Chapter 20
As Joe swung into the car park at the side of The Crackers Yard on the following Wednesday the new replacement for Gill Johnson was waiting outside. She was the fourth person the agency had sent them and, with any luck, the first one that would fit straight in. They’d hoped there would be a crossover period in which Gill could train them up but it hadn’t happened; mind you, the job wasn’t complicated and anyone with half a brain could pick it up in no time. That was the problem though, because so far the agency hadn’t sent anyone with an ounce of gumption.
‘Well, there’s a good sign,’ said Iris from the back seat of the Audi. ‘She’s on time. What’s her name?’
‘Mahogany,’ said Annie with a little sigh. Some people didn’t think about what they called their children too carefully, especially as Mahogany was as pale and blonde as if she’d been bleached. She couldn’t think of a less likely name for someone. Iris was of the same mind.
‘Looks more like limed oak than mahogany,’ she said, then she gave an audible gasp. ‘Mahogany what? Not Clamp.’
‘Yes, why?’
Iris put her hand on her forehead.
‘Well don’t reckon on having any stock left at the end of the day. And check her bag before she goes home. I thought I knew the name. Our cleaner Hilda has had some right runins with the Clamp family. They’ve all got Jeremy Kyle names: Nepal, Velvet, Chartreuse, Chenille, Crimplene, Bri-Nylon. I wish I’d known, I’d have warned you.’
Still, Joe wasn’t the type to pre-judge the young woman and greeted her warmly. He introduced her to Annie who shook her hand and Iris who gave her a begrudging nod.
Mahogany sat in Gill’s old seat, opposite Iris and whilst Joe made the coffees, Annie set her on cutting up some sheets of jokes. It was usually such a jolly atmosphere but Gill’s merry presence was missed. Gill liked to read the jokes out loud and, as terrible as they were, she had them all in stitches with her delivery. ‘Crackers, these jokes are,’ she’d say and they’d groan and smile at the same time.
‘I’ve seen more life in a dead frog. The light might be on, but someone’s definitely been playing with the dimmer switch,’ Iris commented when Mahogany had gone to the toilet. ‘At least you’re safe from theft because I don’t think she could be bothered lifting anything up to stuff in her bag.’
‘Iris, shhh,’ said Annie.
‘Hilda’s grandson took an overdose because of Nepal Clamp. And someone Hilda works for, her ex-fella went off with one of the other Clamps and she spent all his money. He won a load of cash on a scratchcard. In fact, she’s like you.’
‘Oh, thanks, Iris,’ said Annie.
‘Not the Clamp lass, Hilda’s boss. She couldn’t get pregnant, then married a policeman and she took on straightaway.’
Some of Iris’s stories were so complicated, they had to be unpicked slowly.
‘The one who owns a Van Gogh,’ Iris went on. ‘Oh, you’ll have read about her.’
Annie gave up. She hadn’t a clue what Iris was talking about. There were too many names with too many connections. She wished she’d told her that Mahogany’s surname was Smith.
Joe’s jaw was open with incomprehension. He hadn’t heard any of the conversation after the Hilda’s grandson part. ‘Nepal Clamp? Someone with the surname Clamp has called their child Nepal?’
That had translated into Italian.
‘Yep. And what’s buggerlugs doing in there?’ asked Iris, jutting her head in the direction of the toilet. ‘She’s been ages. I’m not even in there that long and I’ve got a retentive bowel.’
She had been a long time, thought Annie, glancing up at the clock. She crept over to listen for signs of life and heard one side of a whispered conversation. Mahogany was obviously on the phone. Any concern segued to annoyance.
‘Everything all right in there,’ Annie said, after giving the door a gentle knock.
‘Er, yeah, just er . . . just coming,’ came the answer, immediately followed by a flush and then the judder that the hot tap made.
‘Thought you’d disappeared into another world there,’ said Iris stiffly, as Mahogany returned to the table and hung her large bag over the back of her chair.
‘Felt a bit sick,’ said Mahogany. ‘New job nerves.’
‘No need to be nervous of us,’ said Annie, not adding, Well, maybe not Joe and me but Iris is a different kettle of fish.
‘Where did you work last?’ asked Iris, wearing one of her best false smiles.
‘Bar,’ said Mahogany with a sniff.
‘Barrister, or selling alcohol?’ said Iris, with that terrifying smile still in place. Her comment went right over Mahogany’s head. Not surprisingly.
‘What?’
‘I think Iris means, which bar,’ clarified Annie.
‘Just a few hours here and there,’ came the reply, which didn’t answer the question at all.
Iris watched Mahogany pick up the scissors and wondered if she was in fact part of a parallel universe where everything moved in slow motion. She worked out that Mahogany had done a twentieth of what Gill could have done so far. And it didn’t exactly need a learned skill set to cut up a few sheets of paper. Her great-grandson Freddie could have done them faster with both hands tied behind his back – and he was at primary school.
The only time that Mahogany shifted with any speed was when they broke for lunch and she sprang from her seat and said that she was going to get a sandwich from Bren’s Butties on the corner. She didn’t ask if anyone else wanted one and an hour later, she hadn’t returned. In fact she didn’t come back at all. And when Annie went into the toilet it was to discover that the four loo rolls she’d put out that morning had vanished.
Chapter 21
It hadn’t taken Palma that long to unpack when the Man with a Van – well men, seeing as there were two of them – had shifted all her worldly belongings into Rainbow Lane last Saturday. They kindly gave her a lift as well, away from the shithole that was Flat B, 33, Beckett Street. Posting the key through the letterbox of the empty bedsit felt wonderful even if she’d had to pay rent until the end of the month. She’d left it clean for the next person who would probably have moved in that same night because her landlord was a greedy bastard and, surprisingly, there was a waiting list for properties like hers full of people who wouldn’t have cared that she’d polished the sink tap until it shone or bleached the toilet and Mr Muscled the grotty shower.
By Wednesday she had settled in so much that it felt as if she had been living there for months. The hot water tank was enormous, so she could fill the bath to the top and lounge in it for an hour reading a book; and she did a few loads of washing in the mini machine that sat on top of the work-surface in the kitchen, which the previous occupant had left. But the biggest thrill of all was knowing that her path would never again cross with Clint O’Gowan’s. Their ‘business’ was finished with, so why should it? Now all she had to do was find a way of being able to earn enough money to keep living there. And she would, because there was no way she was sinking back into the sewer.
She had started to get her affairs organised: there were address changes to be made, a budgeting sheet to be completed and she bought a new phone with a new number. Palma liked lists, she craved order. She’d never had a lot of money but even when she had been totally skint she hadn’t gone overdrawn or had to rely on credit. She remembered when she’d lived in Hanson Street with her mother, hiding behind the sofa, pretending they weren’t in whilst debt collectors hammered on the front door. Once they’d busted the door down and Palma had stood terrified in the corner whilst two men pulled out drawers, overturned furniture, looking for money or something to replace the value of whatever Emma owed them. Even now, Palma’s heart skipped an unpleasant beat when anyone she wasn’t expecting knocked on her door, because it sent her straight back to when she’d been a helpless child, not knowing what was going to happen when whoever was at the other side of it came in.
The elephant in the room was the bab
y problem and it was starting to feel big enough to consume all the air in the house. She’d Googled ‘unwanted pregnancy’ and ended up on the National Unplanned Pregnancy Advisory Service website which was ironic, seeing as this baby had been very planned. But there was no NDFAS (National Dickhead Father Advisory Service) telling her what to do when a surrogate dad had been kicked out by his wife. She was about to click on Live Chat but didn’t, because she already knew what her options were. There was no way she could get rid of a life that she had deliberately started and there was no way she could keep it when it was born. How could she? She had nothing to offer it.
Idealists raged on about love but love by itself was never enough. Love collapsed when it wasn’t supported by other pillars, which left one option in her eyes: give the baby up for adoption. Let someone like Grace Beresford who couldn’t have her own take care of it, but not some selfish cow like Tabitha Stephenson. She’d make sure that the baby was well-matched to a couple who’d not only love it but make sure it went to school clean and had wonderful Christmas presents delivered by Santa. Palma had never been given the chance to buy into the myth, because she’d been given an Argos catalogue every November to choose things from for as long as she could remember. It was the best decision to let the baby go to a good home. It was the only decision.
She didn’t tell the doctor that when they met though. Dr Gilhooley was a young and personable woman who told Palma that she was just back at work from maternity leave and her pregnancy had given her husband – also a doctor – the idea of setting up a service for mothers-to-be who were all due to give birth either side of December. Would Palma consider being a member of the Christmas Pudding Club? Palma said she’d like that.
Pregnancy, of course, meant that Palma’s job prospects would be next to nothing but she was determined to find something. Even if she was giving up the baby, she didn’t want to make a truth of Christian’s judgement that she was only in it to claim benefits. And it was good news that Tommy Tanner hadn’t contacted her since their meal because she wouldn’t have that complication to deal with. Then again, he wouldn’t know how to contact her because he hadn’t got her number or her new address; he hadn’t asked for them and she hadn’t given them up to him. It was meant to be.
Except it wasn’t because, after walking back from the surgery, there she found him knocking on her front door, holding a vase of flowers.
‘Nice of you to let me know you’d moved,’ he said, with faux disgruntlement.
‘I told you I was moving,’ Palma replied.
‘I didn’t realise you meant so soon.’
No one had ever bought her flowers before. She’d bought plenty of bunches for Grace Beresford though and freesias, like these, had been her favourite because they used to perfume her whole front room. The scent of them always reminded Palma of those cosy, safe days.
‘I didn’t know if you’d got a vase so I thought I better bring one. They’re happy new home flowers. Hurry up and let me in, then.’
Palma slotted the key into the door. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I had a look on the net,’ he replied. ‘There was only this and one of the big four-bedroomed houses on the McLarens estate listed for rent with a banner over them saying recently let. I went there first.’
‘Very funny.’ She walked in and he followed.
‘Oh this is much nicer than your last place, Palma.’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it.’
‘The house on Rainbow Lane. It sounds like Little House on the Prairie.’
Palma thought again what a genuine smile he had. Nice even white teeth. People who looked after their teeth looked after the rest of themselves, she always reckoned.
‘Is here okay?’ He asked permission before setting the vase down on top of her small dining table.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Unpacked your kettle yet?’
‘That was a gentle hint. Not.’
‘We should have swapped numbers, then I wouldn’t have had to cold call. Have you got your phone handy? Here, give it to me and I’ll type in my number so I can ring my phone from yours and we’ll be connected up.’
She handed her mobile to him. ‘I’ll save it under Tommy Tanner, just in case there are a load of other Tommys in your phonebook,’ he went on.
‘There are. Hundreds.’
His own phone bleeped, the latest iPhone which had recently come onto the market and made her new phone look like a relic. He stored her number whilst he carried on talking. ‘Do you like going to the pictures, Palms? When you’ve had time to settle in with all us Dodlians, we could go and watch a film. I don’t mind what sort; I’ll even do a romcom if you want. Think about it. Let me know. No pressure. But I’d like to see you again. I didn’t say it on Friday because I presumed you realised that anyway but I didn’t want to put you on the spot. And then you went blooming AWOL.’
He’d called her Palms at school, she remembered. She heard his voice, higher pitched, a loud whisper from the desk behind hers. Oy, Palms, lend us your ruler.
‘Well?’
‘Give me a chance to answer,’ she snapped good-humouredly. ‘Yes, I like the pictures.’ We’ll never go, but it’s nice to be asked. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No, I’m not stopping. I only wanted to say hello and bring you those.’ He cocked his head towards the flowers.
‘Thank you. They’re lovely,’ she said.
‘I thought you’d be the sort that might like flowers. A lady.’
She gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Yeah, course.’ Despite batting the compliment back, it felt like a small warm explosion inside her.
He walked towards the door and smiled at her from there. ‘I’ve got a busy few days but I’ll be in touch, promise. I’m going camping with the Personal Development Centre kids I work with, I think I told you about them, the ones who need some direction in their lives, bit of straightening out because they’re struggling. Like I was. Paying it back, or is it forwards.’
‘Both, probably. That’s a nice thing to do.’
‘We go fishing and bowling and play footie and do some boxing training, learn ’em some discipline. I try and show them that there’s a better way forwards than what they’re doing now, try and get ’em to find the right path and that with a bit of hard work and determination they can make something of themselves because if they don’t get help, they’ll end up inside. Some of them have had shit lives. No kid should have a shit life, should they, Palms?’
‘No,’ she replied. Her own baby would have the best life. It wouldn’t be one of those kids.
‘Some of them have had childhoods that make ours look sparkling. It’s amazing what a difference you can make with a bit of time and patience. And we’ve had some great success stories. One lad could only write his name when he was fourteen and he’s an apprentice plumber now.’ He grinned proudly, as if it was his own son he was talking about. ‘They’re great kids, lads and lasses, and I can show them – not just tell them – that they’ve got choices.’
‘Sounds brilliant.’
‘It is. See you soon.’ And with that he was gone.
Palma didn’t realise she was smiling too until the small mirror at the side of the door, left there by the previous occupant, showed her that she was.
Chapter 22
The following week, Eve and her cousin Violet were out shopping in Manchester for the day. A rare day off for Eve, but Jacques had insisted she take some time out. She was exhausted and not her usual self and he persuaded her that a girly day out would perk her up. Violet was only too happy to oblige.
Eve knew she wasn’t pregnant even though the thought kept drifting across her mind that she might be. She was on the pill, for goodness sake. Okay, so sometimes she missed one and took two the next day but she’d been doing that since she started taking it in her twenties. She was tired out because she was working ridiculous hours, hence the headaches and that stupid anxious feeling that something wasn’t right; which a sp
ot of Mindfulness would probably sort out if one, she had time and two, she had a clue what Mindfulness actually was. If she was pregnant, she’d have been throwing up and she hadn’t, not once. She tried to put the silly notion out of her mind and concentrate on sniffing out some bargains.
They’d had a lovely morning, but then something happened to make Violet wonder if her cousin had been kidnapped and replaced by a doppelganger because one minute they were chatting happily, the next Eve had fallen quiet. As quiet as a woman who looked as if she’d been dropped from an alien spaceship and hadn’t a clue either where she was or how to speak Earth lingo.
‘You okay?’ asked Violet.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ replied Eve.
Violet didn’t buy it. For a start Eve was as white as a pot of emulsion. ‘Let’s go and have a coffee and a sit-down,’ she suggested. Eve didn’t resist.
Violet brought two Americanos over to the table and asked again because something was definitely wrong. Eve might have said again that nothing was but she was doing the rapid eye blinking thing she did when her brain was buzzing; it was a total giveaway.
‘Okay,’ Eve conceded eventually. ‘I saw someone in the street and it was a bit of a shock.’
‘Who?’
‘Marie.’
‘Oh.’
Violet knew that there was only one ‘Marie’ in Eve’s life. A ghost that had haunted her for years. The Marie whom Jonathan had dumped for Eve. The Marie whom Jonathan’s parents loved like a daughter and they’d never forgiven Eve for ‘luring’ their son to her like a Siren. They hated her so much they’d blamed her for his death and for a long time she’d believed they had been right in their accusations. Their viciousness had cast a long shadow and it had been Jacques who had dragged her from its prison into the sunshine. Except one stubborn little part of her refused to believe she deserved to be truly happy. Violet didn’t want to see Eve drifting back to the darkness again.
The Mother of All Christmases Page 11