by Pam Rhodes
“What did you think?” Betty immediately asked Ida. “Are you aching?”
“Of course not. It was all at a very basic level.”
“Yes, but did you enjoy it?” Flora wanted to know.
“I’m going to get a drink and take my place for the next class. Dance Sing-along, did you say?” Ida retorted.
“That’s right – and you’re going to know all the words,” enthused Doris.
“But surely this is meant to be an exercise class. It is always detrimental to each element if you try to combine art forms.” And after turning round extremely stiffly, Ida haughtily made her way over to where she’d left her bag.
“She’s aching,” smiled Doris. “And she’s having a good time.”
In fact, everyone in the hall enjoyed every minute of the Dance Sing-along. The songs were all familiar, and the tempos changed so that they were waltzing one minute and doing a calypso the next. Somehow, because they were having such fun singing old favourites, they hardly noticed that they were exercising every part of their bodies at the same time. Thirty minutes shot by so fast that a genuine sigh of regret echoed round the hall when the class came to a euphoric end.
“We’re going to get a cold drink from the machine. Are you going to join us, Ida?” asked Betty as the four friends gathered up their bags and squeezed their feet back into their outdoor shoes.
If Ida was trying to appear cool, her bright red cheeks and her heavy breathing gave her away. In fact, she was glowing, her eyes sparkling with enjoyment as much as everyone else’s.
“You go and get a table,” she ordered as she headed to the Ladies. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
By the time the four of them had worked out how to get exactly what they wanted from the drinks machine and collapsed with happy exhaustion around a corner table to down their drinks, fifteen minutes had passed. Then, from inside the hall, they could hear Ronnie strike up the piano again.
“I ought to go,” said Ida.
“Me too,” said Betty as they gathered up their belongings. However, when Doris wandered over to the door that led through to the hall, rather than making for the outside exit Ida, Betty and Flora followed her. Their heads touching, they all stared through the glass windows to watch the tap class that had just begun.
The age of the pupils ranged from about five years old to some girls who were probably in their early teens. There was deep concentration all round as they tried to follow the lead of Della, who was dressed in smart black trousers and a short black jacket over a crisp white shirt. She was shouting out precise instructions in time with Ronnie’s music:
“Heel, heel, toe, toe.
Ball change, ball change, ball change, clap!
Step, shuffle ball change, stamp!
Step, shuffle ball change, clap!”
“I can do that,” said Ida. “I learned tap as a child. You never really forget.”
“Me too!” exclaimed Doris. “I always loved it.”
“It looks hard,” said Betty, squinting through the glass to see just what Della’s feet were doing as she danced on the stage at the other end of the hall.
“Tuition of tap is wasted on this modern generation,” stated Ida. “They could never understand its place in dance history.”
“I was in love with Gene Kelly,” sighed Flora.
“I always fancied myself as Ginger Rogers,” added Betty dreamily. “All those gorgeous dresses she wore—”
“Wasted!” declared Ida. She turned away and marched towards the exit door, with the other ladies scurrying along behind her.
Kath glanced down at her phone. No call from Jack today. Nor yesterday either.
But he had rung just a couple of days after their evening together in London, and that reassured her that he was sincere in his delight that they were in contact again. As ever, their conversation during that phone call was relaxed, in the way it usually is between friends who know each other well and are comfortable in each other’s company. That said, she found she didn’t mind that their conversation was only on the phone. In fact, she was quite relieved, because it took away the giddiness that had swept over her again at the reunion, when she’d looked into those grey eyes of his and noticed how his smile was still delightfully lopsided. It meant that the memory of running her fingers through his strong, wiry hair could be held at bay, and the honey tones of his familiar aftershave were unable to intoxicate her senses. They had talked for more than an hour, and when at last they said goodnight, she had climbed into bed in a warm glow, falling asleep instantly as the image of him invaded her dreams.
After that she longed for him to call, but he didn’t ring for several days. That started a pattern of the two of them sharing long, chatty, gently flirty conversations on the phone. Then they would say goodbye and head back into the reality of their own lives, until eventually they spoke again several days later.
Already she could feel herself wanting more. She longed to see him, and yet she was nervous at the thought of him asking her out. Where would they go? How would it be? Could she bear it if he dangled the prospect of them being together again, only to change his mind and break her heart as he had before? Could she bear it if history repeated itself and he never actually got round to asking the question she was longing to hear from him?
She wouldn’t ring him. She would not come across as a desperate ex-girlfriend longing to turn back the clock. She would let him see she was independent and established, with a responsible job and a circle of friends who cared for her. Her life was just fine. She didn’t need a man to make her complete. It was important that he recognized that.
But did he need her to make his life complete? With a shiver of doubt, she sensed what the answer might be. Better not to call. Better not to meet up. Better to walk away right now.
Looking down at her mobile for the second time in as many minutes, she willed it to ring.
It didn’t.
Probably just as well, she decided. She really didn’t mind.
But she checked the screen again before putting her phone into her handbag, which she zipped up with a flourish.
Several streets away, Maggie stared miserably into her cup of Horlicks, her thoughts too tangled to remember to drink it.
Things were happening far too quickly. The solicitor had put a stop to Dave’s assumption that he could just turn up at the house and take away whatever he fancied, but there was no way to stop the process of her home being put up for sale. She had stood miserably in the kitchen as the estate agent came round, measuring here, assessing there, opening cupboard doors, counting radiators, peering into the garden shed and taking copious photographs from every possible angle, both inside and out. A copy of the sale details arrived a day later, and she gasped at the value they now put on the house. They had been so excited when they managed to scrape together enough money to put down a deposit to buy the three-bedroomed semi-detached house back in 1995 for what seemed the huge sum of £52,000. Of course, they’d done lots of work on it, modernized the kitchen and bathroom, and added a conservatory at the back, but when the agent announced that they would now be putting the property on the market for £350,000, Maggie’s head swam. No wonder Dave wanted to get his hands on fifty per cent of a figure like that!
And today, the first prospective buyers had arrived. She said that she would prefer them simply to take themselves round, and she would answer any questions they had at the end. From her bedroom where she had taken herself off to hide, she could hear some of their conversation through the open door.
“Oh, I don’t like that. We could knock that out, couldn’t we?”
“What a terrible colour to choose for these walls!”
“If we dug up the front garden, would there be room for both of our cars?”
Didn’t they know that Steph had chosen the colour for the walls in her room when she was a teenager, and Maggie had never had the heart to change it? And that Darren had built that shelving unit while he was taking woodwor
k lessons at school? It may not be the most modern bedroom fitting, but it had always worked well enough for them. And these awful people wanted to dig up the front garden and concrete over her beloved shrubs and the flowerbeds where the spring bulbs were now in their full glory!
Flying down the stairs, she grabbed her car keys and slammed the door behind her as the astonished couple stood assessing the front of the building.
“I’ve got to go out. Sorry!” she mumbled, as she ran to the car and drove off round the block without a backward glance.
And now here she was, back home and staring at her Horlicks. On the table in front of her was her mobile phone on which she’d listened over and over again to the message from the estate agent telling her that the couple had made an excellent offer on the house. And the great news, he said, was that the potential buyers had already sold their own property, so it would be a cash purchase. No problems, no mortgage companies, no delay! Please could she ring him immediately? Oh, and as he hadn’t managed to get through to her as he’d hoped, he would now ring her husband instead.
Maggie carefully laid down the cup on the coffee table in front of her. Then she bowed her head, clasped her arms tightly round her waist, and rocked backwards and forwards in despair.
“Is Maggie here?” asked the young woman who strode into the Call-in Café at half past nine the following Tuesday morning. She was carrying two large trays of eggs, and was followed into the hall by three teenagers from the local school.
Maggie’s assistant, the ever-competent Liz, was already well ahead with preparations for the Grown-ups’ Lunch Club as the newcomers made their way into the kitchen.
“Hi, Tess. You’ve brought eggs. Great. I’m making quiche Lorraine for lunch today.”
Tess laid the eggs down with care. “The bill for the eggs is here. Mum put the salads and vegetables on the invoice too, so it can all be paid together.”
“That’s fine. I’ll pass that on to Trevor.”
“Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s a bit under the weather at the moment, so she’s taking the week off.”
Tess nodded without comment. News had soon gone round that a For Sale sign was on show outside Maggie’s house, and Dave had often been seen in the town proudly walking around with his new girlfriend and her children as if they were the happiest of families.
“Give her my love.”
“Thanks, Tess. I will.”
“Right, you know Gemma and Jess, I think,” said Tess, slipping from her unofficial role as delivery driver for produce from her parents’ farm to her proper job as teacher at the local senior school. “They’ve done work experience here before and they’re both good in the kitchen. You want to work in catering, don’t you, Gemma?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Well, this is a great opportunity for you both.”
Tess then glanced outside towards the foyer, where the teenage boy who had also arrived with her was casually taking in the scene.
“And that’s Kevin. He’s mad about cookery. He’s going to be the next Jamie Oliver, so he tells me. He’s going to change the eating habits of the whole country through the television series he’s already planning!”
Liz, a grandmother herself, knew a thing or two about teenagers and smiled understandingly. “A bit of a handful then, is he?”
“Kevin,” called Tess through the hatch. “Can you come in here, please?”
When Kevin appeared in the kitchen, Tess did the introductions, which he seemed to ignore as he strolled across to look at the food Liz was already preparing.
“What are you cooking?”
“Lasagne and quiche Lorraine.”
“Basil in the lasagne? That’s a classic Italian herb, you know.”
“I do know,” replied Liz, as she handed him a potato-peeler. “And you’re on potato-peeling duty. There’s a big bag of Desiree over there for the mashed potato. That’s a classic British food, you know.”
By eleven o’clock, enthusiastic members of the Grown-ups’ Lunch Club started to arrive, some delivered by Good Neighbour drivers, others turning up alone or in small groups from their nearby homes.
Percy was always one of the first to arrive, choosing his favourite table nice and early so that no one else could pinch his seat. The other tables were filling up fast before his friends Robert and John took their places, with Connie being brought to the table on the arm of Pat, one of the Good Neighbour volunteers.
“There you are, dear,” said Pat. “Let me help you with your coat – and can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please,” said Percy. “Two sugars for me. Robert, you like your tea milky, don’t you – and strong with no sugar for you, John?”
Pat looked a bit harassed at being given such a large and unexpected order, but she good-naturedly repeated all the instructions before heading off to the serving hatch.
“And a plate of biscuits, please, love,” shouted Percy. “We like the chocolate chip ones best.”
“Percy Wilson, you’ll spoil your appetite for lunch,” smiled Kath, who happened to be passing on her way up to the balcony lounge.
“Nothing ever spoils my appetite for lunch,” Percy beamed. “What have we got today?”
“Quiche, I think, with a nice salad.”
“Euck, rabbit food! Is that all? Nothing more suitable for a growing chap like me?”
“I saw a beautiful lasagne being prepared in the kitchen. I’ll make sure you get a big portion, okay?”
“With chips?”
“I think they’re on the menu too.”
Percy huffed his approval, leaning forward on his elbows to speak to his three lunch companions.
“I hate salad. Far too healthy – and green. If it’s green, you can never be quite sure what you’re eating. Do you remember Donald who used to live down Third Avenue when we were lads?”
“Donald Bacon, do you mean? His dad was the undertaker?”
“That’s the one. Little Don took over the business and made a fortune. Everyone needs his services sometime, don’t they! Anyway, he’s over on the new estate now in a posh place with an attic and a summer house – and two bathrooms. Whatever does he do with two? His wife left him for that travelling salesman years ago.”
“He was always a bit odd, though, if I remember rightly,” frowned Robert. “Didn’t he used to keep creepy-crawlies in glass tanks – and lizards and big hairy spiders?”
“He showed me his snake once,” Connie commented. “He must have thought I’d be impressed because he’d caught it himself. He tried to tell me it was a viper and deadly poisonous, but I knew it wasn’t because I used to see those brown ones in the long grass at the back of our house. I was terrified of them, all the same! Any self-respecting young girl would be.”
“Well, perhaps that’s why Mrs Donald left him for the Tupperware salesman – because apparently up in the attic of that new house of theirs he has dozens of tanks lit up and kept at the right temperature to make sure all his reptiles and spiders are alive and kicking.”
“Oh!” grimaced Connie. “I’d have left him too. What does he feed them?”
“Special stuff from the pet shop: crickets, maggots, dead chicks – things like that.”
Connie was turning a distinct shade of green. “How revolting! What sort of person would want to do that?”
“Someone very strange,” agreed John. “That’s not a usual pastime at all.”
“Well,” said Percy, leaning forward to make sure they were all listening properly, “the police apparently thought the same thing. They raided his house the other day.”
“My goodness!” exclaimed Connie. “Is it against the law to keep spiders then, in case they’re man-eaters or something?”
“Apparently,” confided Percy, warming to his storytelling, “the police had launched an undercover operation to watch Don carefully when they saw from one of those police spy helicopters or drones, or whatever it is they use, that there was a big room in his house
which they could see from the sky was unnaturally warm. It glowed bright red on their electronic machinery. So they stormed the place in the dead of night. Loads of coppers with battering rams and armoured suits.”
“Why? All for a handful of spiders?”
“Ah, but they didn’t know that. They thought Don had a cannabis farm up in his attic, and that he was a dealer of some sort. They were all ready to cart him off to the police station for interrogation.”
Robert chuckled at the thought. “Don Bacon, seventy-six years old, five foot tall, thick glasses, with a penchant for burying people and keeping tarantulas and snakes for fun. Hardly your typical drugs baron, is he?”
“So the police discovered. They were expecting to find his attic full of bright green plants all basking in artificial light to bring them on.”
“I bet it really spoilt their day to find a load of lizards instead,” giggled Connie.
“But,” said Percy, his face very serious, “that’s why I stay away from salads. I never allow anything green to pass my lips. I like to know what I’m eating!”
“That probably explains your expanding waistline, Percy,” laughed John.
“Quite right! I play it safe and eat cakes instead.”
At that point, Pat came back to their table balancing a tray carrying their tea orders. After all the right drinks were sitting in front of the right people, Pat laid a colourful flyer down on the table.
“Have you all seen this? They’re looking for teams. Why don’t you four go together?”
Robert picked up the leaflet and read out loud:
“BEETLES AND PUDS!
Saturday 7th March Hope Hall 2 – 4 p.m.
Could your team of 4 win the Hope Hall Beetle Drive?
12 games, one overall winner
Could you be King or Queen Beetle?
Followed by Maggie’s delicious puddings
Come and join us!
In aid of Good Neighbours”
“That sounds right up my street,” said Connie. “What do you think? Shall we form a team of four?”