When Archie Met Rosie

by Lynda Renham

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a dark horse.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ I protest.

  ‘Alright, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Wish us luck.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I say.

  I click off the phone and check my hair in the mirror. The flat reverberates with the shouting from next door. They haven’t been in the flat very long and all they do is scream blue murder at each other. My nerves are in shreds. Twice there’s been a thud against my wall. I don’t imagine they’ve got much crockery left in that flat. I pull my hair up and then let it down again. I look older with it up. I study my reflection and sigh. I look knackered and no amount of make-up seems to cover it. I wonder if I should take the make-up off. I don’t want Archie knowing I made a big effort. He’ll think I’m after him and then Moira will think I’m after his money. I reckon he’s got a lot. You don’t have a house like that unless you’ve got a bit. He’s got a nice car in the driveway too. Not brand new but newer than mine. Mind you, everyone’s car is newer than mine. I bet his wife never had to work when she was past sixty. I smother my face in Ponds cold cream and remove the war paint. I then pinch my cheeks to give them some colour. Finally, I grab my handbag. It’s a relief not to have that huge tote bag any more. I’d finally gone to the Halifax and opened an account. I’d been a quivering wreck convinced that when I told them my name they would say ‘Oh no, we can’t take that. You need to pay off your debts with that money.’ But, of course, they had no idea about the debts or Frank’s accident.

  I take the veg from the fridge. I’d bought it especially, but I won’t tell Archie that. There’s another crash and a scream from my neighbours. I sigh and open my front door. I’ll be glad to get away for an evening. I’m so taken aback at the sight of the two men standing outside my flat that I let out a little scream myself and promptly drop the veg. Not that anyone takes any notice of screams here. You could be murdered in your bed and no one would take any notice. It’s a small landing and the men seem to fill all of it.

  ‘Alright?’ says one.

  He’s big and burly. I can see his rippling muscles through his open jacket. You can tell he’s the type that spends hours in the gym. His blond hair is cut close to his scalp. An earring in the shape of a skull hangs from his earlobe and a large medallion dangles around his neck. I’ve seen him around the estate and I have no doubt he is Matt Fisher. He looks a Matt if you know what I mean.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say nervously, locking my door and picking up the veg.

  ‘You’re Rosie Foster, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, you’ve got the wrong person,’ I say, heading for the stairs.

  My heart thumps in my chest. The other bloke is small and puny next to this burly one. He narrows his eyes and says, ‘I don’t think we ‘ave.’

  ‘Got time for a quick word,’ says Burly. ‘It’s about your old man, Frank.’

  ‘He’s brown bread,’ I say, taking another step down the stairs but Puny hurries down them ahead of me and is now blocking my way. ‘He walked in front of a Domino’s Pizza van.’

  ‘The daft cockwomble,’ says Puny.

  I’m full of tricks but defending Frank isn’t one of them. Let’s face it, he doesn’t deserve it.

  ‘Yeah okay Rick,’ says Burly, who I now feel certain is Matt Fisher. I’m so relieved I don’t have the holdall any more.

  ‘He owed me money, a fair bit as it ‘appens.’

  ‘Shame for you he’s dead then,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, that piece of crap twat waffle owed us a nice little sum when he got squashed,’ says Puny. He’s certainly got a way with words.

  ‘Okay Rick,’ says Burly with a sigh.

  ‘I’m going to be late,’ I say, attempting to side step Rick.

  ‘We won’t keep you a minute. Matt Fisher’s the name. Everyone knows me on the estate. Frank was banging some bird from the dogs. Did you know that?’

  ‘I do know,’ I say.

  If my heart thumps much harder I’ll pass out.

  ‘He liked to spend money on ‘er. Fuck knows why. She was a right little slapper. He was a festering little scrote was Frank,’ says Rick with venom.

  Just as well I had those tests done. Turns out they were all clear, but you can’t take any chances, can you? What was wrong with Frank putting it about with an old slapper?

  ‘If you were a flower I’d spray weedkiller on you,’ I snap at Puny.

  ‘Sorry about Rick,’ says Matt. ‘He has no idea how to be around a woman. All I want is me money. I know you had a nice little win on the bingo.’

  I should have known.

  ‘Frank owed you the money, not me,’ I say.

  The door to the flat next door bursts open, and a screaming girl runs out in her nightie.

  ‘Get away from me you mad sod,’ she cries, running straight into Matt.

  The mad sod appears at the door, takes one look at Matt and widens his eyes. He tries to close the door, but Matt is there before he has the chance.

  ‘Darren, I was gonna give you a knock,’ Matt smiles.

  Rick moves up the stairs and I take the opportunity to dash past him.

  ‘Oy,’ yells Matt. ‘I ain’t finished talking to you.’

  I’m out of the front entrance and in to my car before Rick has made it down the stairs. I can hardly get my breath mind you, and if hips could speak mine would be screaming blue murder. I’m only glad it isn’t my old Fiesta otherwise I’d still be sitting on the gearstick. Luckily the car starts right away, and I skid out of Tradmore without a glance behind me. I know I haven’t seen the last of Matt Fisher. I can’t give them my five thousand, can I? Well, the fact is, I don’t have five thousand any more. If I give them my winnings I won’t be able to get my new flat or go to Paris. No, I’m damned if Frank is going to do me out of that. Why can’t his slapper girlfriend sell her furs and pay Matt? I’ll chase her up. I don’t see why she should get off scot-free. I look in my rear-view mirror. No one is following me. I don’t really fancy a Bourne Identity car chase, but if needs must.

  By the time I reach Archie’s I’ve calmed down a bit. I’m ten minutes late though. I grab the popcorn and veg from the back of the car and hurry to the front door. It opens before I have a chance to knock.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say.

  He looks relieved.

  ‘No worries,’ he says casually. ‘I didn’t even notice. Come on in.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Alfred

  I’m just starting to think that Rosie isn’t coming when I hear her car pull into the driveway. She looks a bit flustered.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says.

  ‘No worries,’ I say. ‘I didn’t even notice.’

  She pulls off her coat and takes the veg she’d brought into the kitchen.

  ‘It looks different at night,’ she says and then blushes.

  ‘I suppose it does,’ I say. ‘I’ve lit the fire in the living room. It’s bitter tonight. You’ve got antifreeze in your car, haven’t you?’

  ‘I think so. I imagine Sam would have done that.’

  ‘Yeah, I think he would have. The pie’s in the oven.’

  She hands me the popcorn shyly.

  ‘I’ll do the veg,’ I say, ‘unless you want to.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says uncertainly.

  ‘You’ll probably make a better job of it than me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says looking around.

  ‘The pans are in here,’ I say, opening a cupboard. She looks out of the kitchen window.

  ‘You’ve got fairy lights in the garden.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Yeah, Cath wanted them, so I put them up. I used to tinker in the workshop out there. Wood carving, but I haven’t done it since Cath got sick. She used to bring me a cuppa and complain she couldn’t find her way, not even with the garden light. So she bought these fairy lights from Ikea. She liked Ikea.’

  Rosie smiles at me.

  ‘I went to I
kea once,’ she says. ‘I liked it too.’

  She takes a pan from the cupboard, fills it with water and takes it to the Aga.

  ‘Your house is huge,’ she says. ‘My whole flat must be the size of your living room and kitchen combined.’

  I take some wine from the fridge. I don’t know why. I don’t normally drink wine, at least not on my own. A nice whisky after dinner does me.

  ‘Shall I open this?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no, I’m driving,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I agree. ‘I’ll lay the table. You don’t mind eating in the kitchen, do you?’

  ‘It’ll make a nice change from sitting with it on my lap,’ she smiles.

  I shake out the tablecloth and am about to put it on the table when there’s a knock at the door. Rosie turns and looks at me nervously.

  ‘No one else is coming, are they?’

  ‘Not by my invitation,’ I say.

  I open the door to my neighbour, Celia. She flashes an orange card at me.

  ‘They left my parcel with you. I had to go to the hospital. I’m usually home. I did give them a safe place to leave it, but you know what they’re like.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll get it,’ I say. ‘It’s in the kitchen cupboard.’

  I’d put it in the kitchen out of the way. I didn’t want Cleo clawing at it. Rosie is laying the table. I turn to go back to the hall and stop when I see Celia standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘It’s a bit cold standing at your front door,’ she says, looking past me to Rosie.

  ‘Hello, you’re Alf’s cleaner, aren’t you? He’s keeping you late.’

  ‘I …’ begins Rosie.

  ‘Here it is,’ I say handing her the parcel.

  ‘Right,’ she says looking from me to Rosie.

  ‘I’ll see you out, shall I?’ I say giving her a little push.

  Nosy old biddy. What a cheek walking straight into my kitchen without an invitation.

  ‘Enjoy your evening,’ she says smirking.

  ‘I intend to.’

  Before she can reply I close the front door. Rosie looks up as I walk back in.

  ‘I didn’t think about pudding,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer,’ I grin, pulling out a chair.

  ‘Have a pew.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, sitting down nervously.

  ‘Have you spoken to Sam yet?’

  ‘No, I will though.’

  She looks around the kitchen and says.

  ‘It’s so quiet here.’

  ‘Is it?’

  She nods.

  ‘I’m thinking of getting myself a little flat in Hornchurch. I’ve got the deposit. I’m going to look at it again at the weekend.’

  ‘You should,’ I say nodding.

  I don’t like to think of her in that run-down estate. They’d think nothing of stabbing you for a few bob. She’s better off out of there.

  ‘I’ll do the dinner,’ she says jumping up.

  I hope she calms down a bit by the time we watch the film. She seems much edgier than she did this morning.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no,’ she smiles.

  It’s grand having a woman cook dinner. I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Rosie

  It’s lovely at Archie’s, all quiet and peaceful. Even my shepherd’s pie seems to taste better. How daft is that? But I swear it does. The trouble is I can’t really enjoy it for thinking about Matt Fisher and the fact that I have to go home later. What if he’s lurking around the flats? There are a lot of rumours about Matt Fisher and what he does to people who don’t pay their debts. Della Gregory, who lives in the flat underneath mine, told everyone it was Matt Fisher who did her son’s knees and not a scaffolding accident like he told everyone. I can believe it too. I can’t imagine what possessed Frank to borrow five grand. What on earth did he do with it? If I pay the debt I’ll have nothing left, and I’ll be back where I started. I’ll be worse off, in fact. I’ll be stuck on the Tradmore Estate with no way out whatsoever. It’s so unfair. It’s not even my debt. I can’t tell Sam. I don’t want him worrying. Life sucks, it really does. Why are there some people like Archie, who have everything, and then people like me who have sod all? It’s not like I haven’t worked hard. I just seem to be forever climbing Mount Everest and not getting anywhere, whereas people like Archie reach the top and still have energy to carry on climbing. I’m rubbish, that’s what I am. I can’t even have a win at the bingo and enjoy it. This is no good is it? Self-pity? Where does that ever get you?

  ‘Ice cream?’ asks Archie.

  ‘Matt Fisher, the loan shark, is after me,’ I blurt out.

  Where did that come from? I opened my mouth to say yes to ice cream and that came out instead. Poor Archie, he must think I’m a walking disaster area. He stops with his hand on the freezer door.

  ‘Matt Fisher?’ he questions.

  Of course, Archie wouldn’t know who Matt Fisher was. He’s most likely never taken out a loan in his life. I wish I’d married someone like Archie instead of a spineless wimp.

  ‘He’s a loan shark. He’s well known on the Tradmore Estate,’ I say, blushing profusely at the shame of it all. ‘He did Drew’s kneecaps and Freda Morris, who lives in the block opposite me, well, her husband just disappeared. He went out one evening for a pint and never came home. They say he owed Matt Fisher a fortune. He gives you so many weeks and if you don’t pay up …’ I hesitate, my throat turning dry. ‘You could … you could … find yourself at the bottom of the Thames or something even worse.’

  Although, there are not many things worse than ending up at the bottom of the Thames are there?

  Archie stares at me. He’s most likely thinking what a twat I am and wondering what on earth he was thinking of, inviting me here for dinner. He must be dead embarrassed that his neighbour saw me; some common piece from the worst part of Essex, in his house preparing dinner. He’s probably trying to work out how to get rid of me. I ought to leave. I’m getting above myself, that’s what I’m doing. I stand up in such a rush that Cleo runs to the cat flap.

  ‘I should be going,’ I say looking around for my bag.

  ‘You what?’ says Archie, looking flummoxed. ‘We haven’t seen the film.’

  The cat flap slams shut, and I envy Cleo her escape.

  ‘I know,’ I say stupidly. ‘It’s just …’

  Tears rush to my eyes and I could die. I really could. I wish I’d been mowed down by a Domino’s Pizza van. I wish I’d never won at the bingo. It’s been nothing but a curse that money. I hurry into the hallway and look for my coat, but I can’t see clearly for the tears blurring my eyes.

  ‘Hold up Rosie. Hold up,’ says Archie following me. ‘What’s happened? All I did was ask if you wanted ice cream.’

  ‘It’s not you Archie, it’s me. I’m all …’

  Hormonal is what I am. Stupid menopause, I hate it.

  ‘In a tither is what you are,’ he says taking my arm.

  ‘Let’s have some ice cream and then I’ll make a nice pot of tea and we can talk about Matt Fisher. I assure you that I won’t let anyone throw you in the Thames.’

  I sniff, and he hands me a nicely laundered hanky. A real hanky too, with the initial A embroidered into the corner.

  ‘This is a nice hanky,’ I say.

  ‘Cath bought them for me one Christmas. She never knew what else to buy. I’ve got that many socks you’d think I was Jake the Peg.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Come on, girl. Let’s put the kettle on.’

  My whole life is putting the kettle on it seems and things still don’t improve. What I need is a large glass of wine. But I settle for a strong mug of Tetley and Waitrose’s chocolate chip ice cream.

  ‘I expect you’re used to this, what with you working there and everything,’ smiles Archie, piling more into my dish. ‘Tell me what Matt Fisher’s been up t
o.’

  So I do. I tell him all about our Frank too and the new locks on the doors, about regrets and getting older and finally Paris. I’m like a faulty tap. You just can’t turn me off. Archie is silent the whole time and I’m not sure if it is because he’s shocked or if he’s just being polite. Finally I run out of things to say and sip my tea, which is now cold. Archie says nothing, gets up from the table, rummages in the dresser opposite and places a brochure in front of me.

  ‘Saga,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t normally give them the time of day, but I can’t be arsed to organise things these days. Paris, seven days, tours and everything, why don’t we go together for Christmas, what do you say?’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rosie

  Her name’s Pat. I got it out of Pete, one of Frank’s mates. I told him Frank had left her a bit of money.

  ‘She’ll be glad of that,’ he’d said.

  She’d be glad of it? I’d be glad of it too, except Frank had no money to leave anyone. She lives in a little house in Poplar. It’s a slummy street, almost as bad as the Tradmore Estate. Flowery curtains are drawn across grubby windows. I bang on the front door, but no one answers.

  ‘Are you looking for Pat?’ calls a woman from the upstairs window of the house next door.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’ll be sleeping. She never gets up until about two. She’s a lazy cow.’

  ‘Is that right,’ I say, hammering harder on the door. ‘I’ve come from Essex so I’m not going until I’ve seen her.’

  She closes her window and a few minutes later she has joined me at Pat’s front door.

  ‘Are you a debt collector?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  The two of us stand on the porch. It’s freezing. Down the street a couple of other women have come out to watch.

  ‘They think you’re a social worker,’ says the neighbour, waving to the women.

  ‘I’m not a social worker,’ I say.

  ‘I’m Joy,’ she says, offering me her packet of cigarettes.

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘You’re sensible,’ she says, lighting up.

  I bang again on the door.