The Generation Game

by Sophie Duffy

  ‘Ah,’ he mutters, saying very little, meaning an awful lot.

  Half an hour later Bob is back, looking almost as ruffled as Captain, who is now ensconced in the bathroom, much to his annoyance as he was enjoying his rumble in the jungle.

  ‘I’ll just check on Wink,’ he says. ‘She can sleep through anything that one.’

  For some reason I follow him into Wink’s bedroom. Just to check. He switches on her bedside lamp and we both notice, Bob and I, at the same time. Her snoring has stopped. Her chest is very still. She’s taken off her eye mask and is lying serenely on her back, lids closed but with her favourite blue eye shadow smudged across them. A bit of pink on her lips. Rouge on her cheeks. She isn’t asleep though. She has gone. Gone with the wind, leaving behind a droopy-feathered, dust-covered African Grey parrot. And a huge hole in my life that I don’t think will ever be filled again.

  2006

  They say it is a tiny hole. It may repair itself without surgery. We’ll have to wait and see. Wait and see. Wait. I’m good at waiting. I can do this. We can do this, you and I. You and I.

  Chapter Sixteen: 1992

  You’ve Been Framed

  I don’t have to go back and face Mr Donnelly and his herd of hooligans. By the time the consequences of the storm are dealt with, and my poor old Wink sent off down the final conveyor belt, it is taken as understood between Bob and myself that I will stay in the shop for the time being. I dance around him as Helena once did, fitting my movements to his. But under the counter sits Wink’s ashes so that every day, as I reach for a paper bag, I think of her.

  ‘Bob, we’ve got to do something,’ I say finally, one closing time, picking up the urn and dusting it with my sleeve. ‘She can’t stay there forever.’

  ‘Alright,’ he says, locking up. ‘Grab your coat and a torch. It’s high tide. Let’s do it.’

  And we know exactly what it is we have to do because Wink has laid it all out straight in the will that we found in her bedside cabinet. We never knew she was so organised. Or that she was so flush, leaving her savings to Bob and me. For a rainy day.

  Which, luckily it isn’t today, though the wind is a bit fresh (and hopefully in the right direction).

  Bob tucks Wink inside his sheepskin coat and we let ourselves out the back, past the chippy and Wink’s old house, down into Belgrave Road, past the Chinese, the florists, the hairdressers, the junk shop, Toy Town, the guest houses and the hotels, over the footbridge and along the front, past the Princess Theatre and on to the harbour, all the way around until we find a quiet spot, where we can sit in the dark, on the wall, the waves crashing at our feet.

  He takes the lid off the urn and says, ‘Didn’t she do well.’

  Then we take it in turns, dipping our cold hands into the ash, scattering it like bird seed, watching the wind take it up and out to sea. Our Wink.

  Five years later, I feel I should perhaps be reassessing my career opportunities. Patty and Lugsy have gone, to Canada of all places, Vancouver Island, almost a continent away from Helena (who at least marked Wink’s passing with the biggest bunch of lilies Interflora could muster). Sheila dips in and out of Bob’s life according to her whims, less of late as Bernie requires more of her attention since his latest bout of heart trouble. Linda, at the last report, has married a naval officer, someone she met through Clive, and is living happily ever after in Plymouth. Cheryl is now a proper doctor with her own stethoscope and everything and has decided to give her Pill the boot as she reckons her fertility is at its ripest at twenty-seven. As for Captain, he is now more than ripe, probably somewhere in his fifties, though the vet thinks he might have another twenty years in him. And Wink was right, certainly longer than any husband could’ve managed.

  At this rate, it could quite possibly take another five years to reassess my career opportunities but everything changes with the arrival of an old friend one Saturday morning in the run-up to Christmas, back home from London for a rare few days holiday. Bob and I are busy serving and sorting out paper bills, so the shop bell is ignored as we aren’t expecting any one special. Eventually I look up from Mrs Strickland’s hefty magazine invoice that she’s decided to settle at long last, and notice a rather swanky woman dressed in a camel coat that drapes to the floor, with her hair Pre-Raphaeliting down her straight back. Her make-up is expertly done, if a little over-dramatic for the streets of Torre. Someone like her should really be entering a shop somewhere in Bond Street or Covent Garden. Which of course she normally would be, as that is her usual choice of shopping venue.

  ‘Hello, there,’ she says, the Grammar Girl voice still alive and kicking. ‘It’s me, Toni.’

  ‘Toni!’ Bob and I gasp in unison.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she says. ‘Thought I’d call in for the Western Morning News and a packet of Extra Strong Mints.’

  Well, we can’t let her go that easily. Bob whisks her out to the back where he prises her coat from her and rustles up some coffee. After a few minutes, she totters back out warming her manicured hands around her drink that Bob has seen fit to pour into the most embarrassingly chipped mug. I am conscious of my own chewed fingernails that are highlighted by fingerless gloves. I try not to think of my scruffy jeans and sweatshirt.

  Toni leans against the cigarette display and tells us both about her mum and dad, how Sheila has put Bernie on a strict high fibre diet and makes him walk along the seafront everyday with their new Yorkshire terrier, Coco.

  ‘How’s Terry-I-mean-Justin?’ Bob stutters – which is more than I dare to.

  ‘Justin’s still in Camden,’ she says, the emphasis on his new name showing her disdain.

  ‘With the Swede?’ he asks.

  ‘Do you mean Bente?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘She was Danish. She’s gone back to the land of Lego. Got fed up with our penchant for fitted carpets and white sliced bread or something. Or was it Terry she was fed up with, I can’t remember. It was a while ago now.’

  ‘Is he alone?’ I hear myself enquire, feeling a hot flush of menopausal proportions wash up from my toes to my forehead in two seconds flat.

  ‘He lives alone but no doubt he has the pick of the bunch.’

  No doubt.

  ‘Bob,’ she says. ‘Can you spare Philly for a bit. I fancy a walk down to the harbour and I hate walking on my own. In London you always have somewhere to walk to. Here you can just walk for the sake of walking and it feels a bit weird to be walking alone.’

  ‘‘Course,’ says Bob, slightly taken aback by the lack of varied verbs in an otherwise well-reasoned speech. ‘Take as long as you want. I can manage.’

  ‘Are you sure, Bob?’ I check. ‘It’s almost lunchtime.’

  ‘Go,’ he says.

  So Toni and I put on our coats – her cat-walk job and my kagoul – and set off down the road, the familiar route, past the Chinese, the florists, the hairdressers, the junk shop, Toy Town, the guest houses and the hotels until we come at last to the footbridge, the sea loitering with intent on the other side. We use the bridge to cross over the road, spray covering our faces and hair in a fine layer of dampness and then scurry on, along the front, past the Princess Theatre until we arrive at the harbour, the chink of moorings and the smell of money that has gone missing from a lot of Torquay.

  Toni sits down on a bench, staring out at the water that is doing its best to capsize the yachts. I’d rather not sit on something so wet but it seems rude to stand so I keep her company.

  ‘Have you ever thought of getting away, Philly?’

  From time to time. More so lately. Seeing Toni walk into the shop has made me think of it again, taking me back to that time in Tip Taps, watching her spin around in her leotards, to the blushes of the squadron leader, the tears in Sheila’s eyes, the envy in my heart from watching her dream of the shiny lights of London. And then again, that time I heard about her buying a flat, taking in a show with Sheila. That feeling of being left behind.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I say.
‘I’ve thought of it. But where would I go?’

  ‘London,’ she says firmly. ‘Come to London.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Toni.’

  ‘It is. You can come and work for me.’

  ‘What do I know about selling houses?’

  ‘You’ve been selling since you were six-years-old. The only difference is that property is more expensive than Kola Kubes. Terry’s left. He’s chucked it all in. Couldn’t stand the heat. Times are hard but we have a vacancy. For the right person.’ She drags her eyes away from the marina to look at me, pleadingly. ‘Phil, you could do it. I know you could.’

  ‘Where would I live?’

  ‘We’ve got a spare room. We’ve got lots of spare rooms,’ she says a little glumly.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Adrian and me. My partner.’

  ‘Partner?’

  ‘In every sense of the word.’

  Adrian. The man who wasn’t good enough for our Toni. The hard-nosed money-maker. The man who lived through Black Monday just a few days after Wink had failed to live through the Great Storm.

  ‘What does Adrian think about this?’

  ‘Oh… he’s fine with it. He’s cool.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s nothing stopping you.’

  ‘There’s Bob.’

  ‘It’s time he let you go,’ she says. ‘You’ve stayed long enough.’

  And right then, I decide to go. It is London, after all. My birth place. The city Helena taught me was the only place you should live, at some point in your life. The place where I saw a lady turn into a princess. Where I travelled underground with a boy called Raymond. Where Wink was a star.

  It is my time to shine. I am going to London!

  It is much easier than I ever thought in the end. Bob is barely tearful when I tell him. He hugs me hard and whispers ‘good for you’ into my hair. Then he goes for fish and chips while I brew the tea and when he’s back, we eat off our laps in front of the telly, and all is going well until The Generation Game comes on. Bruce is back.

  ‘Wink, Wink,’ says Captain, sadly.

  ‘It’s just you and me, mate,’ says Bob, looking at the old parrot perched on his stand. And the look of dejection that passes between them is almost enough to make me forget this whole idea.

  ‘It’s what she would’ve wanted.’

  I don’t like to ask who he means by ‘she’: Wink or Helena?

  But I like to think that it would be both of them.

  ‘Don’t go changing my curtains, mind,’ I warn him. ‘Or digging up the backyard. Cos I’ll be back. This is still my home.’

  Toni is waiting for me when the train pulls into Paddington. She helps me with my bags and hails a cab with a finesse worthy of Helena. We pass through rough bits of London and posh bits of London, seedy and smart, cheek by jowl, until we come to Belsize Park with its stuccoed houses and leafy streets. She points out her old flat as we drive up Haverstock Hill and I get a flash of Terry. A flash of more than is good for me.

  ‘Here it is,’ she announces, waving her arm at a double-fronted Victorian villa with off-street parking for both her Golf and Adrian’s no doubt flash car.

  For Toni and Adrian own a house now. She sold her flat and he sold his terrace and, thanks to a re-possession, they were able to afford this huge place, though it was in a right old state when they got it. But now it is virtually renovated. I suspect I am about to enter the pages of Wallpaper.

  The driver takes my suitcase up the front steps and Toni tips him in a way I can only admire.

  ‘Welcome to your new home,’ she says, dramatically, as she opens the smart, glossy black door and ushers me inside.

  Toni does the estate agent tour, the whole spiel, leaving me in awe of her acquisitions: original tiled entrance hall with a feature banister and ornate cornicing… stripped pine doors to all ground floor rooms… stripped pine floors in the spacious knocked-together reception room on one side of the hall… on the other, a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves… a laundry room and cloakroom… and a large kitchen at the back with French doors… leading onto a patio… and a good-sized south facing garden with a reasonable level of privacy.

  ‘It’s lovely, Toni,’ I manage to say. But what I don’t mention is that I am being nibbled at by the green-eyed monster again. Why does she have all this and I have absolutely nothing?

  Upstairs, I can only gasp at the stained glass window on the landing, the marble bathroom, the vast master bedroom with en-suite (no avocado here as times they are still a-changing), the two spare rooms that look like they have never been slept in and the smaller box room that is quite clearly destined to be a nursery one day.

  Mine is the bedroom at the back of the house, next to the family bathroom with its power shower and roll-topped bath with gold taps where we now stand, facing each other over the bidet.

  ‘You’ve pretty much got this to yourself,’ she says. ‘You’ll only have to share it with Mum and Dad when they come and visit – which isn’t that often. Thank God.’ She laughs a forced kind of laugh, one that hides a whole new perspective on the story.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely house,’ I make myself tell her. ‘And so tidy.’

  It is incredibly tidy. Not a cushion un-plumped or a bit of fluff on the expensive Turkish rugs.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘Mum would be impressed. But unfortunately I can’t take the credit. That should go to Marcia, the cleaner.’

  It doesn’t take me long to unpack. I’ve hardly brought more than Dick Whittington on his first outing to the capital. The bare essentials. A few clothes that won’t overly embarrass me walking those streets of London. Some toiletries. Two pairs of shoes. Slippers. A towel. A pile of books. And Tiger, of course. I tuck Tiger into his new bed and remember the first time I ever set eyes on him, gliding down the conveyor belt to the cheers of the audience and plucked from obscurity by Wink to live on, as a legend. The prize she gave me for supporting her. I always tried my best to do that. But really, she was the one who supported me.

  ‘Philippa!’ It is Toni, calling me in her shrill, persuasive voice. ‘Come and have a glass of Beaujolais. Adrian’s back.’

  My stomach is a little anxious as I walk downstairs, the stress of the move maybe. Though as I prepare to enter the kitchen to meet my new landlord, I suspect it has more to do with him.

  He is leaning against the Aga when I first see him so I will always associate the smell of lasagne with Adrian, amongst other things – like Beaujolais, of which he has an enormous glass in his hand. He is telling Toni – in his stuffed-up, nasally drawl – all about his day at the office, while she is chopping green stuff for a salad dressing. She is genuinely interested in what he has to say as normally she would be in the office too, but has taken the day off to welcome me. I’m still not quite sure what I’ve done to deserve her kindness but presumably she is just like her mother, feeling the need to do her bit for me. For poor Philippa.

  ‘Ah,’ Adrian barks. ‘There you are. Come in, come in, don’t lurk in the shadows. Have some of this.’

  He fills another enormous glass and shoves it in my hand.

  ‘This is Adrian,’ Toni says, ‘as if you hadn’t already guessed.’

  She moves over to him, wiping her hands on her butcher’s apron before wrapping her arms around him in what I can only think of as a display of possession. She might be happy to share her house with me, but this is her husband. Hands off. As if he’d look at me in a million years when he has sophisticated, woman of the world, Toni.

  ‘How’s your brother?’ I ask, taking a huge slug of wine to calm the jitters.

  ‘Terry’s still Justin. Still living the bachelor life.’

  ‘Still a loser,’ Adrian interrupts.

  Toni opens her mouth possibly to dispute this but she gulps some wine instead before turning her attention to serving up supper – a vegetable lasagne and a fancy salad that is a far cry from Bob’s Fray Bentos pies and peas. Adrian wolfs his do
wn, talking estate-agent speak to Toni – thankfully pretty much ignoring me. As soon as his plate is wiped clean with his rustic bread, he’s off ‘to see a man about a dog’. Toni shakes her pretty head at his faux cockney and offers her lips for him to kiss.

  ‘Don’t have too many, darling,’ she says cheerily as he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he snaps. ‘I’ll still be fully functional.’

  Then he’s gone and Toni starts lobbing the dishes into the dishwasher, the same way her mother did after the dinner party debacle several years earlier, the night I discovered I was capable of being in love.

  ‘Are you alright, Toni?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ she sniffs. ‘I’m just knackered. Work’s been stressful… the market, you know… I think I’ll have a bath. Make yourself at home. Watch television. Put your feet up.’

  Then she too is gone and I am left in their large family kitchen, wondering if it would feel any nicer if it were actually filled with a family.

  My new job isn’t much to write home about – so I don’t bother. But I do phone Bob with regular updates, so he knows I am missing him, so I know he is still there, in the shop.

  I am the lowest of the low in the hierarchy of the office, a sleek estate agents that is somehow surviving against the odds, probably down to Toni and Adrian’s partnership which, though I can already see the cracks at home, is new plaster-smooth at work. So while Toni and Adrian are out there, gunning up business along with Mac and Denise, I am left to type up house details and answer the phones.

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ Toni assures me. ‘I have plans for you. Let me work on Adrian.’

  Plans? I am only just realising these plans involve using me as cheap labour. And as for working on Adrian, that isn’t going to be easy. He thinks he is the bee’s knees when actually he is the dog’s slime. He swings from morose to manic and treats me like I’m still a child, which is exactly how I feel in his presence. He sometimes ferries me around in his BMW, parking up on double yellows while I race into unmarked doorways with brown envelopes that have to be hand delivered to men with names like Big Mike and Small Dave. He cuts up buses and taxis and likes to show off his car phone and CD player (which is completely wasted on Phil Collins). All in all, he is the sort of man who can’t be ignored, who fills up the room when he walks into it, who talks over any conversation. He even manages somehow to take over the thoughts in your brain, like something from the Twilight Zone.