by Annie Lyons
‘Awful,’ I commented.
‘It really is,’ nodded Zoe. ‘Anyway, Amanda and I were only saying the other day that we should get together for drinkies soon. What do you say?’
‘Sounds lovely.’
She beamed at me. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ she said, placing an almost full mug in the sink and kissing me on each cheek. ‘Got to dash. I need to get to Fired Earth before pick-up – read them the riot act,’ she laughed.
I glanced at my watch after she’d gone. There was just half an hour before pick-up and no time for me to prepare anything. I sighed as I arranged the chairs ready for the meeting. My phone buzzed with a call. I spotted Natalie’s ID and answered feeling heavy with disappointment. No doubt she was going to cancel.
‘Hi, Caroline? Just wondered if you wanted me to bring Matilda home? No point in us both going to the school.’
I was astonished. ‘That would be very kind,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’
‘No worries. Could you just call the school to let them know?’
By the time Natalie, Doly and the kids arrived forty-five minutes later, I’d had time to scope out a website plan for Pamela’s son and blue-sky some social media ideas for the campaign.
‘Thank you so much, Natalie,’ I said as I opened the door and let them in. ‘That was really very kind of you to bring Matilda home.’
She laughed. ‘It’s no biggie, Caroline. Doly and I do it for each other all the time. Just holler if you ever need me to do it again. Or maybe you, Amanda and Zoe already help each other out?’
We didn’t actually. Matilda had been round to play with Zoe’s son Rufus once and declared him to be ‘a very mean boy’. Amanda had a nanny so playdates never seemed to be an option. ‘Sometimes,’ I replied vaguely.
‘Who else is coming apart from us?’ she asked.
‘Pamela. She offered to make a cake and I accepted, as I remembered what you said.’
Natalie gave me a smiling nod of approval. ‘Very good.’
‘Phil can’t make it but Guy is coming later and I’m hoping that our local councillor, John Hawley, is able to come. He said he’d try.’
‘Is he on our side?’
I nodded. ‘He says he can’t promise miracles but he’ll support our bid to buy the hall.’
‘He is a good man,’ said Doly. ‘He came to our aid when our shop was attacked by those hateful men.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘It was just after the London bombings. They tried to attack my husband with a baseball bat, called him bin Laden and said that our kind wasn’t welcome here.’
‘How terrible,’ I declared.
Doly shrugged. ‘It happens. It is just ignorance but it is frightening, particularly for the children.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Natalie.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some drinks and sort snacks for the children.’
‘I’ll help you,’ offered Doly.
Natalie returned moments later followed by Pamela and John Hawley. ‘You made it, John,’ I said. ‘It’s good to see you.’
He was a short, dishevelled man of around fifty with uncombed white hair and an air of crumpled chaos. ‘I wasn’t allowed to miss it,’ he said. ‘This lady wouldn’t let me,’ he added, gesturing towards Pamela.
‘Oh, get on with you,’ said Pamela, batting him away. ‘John and I go way back,’ she explained. ‘Been trying to fight for our community for years, haven’t we, John?’
He nodded. ‘As I said to you on the phone, Mrs Taylor, I am on your side but my political opponents at the council hold all the cards, sadly.’
‘I know and I really appreciate your time,’ I said. ‘I just need to take these in to the children and then we can get started.’ I carried a tray of drinks and biscuits into the living room. Woody was sitting on the sofa surrounded by Doly’s three daughters and Matilda.
‘Hello, I’ve brought you some snacks,’ I said, putting down the tray.
‘Oh yay!’ cried Matilda, showing off. ‘Come on, guys.’
She and the girls fell upon the biscuits whilst Woody sat back, glancing up with huge eyes. I felt a little sorry for him in amongst a largely female contingent. ‘Would you like something, Woody?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No thank you.’
‘Woody is sad,’ reported Matilda.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘Can I help?’
‘His mum and dad are splitting up,’ reported Sadia, who was in Matilda and Woody’s class at school.
‘Well then, you must be very kind to him,’ I told the girls.
‘We’re going to cheer him up with a make-over,’ said Matilda.
‘Are you sure that’s what Woody wants?’
Woody shrugged, resigned to his fate. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘See?’ said Matilda triumphantly. ‘Sadia, you and I can do his hair and Julia and Liza can do his make-up.’
‘Can I do his nails?’ squeaked one of the smaller girls.
‘No, Liza, you’re too little,’ bossed Sadia.
‘Be gentle,’ I said. ‘We’re just in the kitchen if you need us.’
‘Okay, Mummy,’ beamed Matilda. My model daughter. For now anyway.
I returned to the kitchen. Doly and Natalie were laughing and joking as they made tea for the others.
Was I envious of the ease with which Natalie socialised? Everyone seemed to like her, despite her chaotic, flaky nature. Did I long to be liked as she was? Here comes Natalie – she’s great because she never takes anything seriously and we all love a clown. Not a jot. Humour is all well and good until there’s something serious to deal with. That’s where I come in. I’ve always been able to put aside personal feelings when necessary. Some people may think me stand-offish but I think it’s one of my greatest strengths.
‘Shall we start?’ I said, ushering people towards the chairs.
I tried to stay positive during the meeting. It’s something I’m good at but John had obviously experienced these things before and it was starting to become apparent that our bid to buy the hall wasn’t a straightforward one. ‘Even if you raise the money you need, there is no guarantee. You have to prove that this community really needs the hall, that it is vital for the area and to be honest, that people will vote against my political opponents if they try to close it down.’
‘Money and power,’ murmured Natalie.
John nodded. ‘It may just seem like a community hall to you but if it becomes a political hot potato, you’re more likely to win.’
‘So what do we need? Petitions, Twitter campaigns, local news?’
‘And the rest. You need something national,’ he said, folding his arms.
‘What, like a calendar where we all pose nude along with strategically placed song-sheets and music stands?’ quipped Natalie. Everyone laughed.
‘That’s been done before,’ I said, keeping my face straight, irritated by Natalie’s levity. ‘We’ll think of something.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to another meeting,’ said John. ‘The council is threatening to close a women’s refuge and I’ve promised to lend my support.’
‘Fighting battles on all fronts, eh John?’ I observed.
‘You have no idea,’ he replied, rising wearily to his feet.
I followed him down the hall. ‘Thank you for coming.’
He turned to face me. ‘I have to be honest with you, Mrs Taylor. I think yours is a worthy cause but I can’t honestly see you winning.’
My heart sank. ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ I nodded.
‘It’s the part of my job I hate the most,’ he sighed.
I opened the front door to find Guy standing there, his finger hovered over the bell. He had the look of an excited teenager about him. ‘Good timing as ever, Caroline,’ he grinned.
‘John, this is our choirmaster, Guy Henderson.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said John. �
�I’ll be in touch, Mrs Taylor. Goodbye.’
‘Bye,’ I said, feeling heavy with disappointment.
‘Bye,’ echoed Guy, before turning to me. ‘Caroline, I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ he said, pulling a flyer from his pocket. ‘Is everyone still here?’ he asked, looking towards the kitchen.
‘Go through,’ I answered, standing aside to let him pass.
I followed him to the kitchen. Everyone smiled as he entered. He had that affect. There was a great energy and positivity about Guy Henderson. I liked that about him. ‘Good evening, ladies,’ he smiled. ‘I have in my hand a piece of paper –’ he held up the flyer for us all to see ‘– which I believe could be the solution to our problem.’
‘Is it a cheque for a million pounds?’ asked Natalie. She really couldn’t help herself.
‘What is it?’ asked Pamela.
‘This, my cake-baking genius,’ said Guy, ‘is a flyer for the Community Choir Championships!’
‘The what?’ frowned Natalie.
Guy grinned. ‘It’s a competition to find the best community choir, with the final to be hosted by that choir guy, Andrew Munday, at the Royal Albert Hall!’
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a prize of half a million pounds up for grabs, is there?’
Guy pulled a face. ‘Now that would be too good to be true. Sadly not, but it would put our campaign on the map.’
‘True. How do we enter?’ Visions of vast concert halls packed with cheering crowds filled my mind.
Guy studied the flyer. ‘There are two heats – one for regional London in Croydon, one for London as a whole at St Martin-in-the-Fields. Four London choirs go through, and the final is on July the twentieth.’
‘Yay! A choir trip to Croydon!’ cried Natalie. More laughter. Stop laughing. It only encourages her. ‘Listen, I don’t want to be a party pooper,’ she said. ‘But do we honestly think we’ve got a snowball in hell’s chance of winning this?’
Ignore the naysayers and keep going, Caroline. Just like Dad used to tell you. ‘Positive belief,’ I said. ‘All we need is to believe.’
‘And rehearse like mad,’ said Guy.
‘And pray,’ added Doly.
‘And bribe the judges,’ said Natalie. I stared at her, outraged. ‘I’m kidding,’ she laughed, patting me on the arm. ‘I warned you about my sense of humour, Caroline.’ Yes, you did, I just didn’t realise that you would make absolutely everything into a joke.
‘Are we up for it then?’ asked Guy.
‘What have we got to lose?’ said Pamela. ‘It’s got to be worth a try and even if we don’t win, we might save the hall, which is why we’re here, after all.’
‘I know that we can make it,’ said Natalie.
‘Really?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Yeah, because we’ve got—’ She started to click her fingers and dance, singing the chorus to ‘Something Inside So Strong’. The assembled company, including Guy, laughed and sang along. Honestly, did this woman take anything seriously? Was her whole life just a huge joke with endless opportunity for punchlines?
‘Oh, come on, Caroline.’ Natalie grinned, noticing that I wasn’t joining in. ‘We need all the rehearsals we can get.’
I sighed before turning to Guy. ‘We’ll need to sort a strict rota and ramp up the media campaign. Doly, are you happy to phone all the media contacts?’ She nodded. ‘Pamela, you’re sure your son can sort the website?’
‘Of course,’ grinned Pamela. ‘He’ll do whatever his mum asks.’
‘That’s great. Thanks, everyone. Guy, shall we sort the rehearsals now, along with a list of songs, and then I can e-mail them round later?’
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ agreed Guy.
At that moment, Woody appeared in the kitchen doorway, surrounded by his posse of girls. He looked an absolute fright, his hair sticking up from his head in a punk style, his face covered in bright-pink blusher, electric-blue eyeshadow and shocking-red lipstick. His nails were an alarming shade of blue.
Natalie squawked with hysterical laughter. ‘Woody, you look fantastic – like a young David Bowie!’ she cried. I must say she was much calmer about it than I would have been.
He rolled his eyes but laughed along. ‘I think he looks bootiful,’ said Liza, the smallest of Doly’s daughters. She planted a kiss on his arm.
‘Come on, heart-throb,’ laughed Natalie. ‘Let’s get you home.’
I followed Natalie and Woody to the door. Woody skipped down the garden path. ‘Natalie?’ She turned and smiled at me. ‘I just wanted to say that if you ever need me to have Woody, just ask. He and Matilda get on so well, it would be no problem at all.’
She looked pleasantly surprised. ‘Thank you, Caroline. That’s very kind.’
I nodded, feeling pleased for having offered. ‘Are things, er, okay?’ I asked. Please don’t give me details – I’m merely being polite.
She glanced back at Woody before answering. ‘We’re starting the counselling tomorrow,’ she replied, giving a thumbs-up before backing down the garden. ‘Wish me luck!’
‘Er, good luck,’ I said as I waved her off.
After Pamela, Doly and the girls had left, Guy and I sat at my kitchen table drinking yet more tea as we discussed rehearsals and songs. ‘I meant to tell you, I saw you the other day,’ I said.
‘Oh yes?’ he replied, his eyes fixed on the plan.
‘At St Bartholomew’s. That was your mother, wasn’t it?’
He hesitated for a moment, his pencil poised over the page. ‘It was,’ he said after a pause. ‘So how do you think this looks?’ he added, pushing the paper towards me. He seemed to want to change the subject so I didn’t pry further. I understood this. I didn’t like others knowing my business either.
‘It looks great,’ I said. ‘Do you honestly think we’ve got a chance?’
‘I don’t know but it’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t it?’
‘So why are you doing this?’ I asked him.
He looked at me and I saw a sincerity in his eyes that I recognised. ‘Probably for much the same reasons as you. I grew up round here and I don’t like the way communities are being plundered for the sake of saving a few grand.’ I smiled. I understood and admired this. He glanced at his watch. ‘Yikes, I’m late. Sorry, Caroline, but I need to go. I’ll see you for the next rehearsal and I was also thinking we should organise a gig, just something small scale in a pub so that we get used to singing in public. The first round is in a month.’
‘I’ll get onto it in the morning,’ I smiled.
He nodded before gathering his things and hurrying down the hall. ‘No need to show me out. I’ll see you later,’ he called over his shoulder.
After he’d gone, I poured myself a glass of wine, feeling excited about our plans. Matilda appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m hungry,’ she complained.
‘Oh, heavens!’ I cried. ‘You haven’t had any supper!’ What was happening to me? I always cooked from scratch.
‘Is that wine?’ she asked, glaring at the glass.
‘Just a small glass, darling. Now how about fish fingers?’ Plan B. There’s always a plan B, although it’s rarely required in my world.
She looked confused. ‘I thought we only had those when friends come round for tea as a treat.’
‘Well, how about a Tuesday-night treat?’
‘O-kay,’ she said with some reluctance. ‘We usually have pasta on a Tuesday. I like pasta.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Matilda, do you want the bloody fish fingers or not?’ I cried. Heavens! Where did that come from?
She stared at me for a second before her face crumpled. ‘You shouted at me! And you swore! When’s Daddy coming home?’
‘I’m sorry, Matilda,’ I said, panicking at my sudden loss of control. ‘That was very wrong of Mummy. I’ll cook you pasta if you like,’ I added, holding out my arms and trying to fold her into an embrace. She shrugged me off.
‘Can I have chips?’ she sniffed.<
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‘What’s the magic word?’ Calm, Caroline. You can get control of this situation. Just stay calm.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Please.’
‘Okay.’ That’s better. Order is restored.
‘And can I watch TV with tea as a Tuesday-night treat?’
How could I refuse? Matilda knew which buttons to press and most of them were labelled, ‘guilty mother’. ‘Yes, all right, but just for tonight.’
I turned on the oven and shook fish fingers and chips onto a baking tray. I looked at the glass of wine sitting on the side and in one quick move, I poured the rest of it down the sink, feeling instant relief. Natalie might need a glass or two of wine to drown her sorrows every night but I was made of sterner stuff.
CHAPTER NINE
NATALIE
I arrived early for once, before Dan in fact. The counselling centre was one of those modern, comfortable buildings with lots of light, airy rooms and spongy, uncomfortable chairs. As I sat in the waiting room, my stomach skipped with anxiety. I had felt positive in the run-up to today but now I was a frenzy of nerves. I kept telling myself that all would be well, that admitting the problem was halfway to solving it. The trouble was that I hadn’t actually identified the problem. I didn’t have a problem. We did because Dan had decided we did. Thoughts whizzed and pinged around my brain like balls on a pinball machine, never quite hitting their target, leaving me dazed.
Get a grip, Natalie. All you have to do is be honest, let Dan work through his issues, finish the course, pick up the certificate and go back to a life of – a life of what? Domestic bliss? No such thing. Domestic average, more like.
A life of muddling through, being tired but being content. Life wasn’t perfect and accepting that meant you could enjoy a sort of happy. That had to be good enough. That was what I wanted, anyway.