sure the Christmas events were clearly advertised.’
‘Have you put the poster up about the disco? I confirmed the DJ this morning. We need to make sure everyone knows about it. Hopefully they’ll bring plenty of extra money to spend on refreshments,’ Deirdre added, holding tightly crossed fingers aloft.
The mark-up in the fizzy drinks and crisps and sweets was where they made their money, and money was what they needed. That or more kind-hearted souls like Joe to donate their time.
‘It’s been up there for weeks. Shannon and the gang have spent hours trying to decide what to wear for it. They were on about getting a bus out to the Trafford Centre to splurge on new outfits. I could’ve sworn I heard Phoebe mentioned a sequin boob tube.’
Deirdre pulled a face. ‘She’s been watching too much Strictly.’
‘Ah, give over. They’re teenagers and it’s their big night out. Of course they’re going to want to look their best.’
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to wear? Because if everyone’s dressing up in their glad rags you don’t want to be rolling up in your jeans and hoodie.’
Clara assessed her everyday work clothes. The jeans were fine – a bit on the faded side, but they fit her well, and although the denim was thinning around the knees, soft and pliable, they hadn’t yet split to reveal a flash of kneecap. The hoodie … well, perhaps Deirdre had a point with that. It had a hole near the cuff and the print on the front had worn away from one too many cycles in the washing machine. But it was so comfortable, almost a second skin, and Clara couldn’t bring herself to add it to the bag of material bound for scrap recycling. It was perfectly alright for knocking about at the club. Plus, she’d been glad of it when she’d been walking to work, doing her best to avoid the painful pelting of hailstones that had bounced around her feet.
‘I won’t be wearing a ball gown, let’s put it that way. I’ll be working. There’s no point putting on my best clothes. I spent most of the last disco on my hands and knees, disinfecting the floor where Ted had thrown up.’
Deirdre wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Don’t let him buy any fizzy cola bottles this time.’
‘I’ll get the mop and rubber gloves handy instead. He spent a fortune at the tuck shop last time. We can’t afford to turn him away on the off-chance he’ll throw up again.’
‘Some people can’t handle their Haribo,’ Deirdre said seriously, at the same moment as the door swung open.
Deirdre and Clara gawped at Joe’s bedraggled appearance. The poor guy was soaked through.
‘Hello,’ he said, gingerly peeling off a soggy beanie hat. Fat droplets of water fell from it as he did so, creating a puddle on the hallway floor. Clara noticed Deirdre twitching. Health and safety …
‘I’ll fetch you a towel.’
As Deirdre headed to the store cupboards to see what she could find for Joe to dry himself with, Joe unzipped his coat and hung it on the coat rack. It was drenched, and Clara knew Deirdre would be in a tailspin over it dripping onto the floor. She made a mental note to get the mop and the hazard sign out of the cupboard before the kids started arriving.
‘It’s wild out there. Makes even this place feel tropical.’
Clara laughed. ‘Don’t go overboard. It’s freezing in here. As always.’
The Club on the Corner was an old building with a heating system that could, at best, be described as temperamental. Stand too close to the radiators and you›d end up burned, but because of the generously sized rooms, especially the hall, it had a tendency to get draughty no matter how high the heat was turned up. Clara had got used to it over the years, but it was still a running joke that it would be a good place for wannabe explorers to come as preparation for a trip to the Arctic.
‘Your jumper’s soaked,’ Clara observed. ‘You can’t wear that, you’ll make yourself ill.’
‘I’ve not got a choice.’ Joe shivered, his shoulders wobbling like a set jelly. ‘I’ve not got anything else.’
Clara shook her head firmly. ‘No way. You can’t sit in wet clothes all night, that’s ridiculous. I’ll see if there›s anything in the lost property box that might fit. You never know, there might be something suitable.’ She didn’t add that she thought it unlikely. Joe was exceptionally tall – she’d guess well over six foot – and even the oldest boys at the youth club were far shorter than him.
Joe held up his hand, stopping her in her tracks. ‘It’s alright. Simone passes my flat on the way here and she›s got a key. I’ll get her to pick me something up on the way. And I’ll be better once I’ve got myself towelled down.’
Clara was annoyed that her stomach twitched at the thought. Joe was a volunteer, not one of the bloody Dream Boys. Although with his tall, broad body and attractive dark colouring, he could probably give the erotic ‘dancers’ a run for their money.
Clara was relieved when Deirdre appeared with a brightly coloured beach towel and threw it at Joe. He caught it expertly in one hand.
‘Cheers, Deirdre,’ he said, rubbing the towel over the bare skin of his shaven head. ‘At least I’ve not got any hair to dry,’ he joked.
Clara watched on as he moved the towel over his face, patting the fabric against his cheeks. But she wasn’t prepared for him peeling off his jumper to reveal the damp, bare skin of his chest. She found herself catching her breath at the sight, and immediately chided herself for letting her imagination run away with her.
Clara turned her attention back to the notice board, hoping that by feigning disinterest Deirdre wouldn’t pass comment.
Every part of her was itching to turn around, though. Knowing Joe was dragging that towel over his body just a few feet away was causing her heart to race. Clara could only blame her lack of bedroom action of late. It had been almost six months now since her engagement had come to an abrupt end, and there had been no one since. She was obviously turning into a sex-starved pervert.
‘You put those abs away right now, young man!’ Deirdre said with a chortle. ‘What do you think you›re playing at, flashing your body around like that? You could give me a heart attack.’
Clara was tempted to add that her own heart was beating rather fast, but thought better of it. By keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the pin board she could surely keep her mouth zipped too, even if it did take a monumental effort.
‘Sorry,’ Joe replied, with a teasing voice that sounded anything but. ‘Simone will be here any minute and I’ll cover up as soon as she brings me a dry jumper. I wouldn’t want to inflict my love handles on anyone.’
‘Give over,’ Deirdre replied with a cluck of her tongue. ‘You must spend half your life at the gym. Muscles like those don’t appear out of nowhere.’
‘Honestly, I don›t work out. Cutting back on the drink has made a difference, though.’
‘You wouldn’t catch me giving up my alcohol,’ Clara chimed in. She was already thinking it was well into the Baileys season and she’d not yet had her first of the year. She’d have to rectify that. Maybe she’d pop by the supermarket on the way home and pick up a bottle to enjoy over ice later. She couldn’t get enough of the stuff; it was like melted ice cream in a glass. Mmmm. ‘You might find yourself needing a few more drinks when you’ve been here a bit longer. It does tend to have that effect on people, doesn’t it, Deirdre?’
Deirdre was partial to a vodka and ginger, or a gin and tonic, or a brandy and Babycham in fact, Deirdre wasn›t too fussy when it came to her tipple of choice. She just liked a drink and to let her hair down.
‘You make out I’m reliant on it,’ Deirdre replied. ‘It’s a good job Joe knows me or
you’d have him believe I’m drinking morning, noon and night. I only have the odd glass when it’s a celebration.’
The long, loud rap on the door, followed by Simone shouting to be let in, was the only thing to halt Clara’s laughter.
‘There’s water everywhere,’ the girl said, shaking the rain out of her hair. ‘I think the drains on Dirkstock Road are blocked too. The whole place is flooded. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Didn’t you bring an umbrella?’ Deirdre asked incredulously. ‘Your hair’s all over the shop. You look like a poodle.’
Clara smiled and turned to face Simone. She knew she shouldn’t have favourites, but if she did, Simone was one of them. Slim and toned, much like Joe, her hair was usually a bouncy mass of tightly coiled curls slicked with argan oil to keep them moist. Right now they had lost their shape and their vitality, hanging like springs that had been pulled out of shape.
But it was Joe, or more specifically, his chest, who really caught her attention. He wasn’t as ripped as Deirdre had made him out to be, but his pecs were defined. There was a dark scar too, sitting just above the waistband of his jeans. It was only because of the location of it, the line perfectly parallel to his belt, that Clara noticed. She opened her mouth to ask about it before reluctantly pulling her eyes away and biting her tongue. It wasn’t her business, and if Joe wanted to talk about it, he surely would in his own good time. After all, he’d opened up to her about Michelle. He must trust her a little bit to willingly share something so personal.
‘Want the towel?’ Joe asked, offering his little sister the sodden sheet of fabric.
‘It›s not much good now, is it? It’s soggy! Anyway, I brought you the jumper you wanted,’ she said, handing the navy knitwear to her brother. ‘Didn’t look like it had been ironed, though,’ she added with a look of disdain. Simone was at the age where she wanted everything just so. That whole group of girls were – they loved fashion and make-up and the best hair products on the market would be their Mastermind specialist subject. Being seen in crumpled clothing would be a fate worse than death.
‘Thanks, sis,’ Joe said, gratefully.
He pulled the jumper over his head, hiding the abs and the mysterious yet tantalising scar from view. Clara wondered if she’d ever ask him about it, although that would mean admitting she’d been looking in the first place. She had to admit she was curious.
‘You’re a star,’ he said, ruffling Simone’s hair in a way that only a devoted big brother could get away with.
Simone dipped away.
‘Gerrof,’ she growled affectionately. ‘I’ve got five minutes to get this looking less disastrous before everyone else gets here.’
‘They’ll all be soaked through,’ Clara reminded her. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if some people don’t bother coming out on a night like this.’
When the weather was extreme – either snowy, or torrential rain, or glorious sun – the number of children passing through the doors was fewer. When it snowed they were pelting each other with snowballs, and when it was sunny they hung out at the park, where they could swear to their hearts’ content without Clara and Deirdre telling them to mind their language. And when it was wet like this, they couldn›t be bothered, unless their parents drove them to the door.
‘Come on, time to get busy.’ Deirdre headed to the main hall, where Clara had already set out a selection of board games. The kids were surprisingly into Scrabble at the moment. It made a change from their last obsession with the card game Bullshit. That phase hadn’t lasted long, to be fair. As soon as Deirdre made them shorten the victory call to plain old ‘bull’ the cards were relegated to their usual spot at the back of the store cupboard. ‘Simone, you can help me set up the table tennis.’
Simone dutifully followed, leaving Clara and Joe standing in the hallway.
‘You made quite the entrance,’ Clara quipped. ‘Bursting in and then taking half your clothes off … it was like the finale to The Full Monty.’
‘Not quite,’ Joe smiled. ‘And I’m sorry. I wouldn’t normally inflict my body on a poor unsuspecting soul. No one deserves that.’
Whether he was looking for reassurance or not, Clara wasn’t sure. Joe must be aware he’d avoided being hit with the ugly stick, and even if he didn›t work out, Deirdre was right – he wouldn’t have a body like he did if he didn’t make some sort of effort to keep in shape. Maybe it was a healthy diet and limited alcohol. Even if that was the case, it wasn’t enough to deter Clara from the creamy temptation of her Baileys. She’d rather have a few curves and enjoy her treats.
‘Stop doing yourself down. You’re not that bad.’
‘Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’
‘It was a compliment.’
They stood awkwardly for a moment until Joe broke the silence. ‘I’d better give Deirdre a hand. Not much use as a volunteer if I’m not actually doing anything.’
As he headed for the hall Clara remembered the gift she’d been so desperate to give him before she’d been otherwise distracted.
‘Joe!’
He turned, and she held up the present, the light from the exposed bulb dangling from the light fitting reflecting in the shiny wrapping paper.
‘You remembered,’ he beamed.
‘As if I’d forget,’ she said, handing it over.
He pulled at the end of the ribbon, unravelling the bow she’d so painstakingly tied.
‘It’s not just for you,’ she said as he peeled back the paper. ‘I mean, it’s yours to take home with you, if you want to. But I thought it would be good to keep here.’
Joe looked at the CD in his hand, a two-disc compilation of Christmas songs. ‘I can’t remember the last time I listened to a CD,’ he said, beating the case against the heel of his hand. ‘I download everything to iTunes these days.’
‘Don’t we all,’ she replied. ‘But there’s something special about having a Christmas CD, and we’ve still got a hi-fi here. I think it’s Deirdre’s. It looks like something that came out of the ark, but it does the job.’
‘Things were made to last in the olden days.’
‘Don’t let Deirdre hear you say that. She’d be most insulted if you insinuated she was old.’
‘Ah, Deirdre will last forever, like that CD player. She’s strong as an ox.’ He tapped the CD case against his hand again, scanning the list of tracks. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘We’ll put it on once everyone’s arrived. Help get us in the festive mood.’
‘Yeah, it’s not like these songs have been on the adverts since October or anything.’ Joe’s voice was sarcastic, but not malicious. ‘And playing in the shops. Paul McCartney was having a wonderful Christmastime in mid-November. At least, he was in Sainsbury’s. These Christmas songs, I swear they’re taking over the world.’
‘Bah humbug.’ Clara poked her tongue out. ‘You can’t not love these songs. Even Scrooge would find himself swaying along to ‘Last Christmas’, so if you say you don’t like them you’re lying.’
‘A few of them are alright, I suppose. ‘Fairytale of New York’, and that Mel and Kim one …’
‘I knew it. I’ll expect you to start the singing of those later, then.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, making his way through the door. But not before winking at Clara.
***
‘That’s not a word!’
‘It is,’ Cally replied indignantly. She wrinkled her nose at the suggestion she might be wrong. ‘Clara,’ she called, ‘‘Spleen’ is a word, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Clara confirmed with a nod, as she swiftly hit a backhanded shot across the table- tennis table. She’d become surprisingly adept at the sport over the years. Not professional standard, but she could hold her own against Manchester›s young millennials. ‘It’s an internal organ. I’ve not got a clue what it does, though.’
The small white ball bounced off the end of the table and over the pock-skinned bat of the pock-skinned boy who had challenged Clara to
a match, before hopping across the hall floor.
‘Ball!’ Clara called, hoping one of the kids would get to it before it rolled under the stack of chairs in the corner of the room. That corner was filthy, hiding cobwebs and crisp crumbs and who knew what else. Clara didn›t fancy putting her hand down there to retrieve a blooming ping-pong ball, thank you very much.
Joe stuck out a leg in the nick of time, the ball connecting with his still-saturated trainers and rolling back towards the centre of the room.
Clara let out a sigh of relief. ‘My hero,’ she joked, mocking a swoon worthy of a protagonist in a Jane Austen novel. ‘You saved me from the spider’s lair.’
Joe tilted his head and small crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. ‘Does that mean I don’t have to put the CD on?’
‘Don’t think you›re getting out of it that easily,’ Clara warned. ‘I’ve been looking forward to those songs all day.’
Joe pushed himself up off his chair, his game of Cluedo resolved (Professor Plum, in the study, with the lead piping). ‘Well, if you’ve been looking forward to it all day, who am I to spoil your fun?’
He picked up the disc and placed it in the ancient CD player.
‘Here goes nothing,’ he said, pressing the play button. The opening bars of ‘Fairytale of New York’ started chiming out.
‘It’s one of your favourites,’ Clara said triumphantly, bouncing the ping-pong ball once before serving it over the net. ‘So you can stop moaning and start enjoying.’
