The Lonely Fajita

by Abigail Mann

  ‘Honestly, George, it’s like there aren’t a hundred and one things to do. Come on!’ He follows her through the archway and I leave them to it, pausing to squint in the early-morning sun. As grateful as I am that Margaret rapped on my bedroom window with a broom handle at 5.30 a.m., I now regret my decision to allow her free rein over the fair. She’s found a megaphone from God-knows-where and has been periodically ordering people about since the birds started singing. I’m beginning to understand why George tiptoes around like an escaped convict. I would too if I still had a television curfew at eighty-five.

  With a few hours to go until people (hopefully) arrive, I force a cup of tea into Margaret’s hands and peel the clipboard from her reluctant fingers. Around the green, the last of the tables are going up and I resist the urge to start draping bunting about the place. Priorities, Elissa, priorities. Stepping inside Annie’s entrance hall, I take a minute or so by myself, and listen to the sounds of Richard’s boys asking questions and scraping cars along the kitchen tiles. I peek round the archway and watch as Annie strokes the youngest’s hair while pointing at something on the screen of a laptop. Next to her, Richard nods and comments in the clipped tones of a hybrid accent.

  Just as I’m starting to understand what it was like for Peter Pan to watch Wendy through the nursery window (not as weird as it sounds … I think), Jackson’s mechanical car zooms along the skirting board and comes to an abrupt halt at my toes. He giggles and puts his hands over his mouth as I scrape the car along the floor to send it back his way. As everyone else turns in my direction and I’m outed as a true gawker, the front door opens and Maggie tiptoes over the threshold with an apologetic smile.

  ‘Sorry to butt in, but there’s a delivery man here who wants to know where to put the champagne.’

  ‘The what?’ I say, scrabbling to my feet. Outside, a man in a high-vis jacket stands with one leg crossed in front of the other, tapping a pen on the handle of a well-laden trolley stacked with proper wooden crates, packing straw visible between the slats.

  ‘Elissa Evans?’ he says.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Do you want them here?’ he asks, handing me a clipboard to sign.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure because I never ordered …’ I scan the document and my eyes come to rest on the substantial figure paid on the invoice. ‘Yes, um, in the marquee next to the telephone box? Is that okay?’ He nods, slides the pen behind his ear, and carefully rocks the crates back to wheel them away again.

  ‘You didn’t tell me it was that kind of event,’ Maggie says, joining me out on Annie’s garden path.

  ‘It’s not! What am I going to do with three crates of champagne? It’s hardly mini-whiskies and scented drawer liners, is it! All the other prizes are going to look crap in comparison!’

  ‘No, no, it’s great! Think of all the punters it’ll bring in! You might even make your money back on all the banners and bits,’ she says, hooking her arm through mine.

  ‘Who sent it?’ I ask.

  Maggie looks at the delivery note stapled to the top crate. ‘Calum? Calum Davis?’

  Calum from the gallery auction? Christ, I didn’t think I made that much of an impression. I feel my cheeks burning, as though he’s presented them in person. ‘Wow,’ I utter. Maggie side-eyes me knowingly.

  ‘How does he know where you live? You didn’t, you know …?’

  I squirm as Maggie pokes me in the ribs. ‘No! As if!’

  ‘How does he know your address, then?’

  ‘Well, he is a private investigator, so it’s part of the day job, I imagine.’ I watch as the crates are wheeled behind a flap in the marquee. ‘Champagne! Real champagne! We can use it on the tombola to hide the out-of-date Bailey’s. Do you think that’s all right? We don’t need a bodyguard for it, do we?’

  ‘Just because it wasn’t on the plan, doesn’t mean it’s bad,’ she says, pulling a line from her mental log of inspirational quotes.

  ‘Yep. Yep, yep, yep, I know,’ I say, frowning. I’ll have to make sure one of the volunteers keeps guard in case someone tries to nick them. Maggie looks over her shoulder.

  ‘Come back in for a sec. I think Annie wants to show you something,’ she says, leading me inside.

  From the garden, Codey screeches with glee as Jackson shakes the branch of a cherry tree, sending a shower of petals over his brother. ‘Oh, there you are, duck,’ says Annie as we come round the corner. ‘I’m not sure what I’ve done or how I’ve done it, but I thought you’d best have a look.’ Annie pushes her chair back from the table. From a distance I recognise the event page I set up last week.

  ‘Oh God, don’t tell me,’ I say, covering my eyes. ‘If no one’s coming we can drink all that bloody champagne and try and forget about it.’

  ‘Would you stop raving and just have a look?’ Annie says, tapping the screen. ‘Will that do it?’

  I look at the numbers on the screen and blink. 512 attending. 1.2K interested. Behind me, Maggie starts giggling.

  ‘I, um … er, how? A couple of days ago … What?’ I press my temples and look at Annie, who sucks her teeth and sits back all self-satisfied with her chin jutting out.

  ‘Not as senile as I look, am I? Here,’ she says, scrolling down the page, ‘I got my hands on George’s iPad and pressed a little button that looks like a film camera and my own face sat there blinkin’ back at me – gave me the fright of me life – but I thought, “Stuff it, why not?” and I recorded a message telling people about my friend Elissa and her idea about the skills swaps to make the old folks happy, and, well, I might have played up the little old lady act a smidge – I made my voice a bit wobbly – but it’s done the job.’ Whilst Annie talks, I have a glance over some of the comments on the page. As far as it’s possible to tell, they seem genuine.

  ‘Think we might need all that champagne, don’t you?’ says Richard as he pulls Jackson up onto his lap, the boy’s knees streaked with muck and grass stains.

  ***

  ‘Oh, bloody hell, look who’s turned up,’ says Annie, jerking her head towards the archway that leads to the green, where Creepy Craig stands talking to Nigel the porter, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Who does he think he is? Lord of the bloody manor?’ Next to him, Nigel points in our direction and Craig follows his gesture to where Annie and I are stacking plastic cups, but rather than walk over, he paces around the green in long, lolloping strides.

  Maggie, who isn’t only a teacher but a Girl Guide leader, has joined up with a sister group in North London. As Craig goes out of sight, Maggie, Annie and I are reassembling the cake table to fit in another donation of vegan brownies (what is wrong with teenagers nowadays?) from one of the guides, who is so heavily decorated with badges I seriously question whether she’s had time to make any actual mates.

  With an hour to go until the metaphorical doors open, a number of Evergreen’s residents amble into the marquee, some looking a little confused (not that unusual) and others apparently grateful for a chance to sit down on collapsible chairs in the shade. George sidesteps carefully round tables to reach us. As he nears, I notice a crop circle of sunburn brightening on his bald patch. He twists his moustache and puffs heavily.

  ‘You haven’t had much let-up, have you?’ I say sympathetically.

  ‘Not sure why all these lot are having a break,’ Annie says, ‘I know for a fact that Brenda hasn’t done so much as swept a leaf, but she’s already put away two slices of cake.’

  George coughs out a deep, wheezy breath. ‘Pipes in the Seventies. Horrible things. My apologies,’ he says, spluttering. ‘It’s Craig. He’s been directing everyone in here. I only laid out half the sundries for the pruning workshop. Can’t think what he wants.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not a motivational speech,’ I say to Maggie as she hands out aprons to the Girl Guides running the tea and cake stand. Like a bad smell, Craig drifts into the tent and stands looking at everyone with the air of a headmaster who forever regrets the ban on capital punishment for ch
ildren.

  ‘What’s he about?’ says Annie, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Thank you all for coming in here as promptly as you’re able. Judith, lovely blouse.’ An ancient woman sitting on Craig’s left jerks and tilts her body away from him. ‘Now, I’ve got a little bit of bad news, I’m afraid.’ His voice is dripping with the kind of sarcasm reserved for older people termed ‘difficult’. When Craig is old, I hope his carer puts him to bed with a glass of water just out of arm’s reach. I hope they never wash his dentures. ‘This “fair” that you’ve put together, hmm?’ he continues, trying to catch the eyes of everyone in turn, ‘is, in fact, an unsanctioned event.’

  ‘What?’ bleats Derek from the back, twiddling with his hearing aid.

  ‘I said it’s an unsanctioned event. Do we know what that means?’ He pauses unnecessarily. ‘It means it can’t go ahead because Elissa –’ at this, the Evergreen residents (well, those that can physically manage it) turn to look at me ‘– hasn’t done her paperwork properly. Have you, poppet?’

  ‘What do you actually mean, Craig? Can you get to the point? Because we’re all very busy,’ I say, feeling my heartbeat boom in my chest. But of course, he’s enjoying this all too much to cut to the chase just yet.

  ‘It’s my duty as your warden to make sure you’re all looked after. Isn’t that right, Doris?’ Doris clasps one hand in the other and opens her mouth, bottom lip quivering, before closing it again like a boggle-eyed koi carp. ‘And as part of that care, it’s my responsibility to exercise safeguarding where I feel it’s necessary. Elissa has not completed a risk assessment. She hasn’t employed effective stewarding for an event of this size. I’ve already had to employ first aid on Henry due to overexertion.’

  ‘I only needed a cup of water,’ pipes up Henry in a wonderful, measured Welsh accent.

  ‘Thank you, Henry, I haven’t quite finished, if you don’t mind,’ Craig barrels on. ‘As I was saying, your health is too important to me and everyone else at ElderCare to turn a blind eye, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to cancel today. It’s the last thing I want to do, of course,’ he says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, ‘and a difficult decision. It’s incredibly unfortunate that we invite people into our homes only to be further neglected, and even taken advantage of. Am I right in understanding that this fair isn’t solely to serve the residents, Elissa?’

  I’m the one who looks like a trout bobbing for air now. Annie squeezes my wrist. I can’t disagree with Craig. Annie knows that the original plan was to save my job, but that isn’t the case any more.

  ‘What did he say?’ barks Derek, an inch from Gwen’s ear. She winces and shuffles away from him. ‘I can’t hear. What did he say?’

  ‘Something about the fair being cancelled,’ replies Gwen in a stage whisper, ‘I’m not quite sure, though. What was it you said, Craig?’

  Craig rolls his eyes and slaps his thighs like he’s beckoning a dog. ‘The fair. Is. Cancelled. Okay? I’d start taking down the signs if I were you,’ he says, maintaining eye contact with me. ‘You don’t want to encourage anyone untoward to come in off the street.’ All my words are stuck in my throat, like when you swallow too much hot pizza and the cheese congeals in a stodgy lump that won’t go down. I turn to Annie, but she’s not there. Instead, she steps forward and clutches the back of each chair one by one until she reaches the front with white knuckles, her gold rings glinting like knuckle-dusters.

  ‘Just a few things before you go, Craig.’ He turns around with a sigh, hands halfway up to remove a sign that hangs beside the marquee entrance. ‘I’ve been having a few words with the others here at the Village. Some of us have been here years and years, since before you were born. My son Richard, there he is—’ Annie nods to where Richard has slipped in through a gap to stand beside me. He waves, having unknowingly stepped into a conversation he was at the centre of. ‘I gave birth to my son in that front room over there. And, well, things have been up and down over the years, and people have come and gone. We’ve not been the kind of neighbours we remember from when we were young. But I’ve had more conversations with this lot in the past few weeks than I have done in years. I’m nearly done, I promise,’ says Annie, turning to us all. ‘When this place was turned into old folks’ accommodation, the sign out the front said, “A sanctuary for the elderly”, and it is, sometimes. But it’s also been a prison –’ she slowly turns and stares at Craig ‘– and you’re the biggest crook here.’ At this, Craig’s smirk wavers and he smooths his oily hair back behind his ears. Annie is radiant. She’s like a geriatric Boudicca if you swapped the flowing red hair for a purple rinse and an M&S cardigan. ‘Did you know that Beryl has a cat?’ Annie continues, mimicking a voice honed from years watching police procedural dramas.

  ‘Yes,’ Craig replies unconvincingly.

  ‘Oh? So you’ll know that Beryl’s cat has been going missing. He’s a house cat, see. Blind, I think?’

  ‘That’s right, Annie!’ chirps up the crispy, plummy voice of a petite older woman who has nearly disappeared inside the folds of a camping chair.

  ‘Well, since George has got to grips with his laptop, he’s turned into a bit of an enthusiast. Set a camera up in Beryl’s kitchen to see how the cat’s been getting out.’ Craig shifts from one foot to the other and runs his tongue along his bottom lip. ‘Do you know what she saw when she watched the recording? Because I think you do.’

  ‘Go on, give it to him, Annie!’ says Beryl, punching the air with such vigour her floppy hat slips down over her eyes.

  ‘It was you, sneaking into her house and going through her drawers with your grubby little fingers. Three hundred pounds she’s had go missing. And what did you tell her when she wanted to report it?’

  Craig begins to interject, ‘Now, we’ve all had a bit too much sun today and—’

  ‘You told me it was my tablets making me forgetful!’ shrills Beryl, as others in the marquee lean across to voice complaints of their own.

  ‘He told me I couldn’t bring my little dog here!’

  ‘I knew I’d put that money to one side for a mower …’

  ‘You ate my daughter’s birthday cake!’

  ‘He always keeps the change when I ask for teabags!’

  ‘All right, everyone. Everyone!’ Annie says in as much of a shout as she can muster. She straightens her sleeves and clears her throat. ‘I’m sorry for what I’m about to say, but Craig?’ He looks up, face drained of colour, piggy eyes narrow. ‘Please, for the love of God, fuck off.’

  Beryl gasps. A Girl Guide squeaks in shock.

  ‘Ay, I didn’t know grannies spoke like that!’ another says, looking at Annie with admiration. Derek loudly asks those near him to repeat the conversation. By the time the marquee simmers down, Craig has disappeared.

  Chapter 33

  ‘This is a disaster.’

  ‘It’s early days yet,’ replies Maggie, stepping out into the sunshine. George is patiently sitting next to the secateurs he’s lined up on the garden wall and Gwen has already plonked herself down at the ‘Silver Surfers’ station, along with a handful of other residents who want to get in on the amateur surveillance scene after hearing Beryl’s success story. I glance back to the Girl Guides hovering around the cake.

  ‘The buttercream is melting.’

  ‘We can put it in Annie’s fridge.’

  ‘It does say 12 p.m. on the banner outside, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there a train strike on?’

  ‘Er, no I don’t think so.’

  This is worse than waiting for people to turn up to a birthday party. I cross one leg in front of the other and sit on the floor, looking every bit the unpopular eight-year-old.

  ‘Look, just think about how much you’ve brightened everyone’s weekend. What would they all have been doing otherwise? I overheard a lovely chap earlier say he hadn’t worn outdoor shoes since September. Oh, hang on. Grace? Grace! Try not to keep prodding the teacakes, okay?
’ says Maggie, turning back towards the marquee and the now restless Guides.

  I pluck at the grass that had been sacrosanct until today and check my phone. The numbers on the event page have gone up, but still no one has arrived. As I scroll through the comments, looking for an explanation, I hover over a notification that has just appeared at the bottom of my screen. ‘Tom Gosland has liked your event.’ Tom. My Tom. I click through to his profile, where his picture boasts a snapshot of his new life: laptop out, beer in hand, a beach for a backdrop. In a weird way, I don’t feel envious of his cushy expat life. He’s doing his own thing, and I’m happy for him, but I don’t need to see it. I take a moment to look at him, or this version of him that I hardly recognise. I click ‘remove’. Another message appears. ‘Are you sure?’

  Through the archway, a woman in low-slung, loose jeans and a man’s shirt walks in, huge turquoise headphones clamped vice-like to her ears. She scuffs the pavement as she turns a full circle, looking up at the eccentric oval of houses. Without hesitation, I press ‘Yes’, lock my phone, and slide it into my back pocket.

  ‘This is some Downton Abbey level shit!’ says Suki, waving at the residents who have stopped what they’re doing to ogle her.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were coming down!’ I say, leaning to one side so that Suki’s frame blocks out the sun and I can see her properly.

  ‘Yeah, of course, babe. I wouldn’t miss it. I needed to get out and give Jazz a bit of space, anyway. She’s moving some stuff out. She’s pretty mad with me, so … yeah. Hey, I’ve organised this thing.’ Suki opens the flap of her satchel and takes out a tablet and a small, square payment device. ‘I know Mitchell’s pissed away all the money you guys had at Lovr, but I saw Annie’s video and it gave me an idea.’ She taps at the screen and an internet page pops up. ‘It’s a crowdfunding thing. People can tap here on their way in or out as a voluntary donation, but it also gives them a tiny share in the business.’