by Judy Leigh
Duncan, the barman, helped Alice Springs down from the makeshift stage and grabbed the microphone, flashing a smile. ‘Thanks, Alice,’ he muttered, riotous applause drowning his next words. He began again, murmuring into the mic. ‘So, as you all know, my wife, Kerry…’
A wolf whistle pierced the air; it had, no doubt, come from one of the young lads, Pat, Jake or DJ, who were sitting at the back with the other two members of The Weaver’s five-a-side football team.
Duncan’s face shone as he adjusted his tie. ‘Well, you know I like to keep my Kerry in her place behind the bar pulling pints…’
There was an uproarious cheer from every corner; one lone voice, that of the five-a-side team’s lean and hungry striker, Emily Weston, her blonde ponytail swishing with every movement as she thumped the table, could be heard yelling, ‘You’re still living in the nineteen seventies, Dunc.’
‘But Kerry wants to sing a song and, as you all know, what Kerry wants, Kerry gets, so normal service will be interrupted for the next ten minutes,’ Duncan protested.
Kerry, his wife, was next to him, a willowy redhead in a short dress, tugging the microphone from his hands and waving him back to the bar. Despite the tumultuous applause, Jamie managed to whisper audibly in Cassie’s ear, ‘She’s going to sing “Funny Face” again.’
Kerry fiddled with her hair and purred. ‘This song is special: it’s for my wonderful husband, Duncan…’
Cassie moved her lips closer to Jamie’s cheek. ‘“Funny Face” it is…’
Jamie gave an expression of excruciating pain as the karaoke backing track whined through speakers, the persistent screech of a violin and a slide guitar, and then Kerry began crooning in a cracked voice, waving her hands and gawping mournfully at her spouse, as if the lyrics of ‘Funny Face’ personified their love. She was more than slightly off-key. Duncan leaned on his arm at the bar, staring back, besotted. Jamie reached for his glass, draining the last of the port and lemon as if it were lifesaving medicine. Cassie squeezed his knee encouragingly and he, in turn, rolled his eyes. Kerry threw her arms in the air for the big finale, missing the last high note completely, her voice more piercing than ever, and the audience offered ecstatic applause as she bowed in appreciation.
Then she was back behind the bar and there was a flurry of punters buying pints and bags of crisps. Cassie turned to Jamie. ‘Are you all right?’
He winced. ‘The left leg’s playing me up a bit tonight but it’s nothing a refill won’t cure.’
Cassie raised her glass and tilted it towards the bar and Duncan was by her side. ‘Are you ready to go on, Cass? You’re my final act of the evening.’
She nodded. ‘Another port and lemon for Jamie, please.’
‘I’ll sort it. And there will be a pint of Otter waiting for you here when you’ve entertained the troops.’
Cassie took her place on stage, carrying the banjo, aware that everyone was watching her. She was resplendent in the spotlight tonight, wearing tight black velvet trousers and a red patchwork velvet jacket, her snow-white cloud of hair tied with a purple bow. Tumultuous clapping echoed around the bar, some people banging the table with their fists. Cassie whispered in a voice soft as silk, ‘All right, you lot, calm down. I’m here now.’ Her eyes shone with mischief.
Someone at the back started thumping the table and chanting her name: Cassie Ryan. No doubt it was Pat Stott, a tall young man in his early twenties with a bright thatch of red hair and china blue eyes that stared as if he were perpetually amazed. Pat was always laughing, his external ebullience hiding his naturally shy personality. He had a big voice and a big heart: everyone in The Jolly Weaver knew he was too good-natured to be a really effective goalkeeper, but he was the best the five-a-side team could find.
‘So, here’s a song about old people’s daytime TV,’ Cassie crooned, picking up the banjo that stood by the side of the stage.
Someone shouted, ‘You’re not a day over forty, Cass…’
‘I’m sixty-five years old,’ she retorted.
Pat was wolf-whistling again.
Cassie’s voice was syrup through the loudspeakers. ‘So, is there anyone here who watches much daytime TV?’
Tommy Judd shouted that it was all repeats, but in less demure language, then Cassie offered a mischievous lopsided grin. ‘Well, here’s my take on daytime TV and, in particular, the type of adverts we have to put up with in between all those repeats…’
With a conspiratorial wink, she began to sing, her voice tuneful, playfully changing from loud to soft, and the room was silent.
This daytime TV will be the death of me
I watch Pointless, The Chase, with a smile on my face
All the soaps on repeat while I put up my feet
But the advertisement break is more than I can take.
It’s all…
She winked at the audience, took a melodramatic breath and launched into a frantic chorus.
It’s all dentures, dementias,
Silver surf adventures
Watering cans, funeral plans
Stannah Lifts, pointless free gifts
Receding hairs, reclining chairs,
Reading glasses, old-age bus passes,
Inflation, cremation, with too much elation
Hot meals, just order ’em – and more Carol Vorderman:
We won’t get some peace without Equity release
Now life’s at a junction – erectile dysfunction!
Book a final resting place and go back to The Chase
These ads are depressing – with my head they are messing
Old folks are a burden – it’s on the ads, I just heard ’em
Daytime TV makes my blood boil – all I have left is to…
Cassie paused, winked at Jamie, and sang,
…shuffle off my mortal coil.
The room erupted in whoops and cheers. She rode the wave of noise, then continued with a crescendo.
All this talk of cremation, it turns me to violence.
So, I’ll turn off the telly. Ah, that’s better…
She made a mischievous face and whispered,
Silence.
Cassie stopped playing abruptly, then she rolled her eyes in mock surprise. She acknowledged the hoots of laughter then gave a little bow. The walls of the bar echoed the applause.
Cassie leaned forward, the bright velvet jacket opening to reveal a multicoloured shirt underneath, as she murmured, ‘As you all know, I don’t intend to grow old gracefully – just disgracefully.’ She shrugged theatrically. ‘But that’s just a little song I wrote recently to start off proceedings.’ She placed her banjo on the stage floor carefully. When she faced the audience again, she was serious.
‘Now for a poem I wrote during my years working as a teacher in Africa. This one is a sad story inspired by one of my students, and it’s called “Death Waits at the Door”.’
Everyone in The Jolly Weaver sat motionless, drinks in hand, as Cassie explained that the poem was dedicated to Adama, a boy she’d taught English to in Senegal years ago, a gifted scholar who’d died prematurely of a disease that could have been cured had simple medical care been available. Her voice was hushed but every word was clear. In the corner of the pub, Duncan’s father, Albert Hopkins, sat hunched over a single-malt Scotch, wearing a heavy overcoat, a tear in his eye. Then Tommy Judd, one of the five-a-siders, a particularly hefty and dirty defender, was shushed when he tried to ask if anyone wanted a refill. Cassie’s voice was soft in the microphone but clear as ice in the silence.
Death is outside; you can hear his breath in the grasses: hush
You know him, and he knows where you are
His fingers are twigs and his hair is seaweed blowing
Listen. He stands within silence.
He is the space between then and now
He is close by; he raises his arms for you
The earth is not yours but you are his
He makes spaces for those before you, all patience
Dark places are his and his mouth is full of soil
His kiss fills your waiting soul soon – now –
With solid certainty.
Cassie bowed her head slightly and everyone applauded, Ken from the tennis club in the blazer and cravat rising from his seat. Jamie had heard most of her poems before; he had been there when many of them had been written and rewritten, but he felt the familiar surge of warmth. Cassie was special; he lived in her house; she reminded him to take his medication every day and she let him have the room with the best sea view. He watched her as he sipped his drink, his eyes soft with admiration. Cassie was the most sweet-natured, generous and talented person he knew; she was honest, outspoken, a free spirit who had no idea how much he cared for her, how much his feelings had grown over the two years he’d lived in her house, and, he reminded himself, one day he’d find the right moment to tell her exactly how he felt. Jamie sighed and watched Cassie as she wandered back to the table, beaming, and he met her gaze, holding out a hand. ‘Wonderful, as ever, Cassie.’
Duncan placed two freshly filled glasses on the table as Cassie sat down. He pressed her shoulder. ‘Thanks, Cassie – I don’t know how you do it. You make them laugh and then you make them cry. The Weaver wouldn’t be the same without you.’
‘My pleasure.’ Cassie brought the glass to her lips and slurped. ‘I’m writing a new song about pollution for next week.’
‘Great.’ Duncan was pleased. ‘Crisps?’
Cassie nodded. ‘Salt and vinegar – two packets, please.’
‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t…’ Jamie put a hand to his stomach, beneath his jacket.
‘So, fish and chips on the way home is out of the question?’ Cassie pouted mischievously.
Jamie sighed. ‘Do you know, five years ago I could probably have walked up the hill from here to our house in fifteen minutes? Now, even with this stick, it takes me a full twenty – more if we stop for chips.’
‘It’s good exercise, a bit of gentle walking,’ Cassie said encouragingly. She sipped her beer and glanced at Jamie. He was handsome, his dark hair now grey, his face tanned. He had lost a little weight, she thought, despite the delicious meals he cooked, mainly Greek dishes he’d learned from his parents who had both been born in Cephalonia. She was fond of him: he was good company, tirelessly supportive of her work, a kind and lovely man, and she couldn’t imagine life without him. He was hunched over his drink, finishing the last mouthful. Cassie touched his arm. ‘We should be getting off home, Jamie.’
Someone was on the stage, gabbling enthusiastically into the microphone. Cassie glanced up at Tommy Judd, dressed in too-tight jeans and a too-tight T-shirt. Tommy, the organiser of the five-a-side team, had convinced himself, despite his forty-two years, that he was still as young and fit as he had been twenty years ago. His teammates disagreed; he drank too much beer, he was overweight, but what he lacked in speed he made up with over-exuberant tackles and the ability to frighten opposing strikers with his ferocious expressions. Cassie turned her attention back to Jamie. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
Jamie nodded. ‘I’m a bit tired, Cass. I’ll sleep in tomorrow. What are you planning to do? Visit Lil?’
‘Oh, yes. I never miss a Saturday.’ Cassie rolled her eyes. ‘I can get the update on her random acts of kindness. Last time I was there I had to listen to Jenny Price telling me that someone regularly sneaks into her office, tidies it when she’s not there, and leaves her little gifts. Poor Jenny’s scratching her head, but I know it’s Lil. Bless her heart, I love her to pieces.’
‘She’s certainly very sprightly for a woman in her eighties. I mean, I’m not sixty-five yet and I can’t gad about like she does.’
‘Lil’s eighty-two, but she doesn’t have MS, Jamie. You do brilliantly.’
‘Do you never feel you need a break?’
‘What from?
‘From us – from caring for me, caring for your mum. It must be exhausting.’
Cassie lifted her arms wide, a gesture that seemed to throw any anxiety to the wind. ‘What else would I do but spend time around those I love?’ She glanced around for her handbag, a patchwork velvet satchel with a long strap. ‘We should be going.’
A chirpy voice came from near her elbow. ‘Nice performance, Cass.’
A slightly deeper voice agreed. ‘I liked the sad one about the little boy who died.’
Cassie gazed up into two pairs of eyes and two young members of the five-a-side team, their hands on each other’s shoulders, grinned back.
‘Jake, DJ, how are you both?’
‘Great,’ they chorused together.
Cassie smiled. The two men were in their early twenties and notoriously inseparable: Jake Mathers was shorter in stature with long, intensely black hair falling over his eyes and Donovan Niati, always called DJ, was taller, a tangle of dreadlocks on top of his head, shorn at the sides. Jake was dressed completely in black, his smiling face making him look like a happy vampire. DJ, in contrast, was tall and lean in designer jeans, a gold chain around his neck, the shining map-shaped pendant in the form of the island of Jamaica symbolising his father’s place of birth. Jake had his arm around DJ’s neck in a stranglehold and they were both tussling.
‘I enjoyed the song about old people,’ Jake told her, loosening his grip on DJ.
‘She’s performed all over the country, haven’t you, Cass – Glastonbury?’ DJ was impressed. ‘My days, wasn’t it the Edinburgh Festival last year?’
Jamie nodded proudly. ‘She’s done Edinburgh several times. She headlined once in the poets’ tent at Reading. She’s even been on TV – I know – I was there doing the sound.’
Jake beamed, pushing a hand through his fringe. ‘So, what about Tommy’s minibus trip? Are you going?’
Cassie frowned. ‘Tommy’s minibus trip?’
‘He’s organising a holiday abroad.’ Jake rubbed the pallid skin on his forehead with his fist. ‘He was just telling everybody over the mic – he’s running a bus trip for the pub.’
‘Kerry won’t be very pleased,’ DJ observed. ‘Dunc’s going, so she’ll be on her own in the bar. The five-a-side team are well up for it all, clubs, pubs, we’re getting a game against the Belgians too, according to Tommy.’ He offered an optimistic smile. ‘You should come, Cass, Jamie. It’ll be a blast.’
‘There are loads of places left…’ Jake added.
‘I’m surprised it’s not overbooked.’ Jamie sighed. ‘I’d have loved to go on one of Duncan’s beer fests a few years ago. My days of waking up in a hotel room in Rotterdam with someone’s cheesy feet up my nose are sadly a thing of the past.’
Jake rummaged in the pocket of his black jacket and tugged out a roll of leaflets. ‘Well, have one of these anyway. We promised Tommy we’d hand them out. Take care, you guys.’
Cassie watched them walk away, their arms around each other’s shoulders. She glanced at the piece of paper with a photocopy of a map of Europe, advertising Toby Jugg Travels. It was typical of Tommy Judd – a joke about his name pertaining to drinking beer, another one of his crazy schemes. It occurred fleetingly to Cassie that the jaunt would probably end with the entire busload of The Jolly Weaver being locked up for several days in a Belgian jail with poor Kerry having to raise the bail.
She turned to Jamie. ‘Shall we go home?’
He reached for his walking stick. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’
They ambled towards the door, in step. Many of the customers were saying last goodbyes; others had already drifted home. Kerry was still washing glasses and Duncan was clearing tables, waving to friends, calling out cheery good wishes. Tommy was handing a leaflet to an uninterested woman with a neat haircut, a loose floral scarf and a blue sweatshirt with the logo of Salterley tennis club.
In the corner, Albert was huddled in his huge overcoat. He appeared to be asleep, then he opened an eye, gazed around, rubbed his chin, sipped the last mouthful of single malt and waved a hand to his son for a refill.
3
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Lil and her neighbour, Maggie Lewis, were sitting at a small table in Keith’s Kaff drinking milky coffee. Lil was wearing a long cardigan over her T-shirt and jeans; she knew Keith had switched the heating off for the summer. Maggie wore a loose, sleeveless dress and was complaining about the heat and how hardly any of last year’s summer clothes currently fitted her. Lil patted her hand sympathetically and suggested that she looked great but, if she had put on a pound or two, Keith’s cooking might be to blame: he made his cakes very sweet and the biscuits were always sprinkled with sugar.
Maggie shook her head sadly. ‘No, I comfort eat, Lil. Anything sweet relieves the boredom. It’s Brian. He drives me mad.’
‘I thought he never spoke to you.’
‘He doesn’t. He sits in the chair all day in the flat, watching the little television, all the old programmes from the seventies and the eighties. It’s blaring out all day long and he’s ogling Charlie’s Angels and chain smoking.’ She sighed. ‘It’s no company for me. I’m all alone and bored.’
‘You have me, and yoga with Geraldine once a week – and that nice young man from the art college to teach us how to do macramé,’ Lil protested.
‘It’s not enough though, Lil – I still have to go back to Brian afterwards, the stench of smoke and his dull poop-poop laugh from the armchair every five minutes. It’s like living with Thomas the Tank Engine.’
‘Why ever did you marry him?’ Lil asked.
‘We loved each other, a long time ago – he was gorgeous. We used to dance together. The first time we met we smooched to Elvis Presley, “Love me Tender”. I was whirled off my feet.’ Maggie patted her hair, cut in a tidy style, and fingered a small pearl earring. ‘Then we married and I had Darren six months later. Then Ross and Paul came along, only eighteen months apart, then Gemma, who wasn’t planned, and Brian was working all hours for British Telecom – but we all got on so well together. Family life was wonderful – I loved being a mum. But when the kids left one by one and Brian retired, we came to live in Clover Hill…we just settled into silence and a daily routine and…’ Her voice trailed off, her face sad.
