by Mandy Baggot
‘You’ve still got some friends then,’ Len commented. ‘After all that stuff in the papers.’
And there it was. His father’s quick judgement yet again. He bit down his immediate urge to bite back. Where had biting back ever got him? If you bit back, everything simply escalated to a whole different level, one he usually didn’t understand and couldn’t easily manage.
‘Tell you what, I’ll sign that CD for your new girlfriend next time I’m passing. How were the kebabs?’ he offered instead.
‘Fucking fantastic,’ Len answered. ‘They always are from Mehmet’s.’ He appeared from the van, a piece of parcel tape stuck to his coat and bubble wrap hanging from his neck like a scarf. ‘You used to love ’em.’
He had loved them. His mum had loved them too. Mehmet had to be at least a hundred years old now. Friday night had been kebab night and he and his mum and dad had sat at the same tiny table in the very corner of the bijou Turkish grill house, stuffing their faces and watching whatever foreign football match Mehmet was showing on the ancient old television, held to the wall by an engineering feat of a wooden pallet and electrical flex.
His parents had drunk Efes beer and he’d been allowed a sip, and it was always a time where the family dynamic just worked. It was in those moments where young Ray could see why his mum and dad had fallen in love. They talked and they laughed, and they asked Ray about school. His mum dressed up, even though it wasn’t really a place you dressed up for, and she was almost sober when they arrived, like she wanted to be really present on those nights. It was as if Mehmet’s restaurant was their safe haven, a place where real life was suspended for one night a week. It was a shame it hadn’t been enough.
Len held a box out to him. ‘There you go.’
‘What?’ Ray asked, looking at the pristine package.
‘It’s the part you need. A thermostat for the boiler.’
‘What? The exact one?’ He looked at the box again, doubtful.
‘That singing malarkey has addled your brain, boy! Yes, the exact one, the model number you gave me.’ He pushed the box towards Ray again. ‘Now, do you want it or what?’
‘Yeah… I do but…’
‘What’s the matter?’ Len snapped. ‘You’re happy to ask Wilf for a part, but you can’t take one from me?!’
He really didn’t want an argument. ‘No… I… thanks, Dad.’ He took the box. ‘Can I pay you next week?’
Len tutted and shook his head. ‘I don’t want any money for it, you daft sod. It’s cleared a space in my van, hasn’t it?’ Len closed the van doors then dipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers for a lighter and lit up the cigarette, taking a long draw before exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold air. ‘Wilf’s probably got a dozen of these in his lock-up, but he’s under scrutiny from the local law enforcement. That’s why he almost pissed his Y-fronts when you asked him.’
It was at that moment a car drove past, festive Slade blaring from its partially open windows.
‘Fucking Christmas,’ Len commented, shaking his head. ‘It starts earlier and earlier every year, don’t it? And now I’m living with a woman who wants to decorate the place like Santa’s fucking workshop. It’s not even December.’
So, Brenda was living there. Well, Ray had surmised that already. The other non-festive decoration – new wallpaper and frilly fripperies – were a giveaway. His dad had always hated most forms of DIY, mainly because after working hard all day repairing central heating systems, he didn’t want to be back using tools in the evenings or at weekends. Ray could understand that, and his mum had never been worried about the latest home fashions. She had only really been worried about where her next drink was coming from…
‘Hard at Christmas, ain’t it?’ Len stated soberly.
Ray looked at his dad then, saw a poignant expression cover his features. Was this Len trying to open up a dialogue?
‘Yeah,’ Ray answered. Was that really all he had? Knockout, Ray.
‘Not the same without her, is it?’ Len carried on, eyes in the mid-distance.
So, this was about his mum. ‘No,’ Ray replied. ‘But…’ He didn’t really know what he was going to say. Nothing he said was going to bring his mum back. Len was moving on with Brenda and, if that made him happy, then it was OK. He had been a long time a widower. And had it only been his mum’s drinking that had made the relationship strained? Or was it the working-class life in general? A chicken and egg situation. Where you drank to escape because you had to work so hard, and worked so hard to afford to drink and escape… Except his dad had managed not to drink so much that his liver gave out.
‘But what?’ Len asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ray said, letting a breath go, visible in the cold air. ‘Ask me again after a couple of pints.’
‘The sun’s hardly over the yardarm, boy,’ Len told him.
‘It’s always five o’clock somewhere,’ Ray answered.
Len shook his head. ‘Don’t say that.’
There was an awkward silence, his dad smoking, Ray’s hands in his pockets, toying with a stray thread in one of them.
‘Don’t fall down that hole, Ray,’ Len eventually said, his voice uneven. ‘Don’t do what your mother did. Because booze, it can take over.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m some sort of old, stupid bugger who couldn’t stop his wife from dying but…’
‘I don’t think that,’ Ray interrupted. ‘That’s not what I think at all.’
‘I’m just saying that… the booze, needing it like, it can sneak up on you and quickly. One time you might just be having one too many a night, the next it’s all you can think about to get you through the next day.’
‘Dad…’
‘Listen,’ Len said, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m just saying… you don’t need a drink to solve your problems. Drinking, well, it will only add to them. Your mum, she was testament to that.’
Ray couldn’t speak. This was about as open as his dad had ever been with him before. His throat was choked, and it had nothing to do with his vocal condition. It was pure emotion.
‘And, well, I didn’t mean what I said, you know, at the flat, about what they’re saying on the telly about you and in the newspapers.’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re this year’s Ant McPartlin, that’s all,’ Len said with a nod of authority. ‘Journalists love nothing better than a good, clean and honest person going to the darker side of life. Not that I’m saying that’s what you’ve done… I don’t know what you’ve done. Or haven’t done. It’s none of my business. You’re a grown man and…’
‘I didn’t do anything, Dad,’ Ray finally said, the sentence somehow crawling up his throat independently.
‘Alright,’ Len said quickly. ‘Alright, let’s not be getting too sentimental on the high street. You don’t know who might be watching.’
He was getting sentimental though. Ridiculously so. One mention of Mehmet’s kebabs, his dad actually talking about his mum, it was more than enough.
‘Well, I’d better get back in the bookies or Brenda will be calling, asking me why it took so long for me to grab some chicken cordon bleus from Nisa.’
Ray nodded and held the box containing the thermostat aloft. ‘Thank you for this, Dad.’
‘S’alright,’ Len answered, stubbing out his cigarette on the ground.
He should mention Christmas despite it being the worst of ‘c’ words for their family. He could suggest they at least thought about spending it together… if he wasn’t going to be in hospital. Except he didn’t have anywhere to host a Christmas Day meal which would put the onus back on Len. Still, someone had to make the first move…
‘Dad…’
‘Drop that CD in some time,’ Len interrupted gruffly. ‘You know, if you’re passing. Might earn me some brownie points with Brenda.’
The moment had gone so Ray nodded and forced a smile. ‘Sure, Dad.’
Twenty-Fi
ve
Crowland Terrace, Canonbury, Islington
Emily’s apartment was freezing. In fact, it was so cold she had turned the oven on and was sitting huddled around it in her dressing gown wondering whether she should actually put something in it to cook while she was using it as a heater. But instead of cooking she was staring at the instruments on the table. She had taken a recorder, a xylophone and a triangle from school, determined to make a start on the Christmas show tonight. She was not going to be Little Miss Last Minute. She was a super-organised, worthy-of-a-headship teacher. She picked up the recorder and gave it a blow. Ugh! It was such an awful sounding instrument. How was she going to compose festive songs on that? She lifted up the triangle and gave it a tap. Nothing but a dull thud… oh, you needed to hold it by the string, didn’t you? Ching! That was better. Then her phone vibrated and she checked the message. It was from Jonah.
Sorry about yesterday. Allan says I was being Judgy Jonah. We love you that’s all. I averted crisis at the hotel and Allan mixed tacos with too much tequila again. Hope the boiler is fixed and I have a very nice South African called Caleb interested in your spare room if you’re still up for it. #newstarts xxx
Oh no! Jonah was still keen to get someone in her space. She swallowed, easing herself back from the table a little as if to distance herself from the text. Would her best friend turn all Judgy Jonah again if she told him Ray was using the room? She checked her watch. But, then again, Ray wasn’t here. He did say he might have other options. Perhaps he had found somewhere bigger or sleeker without someone to bump into his naked form on the landing. Not that she had thought about his naked form for one second today… OK, that was a lie. She had thought about it and refreshed the image like he was a hot fireman on Facebook holding the cutest of puppies. But that was normal, wasn’t it? Jonah said she ought to try normal again, not grieving nearly-widow hiding from everything connected with moving on…
Why hadn’t she grabbed a tambourine? That’s what she needed. Something nice to beat, with little cymbals. She put the triangle down and picked up the recorder again. Could she remember anything from her own school days? ‘Three Blind Mice’ even? She blew, and the instrument let out the most high-pitched of squeaks that Emily was surprised a pod of dolphins didn’t swim in and start a conversation.
‘Whoa!’
And suddenly there was Ray, fully-clothed, in his coat, putting a box on the table, then moving his hands to try and muffle his ears. She had to admit that Luther coat was almost as hot as the bare display that morning. Emily took the recorder away from her mouth. ‘Sorry.’
‘What are you doing?’ Ray asked, seeming to only gingerly remove his hands from the sides of his head. ‘Is this a teacher’s homework?’
‘No,’ Emily answered. ‘Well, actually maybe yes.’ She sighed. ‘The diocese are coming next week and remember I said I was in charge of the Christmas show? Well, I haven’t even begun to think about a script, let alone songs to go with the script and Susan really is expecting something like a festive, Christian version of West Side Story with more camels than gangs and… I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘And because you can’t get Hugh Jackman you thought a recorder could help?’
Emily looked up at him then and he quirked an eyebrow upwards, a smile playing on his lips. God, he really was frightfully good-looking. She dropped her eyes again, ignoring the awakening of her libido that was probably as dry and stale as an out-of-date yule log by now.
Ray took the recorder from her, observing it. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever written a song on a recorder.’
‘Well, that can’t be true,’ she answered. ‘We have books and books of recorder tunes at school.’
‘I meant something contemporary,’ Ray elaborated, still looking at the instrument. ‘It’s not like a guitar or a piano. It’s not versatile enough.’
Emily watched him put the recorder to his mouth and play a selection of notes she instantly recognised as ‘O, Holy Night’. He drew the instrument away and shook his head, laughing.
‘God, it sounds terrible.’
‘How did you do that?’ Emily asked, dumbfounded. He had played a song, just like that, with no sheet music to follow and he had made it sound like the recorder was the forgotten cousin of the wind section of an orchestra.
‘How did I do what?’
‘Play “O, Holy Night” without, you know, notes to read or instructions telling you which holes to put your fingers in.’ The realisation of how that last sentence had sounded crept up on her cheeks like she’d developed Slapped Cheek Syndrome instantaneously. She had had it once. It had done the rounds of Stretton Park.
‘Once you know music you know music,’ Ray answered with a shrug. ‘I didn’t do a degree in Recorder Recitals if that’s what you thought.’ He smiled. ‘God, I really hope that isn’t a real thing.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘I know,’ Emily answered. ‘That’s why I’m sat round the cooker.’
Ray picked up the box then and shook it gently. ‘Well, I have good news. I’ve got a part for the boiler so, in no time, we’ll have this place warmer than…’
If he said warmer than her cheeks, she was probably going to put her head inside the oven and hope it cooked her quickly.
‘The coffee you’re going to make me while I get my tools out.’ Ray grinned then hesitated. ‘Shit, I should have bought some coffee. Do you have more coffee? I can go to the shop… I’ll go to the shop.’
‘No,’ Emily said, standing up. ‘I have coffee. Plenty of coffee.’ Nothing much to eat apart from sharing-size packs of crisps she didn’t usually share and maybe some frozen potato waffles. When had she got so utterly poor at catering for herself? Oh yes, when the chef moved out… ‘I’ll make some. And, thank you, for getting the part. You must let me know how much I owe you for it and for your time and…’
‘Well,’ Ray said, toying with the box in his hands and looking a little awkward. ‘I was wondering… and tell me, you know, if it’s not OK, because that will be OK.’ She watched him pause before carrying on. ‘My other place to stay hasn’t come off yet so, could I take up the offer of staying here for a bit longer?’
All of what Jonah had alluded to about Ray’s current issues came flooding to the forefront of Emily’s mind, joining hands and dancing with the reports from the quick look she’d done on Google after deleting the children’s photos on their phones when school ended. The press was delivering a hard-faced, angry, uncompromising individual who would do anything to get his own way. But here in her minuscule kitchen, his tall, broad frame taking up almost all the space, he was holding a boiler thermostat for her central heating in his hands and looking like he needed a break…
‘Of course,’ she replied quickly. ‘But on one condition.’
‘I’ll get you some rent money. As soon as I get my next payment from the record company. I promise you that. I’ll write an IOU. I’ll…’
‘It isn’t that,’ Emily told him. ‘I think I’m going to need your musical expertise more than I need the cash.’
‘Listen, the recorder really isn’t my speciality.’
‘No, but songwriting is, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’d like to think so but…’
‘I’m in trouble,’ Emily said frankly. ‘With this Christmas show. I don’t have a clue when it comes to tunes. I can’t even sing.’
‘Everyone can sing,’ Ray answered.
‘Seriously,’ Emily said, wide-eyed. ‘I really can’t sing.’
‘I’m telling you everyone can sing. Some more in tune than others I admit, but everyone can make a sound with their voice.’
‘Well, my sound is apparently a blender grinding up rune stones.’
‘Someone said that to you?’ Ray queried.
‘My mother,’ Emily replied. ‘She was going through her pretending-to-be-interested-in-the-occult stage. It’s surprisingly helped her on a good few of her cases. She’s practically
a black magic legal expert.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway, I’m begging you. If you could just help me a little bit with a song before the diocese visit next week, I would be eternally grateful.’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘I’ll even borrow Jonah’s second Dolce Gusto machine, stick it under my coat the next time I go round, he’ll never notice. And then I’ll buy the Starbucks coffee pods to go in it… and I’ll do a shop… lots of non-chocolate, non-dairy produce to not coat your vocal cords.’
‘Alright, stop,’ Ray said, shaking his head with a smile. ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.’
Was it coming? Was now when he was going to admit that he was the Ray the newspapers had been depicting? Was this when he admitted that some of what the stories were alluding to was true? She really, really hoped not…
‘I like coffee in whatever form it comes. And I might know the inside of a heating system, but the coffee machine I had at my last house looked like a robot and I swear, I was too scared to touch the widescreen display in case it called an Uber instead of making a macchiato.’
Emily laughed. ‘OK, no coffee machine. Tesco’s Finest?’
‘Honestly, as long as it’s hot and wet it’s good with me.’
Hot. Wet. Now Emily wanted someone to slap her cheek to get her out of this conversation… ‘OK,’ she answered. ‘Noted.’
‘One more thing,’ Ray said seriously.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s no way I’m writing a song with a recorder.’
‘The triangle?’ Emily asked, reaching to pick up the metal shape.
‘Songs have to have more than one note, Emily. There’s your first lesson.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll get my stuff tonight. I don’t suppose you’ve got room for my piano.’
A piano! Where was she going to put a piano?! She had got Simon to measure the bookcase in the living room three times before she allowed herself to be satisfied it would fit without destroying the overall ambience of the space…