Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Nine

  Ute

  When I declined New Year’s Eve at the club, Niall shook his head at me like a sadly disappointed vicar. I told him I’d already offered to babysit for Brendan and Rhoda.

  They’d cautiously accepted. However, any hope I had of earning Brownie points from Rhoda was dashed when they came home at ten to midnight, Rhoda being tired, and found the girls still up and trampolining on the sofa, since I hadn’t been able to bribe them to go to bed.

  Rhoda was silently angry. Her mouth compressed and her eyes glittered as if with tears. The children, seeing this, meekly disappeared. Brendan poured me a brandy and drove me home.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “as long as they’re happy.”

  “Rhoda’s not happy.”

  “No, she didn’t have a very good evening. But at least the girls should sleep in tomorrow, which will be a blessing.”

  We said nothing else about Rhoda. Instead we talked about Hugh’s forthcoming birthday bash.

  “Hugh wasn’t there tonight,” said Brendan. “Somewhere smarter to go, I expect. But KK was asking after you. Wanted me to give you this.” He handed me a small piece of paper, tightly folded. I opened it. It was a recipe for beetroot cake.

  “For KK, that’s pretty well a lovenote,” advised Brendan. “Not a great communicator. Not sure you’d want to get too involved there.”

  “With KK?”

  “Never really got over his divorce. All a bit messy. Ex-wife lives in St Helens. Got a nine year old son he doesn’t see enough. Angry with life.”

  “Hence all the head-buttings in the line-out?”

  “Playing rugby calms him down,” said Brendan.

  “Not so you’d notice.”

  “He was in fine form tonight. He flattened Niall. Bob sorted it, but it put a bit of a dampener on the evening.”

  “He flattened Niall?” That would take some doing. “What was that about?”

  “Not sure. Becki was having a bit of a smooch with Niall at the time, slow dance I mean, but wrapping herself around him somewhat. KK barged in, peeled Becki off and thumped Himself. He broke a loudspeaker when he fell over, so that’s more expense.”

  “Weird.”

  “Bit of a love-hate relationship there, if you ask me,” said Brendan.

  “Who, KK and Niall? KK and Becki is just hate-hate as far as I can see.”

  “Nothing romantic going on there, then?”

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “It’s just that Becki can be quite...” His voice tailed off.

  “What?”

  “Ah, nothing. Maybe KK was just being gallant on AnneMarie’s behalf.”

  “Can’t AnneMarie do her own thumping?” I asked.

  “She’s not the sort. KK could get banned for that, if he wasn’t the steward,” said Brendan. “We don’t like violence in the club. Here’s your hovel. Frank finished stripping that front room yet?” I hadn’t told him, so Frank must have.

  “No, not yet. I’m doing it myself.”

  Brendan sighed. “Don’t wear yourself out. You’re working hard.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I know it’s not easy, covering for Rhoda.”

  We both said nothing. Brendan’s round face was lined with strain. He said eventually, “Take tomorrow evening off. In lieu of tonight. New Year’s Day it’s always pretty quiet after lunch. Go and see your friends, that Charlotte lass, have a night out. Will you?”

  “Thanks, Brendan. I will.”

  So next morning I rang Charlotte, though with some apprehension. I feared to hear of more poisonous notes: but her answering voice was heartily cheerful.

  “God, I’ve missed you, Lannie! It’s been deadly since Christmas, no business to speak of, everyone’s laid in food for a month and they’re not coming out of their burrows till February.” She made me smile down the phone. I realised I missed her too: I wanted the security blanket of her company.

  “So everything’s all right?” I asked.

  “Yes, no probs. Apart from a brick through the shop window, but that’s all cleaned up now, new glass and everything.”

  “A brick?”

  “Don’t worry, nobody was hurt. It was the middle of the night. Just drunks,” said Charlotte briskly.

  “Shit!” A hundred notes would be better than this. “Did it do much damage?”

  “Just made a bit of a mess, not too much.”

  “Oh, Charlotte…I feel terrible.”

  “Come on, Lannie! It was drunks. Two days before Christmas, everyone’s popped up, silly things happen. Even in Didsbury.”

  “Before Christmas? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it’s no big deal.” I could hear her shrugging, but didn’t believe it. I felt broken glass showering around me, buns sent flying.

  “What did the police say?”

  “Vandals. Senseless. One of those things. Change the subject, Lannie.” Her voice was firm. “Where did you see in the New Year? Did you have fun?”

  I tried to shake off the shattered glass. “I was babysitting the terrible two, incompetently. What about you?”

  “I went to Skins with Hugh and Tamara and some of their friends, but I can’t say I enjoyed it all that much. Too loud and too expensive. It would have been better if you’d been there.”

  “What’s Tamara like?”

  Short pause. “She seems very charming.”

  “You mean you don’t like her, but you’re too nice to say so.”

  “Actually, I don’t like that set very much,” confessed Charlotte, “they’re a bit full of themselves. They remind me of the crowd he used to hang out with.”

  “Do you think...”

  “No, no, I’m sure Tamara’s fine. She comes across as a little bit affected, but I expect she might just be shy,” said Charlotte. “I don’t think she’s good enough for Hugh, though.”

  “Nobody is,” I said. There was another slightly awkward pause during which she failed to say, “Oh, but you are, Lannie,” before I added, “So what’s happening tonight? Are you up to another night out, with me?”

  “Lannie, are you off? That’s brilliant! Get the train into Stockport, and I’ll pick you up. Daddy and Jane are taking me to Alison’s new restaurant in Manchester, the Aussie one, you come along too, it’ll be a hoot! Then you can stay over. Daddy’ll be delighted.”

  “In Manchester? Charlotte, I don’t want to go into Manchester. Somebody might see me.”

  “Nobody’ll see you,” said Charlotte. “Wear a headscarf if you’re worried. But nobody’ll see you. Who’s going to see you?”

  “Anyone who knows me. I don’t want to get you into any more trouble.”

  “You haven’t got me into any trouble. No drug dealers are going to be in Alison’s restaurant,” said Charlotte positively. “You’re coming, Lannie. That’s that.”

  So I went. Although I didn’t think Daddy and Charlotte’s stepmother Jane were quite delighted to see me, they seemed mildly pleased. They would have preferred Hugh’s company, but since he was out with Tamara again, Daddy was happy enough to tolerate me as a fourth.

  I wore my only smart top, and carried the chimney pot from Frank’s kitchen. It had scrubbed up nicely in the sink. Jane exclaimed over it.

  “Ooh, how lovely and oldy worldy!”

  “That’ll be all right with a few petunias on the patio,” said Daddy graciously. “It looks Victorian. Where did you get it?”

  “The friend whose house I’m renting owns a reclamation yard.” I hadn’t told Frank I was taking his chimney pot. I hoped he wouldn’t mind: I had no other present to give, and no money to buy one until Brendan paid me again.

  “House, eh?” said Daddy jealously.

  “He’s renting it because it’s unsaleable,” I assured him. “Damp, no central heating, needs rewiring. I daren’t plug anything in upstairs. Not a patch on Charlotte’s flat.” This information was a more welcome present for Daddy. He liked me as long as I was
n’t doing as well as Charlotte. Her little working class friend.

  Greyingly handsome, he was confident and formidable, used to being the boss. He had a Mercedes like a hunting dog; a perfect dealer’s car if it had been ten years older. It was new. It swept us soundlessly into Manchester and nosed along the streets for Alison’s new place, Ute.

  Ute was only a few hundred yards from Tzabo. It made me uneasy to be taking the familiar trail down Deansgate towards the Northern Quarter. From every other doorway a hotch-potch of shouting and music was flung out as if from an emptied chamberpot. Flocks of girls with flimsy tops and bleary eyes teetered uncertainly off the pavement like dizzy cranes, looking as if they’d been continually on the razz since the night before. This was home all right. It fell instantly into place. I didn’t like it as much as I used to.

  Ute was the formica side of spartan. Terracotta floor, huge red murals of giant termite mounds, a droopy gum tree in a tub, didgeridoo droning on the speakers. The menu featured lots of steak, barramundi and the occasional kangaroo burger. No wichety grubs, thank God.

  Alison hurried over. “G’day! Good to see you!” She’d been to Australia for six months, frying her way around the edges and across the centre, and had decided there was a niche in the market.

  “So how was Oz?” I asked. I hadn’t seen her since her return. Events had intervened.

  “Great,” she said enthusiastically. “They know how to cook, all right. Barbies a-go-go. Great meat, especially the steak, dirt cheap, but the veggies are a bit rumty-tum. And anything processed–” She drew a line across her throat.

  “How so?”

  “Sugar in the Marmite, would you believe? And I have to say their teabags are totally inadequate.” She was becoming more English by the second. “And they’re all obsessed with rain.”

  “The teabags?”

  “Brilliant place,” said Alison. She dropped her voice. “But haunted.”

  “What is?”

  “Australia. It’s haunted. Not so much the cities, except after dark. But the bush is haunted. I tell you, the whole damn continent is haunted. I can recommend the yabbies.”

  Since Daddy was paying, I ordered yabbies and steak. We swapped stories with Alison while waiting for it to arrive. The yabbies were tiny crayfish, fiddly but fun. I had just decided to relax and enjoy myself when I recognised a waiter.

  “Damn,” I muttered. “Sorry, Charlotte. But he used to work at Tzabo. No, don’t turn round! I don’t want him to see me!”

  “Does it matter?” Charlotte sounded weary.

  “It might. I don’t know.” He was slight and stooping. He hadn’t stayed long at Tzabo, only a few weeks: one of those who couldn’t settle but flitted. I wasn’t even sure of his name. The kitchen crew had just called him Clueless.

  “I think we’re all right,” I said. “He’s sticking to his patch.” I shook my hair over my face; Clueless had never seen me with my hair down.

  “It’s weeks ago now. It doesn’t matter any more,” said Charlotte.

  “No, of course not.” But the steak had turned to dogfood in my mouth.

  “He wasn’t another witness at that trial, was he?” enquired Jane.

  “Oh, no. He’s just a waiter.”

  “Nasty business, that,” said Daddy. “It must have been a terrible shock for you, being called on to give evidence. Were you tempted to refuse?”

  “I didn’t see how I could.”

  “You did the right thing,” said Daddy gravely. “No matter what other people might think of it, you did the right thing.” Which was generous of him considering the brick through Charlotte’s window. I wondered if he would have thought the same had he known the full story, which he didn’t, since not even Charlotte knew that my part in the trial had involved more than just being called as a witness. Daddy loved his children dearly. I thought of Dave – closest thing to a Daddy I’d ever owned – and ached a bit, as always.

  I rewarded Daddy for the steak as best I could. I made it obvious I wasn’t doing as well as Charlotte. Pub pies and muddy fields as opposed to a spiffing hot bread shop almost in Didsbury? No contest. Daddy relaxed into pride.

  We finished our pavlovas. Clueless hadn’t noticed me – hadn’t shown any sign of it, anyway. I decided I’d been silly to worry. Charlotte was right: I was old news. Forgotten already, as boring as cold pasta. Nobody cared. Every shop got bricks through windows now and then. I was just being paranoid. As the black Mercedes glided home down Princess Parkway, I breathed easier.

  “That was lovely, Daddy,” said Charlotte.

  “It was certainly different. I think I prefer your cooking, sweetheart.” He smiled over his shoulder at her. “And I think your shop’s a wee bit classier than Ute. What do you say, Lannie?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “It’s much classier than my workplace as well.”

  “It must be quite awful for you working in a rugby club,” said Jane with earnest sympathy.

  “Good honest toil,” said Daddy complacently. “Nothing wrong with that.” He turned on to Palatine Road without deigning to indicate. Daddy expected other cars to back off and touch their caps. Self-assurance born of money. “We’ll go past Charlotte’s shop in a minute,” he said. “It’s looking pretty spruce again.”

  A hundred yards away, we saw the fire engine on the corner. Later on, we learned it had already been there for an hour. When Daddy parked with a grinding jolt, half on, half off the pavement, and we jumped out of the car, there were no flames any more and barely any smoke. There was just a terrible smell of burnt toast, drifting from the blackened crust of what had once been Charlotte’s shop.