Hubble Bubble

by Christina Jones

  Mitzi peered at the Snepps’s mile-wide drive through the gathering gloom and sighed heavily.

  As self-styled Lady of the Hazy Hassocks Manor, Tarnia had installed herself in a monstrosity that would more than do justice to the nouveau riche bad taste of a Premiership footballer. Having more money than sense, and more grandiose ideas than either of those things, she’d eschewed the centuries-old mansions and manor houses in the area and designed her own palatial abode.

  Sprawling like South Fork at the end of a multicoloured gravelled drive, it was stuccoed and crenellated and adorned with curlicues and cornices and cherubs puking blue water from every surface. There were modern latticed windows and gilded lions and neon-bright flower beds even in late October, and some really tacky wrought-iron gates.

  Tucking the Tupperware box into her basket, Mitzi shuddered as she left the cosy warmth of the Mini and headed for the intercom. A gust of icy wind took her breath away.

  ‘Tarnia,’ she called into the voice grille, ‘it’s Mitzi. Have you got a couple of minutes, please?’

  There was a lot of crackling, then a foreign voice echoed through the darkening afternoon. ‘Mizz Snepps is not at ’ome.’

  Mitzi grinned. ‘I know that’s you, Tarnia. You never did have a clue about accents. Open these damned gates.’

  ‘No. Mizz Snepps is not at ’ome to casual callers.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Mitzi shivered again. ‘But remember I know all about Duncan Didsbury and the strawberry yoghurt.’

  ‘Sod you, Mitzi Blessing!’ The voice lost its Eastern European mystery. ‘Five minutes – that’s all.’

  As she sprinted out of the gale back to the car, the wrought-iron gates swung open to the tune of Big Spender, and Mitzi prepared to do battle.

  Tarnia, wearing a size 8 velour tracksuit in gold and matching gold tinselly mules, opened the door herself, which was no surprise to Mitzi. The Snepps no longer had regular staff. Once the word had spread throughout the au pair network like wildfire, they’d had to resort to agency workers who did one or two shifts and then fled. Even the most desperate and destitute would-be domestic gave the Snepps a wide berth. Some of the more foolhardy locals came in to give a hand when the Snepps threw parties – but not often.

  ‘Lovely to see you,’ Mitzi beamed. ‘So kind …’

  ‘Come in and stop being polite,’ Tarnia snarled. ‘You know I hate you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ Mitzi beamed again as she stepped into a white and gold and pink hall of the worst opulence money could buy.

  Surely even Tarnia could see that fountains and statuary at the foot of the stairs were a little de trop? Especially the one with that hermaphrodite child standing atop a dolphin and peeing.

  Tarnia, her short coal-black hair razored into vicious stand-up spiky layers by Justin of Rip-Off Hair-Care, her eyes widened by far too much Botox, her skin spray-tanned to an even orange, looked about sixteen. Whatever else she’d wasted money on, Mitzi thought, the plastic surgery had been worth every penny. You couldn’t even see the joins.

  ‘Shall we go into the library?’ Mitzi ventured.

  ‘Kitchen,’ Tarnia snapped, click-clacking away across the pink marble floor.

  Following her, Mitzi managed to avoid looking too closely at the Barbie-pink, trimmed, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, or the recently installed stained-glass window which dominated the stairwell and poignantly depicted the Beckhams en famille.

  ‘Right,’ Tarnia’s voice echoed from the depths of a vast chrome-and-glass kitchen which had seen even less proper cooking than Mitzi’s had. ‘Let’s get this over with. Marquis will be home soon.’

  Mitzi stifled a snigger. ‘Ooops, sorry. It just slipped out. This is me, Tarnia, remember?’

  Tarnia glared. ‘Which is why I don’t want you in my house. But I suppose even that is preferable to having you standing at the end of my drive and screaming my private business to all and sundry. So, what do you want?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’ Mitzi perched awkwardly on the edge of something Terence Conran could have had a hand in. ‘I’ve brought some cakes.’

  ‘I mustn’t have cake. Atkins Diet. No carbs.’ Tarnia gave Mitzi an up-and-down glance. ‘Clearly not something you’ve ever heard of. You must be a good size 12. Still, it’s so easy to let yourself go at your age. No, sorry. No carbs.’

  Bugger. Mitzi tried not to look disappointed. ‘Oh, these are very low carb, low everything … And they taste delicious …’

  She tipped the remaining Powers of Persuasion Puddings on to the pristine table top. They still smelled rich and spicy and warm. Tarnia, clearly existing on a diet of not very much at all, turned from making tea in a transparent kettle, and weakened immediately.

  ‘Oh, they do look – um – I mean … well, I suppose just one – before Marquis comes home and—’

  ‘For God’s sake stop calling him Marquis,’ Mitzi giggled. ‘I can’t take it seriously, I’m afraid.’

  Tarnia’s lips puckered into a moue of anger. Her hand, hovering over the cakes, withdrew. ‘How many times do I have to tell you that we’ve moved on, Mitzi. Marquis and I. We do not wish to be reminded—’

  ‘No, no of course not.’ Mitzi realised she’d have to eat a lot of humble pie if Tarnia was going to eat the Powers of Persuasion Puddings. ‘I keep forgetting. I’m sorry.’

  Mollified, Tarnia continued making the tea in a transparent teapot with transparent cups on a transparent tray. Of milk and sugar there was no sign. Oh, well.

  It was all a far cry from their growing-up years, Mitzi thought. When she and Tarnia had been almost neighbours on the Bath Road Council Estate on the outskirts of Hazy Hassocks, classmates at Winterbrook Grammar School, and had both dreamed of being secretaries for record companies and marrying Scott Walker.

  ‘So.’ Tarnia slid her tiny frame onto one of the strange chairs. ‘What do you want?’

  Pushing the cakes forward and trying not to look over-eager, Mitzi explained about the Baby Boomers Collective.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Tarnia sniffed, when she’d finished. ‘No way. Not a chance. Okay? Now you can go.’

  No, she couldn’t. The cakes were still untouched. Mitzi steeled herself for a sip of the transparent tea.

  Jesus! Jeyes Fluid!

  ‘Earl Grey,’ Tarnia said. ‘Not cheap sweepings from the 8 ’til Late’s own label.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Mitzi smiled gamely. ‘But why won’t you let people use the hall and the fields and—’

  ‘But I do. Only this summer Marigold Soames-Hartley had her Belinda’s wedding reception in several marquees in the lower meadow, and the Pugh-Padgetts always have their charity functions in the village hall, and—’

  ‘But they’re not real villagers!’ Mitzi put down her teacup. ‘They don’t even live in Hazy Hassocks.’

  ‘No, they don’t. And that’s why they can use the facilities with impunity. They’re the kind of people Marquis and I now associate with. They are our social equals. Our chums.’

  ‘You mean they don’t know that you lived on the Bath Road Estate or that your dad was a bus driver or that … that Marquis was known as Snotty Mark at school and his dad is still the milkman in Winterbrook and his mum works in Tesco … Or—’

  ‘Exactly!’ Tarnia’s eyes flashed. ‘Exactly! And why I want nothing to do with you, either! Why would I, having moved on from all that crap, want to surround myself with the dregs of the village who would take great delight in reminding me and my new friends – not to mention Marquis’s business colleagues – where our roots actually lay? Why?’

  Mitzi sighed. She’d known this would be Tarnia’s reaction. It always had been. Ever since Marquis – no damn it! Mark – had got eight score draws on Littlewoods long before the lottery had been thought of, managed to make some sensible investments in vehicle leasing to multinational companies, and had built the Snepps’s Bad-Taste Palace on the only decent bit of land for miles around. Ever since they’d discovered the deeds also cove
red the village hall.

  It was an eternal stumbling block.

  Mitzi shrugged. ‘I don’t think any of these people are the slightest bit interested in your past. Even those who remember it have got far more pressing things to worry about. All they want to do is spend their autumn years in enjoying themselves, using their brains, being useful members of society. They’re our age, for heaven’s sake – middle-aged – they don’t deserve to be pensioned off and forgotten about.’

  ‘Then they should have thought about that before,’ Tarnia snapped, her fingers dabbing at some of the brown crumbs on the table top. ‘And made plans for their futures.’

  ‘Like you did?’

  The crumbs hovered on a slim orange fingertip, then fell off. ‘Exactly like I did.’

  Oh, come on! Mitzi thought. Tarnia had never done a decent day’s work in her life. She and Snotty Mark had married in the early 1970s because she was pregnant. They’d lived with Mark’s parents until the birth of the second Snepps baby when the council had given them a maisonette. It was only when Tarnia was heavily pregnant with Snepps number three that Snotty Mark had jabbed his lucky biro into the right number of football teams.

  ‘And how are the children?’ Mitzi pushed the tea away. She might as well forget about the cakes. This was going to be another waste of time.

  ‘Fine,’ Tarnia said shortly. ‘Wayne and Warren are directors of the company, of course, and living in Surrey. They’re very busy with their own lives and families. We don’t see much of them.’

  ‘And Lisa-Marie?’

  ‘Runs her own business in London. She rarely has the time to come home.’

  ‘Strip joints, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Nightclubs!’ Tarnia hissed. ‘Nightclubs. Very classy. Lisa-Marie’s training in – um – dancing stood her in good stead.’

  ‘As did marrying one of her Middle-Eastern clients.’

  ‘Get out!’ Tarnia gripped the edge of the table. ‘There’s nothing you can say to me that will make me change my mind. Nothing. Not sob stories about the Hazy Hassocks saddoes, or threats, or blackmail! I do not want the plebs using my hall or my land! Understood?’

  Sod it, Mitzi thought crossly. An insult too far.

  ‘Okay. Fine. I should have realised that you wouldn’t listen to reason. Compassion was never top of your list of attributes, was it?’ She gathered the Powers of Persuasion Puddings together, then broke one in half and popped it into her mouth. ‘Mmmm – delicious … such a shame you can’t have one. No, no – don’t waver. I’d hate to be responsible for you gaining an ounce …’

  Tarnia took a longing look at the glossy brown cakes, shot out a slender orange hand and clenched her iridescent nails into the crumbly surface. Mitzi held her breath. With eye-watering speed, Tarnia crammed the whole thing between her pouting, collagen-enhanced lips.

  Mitzi held her breath. What on earth was she doing? There was no way on earth that this was going to work. She waited until Tarnia’s cheeks bulged. Her heart was thudding. Now? Should she? Oh, heck, why not? What was there to lose? Even if was all pie in the sky.

  ‘There. Lovely isn’t it? Have another – Snotty Mark need never know. Oh, yes, two or three. As many as you like …’ Mitzi said softly. ‘And – and I really think you should change your mind about allowing the Baby Boomers to use the village hall and the meadows for their activities. Don’t you?’

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later, Mitzi, snuggled in jeans and a fluffy purple jumper, curled her fluffy purple matching-socked feet beneath her on the sofa, and shifted the phone to a more comfortable position under her chin. As the rain rattled against the window and the midday sky darkened with racing storm clouds, the sumptuously coloured living room enveloped itself round her, and she truly relished not having to be at work. Not for the first time in recent weeks, she reckoned Troy and Tyler, and the bank’s venture into youth culture had done her a massive favour.

  ‘So,’ Mitzi’s voice echoed down the phone. ‘What do reckon to a little get-together? Here, next Friday night? Just family, friends, the neighbours and maybe a few of the Baby Boomers.’

  She’d known, it being lunchtime, that she’d catch Doll at home doing her housework. It was the way she’d organised her domestic life for years: not wanting to use noisy electrical appliances while Brett slept, not able to tolerate any mess or disorder, not allowing anything to get out of hand. It would be nice, Mitzi reckoned, if their new-found passion could include a bit of, well, loosening up on the domestic front too. There was something scary about Doll’s obsession with all things clean and tidy.

  ‘Sounds a nice idea,’ Doll said, ‘but – um – we’re not really the sort of family that has parties, are we? I mean, friends round, yes – but this sounds like entertaining on a grand scale.’

  Mitzi grinned into the phone, picturing Doll’s perplexed face. Sadly, she could also picture her perched on the very 1970s telephone seat in the bungalow’s hall. Hopefully, since the resurgence of the rekindled emotion, the bungalow was warmer than it used to be. That hall had been a virtual icebox.

  ‘Oh, this won’t be anything formal. Just a drop-in. There’s some stuff I need to sort out before we have our next BBC meeting in the village hall, and I – er – just thought I’d try a few new bits and pieces from Granny’s book and—’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Doll’s voice sounded as though she was frowning. ‘I know what happened with those funny puddings. Dad told me Flo only had one and he found himself almost having to fight her off, and they must have seriously addled Tarnia’s brain if she’s agreed to let you use the village hall for your shenanigans and—’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Mitzi cut in quickly, not wanting to think about the methods she’d employed with Tarnia, or the awful consequences for the BBC should she change her mind. She winced as, without warning, Richard and Judy crampon’d their way onto her lap. ‘I’m not quite sure what happened there. The puddings may have played a part – but I doubt it … Anyway, the effects clearly aren’t permanent. Flo hasn’t got a good word to say about your dad again now.’

  ‘Thank the lord for that. And are you sure about Friday? It’s Halloween …’

  ‘Mmmm … I had noticed. But I’ve found some lovely old-fashioned Halloween recipes which aren’t doubtful at all. It’d be great if you and Brett could pop round – about eight-ish?’

  ‘Doubt if Brett will be able to. He’s doing a double-early on Saturday morning. But I’d love to come for an hour or so – especially if you’re inviting Shay for Lulu as the in-house entertainment.’

  ‘Don’t be cruel. Since he arrived we’ve only caught glimpses of him as he flies in and out. Still, I’ll include an invite for him when I pop round to Lav and Lob’s in a minute, and hope he’s not working next Friday night. His shifts are even worse than Brett’s. Oh, and did you know that slimeball Niall has moved his new girlfriend into the loft?’

  ‘Yes, Lu told me. Apparently she’s his office line-manager and the affair’s been going on for some time. All their friends knew, of course. Poor old Lu – I think Shay could be just what she needs, in more ways than one.’ Doll giggled. ‘Look I’ve got to dash or I won’t have this hall hoovered before it’s time to go back to work. Count me in for the get-together. See you Friday, then. Bye.’

  Mitzi clicked off the phone, took another mouthful of coffee, shifted Richard and Judy into a less painful position on her lap, then dialled the charity shop.

  ‘Oh, hello Hedley, it’s Mitzi. Can I have a quick word with Lulu, please? Oh, is she? What, in Hazy Hassocks? Again? Goodness me. She didn’t mention anything to me about it. She’s with Biff, is she? Good – well, yes, in case things turn nasty, of course. No, it was nothing important. Just something I wanted her to buy on her way home. No, nothing drastic – just another loaf of bread – and she’d probably forget it anyway. Thanks a lot. Bye …’

  The phone rang as soon as she put it down. She snatched it up again. Richard and Judy, who had spilled like liquid m
ercury into the space the phone had left, narrowed their eyes at it.

  ‘Hello, Mitzi Blessing – oh, hello Lance. Your scarf? Did you? I haven’t seen it. What colour was it? Oh, that one. The one I bought you the year – oh, yes, well – no I haven’t seen it here. Maybe Flo picked it up and sleeps with it under her pillow … What? You have no sense of humour any more! Jennifer’s what? Again? Is she old enough to need that lifted, then? Crikey … Me? Nothing much – just sitting by the fire organising my Baby Boomers and planning a few recipes for Halloween, that’s all. Yes, it’s a great life isn’t it? What? Yes, of course if I find the scarf, I’ll ring you – but my money’s on Flo …’

  Mitzi was still giggling as she hung up. Finishing her coffee, she idly flicked through the pages of Granny Westward’s cookery book. Halloween, it appeared, was a major occasion in the home-cooking and village-ritual calendar. Not, of course, that Mitzi for one moment believed that this herbal-dabbling worked, but still.

  ‘All Hallows Mallows,’ she read aloud to Richard and Judy. ‘As Lance said, they should be nice for the trick-or-treaters … Midnight Apples? Indigestion on a plate if you ask me … Oh, and look at this. If you light two dozen candles and sprinkle yarrow backwards into the flames you’re supposed to see your one true love. Mmmm … well, maybe – especially if your one true love is a firefighter … I think—’ she stroked the two grey silky bodies ‘—that this could be a lot of fun …’

  ‘My mother’s gone mad,’ Doll muttered through her mask an hour later as she assisted Joel with the completion of a multiple-filling appointment. ‘She’s turning to witchcraft.’

  The patient, prone and shackled in the chair, gave an involuntary twitch.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Knowles,’ Doll crinkled her eyes at him. Smiling with the lips was pointless because of the mask. ‘Just a figure of speech … No,—’ she raised her eyes to Joel again as she passed the loaded amalgam carrier ‘—I mean, she found this book that belonged to my great-grandmother, all herbal recipes and suchlike, and she’s made some really strange concoctions from it – anyway, she rang me at lunchtime and invited me over for Halloween, and I know she’s planning something else and—’