Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

‘It was a couple of snips to my bonsai…’ Miss Potterton interrupted.

  ‘Lynda was not a cat groomer—’

  ‘Three measly claws that needed clipping!’

  ‘And Katarzyna was not a hairdresser.’

  ‘I couldn’t see my Kindle! One swipe at my fringe with the nail scissors is hardly asking for a full perm and comb-out!’

  Katie sighed. ‘We are a cleaning agency. We hire out cleaners. Our staff are paid thirteen pounds an hour to clean!’

  ‘And yet you charge me twenty-two pounds fifty!’ Miss Potterton grumbled.

  Katie mentally reloaded, cursing her misfortune at having answered the phone to this particular call. ‘I tell you what I’ll do, Miss Potterton. I shall pop another leaflet through your door detailing our charges, which are all quite transparent, together with the leaflet that lists the chores and tasks that our staff are happy to undertake. Things like dusting, ironing, cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, hoovering—’

  ‘The term is vacuuming!’ Miss Potterton shouted. ‘Hoover is the brand and I find it most irritating that people think it is a verb.’

  There was a moment of silence, during which Miss Potterton was sure she could hear counting.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ she shouted.

  ‘Yes, still here! Just, erm... just thinking how best to proceed.’

  ‘It’s quite simple really, Katie. I want a reliable cleaner for two hours, three times a week.’

  ‘And trust me, I would like nothing more than to be able to provide that for you. If only to stop these calls.’ Katie whispered the last part.

  ‘What was that?’ Miss Potterton shook the phone again.

  ‘I said, thank you for your call!’

  ‘So what do you propose, Katie?’

  ‘That’s the trouble.’ Katie sighed. ‘I’m running out of propositions. Usually, after a client has refused one of our staff, we give them a strike, and after three strikes we don’t supply them with cleaners any more. That’s our policy.’

  ‘Goodness me! How many strikes have I had?’

  There was a pause while Katie placed the end of her pencil on the screen and counted.

  ‘Twelve,’ came the definitive reply.

  Katie listened to the faint wheezing on the other end of the phone. At first she thought the old lady was crying, but then she realised it was actually the sound of laughter.

  2

  Dr Ian Munroe dried his hands on a paper towel, balled it and lobbed it at the wastepaper bin in the corner. It missed.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  It felt shameful, emasculating, somehow, having to walk all the way over to the other side of the room and stoop low to retrieve it. Proof, if proof were needed, of his lack of sporting prowess. He scooped up the handful of stiff paper towel. This time it skimmed the rim of the bin, which was now mere inches away, and fell to the floor once again. With uncharacteristic aggression, he kicked the bin. It hit the wall and disgorged its contents under his desk. Stretching out his legs, he bounced his shoes on the paper-strewn floor, rather enjoying the sponginess beneath his feet.

  He clicked the icon on his computer that meant the appropriate message would pop up on the waiting-room screen, then placed a mint on his tongue.

  ‘Oh shit!’ he muttered as he saw the name of his next patient. At almost the exact same moment there was a feeble knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ He searched for a tone that was neutral and professional but also welcoming.

  The door remained closed.

  ‘Come in!’ He rolled his eyes and spoke a little louder.

  The door opened a few inches and Mrs Coates popped her miserable face into the gap. ‘Should I come in?’

  Her sour demeanour had the most depressing effect on everyone she encountered, especially on Dr Ian Munroe, who was already feeling less than sunny today. She had what his late mother would have described as a face that curdled milk.

  ‘Yes! Yes, please do, Mrs Coates.’

  She crept apologetically into the small room and sat down warily, as though the chair were smeared with something unpleasant. She was just the type to complain a lot, about everything, thought Ian. The sort of person who would send food back after having eaten three quarters of her plate. And she probably spent a large amount of her time watching her neighbours, with the council number on speed dial, ready to report any suspicious non-food items being hurled into the little brown compost bin. She wasn’t what you would call joyous.

  Ian beamed at her nonetheless. ‘So!’ He did this, tried to rally her with invigorating enthusiasm, as though his tone and volume could sweep away the negativity that she emitted. He pictured her dourness as a physical thing, like little balls of miserable fluff that trailed behind her. ‘What can I do for you today?’

  ‘It’s the cancer,’ she muttered, head cocked to one side as she looked mournfully at the floor, her mouth set in a grimace.

  ‘Whose cancer?’ He darted his head forward, wondering how he had lost the thread so early on.

  ‘Mine.’ She pulled the thin blue hem of her raincoat up over her knees.

  ‘But you don’t have cancer,’ he levelled.

  ‘I didn’t have it, Doctor, but I do now.’

  ‘You do? Goodness me, Mrs Coates, I am so sorry to hear that. I had no idea! You must have seen one of my colleagues.’ He decided to call her bluff. ‘Let me take a quick look at your notes.’ He placed his gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose and clicked and scrolled through several pages on his screen. ‘Ah yes, here we are. December 4th: suspected appendicitis, which was just gas, is that right?’

  She nodded regretfully.

  ‘Then December 28th, we had Lyme disease symptoms, but that also tested negative. January we didn’t see you.’ He looked up at her, as this required an explanation.

  ‘I was at my sister’s in Fuengirola. We go there to save on the heating,’ she clarified without a smile. ‘But I was admitted to the local hospital with a suspected severe allergic reaction.’

  ‘Suspected and severe?’ He exhaled, intimating that she’d had a lucky escape. ‘What was it you were allergic to? We should probably make a note.’

  ‘They never found out,’ she replied. ‘But I’ve given up paella and foreign sherry. Just to be on the safe side.’

  Ian bit his lip to stop himself mentioning that, for Brits, all sherry was foreign! ‘Righto.’ He looked back at his screen. ‘February 16th: ankle pain when you coughed, but not when you sneezed. March 3rd: double vision and diarrhoea. March 12th: double vision and constipation. March 20th: temporary blindness and acute thrush. And so on and so forth. But I can’t seem to find your cancer diagnosis?’ He placed his hands in his lap and stared at her.

  She held his gaze, with a glint of something resembling triumph in her eyes. ‘That’s because I haven’t shown it to anyone yet. But what do you think of this!’ She positively glowed as she unbuttoned her blouse with what could only be described as vigour, and there on her right breast sat a brown lump.

  ‘Goodness! Let’s have a closer look.’ Ian adjusted his specs and scooted his chair across the linoleum, carefully avoiding two paper towel mountains that threatened to get stuck in its wheels. He stared at her chest, then returned to his desk and retrieved a pair of tweezers.

  Mrs Coates gasped and swallowed. ‘Is it going to hurt? I mean, I can take the pain, and the treatment, and I’m even prepared to say my goodbyes, but I just need a minute to calm myself.’

  Ian gave a tight-lipped smile as he went in with the tweezers. He gave the blob a small tug and dropped it into Mrs Coates’ hand. ‘Brown toast and Marmite!’ He grinned.

  ‘Oh, Doctor!’ she trilled. ‘I feel so foolish. I hate wasting your time. Thank you! I’ve been worried all morning. Thank you!’

  ‘All part of the service, Mrs Coates. See you very, very soon, no doubt.’

  As she left the room, Ian sank low in his chair and placed his head in his hands. ‘Give me strength,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Se
ven years of training and twenty-one years of practice for this – toast and sodding Marmite!’

  When his phone rang, he reached out and, still with his eyes closed, gathered it under his chin. ‘Dr Munroe.’ His tone was clipped, conveying that he was both interested and harried.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh, hello, love.’ He sat up straight and opened his eyes.

  ‘I’ve made my decision.’ There was no clue in her tone.

  He swallowed. ‘And?’

  ‘I’m leaving you.’

  3

  ‘Mum! Your programme’s on!’ Marley shouted into the kitchen from the leather sofa on which he reclined.

  Tina bustled in with a mug of coffee and a side plate piled with three slices of Battenberg cake.

  ‘Moveyrft!’ She tried to speak but found it hard to make herself understood on account of the bag of salt and vinegar crisps dangling from her mouth.

  ‘What?’ Marley raised his head and stared at his mum.

  ‘I said, move your feet!’ Her crisp bag fell onto the deep-pile rug that created a cosy patch on the laminate floor. ‘Jesus, lucky for you I’m only tiny, otherwise you’d have to sit up properly.’

  The teenager tutted as he bent his knees into a pyramid and scooted his white sports sock clad feet along the cushion.

  Tina plonked down at the end of the sofa and her son promptly laid his feet on her lap. ‘Marley!’ she screamed, before conceding defeat and placing a cushion on his shins to make a makeshift table for her plate and the crisp packet she’d retrieved from the floor.

  ‘Is that your breakfast?’ He grimaced.

  ‘Yep.’ She kept her eyes on the forty-two-inch curved screen, a present from Marley’s dad and Lord only knew how he had acquired it. The vast thing made their tiny sitting room feel more like the local Odeon. She had hated it on sight, but had to admit to rather enjoying watching ’Enders on the monstrosity.

  ‘Turn it up.’ She nodded as she crammed half a slice of cake into her mouth.

  ‘Ooh, look, Marl, this’ll be good!’ The show title flashed up on the screen. I’ll Prove I’ve Got What It Takes To Be A Dad, Even Though I Slept With Your Sister! ‘They might have your dad on it!’ She laughed, shaking her head so her large gold earrings jangled.

  ‘Very funny.’ He blinked. ‘You haven’t even got a sister.’

  ‘Lucky for me or he definitely would have!’ She winked at him.

  Marley was keen to change the subject. ‘I can’t believe you eat that junk. You need a healthier start to the day.’

  ‘Oh good, does this mean you got that undercover job recruiting for All-Bran then?’

  ‘Ha ha. I mean it! Just because you’re skinny doesn’t mean you’re healthy.’ He tutted.

  ‘Marley, you’ve only been at college for three weeks, you’re on your first module and already you’ve turned into Dr Bloody Hilary! And besides, I’ve done a job this morning, don’t forget, so this is more like lunch.’

  ‘It’s just as bad for you even if it’s lunch. I just want you to be healthy.’

  ‘Aww, bless!’ She smiled at her beautiful boy, who she knew spoke the truth. She couldn’t imagine what his life would be like if she weren’t around to smooth his path; they were a great team. ‘Anyway, enough talking.’ She sipped her coffee and pointed at the screen. ‘That bloke in the wings looks like fat Barry from the chippy.’

  They both squinted at the screen as Jeremy’s voice cut through their morning chatter. ‘I’d like to welcome Barry from Hammersmith onto the stage!’

  The audience clapped on cue as Tina sat forward and squealed. ‘Flamin’ Nora! It is fat Barry from the chippy!’

  The two of them were transfixed.

  ‘The dirty bastard!’ Tina pulled open her crisp packet and they both laughed.

  4

  Cordelia Potterton flexed her fingers as best she could. It irritated her beyond belief that her body no longer did the things she wanted it to and yet also did several things she would rather it didn’t. Her mind was as sharp as a tack and for that she was grateful, but the weakness in her wrists meant lifting and twisting was almost impossible, the lack of dexterity in her digits made her feel like a clumsy child and the general softening of her physique was nothing short of maddening.

  Eventually, she managed to button her coat over her slender frame, pulling it to straighten the shoulder seams that now sat a little askew on her bowed body. She had known that she would shrink with age, but when your starting point was six foot, this wasn’t too lamentable. She had always stood a good few inches above Tom, not that this had mattered a jot, not to them. She’d expected to lose the odd inch here and there, bringing her down to a more average height, but what she hadn’t banked on was the curve to her spine, the collapse of her hip and the sag to her shoulders, all of which had increased the shrinkage.

  She placed her navy beret over her short, grey, razor cut, twisting it to a jaunty angle low over her right ear, then did her best to keep the slick of crimson lipstick on her lips, despite the wobbly hand that seemed to have a will of its own. Next she arranged her lime-green chiffon scarf in a pussy bow at her crêpey neck and collected her wicker basket, in which nestled a bunch of blue stocks, tied around the stems with a small twist of brown string.

  Greta Garbo meowed and pawed at the thick brown tights beneath her mistress’s houndstooth vintage Jaeger skirt before finally sitting on the toes of her rather clumpy tan brogues.

  ‘What a ghastly racket. You sound quite frightful, Greta, and you know how I feel about clinginess. It smacks of weakness and dependency and we all know that for you it’s just a ruse – you like your own company! You’re only interested in me when I appear to be abandoning you.’ She gave a throaty laugh and shifted her foot. ‘I shall be no more than an hour. Nap or play with a ball, or whatever it is you do when I’m not here. You know the rules: no parties, and I’ve left Jenni Murray on for you for company.’

  Bending to give Greta a brief, affectionate stroke, she felt the familiar swirl of giddiness and leant against the wall with her eyes closed. This was yet another aspect of being old that bothered her enormously. It wasn’t that she wanted to dance or run again, although both would be fun, but she did want to be able to hear clearly, so that she could keep safe and listen out for burglars or the first crackle of a fire, and she would have loved to be able to bend over without the floor rushing up to meet her and every joint creaking in protest.

  The doorbell rang. She turned to Greta Garbo and waggled her finger. ‘Remember! No parties!’

  Slowly she made her way along the hallway and opened the half-glazed front door.

  ‘Morning, Miss P. Lovely day for it.’ Len the cabby smiled and offered her his arm.

  ‘If you say so, Leonard. I’m afraid my day has been rather difficult thus far. My cleaner just walked out without so much as a by your leave! So now I’m high and dry!’ She tutted angrily at the memory. ‘Such an inconvenience, and tomorrow is ornament day. I fear they will have to forgo the caress of a feather duster this week.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. People is unreliable sometimes. Mind how you go, now.’ He pointed at the steep flight of slightly uneven basement steps as he guided her upwards.

  ‘I’m afraid you are right, Leonard. People is.’ She trod gingerly, with one hand on the metal handrail and the other looped through his crooked elbow. In his other hand, Len carried her basket.

  ‘Ooh, they’re beautiful. Stocks. They smell lovely, don’t they?’ He smiled.

  She nodded and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. It took an age, but the reward was worth the effort. Looking around as her head emerged at ground level, Miss Potterton felt a surge of happiness at the fact that this was her home, this beautiful street in Kensington in the greatest city in the world! For her, the thrill never dulled. Her only sadness was that her advanced years and infirmity stopped her from gallivanting around the way she used to, no longer able to take advantage of the park
s, museums and galleries that had been her sanctuary since she was a child. Not to mention all those deliciously bohemian dance clubs that she and Tom had enjoyed so much, the kind referred to in the more salacious social pages, where entry was via a secret knock on a rusting door.

  ‘You all right for a minute while I get the walking stick?’ Len asked, as he always did, before hurrying to his cab and opening the back door. ‘Shan’t be a mo.’

  ‘Yes, Leonard, I promise I shan’t run off.’ Despite her flippant response, her eyes widened with the fear that, unsupported, she might wobble and fall.

  With the special walking stick now retrieved – it was kept exclusively for Miss Potterton’s use, as she refused to give in and buy one of her own – Len returned to her side and so began the slow process of manoeuvring her into the back seat and getting her buckled up for the journey.

  ‘Incredible to think, isn’t it, that when I was a girl there were only two cars in this street and one of those was Daddy’s. He had a Crossley. Its colour was Atlantic green. I can’t recall the model, but it had a darling canvas canopy and studded leather upholstery. Very grand. I can remember street boys coming to leer through the windows and our driver, Mason, shooing them away from the paintwork that he’d spent all morning polishing. It was another world entirely. A man used to come and visit the street with a little monkey in a red-and-white striped waistcoat. He’d whistle and the ugly little thing used to flip over. Quite bizarre. Doubt it’d be allowed nowadays, it’d only want one precocious child to have its fingers bitten off and that would be the end of that.’

  ‘That’s health and safety for you.’ Len nodded. He wasn’t sure of the relevance but liked to join in. It was hard to think of something different to say when he’d heard the same anecdotes repeated more times than he cared to remember.

  Miss Potterton liked that she didn’t have to confirm her destination or make unnecessary small talk. Len had been driving her there once a month for the last twelve years, rain or shine.

  The cars sat bumper to bumper on Kensington Church Street. ‘It’s a shocker on the roads today, world and his wife are out.’ He spoke to the rearview mirror.