by Emlyn Rees
‘Let’s stick with estate agents for now,’ Rebecca says. ‘We can move on to travel agents after lunch.’ She reaches across and squeezes my thigh, all peace and love once more, taking her eyes off the road for a second and flashing me a smile. ‘Had any more thoughts on where you’d like to take me?’ she asks.
Rather meanly, the answer ‘Siberian salt mine’ pops into my head, but I fail to voice it. Failing to voice a variety of things has been my saving grace this morning. I’ve failed to voice my increasing discomfort at flat-hunting when my own flat still suits me just fine. And I’ve failed to voice my concern over my inability to look Rebecca in the eye whenever she mentions anything to do with the wedding. And, of course, I’ve failed yet again to mention Mickey. My silence on these matters has, I think, saved me from being physically ejected from Rebecca’s Saab and simultaneously dumped and reversed over – a fate which, admittedly, I might well deserve.
‘Well,’ I answer, stalling for time as we pull to a halt at some lights. The truth is that, seeing as neither of us can get time off from work immediately after the wedding, I haven’t given the matter of booking a honeymoon much thought. ‘I was thinking that maybe –’
‘Virgins,’ Rebecca interrupts.
Confused, I check out the pavements on either side of us, but the only people I see are a woman pushing a pram and a couple of men in paint-spattered overalls standing outside a café. ‘Where?’ I ask.
‘The British Virgin Islands,’ Rebecca elaborates. ‘Eddie says the American ones are overdeveloped, and –’
‘Eddie?’ I ask, surprised by this unlikely source of honeymoon information.
The lights change and Rebecca guns the engine and we accelerate down the twenty yards of clear road ahead, before screeching to a halt at the tail end of another traffic jam. The acrid stench of burning rubber fills the air.
‘He was telling me in Hyde Park that he sailed all round there when he was crewing that yacht when he left school and that it’s totally gorgeous.’ Rebecca glances across at me. ‘I mean, totally.’
‘Sounds great,’ I say.
Looking forward again, she sharply taps my knee. ‘List,’ she reminds me.
I open the SATURDAY folder and pull out the estate agents sheet, scanning down over the ones we’ve already visited. (Rebecca: ‘Phoning up’s a waste of time. You’ve got to get in there and show some face. It’s like everything in life: you’ve got to prove you want it.’) Well, we’ve proved our want in no less than twelve agencies so far, covering most of Maida Vale, and now we’re branching out into my neck of the woods around Queen’s Park.
I read off the one at the top of the list, ‘James Peters Limited’, and give Rebecca the address and, the moment I do this, an alarm bell starts to shrill at the back of my mind and it doesn’t take me long to work out why. ‘Maybe we should give that one a miss,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I fumble, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ve walked past it before. It looks a bit shoddy.’
‘They might have lower commission rates, in that case,’ she counters. ‘Anyway, we’re going to be driving right past them, so we might as well stop. Look,’ she adds before I can raise any further objections, pointing up ahead, ‘that’s it there.’
The strictly early-Eighties paintwork of an estate agency – spookily reminiscent of a red and grey duvet cover I once possessed in my early teens – draws closer and closer by the second, as do the peeling fly posters on the window of the disused corner shop two doors along. Neither of these grabs my attention, though. That’s reserved for the shop sandwiched between these two, the tasteful yet eye-catching sign of which I’m now fixated upon, as it slowly yet inexorably comes into focus, silver letter by silver letter.
‘Perfect!’ Rebecca chimes.
The indicator of Rebecca’s Saab tick-tacks on and off as we wait for the Volvo estate in front of us to pull away from the kerb. Desolate, I glare up at the heavens, before lowering my gaze earthwards once more to the sign reading MICKEY’S FLOWERS, less than five yards away.
Beaming at me, Rebecca smoothly steers the Saab into the parking space that the Volvo’s just vacated. My return smile is weak and wobbly, a nigh on perfect approximation of how I feel. But then, as my peripheral vision makes me suddenly aware of movement in the doorway of Mickey’s shop, I stop smiling altogether. Feeling sick, I hunker down in the car seat, folding my legs as far down beneath me as they’ll go.
‘What a sweet little shop,’ Rebecca says, switching off the engine, unfastening her seat belt and perching her shades like an Alice band on the top of her head.
‘Yeah,’ I grunt non-committally, staring resolutely ahead, wondering if I can risk a quick peep through Mickey’s window to ascertain precisely how much peril I’m in.
But no sooner do I try, than I discover that I can’t. Mickey Maloney’s there all right, standing a couple of yards back in the open doorway, with her hair tied up with a red polka-dot handkerchief, talking to a tall man who’s holding a giant plastic-wrapped bouquet. I watch as he steps to one side, temporarily blocking Mickey from my view.
‘Do we really need to do this today?’ I try. ‘I mean, haven’t we got enough on our plate at the moment without getting involved with estate agents?’
She pouts. ‘It’s not my fault my flat went so quickly,’ she chastises me. It’s true. The agent’s sign only went up on her flat a couple of days ago and she’s had two offers for the asking price already. ‘Now stop being so grumpy,’ she continues. ‘The sooner we start, the sooner it’ll be over.’
‘Come on,’ I say to Rebecca, hurriedly unfolding myself and getting out of the car.
For the first time today, Rebecca appears to be slowing down. She checks her face in the rear-view mirror and then waits for a lorry to pass, before leisurely getting out herself and walking round the front of the car to join me.
I nod encouragingly at the doorway to James Peters Limited. ‘Let’s get in there and show them some face,’ I remind her with an enthusiastic smile. ‘Show them that we want it …’
In the time it takes Rebecca to smooth down the sides of her rib-hugging pink top and black moleskin micro skirt, the human genome is mapped from start to finish. ‘Why’s that woman staring at us?’ she then asks.
‘What woman?’ I reply, suddenly finding myself absolutely fascinated by a loose piece of thread on the pocket of my jeans.
‘The flower girl.’
I stare up the street and start to walk that way, too. ‘What flower girl?’
Rebecca places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to a stop. ‘Not there,’ she says. ‘Here. Behind you.’
‘No idea,’ I reply without looking. ‘Anyway, we’d better be –’
‘She’s waving at us.’
‘She is?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Rebecca tells me.
‘Oh.’
‘And walking towards us,’ Rebecca adds.
‘Ah.’
‘And reaching out to tap you on the shoulder.’
‘I see.’
As I feel Mickey’s finger on my shoulder and hear her voice gently enquiring ‘Fred?’ from behind me, I turn slowly to face her.
Even since yesterday morning, when we sat on my roof and sipped our coffee, she’s caught the sun and tiny freckles now pattern her cheeks, and I want nothing more than to reach out and brush my fingers across them. It makes me sad, knowing that these changes only seem big to me because I haven’t been there to see them happening. I find myself staring at her lips, remembering kissing her in the snow that Christmas, so long ago. ‘Mickey,’ I say, my voice coming over hopelessly inadequate. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
She looks at me curiously. ‘Er, yeah,’ she says, half smiling. ‘Right outside my shop … fancy that.’
I hear Rebecca clearing her throat by my side and I find myself nodding my head and grinning at Mickey inanely. I can’t think what to say. What do you say in circumstances like these? All I know is how I
feel: crass, shallow and treacherous, as if by not acknowledging Mickey as I truly see her I’m rewinding time, erasing everything that’s happened between us since we met up that evening in ToyZone. Rebecca clears her throat again, but I can’t stop looking at Mickey, bewitched as I am by actually being here with her again.
‘And … are … you … well?’ I ask.
Mickey’s still trying to read my face. ‘Yes,’ she replies, bemused, no doubt, by my formality, ‘and yourself?’
Beside me, Rebecca practically launches herself into a coughing fit and I finally turn to face her. ‘This is … Mickey,’ I tell her. ‘She’s an old friend. We grew up together.’
Rebecca gives Mickey the once-over. ‘That would explain it, then.’
‘Explain what?’ Mickey asks.
‘Why Fred’s never mentioned you before … He’s always been a bit of a dark horse when it comes to his past …’
Mickey cocks her head to one side and briefly, almost imperceptibly, looks up into my eyes. But then, before I can shake my head, or mouth her ‘Sorry’, or in any other way communicate quite how bad I feel, she’s smiling pleasantly back at Rebecca. ‘Well, he’s certainly told me all about you,’ Mickey says, wiping her hand on her trousers. ‘Rebecca, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca seems slightly surprised by this information, no doubt having just calculated that for Mickey to know her name I must have seen her more recently than childhood.
I take a deep breath, deciding here and now to try and make it up to Mickey on the flakiness front by filling Rebecca in on what’s been going on. It’s going to come out anyway and I’d rather it came from me. That way, at least, I’ll have completed my bargain with Mickey. And, perversely, this suddenly seems much more important than whatever suspicions it might raise in Rebecca’s mind. ‘We bumped into each other in ToyZone a few weeks ago,’ I begin, ‘and then I thought it would be a nice idea, what with the games channel launch coming up, if –’
But that’s as far as I get with the recent history of my friendship with Mickey. Rebecca’s not listening; she’s speaking instead. ‘ToyZone,’ she says to Mickey. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a computer games nerd as well?’
‘Er, no,’ Mickey explains. ‘I was buying a present for Joe, actually.’
‘Joe?’
‘My son.’
Rebecca merely nods her head at this information, but her whole demeanour seems to shift. She smiles properly at Mickey for the first time, the killer smile, the one I remember from the night I first met her. Everything else about her relaxes too, from her shoulders right on down to her crossed arms, one of which she now hooks proprietarily round my waist.
I watch Rebecca looking Mickey up and down, and I wonder what it is she sees that makes her so at ease. A flower girl, an unimportant Eliza Doolittle, shorter than her and worse dressed? Someone who works with her hands for a living? Someone who’s pretty, but really doesn’t know the first thing about make-up and fashion? She sees all these things, perhaps, but above them all, I think, she sees a mother, someone who’s nothing like Rebecca and therefore, by definition, of no interest to me.
Just then, Joe comes hurtling round the corner on a skateboard, closely followed by the boy he met at the games channel launch. They’re both dressed in Blue Room baggies and, in spite of the heat of the day, woollen hats. The other boy whips past and clatters on up the street.
‘Wotcha, Mum,’ Joe says, jumping off his board by Mickey’s feet and flipping it up so that it rests against his leg.
‘You must be Joe,’ Rebecca says, giving it the big grin again.
Joe nods at her, unconvinced, staring at where her hip is pressed up against mine.
‘And how old are you, then?’ Rebecca asks.
Joe screws up his face and scrutinises hers. ‘Forty-seven,’ he finally says. ‘I’m a dwarf. Didn’t Mum tell you?’ He then smiles shyly at me. ‘Hi, Fred,’ he says. ‘How ya doing?’
‘Good,’ I tell him, stifling a chuckle and unfastening Rebecca’s hand from my waist as I step forward. ‘You?’
‘All right,’ he says with a laid-back shrug.
‘Got anything good lined up?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah.’ Then he changes his mind. ‘We’re going over to Granny and Grandpa’s house next Saturday,’ he confides. ‘In Rushton. Mum says you used to live there …’
‘I did. A long time ago.’ I risk a quick glance at Mickey, but she’s staring down at Joe. ‘I’ve got great memories of it.’
Joe tucks his fringe contemplatively under his hat. ‘Mum said you moved away when you were a teenager,’ he says, looking at me sidelong. ‘You ever been back?’
‘No,’ I say, looking at him sadly.
He nods in understanding. ‘Why don’t you come with us, then?’ he suggests. ‘Granny and Grandpa are going to be away, and we could –’
‘Joe!’ Mickey puts her arm over his shoulder and gives him a squeeze. She’s blushing. ‘Sorry,’ she apologises to Rebecca. ‘He gets a little carried away sometimes.’
Joe’s eyes flash with embarrassment. He bows his head moodily, spinning the bottom wheel of his board around with his foot. ‘I was only saying …’ he mumbles.
‘I’d love to,’ I intervene, trying to smooth the situation over. ‘And under any other circumstances I would. But I can’t right now …’
‘Why not?’ he asks, staring up at me.
‘Because …’ I begin, before trailing off. ‘I can’t because I’m getting married in two weeks’ time,’ I eventually say.
Joe’s eyes dart to Rebecca, then back. ‘To her?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘to Rebecca.’
Joe pulls free from Mickey and drops his board to the pavement, speeding off up the street towards his waiting friend without looking back.
Mickey stares after him, dumbstruck. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she starts to say. ‘He’s …’
‘Forget about it,’ I tell her.
Rebecca checks her watch meaningfully and smiles at Mickey. ‘He’s really sweet,’ she says and extends her arm. ‘Nice meeting you,’ she continues as they shake hands. ‘But we’d better get going now, hadn’t we, Fred?’ she adds.
My eyes lock with Mickey’s. Her whole face is a question, but I have no answer for her, not with Rebecca here at my side. I lean forward and kiss her lightly on the cheek. Her hair smells of flowers. ‘Goodbye,’ I tell her, pulling back.
‘Goodbye,’ she says and there’s an instant, as her eyes search my face, when I find myself daring to hope that the word is as difficult for her to say as it is for me to hear.
On Sunday morning I pick up my mother from King’s Cross Station and drive her over to Rebecca’s flat for lunch. Rebecca’s parents are there as well and the occasion is something of a meet and greet, as their only previous contact has consisted of a single conversation on the telephone following the announcement of our engagement. Mum keeps herself to herself in Scotland. This trip to London is the result of months of persuasion.
George, as expected, is the outward personification of charm and good humour throughout the meal, but deep down, I suspect that both he and Mary find Mum a little too puritanical for their taste. That’s certainly how she presents herself: a drab and dour Scottish matron, so different from how I remember her from when I was a small child. What little conversation she makes revolves around polite enquiries about Shotbury church and the form the religious service is to take.
When she kisses me goodbye on the railway platform the following morning the relief on her face is impossible to miss; she’s glad she’s going home. ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ she tells me. ‘Look after her. Build your world around her. That’s what I’ve done with Alan.’
‘Mum …’ But my words run out. I want to be able to tell her all the doubts that are assailing me. I want her to be my mother again and make everything simple for me, to explain the world to me and show me where and how I fit into it. I don’t want this isolation any more. ‘Say h
i to Alan,’ is all I can manage before the guard blows his whistle and Mum climbs aboard.
As she waves goodbye, I think I see tears in her eyes, but then she’s gone and I’m no longer sure. I walk away, wondering if sometimes she sees Miles in me and whether it’s this that keeps us so much further apart than the hundreds of miles between our homes.
The next few days are packed with so many distractions that I barely have a moment’s contemplation to myself. It’s like my feet are staple-gunned to a wedding day conveyor belt and nothing, but nothing is going to stop me from getting there.
Thursday evening arrives and I drive with Eddie out past Kingston-on-Thames, to a pub called the Rose and Thorn, arriving around seven thirty. It’s a tawdry little place with ‘olde worlde’ county inn pretensions, in spite of the fact that the high-rise tower blocks of London’s sprawling suburbia lie only a half-mile down the road.
Inside, English Civil War helmets, reproduction muskets and other antique market paraphernalia clutter the ornamental wooden ceiling rafters. A couple of locals are perched at the bar and against the wall a jukebox regurgitates soft rock anthems at a volume so low that it wouldn’t disturb a baby. We’re not here for the atmosphere, though, but because this is where my stag weekend begins.
I say weekend, but thankfully (owing to adverse boat-booking conditions encountered by Eddie), it’s only set to last until Saturday. I say thankfully because, quite frankly, I’m not really in the mood for it at all. It soon becomes apparent that I’m the only one who feels this way, though.
As the other members of our party (nine in all) arrive over the next hour or so, the pace of the drinking quickens and soon enough my gloomy mood dissipates, browbeaten into remission by the general high spirits. I play pool with Andrew and John, two of my old house mates from Manchester University, and I have a long chat with Will, the only person I’m still in touch with from Kemble’s, the sixth-form college I ended up in after Mum moved us to Scotland.
At nine thirty we grab our bags and follow Eddie round to the back of the pub. Here, several narrow boats are moored on a couple of rickety pontoons against the Thames river bank. We climb aboard Naseby, our temporary home for the next two nights, and the evening slides into a drunken fog.
