by Mo Fanning
Every Friday night, we’d rock up, wearing way too much make- up and thinking we were It. Before leaving the house, I’d sneak into the hall with my bag and pick up the phone, letting it ring once before hanging up; my way of telling Helen I was on my way. We’d meet down by the allotments and I’d have lifted the key to Dad’s shed. Inside, we’d spike each other’s hair and change out of sensible jeans into short skirts. Back then, The Fox meant one thing. Boys. Cheap aftershave and hair gel. Sweat and chewing gum.
The clientele nowadays looks more genteel and family-oriented. It’s as if someone ripped the heart out of the place.
Helen goes to the bar, while I find a table in the corner, next to an antique sewing machine and a pewter otter.
‘This place has changed,’ she says and puts down two large vodkas and one bottle of tonic. ‘Remember when you and Jimmy Handling got thrown out for heavy petting?’
‘That was never me.’
I blush and remember how Annie Watts, the landlady threatened to tell Dad about what a floozy I’d become.
‘I miss the old days,’ I say, and the words came as a surprise. ‘Things were easier then.’
‘They only look that way when you put on your rose-tinted specs. We’ve both grown up Lisa, surely you can see that?’
‘Yes, but don’t you ever wish you could go back and change things?’
‘Every single day, but I know I can’t, so I get on with it.’
‘I suppose.’
‘People move on,’ Helen says.
‘Yes I know and still waters run deep, you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.’
She looks confused.
‘I’m being silly,’ I say and take a sip of my drink. ‘You know who I heard from the other day? Ian Tyler.’
‘Isn’t he in prison or something? My mum said he’d held up a bank.’
‘It was a toy gun and he didn’t hold up any bank. He was trying to get it back to his kids.’
‘That isn’t how I heard it. And as far as I know his marriage was on the rocks anyway. There were a few whispers down the golf club.’
‘The golf club?’
‘Yes, he was working there a couple of nights. I heard he was getting a bit fresh with a few of the members’ wives.’
I feel my stomach roll. Maybe I’ve been too trusting.
‘Ginny got involved, you know,’ Helen adds.
‘Ginny?’
‘When he was on trial, she started up a petition to have him moved out of the area. She said that he was a menace to society. She even put it about that he used to beat up his wife and the kids.’
‘What was in it for her?’
‘Did she ever need a reason to be a cow? She really went for it though. Ian’s mother ended up on tablets for her nerves.’
I take a deep breath, there’s one question I need answering.
‘Why is Ginny helping with your wedding?’
Helen shakes her head slowly and stares at the ceiling.
‘She really wasn’t my choice,’ she says. ‘I can’t stand the woman. She’s sneaky, she’s sly and she’s a bully. If anything, she’s worse than she used to be at school. Remember how she was always banging on about how she was going to be out of this town the second she left school? It looked like we might be shut of her when her father died and she came into money.’
‘From that butcher’s shop, I wouldn’t have thought there was that much money in it. Everyone used to avoid it after they got done for putting donkey meat in their sausages.’
‘That was never proved,’ Helen does a mean impersonation of Ginny. ‘Though I wouldn’t put it past the old sod. Mr Baker was a bit of a shit. Used to knock his wife about by all accounts. But anyway, he’d only been in the ground five minutes when Ginny sold the shop for a pittance, putting six people out of work. She spent every pound she got on clothes and holidays. That’s where she met her husband. He was the one with all the money. He used to manage the golf club and so she started swanning around as if she owned the bloody place.’
‘I still don’t see why she’s involved in your wedding.’
‘She knows how to get under people’s skin. She was a bully at school and she’s a bully now,’ Helen says with a shrug. ‘I suppose I feel a bit sorry for her.’
‘Sorry? For Ginny? Why?’
‘You know she’s on her own again? I’m not sure why. I’ve heard she was getting a bit too friendly with other men, but that’s probably just evil gossip. Everything I’ve heard comes second-hand and not from the sort of people I really care to spend any time with.’
‘So what? You can’t go involving her in the biggest day of your life out of sympathy.’
Helen’s holding something back.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’m not doing it for her. Mum asked Ginny to help with the dresses. The little bitch volunteered her services one morning after church. Mum’s snowed under what with one thing and another. The first I heard of Ginny being on board was when she turned up with a tape measure on my doorstep.’
‘So why don’t you say something?’
‘It’s Mum.’ Helen looks away as she speaks. ‘Dad hasn’t been well, so she needs all the help she can get.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know. What’s wrong with him?’
‘The doctors reckon he had some sort of stroke. To look at him, you wouldn’t know it, but he slurs when he speaks and he gets very tired, very quickly.’
I don’t know what to say. I’ve always been fond of her father. He’s the life and soul of any party, always laughing and telling the same daft joke about a wide-mouthed frog.
‘We’re OK. He’s OK. He’s getting stronger all the time, but this wedding’s draining Mum. Ginny keeps trying to take over, that’s why I need you to help me. I know she wasn’t happy when I said you were going to be matron of honour, but it is my wedding. She seems to have a real thing against you for some reason, but I don’t have that many friends, Lisa.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’
‘Why don’t you come around for lunch tomorrow? We can talk about the dress without Ginny looking over our shoulders.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ve missed you,’ she says.
Seventeen
The reception back at the Doyle household is likely to be nothing like as cordial as the one afforded by Helen.
‘I’ll come in with you, if you like,’ she says as we walk arm-in-arm down Grange Close.
‘No, I have to deal with this on my own.’
I put my key in the lock.
‘You need to get home. Your mother will be worried, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Helen laughs.
‘I am nearly 40, Lisa. She does let me play out late.’
We kiss goodnight and I watch her walk away, knowing that however careless I’ve been with friends in the past, I’m determined to make sure that Helen and I will always be there for each other.
The hallway is in darkness, though light floods from under the closed kitchen door. Bev’s Fiesta was nowhere to be seen outside and my sister’s coats have gone. Chances are Mam’s alone.
I take a deep breath and push open the door. She’s still in the same chair at the kitchen table, reading the paper. She looks up and smiles.
‘About time,’ she says. ‘I was about to send out a search party.’
‘I was with Helen.’
She nods and turns back to the local paper.
‘They still want to build a supermarket on the grounds of the old library,’ she says. ‘What would I be doing with another supermarket. There are three of them within ten minutes walk of here. How much shopping do they think I can carry? People only have the same amount of money to spend.’
She’
s carrying on as if nothing happened, trying to keep everything normal. I can’t do it.
‘Mam,’ I say.
‘Yes darling?’
‘About what Ginny said.’
She waves a dismissive hand. ‘It doesn’t matter one bit.’
‘But I want to explain.’
‘I think what you did was wise.’ Mum says. ‘There are all sorts of strange folk out there. They’re forever after preying on young girls. Look at what they found out about that Jimmy Saville. Tell them you’ve got a husband, that’s the best thing to do.’
I pull out a chair and sit. Mam carries on.
‘When I was young we didn’t have the interweb, but if a fella started acting the maggot, you just said you had a boyfriend or a husband. That soon saw them skedaddle.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, why else would you make up stories?’
The question hangs in the air.
‘You’ve all the time in the world to find the right young man. Forty is no age. I’m 72 and I haven’t given up hope that one day I might take up with a toy boy.’
She laughs, but we both know it’s not real.
‘Good wine sits on shelves for years. It’s only when someone takes it down they realise what a treasure they’ve been keeping.’
When I finally manage to tear my eyes from the floor and look at Mam, the look in her eyes curdles my breath. Sympathy, fear, worry. All the wrong things. All the things I shouldn’t be bringing home.
‘You’re not a failure, Lisa,’ she whispers. ‘You’re the one I’ve always been most proud of. I’ve lost count of the times Amy and Glen have fallen out. Sue’s more concerned with saving the world and recycling her rubbish than what’s going on with her kids. They’re running rings around her. But you, you’re always there for me when I need you. You went out there and did something with your life. Got away from this place, saw a bit of the world. I’m so proud of you. Your Pa would be proud too.’
When affection comes at unexpected times, it can throw you off balance. I’ve stayed sensible for too long, kidded myself that this is the life I wanted. As I ticked off the girls from school, I’d drink red wine and say spiteful things about marriage never lasting. It never crossed my mind that what I’d done with my life would make anyone proud. To me, it’s a mess. Of course Mam’s only saying what any mother should, but her kindness hits like a train.
‘I love you, Lisa,’ Mam says and my body shakes.
‘Don’t cry, sweetheart,’ she murmurs. ‘Please darling, don’t cry.’
I suck in air and bite my lip. I’ll not give way. I’ll not give way.
Mam sets about making us both a cup of tea. It’s the one thing I want most.
‘I’m so sorry about running out on everything before,’ I say when I can finally speak without my voice breaking.
‘Forget about it. If I’d have had my shoes on, I’d have come too.’
‘Did they stay for long after I left?’
‘Well Helen ran right out, did she not find you?’
‘Yes, we went to the Fox for a couple of drinks.’
‘They’ve ripped the heart out of the place.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I say. ‘It’s nice though. Inside, I mean.’
‘You’re a big girl now. You can take a drop whenever you like. I remember when you used to sneak up there on a Friday night.’
‘You knew about that?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first to do it and you’ll not be the last.’
‘Did you ever tell Dad?’
‘What would be the point in that? You three were his little angels. He didn’t need to know you were three little minxes under it all.’
Mam laughs and I join in. It feels good. In the past few weeks, laughter has been in short supply.
‘I miss him,’ I say.
‘Me too, but I don’t let it get me down.’ Mam looks at me. ‘Whenever I worry I might go into a gloom, I think about the good times. Even though he’s gone from this house, he’s still alive in here.’
She taps her head.
‘That way he’ll never die.’
Mam empties her cup.
‘Do you fancy a nightcap?’
I nod and she reaches for the brandy from under the table.
‘I had to hide it when we had company. It’s the last bottle. I’m on a pension these days.’
She pours two huge measures.
‘What I said isn’t entirely true, Lisa,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there are times when I want to scream at the good lord for taking your Pa away when he did. But what good does it do? It might make me feel better for a moment or two, but then what? It’s more fun to remember his daft jokes or his silly songs. He liked a drink, but in 42 years, he never once came home moldy. I used to love watching him messing around with something in the garden. Do you remember all those jars he used to keep his screws and nails in, all sorted by size?’
Mam’s voice trails off.
‘Don’t cry,’ I say.
‘Why ever not?’
She wipes her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Sometimes I like to cry when I think of him. Not every tear is because you’re unhappy. These are tears of happiness, love, not sadness. Not regret. It helps me remember how much I felt a part of him when he was alive. He lived life to the full and didn’t care what other people thought, if they didn’t like it…’
‘They could bloody well lump it,’ I finish her sentence with one of Dad’s favourite lines and hope a slug of brandy might help wash away my own sadness.
‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘And I won’t pretend that I wish I could be more like that.’
She pours more brandy.
‘The only thing I miss is new memories. He’s still alive in my head, but there won’t be any new memories. He won’t knock any more nails in the fence to stop it falling over in winter. I won’t get to go on about finding his shoes in the middle of the room or tell him off for hiding sweet wrappers down the back of my cushions.’
We sit in silence for a while, Mam watching me, a contented smile on her face.
‘You know love,’ she says. ‘It’s time to give up all this nonsense and stop worrying about what everyone thinks. Why bother? You never see these people anymore. Your friends live somewhere else. They’re the ones who love you now. They don’t care about what happened years ago.’
‘I thought I might move back home.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘It’s took me long enough to get the house to myself. The last thing I need is one of you coming back and cramping my style.’
We talk into the small hours and I roll into bed feeling strangely content. I have Andy. When he comes back from filming, I’ll offer him back his job. He might not take it. In fact, he might not even need to take it. If he does well for himself, I’ll be so happy. So often we’ve joked about how he only wants to be famous to have his pick of the boys. It isn’t true. Well, not entirely. For all his bravado in London, he never went into any audition unprepared. I’ve watched him rehearse his lines and seen how much it matters to do a good job. He would have walked into that room word perfect. They’d have been mad to turn him down.
And as for Brian. So what if he is my boss? It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, good friends even. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own little world while his life wobbles.
It no longer matters if I am the Armchair Bride. Or that everyone else seems to have found their special someone. I can be happy on my own. If people don’t like me as I am, they can lump it.
I pull the duvet up around my face and hope, when the drink wears off, I’ll fe
el the same
Eighteen
After breakfast, I call around to Sue’s to spend time with my two nephews before they go to school. She greets me at the door, looking like she isn’t having the best of days. Her hair is all over the place and she’s still in her dressing gown.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she says ‘Kenny’s got earache and Jason’s refused to go to playgroup on his own. If you can just distract Jason while I whip Kenny away to the doctor’s, that’ll be grand.’
‘Distract him? How?’
‘Oh I don’t know, tell him one of your boring stories about the theatre.’
Sue stops and looks mortified.
‘Fuck! I’m sorry, Lisa, I didn’t mean that, it’s just that I’ve only had an hour’s sleep and the dog needs a walk.’
I nod, hold my tongue and track down Jason in the kitchen where he’s sitting at the table, arms folded.
‘Hi Jason,’ I trill, but he doesn’t reply.
‘Your Mam’s getting Kenny ready and she said I should come and talk to you.’
He looks unimpressed. Someone curses in the backyard, the door opens and Amy stomps in followed by Bertie.
‘I caught this one going through the perishable waste bag,’ she says. ‘Sue called and it sounded like world war three was breaking out.’
I use whispers and sign language to explain Kenny’s bad ear and Jason’s bad attitude.
Amy understands at once.
I watch with a growing sense of admiration as she sweet-talks Jason into finishing his breakfast, putting on his coat and getting ready. I hear the front door slam and Sue’s car scream out of the drive.
