by David Barry
‘D’you mean to say, you’re just going to let Nicky and me do all the donkey work, clearing out all his old clothes, and taking stuff to charity shops?’
‘Try to understand: in the circumstances, I can’t. I just can’t.’
Vanessa turned to go. ‘Oh, I understand all right. You really are a selfish bitch sometimes.’
‘Vanessa!’
But Vanessa had already left the room. Jackie leaned forward and put her face in her hands. If only Nigel were here, but he’d made it abundantly clear that he had an important meeting to attend with the directors of his telecommunications suppliers.
***
Mike got back to Maggie’s just after lunchtime. He found her lying out on a sun lounger on the patio, wearing dark glasses. Her face was ashen, and stood out like a mask against the tan of her body.
‘D’you want the bad news or the bad news?’ Mike announced.
She twitched slightly. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. You made me jump. I was asleep. I still feel terrible.’
‘So you’ve just been lying there recovering - sunning yourself - while I’ve been in the local nick.’
‘What?’
‘On the way back from dropping the kids at school, I was breathalysed and I was over the limit. My driving days are over for at least a year.’
She took her dark glasses off, and blinked in the sunlight. ‘Oh, Mike! ’m sorry. Christ! That was my fault. What the hell will you do - about work?’
He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘I think you might need another part time barman.’
***
On Saturday Dave finished his season at Blackpool. He thought about driving back home on the Saturday night, had second thoughts. At least Mary’s ex was now banged up out of harm’s way, and he hoped he would get a decent sentence once he was put on trial.
Arriving home late Sunday morning, Dave pushed open the front door awkwardly, burdened by the carrier bags and boxes of presents he had bought for Mary and the kids.
‘I’m home!’ he sang out.
The refrigerator hummed, and the house creaked and clicked. Apart from that, silence.
He sighed disappointedly as he kicked the door shut. Then he went into the living room and dumped the parcels on the sofa. He stood staring at them for a minute, feeling tired and hungry. What had kept him going during the long motorway drive was the imagined scene of his homecoming; Mary rushing into his arms, and the children’s excited glowing faces as they tore open the parcels.
Now he felt numb with disappointment. Where were they? Mary had known of his plans to drive back, leaving early in the morning, so where was she?
He made a disgruntled growling noise with the back of his throat, then went into the kitchen.
‘Oh! Thanks a bundle!’ he cried when he saw the dirty breakfast crockery on the table. She hadn’t even bothered to clear the table, let alone do the washing up!
A note had been left for him on the work surface, stained and greasy from a spilt pool of cooking oil. He snatched it up and read it.
‘We’ve gone to Mum’s for Sunday dinner. Hope you had a good journey. Why don’t you come over and join us? See you later. Love, Mary.’
Dave sighed, screwed the note into a ball and threw it into the sink.
‘Oh, that’s all I need - dinner with your mother!’
Fifty - Four
Dave smacked his lips contentedly and put his knife and fork together with a clatter.
That were the business, that were,’ he said, exaggerating his Yorkshire dialect. ‘There’s nowt like a traditional Sunday roast. Ta very much, Mrs Fernhill.’
Mary’s mother shook a finger admonishingly. ‘Please! Janet!’
‘Janet.’
Mary, noticing Simon and Thomas’s bored expressions, said, ‘You’ve both done very well. And Nanny gave you enormous portions too.’
Mary’s mother smirked. ‘Clean plates. Jolly good, you two.’
‘Is it all right if they get down from the table?’ Mary asked her mother. ‘They can watch some cartoon DVDs they’ve brought with them, as long as they don’t have the volume too loud.’
The children were confined to staying indoors, as their grandmother lived in a sheltered accommodation flat. Nanny tugged delicately at her recently permed hair and sat upright, giving herself a regal air.
‘You watch the television if you want to. Nanny’ll have a between courses puff. You can switch it off when I serve dessert.’
Dave, who had always called it pudding, suppressed the urge to laugh, especially as Mary’s mother said certain things with pursed lips which reminded him of the wide mouth frog joke.
‘Thanks, Nanny,’ said Thomas, staring at the blue in his grandmother’s hair, which always fascinated him.
‘Good boy,’ she replied.
Simon mumbled his thanks and they both went and sat on the floor near to the television set and switched it on. Mary started to clear the plates away.
‘Just leave them in the kitchen,’ said her mother. ‘It’ll give me something to do later.’ She turned to Dave. ‘You get bored on your own.’
Dave nodded and grunted non-committally. Mary’s mother fetched a roll-your-own cigarette kit and a tin of Old Holborn tobacco from the sideboard, then returned to the table.
‘You’ve never smoked, have you?’ she said.
Dave, who thought this sounded like a criticism, replied, ‘It’s not one of my vices.’
‘No, I’m sure it isn’t. How long have you known Mary now?’
Dave frowned, trying to follow her train of thought.
‘Er, must be almost a year now.’
‘You’re much better for her than that filthy beast she was married to.’
Dave nodded seriously, his frown deepening. He wondered just how much Mary had told her mother about the recent events and being stalked by her ex husband. Not much, he decided, by the way she spoke about him. Perhaps Mary didn’t want to worry her.
‘Can’t you get Mary a job in your pantomime this year? She’s a very good actress.’
Dave shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I thought,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘she was a dancer.’
‘Oh, no. She’s been to drama school, you know.’
‘Where?’
‘Hayward’s Heath. Not one of the top London establishments, I know. But very good and highly thought of in Sussex. And Mary’s played fairy in panto. She’s worked with Bernie Clifton.’
Dave took a swig of Leibfraumilch.
‘The one I’m doing at Blackpool’s already cast, a long time ago, Janet.’
Janet produced an incredibly thin cigarette from her roller and lit up. Mary came back into the room.
‘I was telling Dave,’ said her mother, ‘about you career as an actress.’
Mary sighed deeply. ‘Some career. Mostly kicking my legs up in the back row of the chorus.’
Her mother tapped the table with her index finger. ‘And a few bits and pieces. If only you’d stuck at it like Yolande Brewer.’
Dave saw Mary’s jaw tighten.
‘Yolande,’ Janet went on, ‘lived next door to us in Hayward’s Heath. She went to Bright Lights, too. That’s the drama school. Yolande did awfully well for herself. Awfully well. Did a Rowntrees Fruit Gum advert, then there was no looking back. She never stopped. She was always on the box in something or other. I wonder what ever became of her?’
***
As soon as Mike walked into the kitchen, Claire fixed him with a frosty glare. She was sitting at the table reading the Mail on Sunday. He tried to think of something to say, some sort of greeting. Anything would be better than the silence, which was widening the distance between them. He turned away from her unnerving stare and stood, hands in pockets, looking out at th
e garden which was deteriorating rapidly. The grass was overgrown and weeds were taking over in the flower beds. When Claire eventually spoke, her voice was a blistering triumph of the self righteous.
‘At least I was here to say goodbye to Andy.’
‘He’s gone to Ireland then.’
‘You knew he was going?’
‘He told me.’
‘At least I was here for when he was leaving. So where have you been?’
Knowing he had to face up to this discussion, he came and sat opposite her at the table. ‘We need to talk.’
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, waiting for him to continue. Deliberately making him feel uncomfortable.
‘I’ve come back to fetch more of my things. I’m moving out.’
She laughed humourlessly. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. We’re actually splitting up, breaking apart, and for what?’
Something snapped in Mike. ‘I’ll tell you for what,’ he shouted. ‘Your depression I could tolerate. It was something that couldn’t be helped. But this ridiculous Ron Hubbard religion, and giving them money, that was the last straw as far as I was concerned.’
Claire remained infuriatingly calm, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘Really? And where is it you’re living now?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Are you staying somewhere on your own?’
Mike avoided her stare and shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve moved in with someone.’
‘Anyone I might know?’ Claire enquired sarcastically.
‘A client of mine who died some time ago. His wife. I’ve moved in with her.’
Claire frowned as she worked it out, then her lips became taut and her nostrils flared. ‘Not that woman who now runs a wine bar.’
Mike nodded slowly.
‘I knew as soon as we walked into that wine bar that night that something was going on between you two.’
Mike stared into Claire’s eyes as he spoke. ‘There was nothing going on then. I promise you. OK, I admit, I always fancied her, even when Gary was alive. But nothing happened between us. Not until you started giving our money away to those lunatics. That’s when I asked her out to dinner. And that’s when I realised I’d fallen for her.’
He held her look, inwardly congratulating himself on the brilliant performance he was giving. She seemed to back down suddenly, looked at the newspaper and turned over a page. When she eventually spoke, the sudden gear change took him by surprise.
‘We’re a one car family. How on earth am I going to manage without a car?’
‘That’s OK. You can have it. It’s all yours.’
She looked up from the paper. ‘And what about your work?’
He shrugged. Then her mouth opened as the truth dawned on her.
‘You’ve been done, haven’t you? After all these years of drinking and driving, finally you’ve been caught.’
He noticed the slight expression of triumph flitting across her face. He decided it was time to make a move, slid his chair back from the table and stood up.
‘I’ll go and get my things. And I’ll need to order a taxi.’
‘Oh, Mike,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘What are you going to do for work?’
He shrugged again and sidled out of the kitchen.
***
Following an awkward silence, Dave asked, ‘Since when have you rolled your own cigarettes, Janet?’
She hesitated before answering. ‘Well, I’ve always enjoyed a roll-up at home, but when Mary’s father was alive, he liked me to smoke ready made cigarettes. He thought it was more feminine.’
‘Was he a smoker?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes as a special treat he’d bring home Black Russian cigarettes. Or coloured cocktail ones. He thought they were elegant. You don’t see them anymore.’
Janet gazed wistfully at a cloud of blue smoke drifting towards the ceiling.
‘How long is it since your husband passed away, Janet?’
As soon as he had said it, Dave felt the frozen silence, like a coffin lid closing. Mary deliberately avoided catching his eye.
‘It’s nearly twenty years to the day,’ Janet muttered hastily.
Ignoring the warning signs - perhaps it was perversity on his part - Dave decided he wouldn’t let the subject drop.
‘He must have died quite young. What did he die of?’
Janet rose quickly. ‘Now then,’ she said with forced brightness, ‘I’ve got some lovely treacle tart in the oven. Who’s ready for dessert?’
Fifty - Five
Numb with shock, Pran sat on his sofa, staring into space. He remained immobile for a good hour, his thoughts swirling like garbage in a gale. His radio was playing the Pop Master quiz, hosted by Ken Bruce, but Pran was unaware of anything other than his own suffering. The doorbell rang. Wondering who it might be, but also relieved that it was a diversion from his depression, he struggled to stand up, switched off the radio, then went out into the hall and opened the front door.
Her smile greeted him, and her hand came out from behind her back, waving a bottle of champagne in his face.
‘Celebration time, kiddo! We made it. And it was all down to your appearance at the tribunal. I think your evidence swung it in my favour, Pran.’
‘Hi, Tina,’ said Pran, his voice heavy with gloom.
Tina looked concerned. ‘What’s wrong?’
Pran shook his head, unable to answer her immediately. ‘You’d better come in.’
She followed him into his cramped living room, sank into an easy chair, and watched as he dropped back onto the sofa, her brow furrowed with concern for her new-found friend. She waited, knowing he would tell her as soon as he was ready. His eyes were glassy and he stared at the floor. Eventually, he looked up, his expression lost, like a small boy appealing for help.
‘I don’t expect you’ve seen the Daily Mail.’
Tina shook her head.
‘They did a full page on the tribunal. A big splash. I suppose that’s because it was such a big payout. A record payout, they said.’
Tina stretched forward in her chair. ‘And you can go down the same route, Pran. It’s not too late. I’ll back you up. You said so yourself. You can take them to the cleaners. It’ll give you a fresh start.’
Shaking his head gravely, Pran said, ‘No money’s worth what I’ve had to go through. My father buys the Daily Mail. He read about me being gay. He doesn’t want to see me again. Ever. I’m no longer his son, he said.’
Tears suddenly ran down Tina’s cheeks. ‘Oh, Pran.’
‘He telephoned,’ Pran went on. ‘He was ranting and shouting. I can’t believe the terrible things he said to me. I hung up. I couldn’t take it.’
‘Oh, Pran,’ Tina sobbed. ‘I’m sorry. So sorry. If I’d known, I ... Oh, God! I feel terrible. I should never have dragged you into this. Never.’
‘It’s not your fault, Tina. I had to do it. If my father has a problem with my sexuality, then ... well, it’s time I stopped blaming myself.’
Tina rummaged through her handbag, blew her nose in a tissue and wiped her eyes, smearing her eye make-up. ‘I can’t believe it. Your own father. Perhaps if he’s given enough time, he might eventually come to accept it. Maybe it’s just the initial shock of finding out the way he did. I mean, in this day and age, surely...’
Pran broke in. ‘Maybe. Who knows? But my father’s living in another, more traditional age.’
Tina tried to stop further tears bursting to the surface but failed. ‘I’m so sorry, Pran. So very, very sorry.’
***
As soon as Ted came home from work he heard Tracey bawling. He dashed upstairs and into her room. Marjorie was leaning over the cot.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s g
ot colic.’
‘Oh my God! What’s that?’
‘Griping stomach pains. According to Freda, her Kevin had it really bad when he was a baby.’
Marjorie picked up the screaming, red-faced bundle from the cot and thrust her at Ted. ‘Here! See what you can do. I’ve tried everything. She’s driven me mad.’
Ted held the baby against his shoulder and rubbed her back but she continued to scream in his ear. ‘It’s all right,’ he crooned softly. ‘Daddy’s here, Miranda.’
Marjorie’s sharp ears picked up on the name. ‘What was that?’
Ted winced. It had slipped out without him thinking. He put on a dense expression, something at which he was quite accomplished. ‘What?’
‘What you called her?’
‘I’ve no idea. I must have been thinking of someone else.’
Marjorie scratched her chin thoughtfully and suspiciously. ‘Miranda you said. Who do you know who’s called Miranda?’
‘Nobody!’ Ted yelled above the baby’s cries. ‘I don’t know anyone called Miranda.’
‘You must do. Else you wouldn’t have called her it.’
Becoming thoroughly exasperated, Ted bounced the baby up and down. ‘Oh, can’t you do anything to stop her?’ he pleaded to his wife, who was stony faced.
‘I want to know who this Miranda is.’
‘Oh, she’s just a character in a Shakespeare play. The Tempest.’
Marjorie over-reacted, as if Ted had just told her that Miranda was someone with whom he was having a wild affair.
‘Stupid bloody name!’ she screamed. ‘I won’t have you calling her after some little tart in a Shakespeare play.’
Ted was nonplussed. ‘I only...’ he began.
‘Her name’s Tracey!’ Marjorie shouted. ‘Tracey!’
‘Yes! All right! I just thought she might like a middle name, so that she can choose for herself when she’s older.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake take her out for a walk. I can’t stand that screaming no more.’
Ted looked confused. ‘A walk?’
‘Yes! A bloody long walk. The movement of the pram’ll soothe her. Calm her down.’
