by Anna Cheska
Her eyes grew wary.
Big mistake, Alex realised, to lunge in with a personal question like that. End of thaw. Normal service resumed.
‘It is,’ she said. ‘And although I don’t want to hurry you…’
Clearly, she did. He sighed.
‘I have a load of holly wreaths to get on with. So…?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Holly wreaths would be much in demand. Christmas – like holly – was a pain in the arse and the second shift of Père Noël at Kirby’s was looming on Alex’s horizon like a bailiff at the front door. He picked up the Ben Nevis with moss and ivy. Père Noël meant humiliation in large doses. ‘I’ll have this one,’ he said.
‘A wise choice.’
Not sure if she was being sarcastic, he groped in his pocket and handed her the money, but she didn’t – or wouldn’t – look at him this time.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ But she was vague and distracted; she didn’t seem sure at all. ‘And … thanks.’
What was she thanking him for? Alex decided not to ask, not to wonder – though it might be something to do with the young bloke who’d been in here earlier. But that was her affair. Christ, his life was way too complicated already. Tonight Alex would see Richie (sweet simplicity, a jar down the pub, thank God for mates) and tomorrow Marisa. Another thing entirely.
He stomped out of the shop, hyacinth in hand. It was in a white china pot – so at least she wasn’t a plastic person. Brown plastic and he would’ve chucked it in the nearest bin. But as it was … look on the bright side, he’d started his Christmas shopping earlier than usual.
But for now it was back to Kirby’s. No time for flowers, nor for women with eyes of grey. Forget it, boy, he told himself, not even sure what he was contemplating. She was probably married with four kids. She must be ten years older than him. And? And what was he thinking of, for God’s sake? Forget it? He hadn’t thought of it in the first place. Anything. At least … he hot-footed it down South Street towards the Pallants and Kirby’s … at least, only in passing.
Chapter 9
Jude regarded Florrie with some concern. Her fragile frame was wrapped in an enormous brown fur coat that looked as if it might have survived at least one world war. It made her seem smaller and more vulnerable than ever. ‘You’re cold,’ she said accusingly. Outside it was bitter, and here inside Florrie’s flat there wasn’t much of an improvement.
‘Perhaps I should get out more,’ the old lady said vaguely. ‘Otherwise you don’t feel the benefit when you come in, do you? Only the stairs…’ Her voice trailed.
‘You’d feel the benefit if our dear landlord installed a central heating system that hadn’t been around since the Dark Ages,’ Jude retorted. She stalked over to the one and only radiator in Florrie’s cluttered sitting-room, and felt it. Barely warm. ‘Where’s your thermostat? Can’t we turn up the temperature?’
‘It’s a bit temperamental.’ Florrie slipped the coat from her shoulders. ‘I’m fine, dear, really I am.’
Jude wasn’t so sure. And why should Florrie freeze half to death while James Dean luxuriated in some centrally heated mansion somewhere? It was a landlord’s responsibility to look after his tenants – however little rent they were paying.
‘I’m going to have it out with him,’ she said. ‘Suggest he does something about the heating in this place.’
Florrie looked shocked. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ she said.
‘Why ever not?’ Jude’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not scared of him, Florrie, and neither should you be.’
‘Scared?’ But Jude noted she didn’t deny it.
‘I’ve spoken to the Social Service advice centre and the Citizens’ Advice.’ Jude patted thin bony hands. ‘And there’s no way he can get you out. You’ve got rights, Florrie. You don’t have to go anywhere.’
Florrie looked distinctly uneasy. She put a hand to her white hair, seemed about to speak and then stopped herself. ‘That’s nice, dear,’ she said at last.
Jude sighed. Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she realise that she didn’t have to be bullied – any more than she had to be cold? Poor Florrie really had no idea and James Dean had a lot to answer for.
* * *
Downstairs, Jude put Daisy to bed and read her her favourite story about an owl mummy who left her babies all alone one night. The poor loves went through various stages of sleeplessness, hunger, neglect and rising panic, before at last she returned – with food, note – to be rewarded by Bill the youngest owl’s avowal: I love my mummy.
‘Why is that your favourite story, Daisy?’ Jude pulled down the blind, trying to sound casual. There were brown owls on the blind, tawny owls on the wallpaper frieze, barn owls on the calendar, and a blown-up picture of her favourite Beanie Baby owl on the wall. Daisy liked owls.
‘Bill’s like me, Mummy, that’s why.’
‘In what way?’ They were both neglected children? Their mummies made a habit of leaving them?
‘Because he’s an owl.’
‘Mmm?’
Daisy treated her to the usual smile of sympathy when Jude was being slow on the uptake. ‘And so am I,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, I see.’ It was a measure of Jude’s ever-ready guilt programming that this option seemed preferable to her own. She kissed her owl-daughter. ‘And how long has this been going on?’
‘Ever since I was born.’ Daisy’s eyes blinked wider. Almost owl-like, you might say. ‘So I was thinking…’
‘Hmm?’ Jude tucked her in. There was an owl on the duvet cover too, along with Winnie the Pooh, Kanga and others.
‘Owls stay awake in the night-time. All night. And I’m not a bit tired. So can I…?’
‘No.’ Suckered again. Jude shook her head in despair. ‘It’s almost nine o’clock, and this young owl needs her beauty sleep. Trust me.’ She switched out the light so that only Daisy’s night lamp was burning. ‘I know.’
Once Daisy had been persuaded to be a daytime owl, Jude got down to an express tidy-up. There were three smallish bedrooms (the main attraction of the flat for Jude initially) and apart from the kitchen, a tiny bathroom and a sitting-room just big enough for two small sofas and an easy chair squashed too close to the TV. The layout was rather different from Florrie’s flat upstairs, Jude reflected. She reckoned someone, once upon a time, had taken the two large original rooms and made them into the four small ones that suited Jude so well. They might not have space, but at least they had privacy.
As she began shovelling toy animals, dressing-up clothes, marbles and sticklebricks into Daisy’s stack of toy boxes, she noted that her mother hadn’t vacuumed today.
That made two days in a row. Jude carefully picked up a three-dimensional object made of Lego from the sitting-room floor and deposited it just inside Daisy’s open bedroom door. Hazel was as flat-proud as Jude was not. And Jude was accustomed to her mother doing the vacuuming – in the half-hour slot, otherwise known as the news, between Watch This Space and Streetlife. However something unusual had happened to the TV tonight. It was switched off. Jude stared at the blank screen. What was going on? She had her suspicions but could they possibly be true?
* * *
With half an hour before Imo was due to arrive, Jude changed into an orange ribbed polo-neck and loose lounging trousers and dialled the number on the card James Dean had given her. She was quite looking forward to this.
He answered in his clipped, no-nonsense voice and she launched straight in.
‘About the upstairs flat – the heating’s knackered and poor Florrie’ll get hypothermia if you don’t do something about it.’ She tapped her nails sharply on the kitchen counter. Don’t give him a chance to prevaricate, that was the way.
‘Does she want me to come and take a look at it for her?’ he asked. Grudgingly, Jude conceded that he did sound concerned. ‘Perhaps there’s an air block.’
‘A new central heating system would be more efficient,’ she sa
id. ‘That boiler belongs in a museum, if you ask me.’
He laughed, damn him. All right for him, Jude thought, he didn’t have to live there.
‘Have you asked Florrie what she thinks about that?’ he asked.
‘Florrie wouldn’t say boo to a goose,’ Jude snapped. She’d never get Florrie to complain – she was far too scared of him.
He sighed. ‘Whereas you, Miss Lomax—’
‘I am not a little old lady.’ Jude lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘And I’m not afraid of speaking out.’
James Dean muttered something that sounded like, ‘You can say that again.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll talk to her about it,’ he said. ‘If she’d like a new central heating system, then I’ll phone a plumber. Satisfied, Miss Lomax?’
But for some reason, Jude did not feel satisfied. She felt put out. ‘When Florrie can keep warm in her own flat,’ she said, stubbing out the cigarette, ‘that’s when I’ll be satisfied, Mr Dean.’
* * *
Imo arrived on time, carrying her blue-and-green-fringed hippy shoulder bag and a bottle of red wine. Under her coat she was wearing her usual blue jeans and a long, velvety shirt in deep aubergine.
‘Good girl.’ Jude kissed her and took charge of the wine. Pale, eyes a little red, but otherwise OK, she noted. ‘Let me get you a glass.’
‘Mmm, thanks.’ Imogen frowned. ‘What’s that noise?’
Jude pulled a face. ‘Ma singing in the shower.’ This was also new.
‘Frank Sinatra?’ Imogen took the glass of wine Jude handed to her. ‘“My Way”?’
‘Probably. And it’s not a pleasant way to live with, I can tell you that.’ Jude put a soft blues CD on the player in the sitting-room. ‘And talking of doing things her way…’ She practically pulled Imogen on to the largest of the two sofas. ‘I suspect that my mother,’ she whispered, ‘has got it bad.’
From the direction of the bathroom, the sound of ‘My Way’ shifting seamlessly (were the tunes really so similar, Jude wondered) into ‘Somethin’ Stoopid’ could be heard despite the bluesy sound now coming from the speakers.
‘What’s she got? An obsession with Ole Blue Eyes?’ Imogen put her glass down on the floor and tucked her long legs under her on the sofa.
‘Worse than that.’ Jude rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve heard of Saturday Night Fever? Well, this…’ she paused for emphasis … ‘is am dram fever, sweetie.’ One minute her mother’s idea of a perfect evening was the consumption of a Walnut Whip, a cup of milky coffee and plenty of CCC (comforting, constant companion; the TV was bright and chatty but never talked back). And the next? She was wandering around the flat, arms akimbo, learning lines, making plans, a future star in the making of Mikado or Carmen or something. And all the time, she was singing.
Imogen was looking decidedly shifty. ‘She joined then?’ And as Jude leaned closer, ‘I’m afraid Mother suggested it.’
Vanessa … she might have known. But Jude couldn’t blame her. Hadn’t she herself said that her mother should have new interests? Hadn’t she bemoaned TV compulsive obsessional neurosis? Hadn’t she wanted a revitalised parent – albeit one who would still be around for baby-sitting?
‘It was that or go to India,’ Imo added.
Now there was a thought.
They both looked up as Hazel wafted into the room. She was dressed in a powder-blue kimono and singing ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’.
Imogen and Jude exchanged a glance of perfect understanding. ‘Who does?’ Imo whispered.
That was precisely the question Jude had been asking herself. And last night she thought she might have discovered the answer. It was about five feet four inches tall, had brown eyes rather than blue, and was Italian. It had given her mother a lift home but not come in for coffee.
‘Imogen dear, how lovely to see you…’
Jude frowned. Was that an Italian accent? She stared at the lipstick her mother was wearing. It was vivid fuschia – she could hardly believe it. And was that a new silk scarf flung artistically over one shoulder of a powder-blue number? Her mother was undergoing a complete body image and personality change. How could Jude hope to keep up?
‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ Imogen asked politely.
Out? Surely she wasn’t going out in that kimono thing? Jude shuddered.
‘You could say that.’
Now she was looking mysterious again. Jude clenched her teeth. She was trying to be patient but she was in danger of becoming a serial toothgrinder.
‘Just a little meeting. A sort of pre-rehearsal.’ Hazel made it sound vaguely naughty. ‘Don’t wait up.’ And off she went with a wave and, oh, God, a wiggle.
Jude refilled their glasses. Her mother was enough to turn anyone to drink. ‘My ma—’
‘Has found fulfilment in the world of am dram?’
‘Well, she’s certainly found something. And I think its name is Giorgio.’
‘Isn’t that a perfume?’
‘If it is, it’s plump, balding, and drives a red Ferrari.’ Jude gulped her wine. ‘A touch pretentious, wouldn’t you say?’
Imo’s whistle was decidedly unladylike. ‘So who exactly is Giorgio?’
‘One of the chaps from Trident – the am dram lot,’ Jude admitted glumly.
Imo’s eyes widened. ‘Is it love?’
Jude considered this. Was it possible at her mother’s age? ‘I’m afraid it might be.’
They sat in a shared stunned silence.
‘Good for Hazel,’ Imogen said at last, sounding a bit dubious.
‘It isn’t that I mind her finding love…’ Though Jude wasn’t sure if this was really true. ‘I mean, why shouldn’t she?’ (Because it wasn’t fair? Because it was her turn?) ‘But wouldn’t it be ironic…’ Jude could hardly bear to voice this, ‘… while I’m working my socks off to get a man, Heart to Heart, blind dating, computer love, you name it…’
Imo only nodded.
‘… my darling mother scores instantly at the am dram society at the age of seventy. I mean, honestly, Imo. It’s hardly what you’d call playing the game, now is it?’
Imogen pulled a notebook out of her bag and groped for a pen. ‘Let’s do it then,’ she said. ‘Let’s create you the perfect ad.’ She squeezed Jude’s shoulder. ‘Let’s find you the man of your dreams.’
Chapter 10
Richie came back from the bar of the Three Jolly Brewers with two pints of foaming Best. ‘What’s up, mate?’ he asked.
‘Up?’
‘You seem a bit down.’
‘Down?’ Alex stared into the middle distance behind him. This wasn’t a bad place, but it was a man’s place. The lighting was gloomy rather than atmospheric, highlighting nicotine-stained windows, curtains and lampshades, beer-stained tables and bar. The furniture – wooden tables, chairs and benches with hard red plastic seating – was basic, the old-fashioned glass ashtrays rarely emptied. But the beer was something else. ‘Down?’ he repeated. Sounded like a frigging carousel.
He liked Richie, but how much did he want to confide in him? How much did he want to confide in anyone? Alex decided to play safe. ‘It’s this Father Christmas caper.’ He knew that even the way he talked was different with Richie. Men were different with men. They weren’t supposed to brood about stuff like emotions and women and the future. Men were men. Different languages for different people. Say it with flowers …
‘Right, Father Christmas. How’s it going? Mr Jolly, eh? Got your sleigh working yet?’ Alex received the first nudge of the night. ‘Is your beard nice and tickly, mate? Got all those little girls sitting on yer knee?’ Slap of said knee. It was pointless, Alex realised, to tell him that these days there were strict rules about touching. None, period.
‘Or do you ask their gorgeous young mothers to have a go?’
‘Yeah, yeah…’
‘I bet they love it. I bet they say: What have you got under that red cloak, Santa? Don’t they, eh?’ He burst into song. ‘�
��Big boy in red … is horny for me…”’
Alex waited patiently. It took Richie five minutes to use up all his Father Christmas jokes while Alex continued to enjoy his pint.
‘Finished?’
Richie’s expression approached something resembling sympathy. ‘Can’t you get yourself the sack, mate?’ He grinned. ‘Oops, sorry, no pun intended.’
‘I need the money.’ Alex glared at him. ‘Because you don’t find me enough work – mate.’
But he knew it wasn’t Richie’s fault. He was an OK sort of guy, though better before two pints than after. He didn’t duck his round, he was a laugh – sometimes – and he was available at short notice. They’d had a lot in common once … when Alex had been heavily into computers too, when he and Richie had smoked the early hours away together. Before Richie got married to a conventional woman and a nine-to-five job. Alex supped his beer. But that was what people did.
‘If you wanted to come full-time, Alex,’ his friend said now, ‘no problem, mate. But freelance stuff…’ He shrugged. ‘There’s not a lot around. And everything slows up in December, you know it does.’
‘Apart from the rate at which money seems to leave my pocket, yeah.’ But Alex knew Richie would help if he could. It wasn’t his fault this artist wasn’t selling, that exhibitions were thin on the ground – and had to be paid for – that the college was wondering if they could afford an artist in part-time residence any more.
‘I know.’ Richie gnawed at the skin around his thumb nail. ‘It’s that time of year, innit? Beth’s getting a coffee percolator.’
‘What?’
‘For Christmas. From yours truly.’
Alex leaned over the beer-stained table towards him. ‘Bloody hell, Richie.’ Were things that bad between him and his wife?
‘It’s what happens after ten years of marriage, me old mate.’ Richie picked up his glass. ‘You don’t know about such things.’ He stared into its murky depths. ‘Lucky you.’
‘About coffee percolators?’ Alex never wanted to get to that stage. And once it would have been unthinkable for Richie too.