‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.
When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’
He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.
The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’
Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’
‘No more time, Barney. We’ve been patient enough.’ His mother dropped a cube of sugar in her black coffee. ‘You need to stop prevaricating and focus on your career. We haven’t spent thousands of pounds supporting your education to see it go to waste.’
He bristled. ‘If it’s about the money, then I’ll pay you back—’
‘It’s not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’
‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.
The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’
‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’
A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’
‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’
‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’
He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, 16 June
Lauren glanced at the kitchen clock, wishing time would slow down this morning. She’d yet to brush her hair, or put the bins out – and it was recycling day.
The toaster popped, sending a burnt slice of bread flying into the air like a clay pigeon being released from an automated trap. She tried to catch it, but it bounced off the fridge, landing on the disgusting linoleum flooring. Thankfully, her housework-obsessed sister had mopped the floor yesterday, so she felt safe in applying the ‘five-second rule’ and picked it up.
Blowing on it, she dropped it onto the breadboard, making a mental note to add ‘new toaster’ to the list of things to buy once her loan had been cleared later on today. She’d circled the date on the calendar, the last instalment. It was the only thing keeping her sane this morning.
‘Breakfast is ready!’ She used the last of the cheap margarine on the toast, relishing the prospect of buying proper butter next week, when she’d be twenty-five quid better off.
‘How far away is Looe?’ Her sister looked up from the newspaper.
Lauren wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘It’s on the other side of the coast.’ Her children had yet to appear from their bedrooms. ‘Freddie! Florence! Breakfast is getting cold.’
Charlotte tucked her straightened hair behind her ears – a lack of grooming time in the mornings clearly wasn’t an issue for her. ‘Too far to commute?’
Lauren plated up the toast, catching sight of her reflection in the fridge. Next to her perfectly presented sister, she looked like she’d slept rough. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Looe? Could you get there for work?’ Charlotte had been studying the jobs section in the Penmullion Gazette, highlighting the positions she felt Lauren should apply for to ‘better her situation’.
Her sister meant well, but Lauren wasn’t interested in working in a building society, a call centre, or trying to sell social media space to online retailers – she could barely understand the apps on her phone. ‘No, Charlotte, I could not get to Looe for work. Apart from the fact that I have school-age children, I’m not looking to change jobs. I’m happy working at the café.’ As she’d told her sister on countless occasions. ‘Kids! I’m not going to ask again!’
Florence appeared in the kitchen wearing her Princess Fiona nightie.
‘Sweetie, why aren’t you dressed?’ Lauren glanced at the clock. ‘It’s twenty past eight. We need to leave in ten minutes, and you haven’t eaten breakfast.’
‘I’ve got tummy ache.’ Florence rubbed her stomach, emphasising the point.
Charlotte wasn’t done with her career advice. ‘I know you say you’re happy working at the café, but do you really want to spend the rest of your days serving stewed tea and limp sandwiches?’
‘What sort of tummy ache?’ Lauren knelt down, assessing whether her daughter had a genuine ailment, or whether it was a lame excuse to stay home and watch TV. ‘Where does it hurt?’
Florence pulled her sad face. ‘All over, Mummy.’
Charlotte picked up the kitchen scissors. ‘I’m sure we can find something much more fulfilling. I’m cutting out the jobs I think are suitable.’
Lauren felt her daughter’s forehead. ‘You don’t have a temperature.’
‘I’m very hot,’ Flo said, in a slightly dramatic fashion. ‘And cold too.’
Lauren kissed her daughter’s cheek, which showed no evidence of being too hot or too cold. ‘You might feel better once you’ve had something to eat.’ She eased her onto a kitchen chair. ‘Eat a slice of toast, and then we’ll reassess.’ She marched over to Freddie’s bedroom door. ‘How many times do I have to call you for breakfast?’
He was sitting on the floor playing with his Lego. At least he was dressed for school. Well, of sorts. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. It would have to do. She didn’t have time to correct it.
‘Kitchen, now, please.’ She folded her arms, a feeble attempt at being stern.
Grinning, he got up from the floor and went into the kitchen, carrying his partially built truck. ‘Can I stay home with Florence today?’
‘No, and Florence isn’t staying home, she’s going to school.’ Lauren ushered him onto a chair. ‘Please put the truck down. We haven’t got time to mess about this morning
.’
Before Lauren had even collected his toast from the counter, Charlotte was unbuttoning his shirt. ‘We can’t have you going to school looking scruffy, can we?’
Lauren supressed a sigh. Normally, she’d count to ten in a bid to calm her agitation but, with the clock rapidly ticking down, she didn’t even have time for that this morning.
Charlotte realigned the buttons. ‘Is this shirt ironed?’
Lauren loved her sister, really, she did. But right at that moment, she had an overwhelming urge to pour Charlotte’s specially selected, loose-leaf, two-minute-brewed English breakfast tea over her head. ‘No, Charlotte, it’s not. Funnily enough, I don’t have time to iron school shirts, which last a day before being covered in mud and require washing again.’
Lauren was subjected to a slow shake of the head. Her sister was not impressed.
Well, tough. She didn’t have the time or inclination to pander to Charlotte’s obsessiveness. She didn’t mind her sister staying; she was glad to help out, and the kids loved having Auntie Charlie around – even if she did make them tidy up constantly – but it was challenging, to say the least.
‘Eat your toast, please, Freddie.’ Lauren picked up a discarded hair clip from the windowsill, tidying her appearance before her sister offered to plait her hair for her, like she’d done when they were kids. Well, they weren’t kids anymore. Charlotte needed to realise she was no longer the boss of her younger sibling. So what if she wasn’t organised, successful or driven? She muddled along as best she could, trying to provide a happy and stable upbringing for her kids. Charlotte had no idea what it was like to be a single parent. If she did, she might be a bit more understanding.
Someone knocked on the door. Great. That was all she needed.
‘Keep eating, please.’ Lauren checked her watch. ‘We’ll be leaving for school in five minutes.’
Ignoring Charlotte’s comments about the merits of laundry-delivery services in London, Florence moaning about her tummy ache, and Freddie not wiping his hands before smearing margarine over his Lego truck, she answered the door.
It was a shock to find Glenda Graham standing on her doorstep. The woman didn’t normally come to her home. No one else knew about the loan, and she wanted to keep it that way. Even more alarming was the sight of her two bulky sons hovering in the background. Vincent and Quentin often helped out backstage with the plays, but they never said much, and didn’t exactly radiate friendliness, so she’d always kept her distance. She’d certainly never invited them to visit her home.
‘Hello, Lauren, love. How are you this fine morning?’
As much as she didn’t appreciate Glenda’s intrusion, knowing this would be their last interaction stopped her from making a fuss. The sooner she paid the last instalment, the quicker she’d be debt-free. ‘I’m well, thank you, Glenda. A little rushed, we’re running late for school.’
‘Then I won’t keep you. I know how it is trying to juggle the demands of family.’ Her smile was sincere. Lauren felt a little bad for never having warmed to the woman. It was probably down to owing her money. ‘Never a borrower nor a lender be,’ her dad would constantly tell them growing up. It was an admirable sentiment, and one she didn’t disagree with, but asking a utility company to wait for their money while she saved up wasn’t feasible or realistic.
She withdrew the folded notes from her back pocket. ‘It’s all there, but please check it.’ She handed Glenda the money.
Glenda’s mass of grey corkscrew curls sat on top of her head like a large hat, wild and frizzy. ‘No need, I trust you.’
‘Thank you.’ Maybe dealing with Glenda hadn’t been so bad after all. She’d trusted her to pay up each week, and respected her wish for discretion … well, until today at least. ‘I really appreciate you helping me out.’
‘My pleasure, love.’ Glenda counted the notes, despite having just said she trusted her. She handed the money to Vincent, who repeated the count before pocketing the cash.
It wasn’t worth getting upset about. The debt had been repaid. Lauren could finally move on with her life.
She was about to close the door, eager to get her kids to school, when Glenda said, ‘Same payment, same time next week.’
Lauren wondered if she’d heard correctly. ‘But that was the last payment, Glenda. Twenty weeks at twenty-five pounds per week. I’ve been keeping track. I can show you the payment dates in my diary if you want to check?’
‘No need. But the debt is far from paid. You still owe interest.’ Glenda removed a small black book from her oversized leather handbag.
‘Interest?’ Lauren’s heart rate began to increase. ‘But … but I didn’t realise there’d be interest?’
Glenda smiled. ‘Oh, love, all loans are subject to interest. You’re a smart girl, surely you knew that?’
‘Well … yes, if I was borrowing from a bank, but we’re friends … aren’t we?’
Glenda squeezed her hand. ‘We are indeed, good friends. Which is why you get mates’ rates.’
Lauren’s head was spinning. ‘Mates’ rates?’
‘That’s right.’ Glenda’s slow smile revealed a discoloured front tooth. ‘If you can’t help out your friends when they’re in trouble, it’d be a pretty bleak world, wouldn’t it?’
Lauren nodded, but she was on autopilot.
‘Which is why I only charge two hundred and fifty per cent.’
A rush of cold raced up Lauren’s spine. ‘But that’s extortionate!’
Vincent and Quentin took a step closer to their mother, their arms folded across their wide chests.
Glenda’s voice became consoling, as if it wasn’t her causing Lauren’s grief, but someone else. ‘No, no, love. It’s a fraction of what the payday loan companies charge. And then there’s my overheads. I don’t have the security of the big banks, you see, so I can’t compete with their lower rates. But I offer something the banks don’t, credit for people like yourself who can’t get a loan elsewhere.’ She sighed, as if weighed down by the responsibilities of her situation. ‘Nothing gives me greater pleasure than helping out a friend in need, but I can only do that if I charge interest. There needs to be money in the pot for the next person, you see?’
All Lauren could do was nod. ‘How … how much is still owing?’
‘Now that’s a good question.’ Glenda opened the little black book, flicking through the pages. ‘Where are you … ah, here you are.’ She scribbled something down, made a point of checking the figures. ‘One thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds on the nose.’
For a moment, the world stopped. All sound ceased. Even Lauren’s heart seemed to stutter to a halt, stunned by the words coming out of Glenda’s mouth. ‘But … but I only borrowed five hundred pounds.’
Glenda sighed. ‘I know, love. It’s hard to hear, I get that. But it’s a difficult financial market out there.’
‘But … that’s not fair, Glenda. You can’t just add interest without informing me. We had an agreement.’
‘We did indeed, love.’ Vincent handed his mother a scrappy piece of notepaper. ‘And the terms of our agreement state that I can add interest and vary the frequency and repayment amounts as I see fit.’ Glenda held out the crumpled piece of paper for her to see. ‘There’s your signature, right at the bottom. See?’ She pointed to Lauren’s name. ‘You accepted the terms and conditions. This is a valid and legal contract.’
Tears blurred Lauren’s vision as she tried to read the scribbled words in front of her. She had a vague recollection of signing something, but she’d naively assumed it was just confirmation that she’d borrowed the money. She hadn’t even asked for a copy. God, she was stupid.
Glenda’s arm snaked around Lauren’s shoulder, all empathy and kindness. ‘You know me well enough to know I don’t want to see you suffer, so we’ll keep our weekly arrangement of twenty-five pounds. I think that’s reasonable, don’t you?’
Lauren couldn’t think straight. ‘It’ll take me years to pay that off.’
>
Glenda released her. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’
Whatever she was about to say next, she was interrupted by Charlotte, who appeared by her side. ‘The kids have finished their breakfast. Florence is still complaining of a tummy ache. Shall I call the doctor?’
Lauren wanted to shut the door, but Glenda had wedged her foot in the gap. ‘You must be Charlotte. Lauren’s told me so much about you. Welcome to Penmullion.’ It was like the previous conversation had never happened. ‘I’m Glenda, a friend of the family.’
Charlotte smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, Glenda.’
‘And these are my boys.’ Glenda gestured to Vincent and Quentin’s retreating backs as they disappeared across the rooftop, their task of ‘backing up Mummy’ concluded. ‘I’m sorry to hear Florence is poorly. Would you like me to take Freddie to school for you?’
Lauren’s ‘No,’ was overridden by Charlotte’s, ‘If it’s no trouble?’
Glenda’s expression turned saintly, her acting attributes coming to the fore. ‘No trouble at all, that’s what friends are for.’
Fighting her emotions, Lauren shook her head. ‘I’ll take Freddie to school myself, thank you. I have to go.’ She closed the door, not caring if she banged Glenda’s foot. The woman should have moved it.
Charlotte looked stunned. ‘That was a bit rude. She was only offering to help.’
‘I don’t need her help.’ Lauren marched into the kitchen. ‘Why aren’t you ready for school?’ Both kids jumped at the sound of their mother’s raised voice. ‘Freddie, stop playing around. Put your shoes on now!’
Florence continued to rub her stomach. ‘But I don’t feel well.’
‘You’ll feel better once you’re at school with your friends.’ The word ‘friends’ caused bile to rise in Lauren’s throat. She’d thought Glenda was a friend. How wrong she’d been. ‘Come on, I haven’t got all day. Will you please get dressed, you’re trying my patience this morning.’
Florence started to snivel. ‘But my tummy hurts.’
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 8
