Mitzi almost flounced from the shop. Now she felt more decrepit than ever – and she certainly didn’t want Herbie to put any doubts into her mind about the party food. She’d always enjoyed Halloween. In a completely non-witchery way, naturally. She’d loved it when Lu and Doll had been tiny and she’d dressed them in bin liners and black lipstick, and they’d called on Flo and the Bandings demanding money with menaces. Flo and Lob and Lav had pretended to be frightened and handed over Refreshers and Sherbet Fountains and everyone had been innocently happy.
Now that innocent enjoyment was somehow tarnished.
How dare Herbie hint that there was anything untoward in what she was doing? Cooking up a few traditional old-style party dishes surely wasn’t the same as holding some sort of satanic mass, was it?
Having collected two oversized tangerine-orange pumpkins from the greengrocers, Mitzi was juggling with them and Herbie’s carrier bag, and so, still feeling rather irritable, really wasn’t in the mood for Trilby Man in full throttle. But while she was in the high street she felt she ought to check up on her Baby Boomers, even though they seemed to be managing very nicely without her. All they’d needed was someone to get the ball rolling and they were up and running, she thought, mixing her metaphors and clichés with sulky abandon.
Shivering in the cutting wind, and with her hair blowing spiky strands into her eyes and mouth, she shouldered her way through the heat-seeking crush into the Nissen hut library. Trilby Man was sitting alone at the radiator-table but had managed to drape a piece of greyish clothing over each chair to ward off invaders. He waved as he spotted her and began untidily folding away the Sun. ‘Hello, Mitzi. Glad you dropped in. Just the ticket. Blimey – your face looks a mess. What’s up? Are you crying?’
Mitzi sniffed. She’d probably caught something from Gavin. ‘It’s freezing out there and the wind made my eyes run a bit, that’s all. It’s probably smudged my mascara …’
‘Ah,’ Trilby Man nodded again. ‘It has that. You looks like that rocker bloke – whatsisname? Ah, yes, Gladys Cooper. You ought to tidy yourself up a bit. Easy to let yourself go when you’re not gainfully employed and there’s only the Grim Reaper to look forward to. Mind, what someone of your age wants with make-up is beyond me.’
Gritting her teeth, Mitzi dumped the pumpkins on the table and rubbed a finger at the smudged mascara. Then she remembered all the magazines said that you shouldn’t be rough with the delicate under-eye tissue, so she stopped.
Thanks to Gavin, Herbie and Trilby Man she now felt fit for nothing but the Singing Cedars Rest Home.
‘I was going to catch up on the Baby Boomers, but as you’re on your own maybe I should come back later, or perhaps I’ll just e-mail everyone tonight.’
‘No need, duck. We’re more or less sorted, but if you’ve got any hot news I’ll pass it on. The others will be along shortly. You can have the Mirror ’til Ken gets here if you likes. No? Oh well, suit yourself. Look, sorry if I was a bit forthright just now. Probably why I’ve never been married. Calling a spade a spade don’t go down too well with some of the ladies. They likes to be flattered – even if they are dog rough, if you gets my drift …’ He beamed at her. ‘Anyway, at least you’ve got a nice new hairdo, duck. Been to Pauline’s for a pensioner’s cut, have you?’
‘I’m a long way off being pensionable and – oh my God!’ Mitzi caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. She looked like Don King with a crimson rinse.
‘No point trying to flatten it down,’ Trilby Man said comfortingly. ‘It’ll only end up like a bird’s nest and look even more stupid. You leave it till you gets home, duck. After all, no one is going to give you a second look, are they?’
Fighting the initial urge to punch him squarely in the teeth, Mitzi conceded that he was probably right. Lulu turned heads. Doll was stunning. She was past it. Way, way past it. No one was going to notice her wandering along the windswept high street with a haphazard scarlet mohican, were they? They’d probably think it was a hat. A red hat. A Jenny Joseph red hat. Dear God – was she really that old? Was she rapidly turning into an old purple-wearing, red-hat-owning crone who wanted to learn to spit?
She glared at Trilby Man. ‘No, I won’t sit down, thank you. Can’t stop. I’m off to my pensioners’ lunch in the village hall. No, of course not really – it’s a joke. Irony – or maybe sarcasm. Oh, never mind … I just wanted to know if you got my last BBC update.’
‘June and Sally did. The rest of us ain’t up to speed on e-mails. Mind, it’s handy having that Internet thingamabob here in the library. Not that I holds with it. It’s not natural. Still, you’re a bit of a silver surfer, aren’t you, duck?’
‘I think you’ll find the silver surfers are more in their seventies and eighties, actually.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Trilby Man looked almost jocular, ‘but like I said, calling a spade a spade is my stock in trade so to speak and I bet’s you’re as grey as a weasel under that there dye of yourn.’
Bunching her fists into tight balls and counting to ten, Mitzi managed not to hurl herself across the table with a Paul Revere yell.
Triby Man continued to beam. ‘So, thanks to you being a bit hot on the old laptop we all knows Mrs Snepps has agreed to let us use the village hall, and on what days, and we’re grateful to you, duck. We’re going ahead with a few of the indoor activities like we discussed. Want to see what we’ve got so far?’
As what she still really wanted to do was to hit him very, very hard, Mitzi’s nod was curt and her smile was more of a bared-teeth grimace. Trilby Man didn’t seem to notice. However, the list was impressive: quiz teams, music appreciation, a reading group, a writers’ circle, an am-dram group, dance classes, a bridge and whist school, and an intermediate cookery course were all fully subscribed. In the warmer months, the list informed her, the Baby Boomers Collective were going to get together for various sporting activities and possibly rambling.
Mitzi noticed with some trepidation that Lav and Lob, despite their assurances they wouldn’t get involved, had signed up for everything.
‘That’s lovely.’ She pushed the paper back to Trilby Man. ‘And the first sessions are booked for next week, I see. Well, you clearly don’t need me any more, so—’
‘Course we do,’ Trilby Man asserted. ‘You’re our coordinator. Without you this wouldn’t have got off the ground – and well, being honest, you’re the only one who can negotiate with Lady Tarnia Muck, aren’t you? We’ll look forward to seeing you at the first meeting, okay? Now, if you don’t mind me making a bit of a personal comment, duck – don’t you think them jeans and that leather coat are a bit young for you? A bit mutton dressed as lamb, like? At your age you should be in a nice buff anorak and—’
With a whimper of fury Mitzi snatched up her pumpkins and whirled out of the library, leaving unheard the remainder of Trilby Man’s unwise venture into Trinny and Susannah territory.
‘Sod it,’ she snarled as, hampered by the pumpkins, she caught the strap of her bag on the Aberdeen Angus-like handles of a toddler’s buggy in the exit scrum.
The more she tugged, the more the buggy rocked and the more the toddler yelled.
‘’ere!’ The toddler’s mother stepped forward, thrusting a beringed nose under Mitzi’s. ‘You mind what you’re at! My little Paris is sensitive, bless ’im. Stop yanking! You’ll ’ave ’im over!’
‘Bugger Paris!’ Mitzi muttered, still yanking. ‘Bugger Gavin and Herbie and bugger most of all buggering Trilby Man! Ah!’
The buggy handles suddenly yielded up her bag strap with all the unleashed power of jet propulsion.
Mitzi and the bag and the pumpkins rocketed dizzily out of the library into the high street.
‘Daft old bat!’ Paris’s mother yelled behind her. ‘She ought to be in a ’ome!’
Feeling worse than she could ever remember since the silver wedding party and the Jennifer revelations, Mitzi gathered herself together, and tottered in the direction of Big Sava’s
car park. The gale was still screaming with icy fury, but the tears that prickled her eyes and trickled irritatingly down her nose were caused more by self-pity than the freezing wind.
She ducked her head down and, with a pumpkin under each arm, hurried past Patsy’s Pantry. ‘Bugger, bugger, bu – and oh, damn!’ She cannoned off something large and solid. The pumpkins joyously escaped into the high street.
‘Much the way I feel myself,’ a voice said in amusement. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine but I’ve lost my bloody pumpkins.’ Mitzi lifted her head. Her hair, whipped into even more of a Marsha Hunt Afro, got in the way of seeing. The man she’d walked into seemed about eighteen feet tall. ‘I’m so sorry … Wasn’t looking where I was going …’
‘Me neither. Hang on – I’ll get your pumpkins.’
Mitzi watched with deep gratitude and not a little embarrassment as the tall, dark-coated man nipped niftily in and out of the high street traffic, scooped down, and belted back towards her, triumphantly clutching both pumpkins like a double-fisted Martin Offiah.
He handed them to her. ‘No damage at all. My mum used to always have pumpkins on Halloween too. Hollowed out with candles inside. We thought it was magic.’
Was she old enough to be his mother? Possibly? She clearly looked it with her ravaged make-up lingering in the wrinkles that Oil of Olay hadn’t yet obliterated, and the manic hair.
She smiled. ‘Thank you so much. It’s been one of those days.’
‘I’ve had one of those years,’ he smiled back. ‘A single disastrous day would be bliss. Still, as long as you’re okay.’
‘Fine,’ she reassured him again. ‘And thank you. I hope the rest of your year is better.’
‘So do I,’ he grinned.
His teeth were remarkably white, Mitzi noticed, his bone structure sensational. And he had one diamond ear stud. Lulu would absolutely love him.
He was still grinning as he turned away and walked back up the high street. Mitzi watched him go with a feeling of acute sadness. For the first time since Lance’s defection she’d felt a tingle. A real tingle. And it had to be caused by a man years younger than her who clearly saw her as on a par with his mother. Elderly. And dotty. And clumsy. And losing not only her pumpkins but also her marbles. And – oooh!
‘Life,’ Mitzi said out loud, pinching a phrase from her daughters, ‘is so not fair!’
Chapter Eleven
The trouble was, Lulu thought, shouldering her way through the subterranean gloom of the charity shop on Halloween morning, that no one understood.
Everyone thought that she was upset about the brush with the law and the very public tussling with Jeffrey of Jeffrey’s Millinery. Everyone, even Doll and Mitzi, thought she was embarrassed about her loss of face. Everyone thought she was ashamed.
And of course, she thought crossly as she thrust another handwritten ‘Suitable For Halloween’ card on a rail full of ancient black polyester frocks that smelled of encrusted talcum powder, what she really was, was heartbroken.
Okay, maybe that was a bit OTT. She and Shay had done no more than exchange a few smiles as they passed on their neighbouring paths, and had a couple of brief conversations in The Faery Glen, and once shared a gentle laugh together at the bus stop in Winterbrook over Lav and Lob and the cycling helmets. It was hardly a lifetime’s commitment. But she’d had such hopes – and she fancied him sooo much.
It was – as she’d wished for – as if Heath Ledger had walked straight out of ‘The Knight’s Tale’ and moved in next door. And now, she snorted in indignation as she untangled three wispy black shawls which reeked of mothballs and mushrooms, at last he was going to spend the whole evening in her house – with some bloody little fairy- doll, do-gooding, lifesaving, paramedic called Carmel.
It was soooo not fair!
As another wave of people surged into the dark snugness of the shop, Lulu shoved her way back to the relative safety of the counter.
‘I love Halloween,’ Biff Pippin said, clutching a cup of vegetable Oxo which was steaming up her bifocals. ‘One of our best times.’
Lulu nodded. The shop was always crowded at Halloween, and at Christmas and New Year, as people scoured the rails for suitable fancy dress costumes at a knock-down price. Unlike her, they didn’t buy their year-round wardrobe from charity shops, and so never knew where to look for the best bargains on these one-off sorties. Biff and Hedley were demons at marking up tat on these occasions and making a vast profit for their animal sanctuary charities.
‘What are you wearing tonight?’ Hedley asked, pausing in changing the price on a black fedora with a filigree of cigarette burns on the brim. ‘To your mum’s party? It is fancy dress, I take it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lulu looked doubtful. ‘She didn’t say so. To be honest I think it’ll be a bit of a disaster.’ A lot of a disaster, she thought darkly, if she had to spend it watching Shay and Carmel lusting all over each other. ‘She’s cooking. Again.’
The conversation was halted for a moment as half a dozen streaky-haired office girls gigglingly approached the counter clutching several long black skirts, two shawls and a 1980s halter-neck top in ebony lurex. As Lulu had had her eye on this top for Shay-snaring, her customer-service-smile was sadly lacking as she shoved it into the bag.
‘No, we don’t take Visa. Cash only. What? Oh come on – it’s only a fiver … No, sorry we can’t hold it for you while you get some money. Too much demand today – sorry.’
‘What on earth are you doing?’ Biff snuffled through the powdery bit at the bottom of her Oxo mug, watching as the streaky-haired girl left the shop empty-handed and Lulu shoved the halter-neck beneath the counter. ‘That could have been a sale.’
‘It still is,’ Lulu said. ‘To me. Um – well, as long as you can deduct it from my next week’s wages. I’m a bit broke at the moment.’
Hedley nodded. The Pippins were used to Lulu’s wage packet being mainly taken in second-hand clothes. ‘So what were you saying about your mother’s party?’
‘Oh, just that she’s cooking up some more of Great-Granny Westward’s All Hallows Eve recipes. We’ll probably all spend November in hospital with botulism.’
Biff shook her head. ‘Don’t be so damnably negative, Lu. It’s one of the most magical nights of the year. Some of those old country recipes were specially written for The Dark Night of All Souls, you know. Mind, most of the ones I know seem to be love potions rather than raising the dead. Capturing the man of your dreams by chucking him backwards into a mirror. That sort of thing.’
‘Sounds a bit violent, Biff, pet,’ Hedley looked doubtful, as no doubt you would if your wife had spent all her professional life crunching other gargantuan females in headlocks and half nelsons. ‘I understood it was more gentle physical fun. Like apple bobbing.’
Lulu said nothing at all. Her mind was shimmying off on a track of its own.
Love potions … capturing the man of your dreams.
She cheered up immensely. There was bound to be something along those lines in Granny Westward’s book. Yessss! Take a few well-chosen herbs, blend in an ancient incantation or two, add the black halter-neck – and kerpow! – itsy-bitsy Carmel wouldn’t get a look-in.
‘Where’s Mum?’ Doll peered into the kitchen. ‘Jesus! What are you doing?’
‘Cooking,’ Lulu looked up crossly, trying to cover Granny Westward’s book with a mound of apples, hoping Doll wouldn’t noticed the saucepan of molten candle wax glugging on the cooker. Trust her to arrive early and start asking stupid questions.
‘It stinks,’ Doll said cheerfully. ‘Really honks. What is it?’
‘Just some last-minute – um – stuff.’ Lu frowned. The wax – now melted with a whole mound of ancient Bronnley Apple Blossom bath cubes, stirred in because apple blossom was essential to the spell, but of course the real thing wasn’t around in October, and either Granny Westward had lied about plentiful supplies of apple blossom on Halloween or global warming simply
wasn’t what it used to be – did smell very unappealing. ‘No – don’t touch it! It’ll spoil.’
‘I doubt that,’ Doll wrinkled her nose. ‘It reeks. Well, whatever it is, don’t expect me to eat it.’
‘It’s not for eating, it’s for decoration – and why aren’t you tarted up? Why are you still in your uniform? It isn’t fancy dress.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Doll looked her sister up and down, then grinned. ‘Actually, I haven’t been home yet. I just popped in from the surgery in case Mum needed a hand with anything.’
‘We’re all under control, thanks.’ Lulu now looked worriedly at the bowl of apple puree and herbs on the table. It was bubbling. All on its own. Like a geyser. She draped a tea towel over it before Doll nosied into that too. ‘And Mum’s gone to the hairdressers. She said she needed a bit of a spruce-up for the party.’
‘Blimey—’ Doll fondled Richard and Judy who had just emerged from under the table ‘—she’ll be lucky to get an appointment anywhere tonight. The whole of Hazy Hassocks is being done up for the witching hour. Has she gone to Pauline’s?’
‘Guess so.’ Lulu really wished her sister would bugger off. ‘She didn’t say. She seemed a bit vague, actually. I think she’s worrying about this party. Still, Pauline will always squeeze her in, so that should cheer her up. Why don’t you go and see on your way home?’
‘Yeah, I might. Are you’re sure you don’t need a hand here?’
‘Really, really sure. Everything’s under control.’
‘That’ll be a first,’ Doll giggled. ‘How many are we expecting?’
‘Millions,’ Lulu sighed. She really didn’t have time to get involved in long-drawn-out conversations. ‘Well, the neighbours, some of Mum’s friends, oh you know …’
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