You Must Be Jo King

by Moira Murphy

  To which his mother, without looking up from the magazine she was flicking through, drawled, “I’ve told you not to say fuckin’, Levi.”

  I smiled, different interpretations put onto things always made me smile. I had gone round singing, Give Pete a chance, for ages before someone pointed out that it was Give Peace a Chance. And Buddy Holly’s cupid hadn’t shot his dart, he’d shot his dog.

  I looked at the Fat Controller. There was something about him that reminded me of my boss, Ian; something about the moon face and the dark suits and waistcoats. Ian always wore dark suits and waistcoats to work, to give the illusion, I suppose, of less bulk around his middle. It didn’t work. Of course it was in stark contrast from wearing armour and wielding a pike as a Roundhead at the weekends and besieging towns in pretend battles. I mean, why would anyone want to do that?

  I watched as Levi scored a direct hit with a Mega block, clattering it off the head of a naked Barbie doll which was straddling the wheel of an Action Man truck. Poor Barbie, where was Ken when she needed him and where were her designer outfits and make-up? There was a time when she would have been the proud possessor of a cute little camouflage number with nipped in waist and thigh high boots, just the ticket for riding around in an army truck. Strange as it may seem, I felt a kind of affinity with that doll. After all, Barbie was a cast-off, dumped, usurped and pulled from pillar to post by belligerent kids.

  It seemed we were in for a long wait. I was occupied trying to ignore the itching when a Sunday supplement on one of the magazine tables caught my eye. A digitally enhanced – very digitally enhanced – picture of Delia Smith was on the front cover. What’s she been up to I wondered? I was just about to reach for the magazine when a man suddenly appeared between me and the cheese plants and demanded I tell him where Robin Hood kept his horse. For a split-second I thought, hell, why me? But then I mentally took that back because being my mother’s child I knew I should have been thinking, there but for the grace of God go I, but still.

  Before I had time to switch my thoughts from why Delia Smith was front page news to the whereabouts of Robin Hood’s horse, a woman hurried from the reception desk where she had been registering her appointment and took hold of the man’s arm. Throwing apologies in my direction she persuaded the man into a seat; one away from Lucy. Once seated, the man, who we now knew as Trevor, stretched across the empty seat and leaning his elbows onto Lucy’s knee, prodded at my arm with his fingertips while insisting I tell him where Robin Hood kept his horse. Lucy stiffened. Trevor’s uninhibited use of her knee had rendered her immobile. It was obvious Trevor had no concept of stage fright whereas Lucy and I had an acutely overdeveloped concept of it. I smiled at Trevor. A bit forced admittedly, but which I hoped might extend a smidgen of empathy and quietly suggested that perhaps the horse was kept in a stable in Sherwood Forest.

  Trevor jumped up excitedly, clapped his hands and said that was exactly the right answer. I thought, thank God for that. Grinning happily, again he sat down. Lucy wilted thankfully into her seat and, although watching Trevor suspiciously through a curtain of her straw blonde hair (the colour of which, along with her height and her pale blue eyes, she had inherited from her father), warily retrieved her magazine.

  Seconds later, Trevor once more sprung to his feet, this time holding an imaginary microphone and with his free hand waving about him, started to sing, very loudly and only vaguely in tune, to his audience, which was me and Lucy, and, bearing in mind it was now May: I’m dreaming of a White Christmas…

  After the first verse he stopped singing, went down on one knee and with his arms outstretched and ignoring his carer’s pleas in get back into his seat, in a very pronounced American accent said, “I’d like to take this op-por-toonity to wish you awl, a very merry Christmas and a happy noo year,” then back into song mode, whereupon, as Trevor hung onto the last note, his carer unceremoniously popped a pink marshmallow into his mouth while tugging at his elbow and whispering something into his ear. She managed to get him back into his seat, albeit tentatively, when Beryl from reception came over and hunkered down in front of him. She seemed to assume Trevor was deaf because she said slowly, deliberately and actually, quite loudly, that although he was a very good singer, he needed to keep his voice down, as the patients would not be able to hear their names being called over the loudspeaker system.

  Poor Trevor, assuming he was being told off, immediately burst into tears. He leaned over the spare seat, grabbed Lucy’s bare arm and sobbed onto it. Lucy nearly fainted.

  His carer, managing to tug Trevor off Lucy’s arm, comforted him with the promise of more marshmallows. She then proceeded to lead him out of the waiting room to calm down outside. On the way out, she gave Lucy one of her apologetic smiles and a Pampers wet-one to wipe the icing sugar and tears off her arm.

  Just as I was thinking that this anticipated quiet little sojourn could have gone better, the tannoy system called for us to go to room eight.

  I nudged Josh to life, who up till then had had his eyes closed, listening to music from headphones lurking somewhere within his mop of thick auburn curls, which he had inherited from me and which he hated. I put my arm around Lucy’s waist to keep her upright and along we trooped to room eight.

  “Ah, Joanne, Lucy, Josh,” Dr Watson, stood to greet us. There was a discernible intake of breath from the much perked up Lucy as the doctor held out his hand to shake each of ours. He treated us to his Brad Pitt smile as he indicated the chairs. My neighbour Janice, wasn’t wrong. He leaned back in his chair, his tie was loose and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He held the tip and the end of a pen between his forefingers and half rotated it back and forth. I got the same little flutter, in an otherwise dormant erogenous zone, that I’d had years ago when, after waiting for ages at the stage door, Adam Ant appeared, toting his pistol and demanding I Stand and Deliver. I would have. With pleasure. But my mother, who would have been hard pressed to accept her daughter’s street-cred, having had her assets plundered by a Dandy Highwayman, was waiting round the corner with fish and chips.

  I knew the smile I gave Dr Watson was pathetically sycophantic but I didn’t care.

  “And what can I do for you?” he said, smiling a collective smile at the three of us.

  Oo-er doctor, I thought. Quite a bit, I shouldn’t wonder. But I said, “Well doctor,” hoping not to sound too flirty because a: I was with the children and b: flirty and red, itchy spots didn’t seem to go together somehow, although it has to be said they were marginally better than say piles or genital warts but anyway you couldn’t really be flirty with a doctor, it would be like flirting with the priest; you just wouldn’t, “it seems the three of us have come down with some sort of mystery complaint, we’re covered in red, itchy spots.”

  “And are there any symptoms accompanying the spots?” he wanted to know.

  I shook my head, “No, only the spots.”

  “Like-er, yes there is, Mam.”

  I looked blankly at my daughter.

  “Yes, Lucy, go on,” said Dr Watson.

  “Well actually, I sometimes feel quite sick and when I do I get black spots floating in my eyes and then I feel like fainting and my ears go all funny.”

  Josh sniggered behind his hand.

  I looked at Lucy. My God. Surely it’s not possible my daughter is practically taking her last breath and I hadn’t even noticed!

  “Well, we certainly need to check this out,” said Dr Watson, probably hoping like hell his medical encyclopaedia was where he’d left it. “Is it okay if your mother and brother stay or would you rather they left the room?”

  “I’m sure she’d rather have us stay, wouldn’t you, Lucy?” I said, before she had time to answer.

  She looked at me sulkily, before nodding.

  “O-kay,” said Dr Watson pushing back his chair and walking round his desk towards her. He looke
d into her eyes (and I don’t suppose for a minute he missed the look of adoration looking back). He checked her ears. He sounded her chest. He pressed her fingernails and watched the colour come back. He looked at the back of her throat. Then he smiled dazzlingly, reassuringly, yet obviously not without some relief and said he was pleased to report he could not find anything for her to worry about.

  “Now,” he said, “let me see those spots.”

  He looked at the spots on each of us before asking if we had any pets; a cat or a dog, perhaps? I said we had a dog. He wondered if the dog had been scratching more than usual because he thought our problem might be insect bites and that the dog might have fleas. He went on to say that fleas were not fussy who they lived off and he suspected they were biting us (I thought that could have been phrased slightly better). He then suggested we see the vet who, he was sure, would recommend some treatment for both the dog and our home which should sort the problem out. However, if, after using the treatment the problem persists, we were not to hesitate to make another appointment to see him.

  I stared into the space above his head.

  Another appointment! I think what you really mean to say is, Mrs Charlton, you no doubt find me overwhelmingly attractive, feel free to look, join the queue, but please do not allow yourself any illusions because I actually wouldn’t touch your flea-bitten body with the soggy end of a bargepole.

  I mumbled a thank you without making eye contact and ushered the children outside.

  “OH-MY-GOD!” said Lucy through clenched teeth. “That was just sooo embarrassing!” She couldn’t possibly fall in love with Dr Watson when he knew she had been bitten by fleas!

  Josh bent over, clutched his stomach and rocked with feigned laughter, “Fleas! Just wait till your mates hear about this, Luce, especially Danny Miller.” He then mimicked his sister with his hand on his head, “Doctor, doctor, there are black things floating in my eyes, do you think they could be – FLEAS?” He then fell about laughing.

  “Mam! Tell him!” Lucy screeched.

  “That is enough, Josh! And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to Danny Miller or anyone else, do you hear me?”

  I bundled them into the car, Lucy again in the front and Josh in the back, it was safer that way.

  Josh chanted, “Lucy wanted love-bites but just got flea-bites.”

  “When we get home,” said Lucy, menacingly, “you are sooo dead.”

  I started the car. So it’s all down to the dog! I might have known it. The dog that is as alien to me as ET. The dog I just know was never intended to be part of my destiny. I have had my palm read, I have had tarot card readings; no mention of any dog. This is the dog I was lumbered with because George, in his misplaced wisdom, thought it would distract the kids, while a week later he, metaphorically speaking, swung out of town. This is the dog that has chewed everything it could lay its paws on: potted plants, dishcloths, fluffy slippers, cuddly toys, old trainers, new trainers, Josh’s cricket bat, Lucy’s tennis racquet, kitchen chair legs, school books, rubber gloves, you name it and, if complete destruction was impeded in some way, dog’s teeth marks will show evidence of intent. I now have open shelves in my kitchen, not by design, but because the dog has chewed the doors. The dog is fed Pedigree Chum and Winalot mixer yet she eats soap, Blu tack, cotton wool, shower gel and drinks out of the toilet. And if she can lick Harpic from under the rim, it’s party time. It seems Ambre Solaire is also something of a delicacy because if I am disillusioned enough to think sunbathing might be an option, I am licked clean before I get anywhere near the sun-lounger. And, if I don’t manage to grab the post as it comes through the door, I end up piecing it together like a jigsaw and reading it through Sellotape. All this not for much longer though, because while I was looking for my car keys this morning, I came across the vacuum cleaner nozzle which has been missing for ages and which has rendered the dog even more dispensable. She is now no longer required as a nozzle substitute for picking up toast crumbs and Bombay Mix, so, bye-bye, dog, I would like to say it has been nice knowing you, but it hasn’t.

  3

  FANTASTIC FRAN

  “Well can I then?” Lucy asked, distractedly, as she scanned the street for any familiar face or better still, any familiar outfit she could put a shop name and price tag to.

  “Can you what, Lucy?”

  “Can I have a proper DJ party for my birthday?”

  “Like I said, Lucy, we’ll discuss that nearer the time. It will really depend on the money situation so please don’t pester.”

  “That probably means no!” She sunk deeper into her seat.

  The roads were busy. The lights were on red. Josh vibrated in the back seat to the inane noise from his iPod.

  “We’ll never get home at this rate,” Lucy pouted.“Will you tell Josh to stop kicking the back of my seat, it’s soh annoying.”

  “Josh, stop kicking the back of Lucy’s seat.”

  “Whaa?” He stripped out his earplugs.

  “I said, stop kicking the back of Lucy’s seat.”

  “I’m not.”

  “He is, Mam. You’re such a nerd, Josh.”

  “Lucy, don’t speak to your brother like that!”

  “Well he is a nerd.”

  “I’ll be a nerd all right, when I tell Danny Miller you’ve got fleas.”

  “Mam! Tell him!”

  “You’ve been told about that, Josh. I don’t want have to tell you again. Now for goodness sake, stop it, both of you. You’re like a couple of three year olds.”

  “He’s like a three year old.”

  “You are, you mean.”

  “ENOUGH.”

  Josh replaced his earplugs and Lucy sulked. I drummed the steering wheel as the traffic stagnated and I thought of George and Fran living their flea-free life and I thought of the day I eventually got to meet Fran.

  It was a Thursday. Wednesday was the day I would normally spend in the yard doing the books, but Josh had needed an urgent dental appointment that day which meant I’d had to swop days. This was something I had forgotten to mention to George. Well that is, I might have mentioned it to George, if he had hung around long enough. Anyway, on this particular Thursday, with my head down and my fingers banging the keyboard and amid the sounds of cement mixers mixing and Stihl saws sawing, I detected the light, clip-clopping of stiletto heels. I stopped and listened, it being intriguing, as the dragging of cement-laden hob-nailed boots was more the norm around a builder’s yard. Then, as the footsteps got close enough to be at the other side of the door, a cooing, “Is that Georgie Porgy?” signalled the arrival of Fran who, as she playfully popped her head round the door, went the colour of her magenta shoes and matching handbag when she realised that today, her Georgie Porgy was in fact, his wife.

  Well there you go. Life’s full of little cow pats; Fran expecting to find her Georgie Porgy at the other side of the desk and me expecting to find Fran positively, absolutely, fabulously fantastic; yet here she was, a stick thin, straight backed, spectacled woman in a pin-striped business suit.

  You know when you have that dream, the one when you’ve stood at the bus stop, chatted to fellow travellers, gotten onto the bus, paid your fare and looked down to find you’re still wearing your nightie? (And it’s an Ann Summers see-thru creation, obviously someone else’s, and you’ve no knickers on.) Well that was the feeling I had while smiling fixedly at Fran and while frantically wishing I had made more of an effort with my make-up, my clothes, my hair, my nails, my shoes, possibly even had a leg wax.

  I was wearing slightly balding-on-the-backside, grey velour jogging bottoms with a matching zip-up top, which had definitely seen better days, but which, at 7.30 that morning had seemed like a good idea, all things considered. The considerations being that I would be spending the day in George’s builder’s yard in what was laughingly called the office.
This was really just a grubby, portable cabin-type thing where the only human contact I could expect would be in the form of old Mick, who sweeps the yard and cleans out the cement mixers and who sometimes grunts a greeting in my direction and who should have retired years ago but who keeps turning up and getting paid anyway, and Billy, who takes the deliveries, and who is so shy he can’t even manage eye contact.

  But, the impromptu arrival of Fran, in her seductress get-up, not quite as fantastic as one had imagined, but nonetheless a thousand times more resplendent than me at that particular moment, hoisted me and my sleepy morning ensemble into the category of candidate for Trinnie and Susannah:

  Ooh Susannah! Just look at her arse in those pants, like ferrets in a sack. And those tits, wobbling around inside that revolting top! She could be mistaken for something bovine, an escapee from a farmyard, yet this is one of our own species! Can you believe it? Well I’m sorry, but if I looked like that, it would be back to the bottle for me (Champers of course, dahling. Oh and vintage).

  Of course there was nothing else for it but to offer the Preying Mantis a cup of tea while we soaked up each other’s discomfort, under the umbrella of feigned, friendly chit-chat.

  I gave Fran her tea. She gave me a benevolent smile. What on earth do you talk about to the woman you suspect wants to bed your husband? Perhaps I could ask her if she’d been up to anything exciting lately, but thought better of it. Knowing what I knew of Fran, there was every possibility she had thwarted an Al Qaeda attempt to blow up the local library and if she tried to tell me about it, I would seriously lose the will to live.

  So instead I said, “I was just thinking, what a pain it is having to do these accounts, life’s too short to balance a spreadsheet. Don’t you agree?”

  Fran spoke through a fixed smile which she probably kept in a drawer and which went on with her make-up.