by Jo Edwards
said Mum, wearily, pouring herself a large glass of white wine.
“And that stuff won’t do you any good!” scolded Granny Pattern. “Never touched a drop, me, or my Arthur, God rest his soul. We always managed to abstain from such evils; people had self-control in those days.”
“But you’ll have some champagne at the wedding won’t you, Granny?” I asked jovially, trying to lighten the mood as I filled the kettle. She almost had a seizure.
“The wedding? That’s not a wedding! It’s, it’s an outrage! An abomination. Two women? Disgusting. I’ve already told Trisha I won’t be going; my poor Arthur would turn in his grave.”
I was shocked. How could she not go to her own daughter’s wedding? “B-but, I thought you liked Jodie Foster?” I stammered. “You loved Silence of the Lambs, I remember you taking me to see it several times when Mum was at work. I was only four, so you smuggled me into the cinema in your wheelie shopping bag. And I saw you reading Clare Balding’s autobiography in the library the other day.”
She sniffed. “They don’t ram it down your throat like Trish and that, that creature do. Talking of creatures – are you ever going to make an honest woman out of that Morticia?”
“It’s Myra,” I corrected, pouring boiling water onto the tea bags. “I’ve got lots of saving up to do first, Gran, before I can even think about getting married.”
“Yes, I daresay she’s expensive to maintain,” Granny Pattern mused. “I expect she eats away at your savings-”
Mum snorted into her glass. I passed Granny Pattern her tea and asked after her health, subjecting myself to two hours of nauseating, pus-filled details.
Dare to dream
I arrived at work early on Monday morning, hoping to catch Lucy before the rest of the team arrived. I’d have been even earlier if I hadn’t had to spend a considerable amount of time scraping porridge off my heat wrap. I’d slung it into the microwave not realising that I’d over-nuked my Quaker Oats and they’d escaped over the side of the bowl. Porridge was like glue! The heat wrap felt very strange and uncomfortable round my back and I couldn’t really tell if it was helping the pain or not. My back was particularly bad because Myra had insisted on having sex yesterday afternoon when her mother had nodded off in front of the Antiques Roadshow. She said it was to say ‘thank you’ and had climbed on top of me, mistaking my agonised cries of “Oh God!” and “Aaargh!” for ecstasy, causing her to bounce up and down with such vigour that one of the flying ducks fell off the wall.
I opened a Thomas Cook brochure and flicked through a couple of pages, intending to ask Lucy if she could recommend anywhere. She was here! She walked up the office towards her desk and removed her denim jacket. There was no one else around – it was now or never. My heart suddenly hammering, I stood up with my brochure and walked over to her desk. “Morning Lucy!” I began brightly. “Monday again, what a bummer!” She looked up briefly from her iPhone but quickly put her head back down. Fool! I knew how shy she was, I should have made a gentler approach. I tried again. “Um, I’m thinking of booking a holiday, Lucy; I’m coming in to some money, you see and I wondered if you’d been to any of these places?” I placed the brochure in front of her and leant in as close as I dared. Her hair smelt all shampooey and fresh.
“Oh, right.” She put her phone down and examined the brochure. “What sort of things do you like doing on holiday?”
Crumbs, I didn’t know! I’d hardly ever been on holiday. I knew what I didn’t like – scooping up muddy water from groundsheets and swimming with turds, but I could hardly say that to her. “Oh, you know,” I said, casually. “Sun and sand and stuff.”
“Hmmm,” she turned the pages. “You know, I wouldn’t bother with all these brochures, I mean, they’re so mainstream, aren’t they? Someone like you needs a place that’s a bit more, well, unique.” I couldn’t stop myself blushing; she understood me so well! “There’s a really great website that I think you’ll like.” She took a Post-it note and wrote on it ‘orienthol.com’. “Have a look at their holidays, I think they’re much more your sort of thing.”
She was so lovely! I was about to thank her profusely when Cathy burst through the door. “Have you shit munchers seen Facebook? Nick’s posted a picture of George in Shooters and he’s snogging Gillian from Accounts! His hand is right inside her Jeggings!” She beamed at Lucy. “Are you ok, Luce? You’ve gone really red. What do you think Gillian’s daughter is going to say? I’m pretty sure George was seeing her too - she works in the kitchens, doesn’t she? I think he’d better avoid the canteen for a bit – at least whilst he’s working his way through the entire family! Ha ha!”
Lucy turned and fled towards the toilets. Poor thing; she must be upset that George had been humiliated in this way; she was always very protective of her friends. Cathy smirked at me. “Oops! Me and my big gob! Going on holiday are you, Foggy? Or just perving at pictures of women in bikinis? You dirty git!” She sniffed at me. “Have you been eating porridge? Well, I suppose that’s the only oats you’ll be getting around here! Ha ha ha!”
The atmosphere in the team was toxic. I hated it when it was like this; my tummy felt all knotty and I tried hard to avoid catching anyone’s eye in case I got glared at. George and Nick had a stand up row, almost ending in fisticuffs, Lucy spent most of the morning in floods of tears and I noticed she had moved away from George to sit next to Emma. Kate had literally dragged George off to the meeting room by his ear and he was scarlet when he returned. Our customers were in a shockingly bad mood, too. One phoned to complain that we’d given him a quote over the telephone for his contents insurance premium of £12.95 but when the policy documents came through they stated £21.59. He wanted to know which one was right so I played safe and said the larger amount was correct. He wasn’t happy and when I told him that the telephone quote was “more of an estimate” he went absolutely ballistic, so I put him on hold to give him time to let his rage out, as per our complaint handling guidelines. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so tough leaving after all. I wonder when Dad wants me to start with him?
I was hugely relieved when the day ended and I made my way to Myra’s to pick her up for another rehearsal at the Jubilee Hall. She told me, very excitedly, that she’d ordered her outfit and it was due to be delivered on Thursday, just in time for the wedding on Saturday. She’d spent one hundred and twenty-two pounds in total! I gulped and smiled and said, “Yes, of course that’s ok.” Thank heavens it was payday next week, and then the following week, Dad would be down with my £1200. I hadn’t told either Mum or Myra about the investment; I wanted it to be a nice surprise for them, so prayed I wouldn’t give it away in my excitement!
The rehearsal went a little better this time, although Barry didn’t turn up so we couldn’t practice the Scorpions’ scenes. Someone said they’d seen him leapfrogging tramps in the precinct. Myra accidentally dropped a bowling ball on Thin Lizzie’s foot, which halted proceedings while Tom administered first aid, although I wasn’t sure why he massaged her shoulders for so long. Perhaps it was to increase circulation. Greased Lightning was stopped by the arrival of Tom’s wife, who turned up with an iced sponge cake, which, unusually, was in the shape of a revolver. She said she’d designed it herself. None of us knew it was Tom’s birthday! He cut the cake, looking very embarrassed as we all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and best of all, Myra picked the icing off her piece of cake and gave it to me! So I had two lots of yummy icing! I noticed Frankie Trevino looking at me very enviously. The only downside to the cake-stop was that Tom broke a tooth on what he thought were marzipan bullets. His wife said, “Oh, sorry about that love, didn’t I say? I had to use the real thing.” Her attention to detail was a marvel!
We took Greased Lightning from the top, and I tried really hard to perform the dance moves with my bad back. I couldn’t lift my arms the whole way up to the lines “Greased lightnin’ go Greased Lightnin’,” but I knew my singing had made up for it as Tom sought me out at the end of the evening and told me my vocals had a v
ery nasal quality. I was as pleased as punch! He did ask me a strange question though, he said: “Have you had your earring checked recently, Foggy?”
I blinked in surprise. “I don’t wear earrings, Tom,” I replied, showing him my lobes. “I’m not really a big fan of jewellery. But funnily enough, I have been thinking about getting an identity bracelet and perhaps a sovereign ring. Not a big gangster one, obviously, but something a little more discreet.” Tom didn’t seem to know what to say to that and his mouth hung open until he was called away by Thin Lizzie, who said she needed a thorough de-briefing, so they headed off towards the props cupboard so Tom could give her one.
The back door was locked when I got home, which was most unusual. I knocked once and then again, much harder. Where was Mum? I heard some scrabbling around inside and the door was eventually opened by Mr Ryder. “Ah, evening Foggy. I was just fixing your mother’s kitchen table for her. Had a devil of a squeak it did, but I think I managed to bang it out.” Whatever would we do without him? Ever since Dad left, Mr Ryder had been coming and going, tirelessly fixing things and doing lots of fiddling and tinkering for
