‘What! I’m seventeen, we don’t do notes at my age,’ Trisha cried incredulous. ‘What next?’ she added placing her mug down on the draining board, the tea sloshing over the top. ‘Leave it with me I’ll sort it without a note!’
Doreen waited until Trisha had left for school before she phoned Jan and Mr Drew. Her voice sounded pathetic as she relayed to Jan too much detail about her condition. ‘As soon as I’m able to keep away from the lavvy for any length of time, I’ll be back. You can’t believe what a body can do,’ she said, cringing at her lie. ‘Hopefully I won’t run out of bog roll.’ Despite her fabrication, she giggled at the last piece of information. She would put Jan in the picture as soon as she could.
She had kept the details to a minimum for Mark Drew, adding, ‘I don’t want to pass anything on to Mrs Drew or the boys.’
‘I understand and thank you for letting me know. We’ll miss you, but please get well,’ Mark said and hearing his concern made her feel deceitful. Mr Drew didn’t deserve this after all he had been good enough to give her another job. It had made a difference financially even though she was knackered with all the hours. She was conscious it would be hard telling Mrs Drew she would not be cleaning and looking after things for them all. She liked the family and felt more than sorry for how ill Mrs Drew was. She had seen at first hand the way her illness was affecting everything. A lump rose in her throat at what she would have to do.
Not wanting to go down that road just yet, she went to her bedroom. More importantly she needed to concentrate on what she was going to wear to go to the bank. Jeans and trainers were a no no. She needed something decent. After all, she would be following in the steps of a great lady, the Queen Mother. Would she see the queen? Just thinking about where she was going made her knees weak. She plonked down on her bed. This was not good, she sighed. Until she had her winnings, she was still skint. ‘The charity shop,’ she cried out. That’s where I’ll go. ‘Why hadn’t I thought of that before?’ she said. Nobody needs to know where her outfit came from. Yes, that was the answer. Bolstered by shopping for new clothes, Doreen headed to the bathroom.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stepping off the bus, Doreen looked up at the sky and saw the sun peek through a bank of heavy clouds. It was as if the sun was winking at her. She winked back and smiled at her imagination. Pulling up the zip on her jacket and with a jaunty stride, Doreen headed down the High Street to the best charity shop in town. A couple of years ago she had been rooting through a pile of clothes and to her delight had found a designer wrap. She could never understand how people could throw away such lovely clothes, though she was glad they did: the wrap had become her comfort blanket. Anytime she felt the need for comfort she would wrap it around her, snuggle down on the sofa and believe she was as well off as the person who had originally owned it. After tomorrow she would also be wealthy.
‘Blimey,’ she said out loud. No way could she get her head around it all. She laughed at the pantomime that was going on in her life right now. A passer-by turned and gave her a dubious look. ‘Morning,’ Doreen called and was ignored. Doreen didn’t care and laughed again.
Still chuckling, Doreen pushed open the door of Smart Buy charity shop. A buzzer sounded at the intrusion. Closing the door behind her, the musty smell of clothes, books and other old items, filled the shop. Why did they always smell like this?
‘Good morning,’ a grey haired woman said, folding garments on a table in the middle of the shop.
‘Morning,’ Doreen called moving toward the woman. She did not miss the maroon pleated skirt and green cardigan. A row of pearls around her throat that looked too heavy for her neck to hold. Doreen wondered if this was a uniform for charity workers because the three ladies she had seen over the years dressed very similarly. She noticed a name badge pinned to the woman’s cardigan. Mrs Jordan, it read.
‘Can I help you find something particular?’ Mrs Jordan asked in a birdlike voice.
Casting her eye over the racks of clothes scattered around the small shop, Doreen responded. ‘I’m looking for a dress and a jacket to match if possible.’
‘Well, let me see what we can find for you,’ Mrs Jordan said, leaving the folding and moving to Doreen’s side. ‘There are three rails of clothes over there,’ the charity worker said pointing to where the rails were jammed between racks of shoes.
Shuffling between boxes and piles of paperback books, Doreen slid the coat hangers along the rail and sighed. There was nothing here that would do. Turning to the next rail, she checked out the clothes hanging there and grimaced. What seemed to be a good idea in coming to the shop was proving to be a waste of time.
Reaching the end of the third rail, her heart missed a beat. What was this? Biting her bottom lip with anticipation, she plucked the coat hanger off the rail and stared at the dress.
‘Hideous isn’t it,’ Mrs Jordan cooed gazing over Doreen’s shoulder. ‘It has been here for weeks. It’s hard to imagine anyone wearing it.’ Mrs Jordan shook her head as if the dress had a contagious disease.
Only half listening, all Doreen could think was that the dress was perfect. A mass of purple sequins, it shimmered in the shop’s lights like moonlight on a silver pond. Oh my goodness, what a find and crossed her fingers that it would fit. Her face beamed as she held it against her body. The coat hanger in her face she peeked round to see how it looked. There was no doubt in her mind it was made for her.
‘I think this will be perfect,’ she said ignoring Mrs Jordan’s scathing remark. ‘I don’t suppose I could try it on?’
Amusement filled Mrs Jordan’s face. ‘Well, there is the little kitchenette at the back of the shop where we make tea. It is fairly private, I suppose you could go in there.’
‘Great,’ Doreen cried, draping the dress over her arm and followed Mrs Jordan through the melee of donations.
Slipping her clothes off, Doreen shivered. It was like an ice house in here. With goose bumps coming out on her skin, she slipped the dress off the coat hanger and stepped into it. She tugged and tugged, but it refused to pull up over her legs. Holding her tummy in, she wriggled, the dress slowly slithered up enough for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. It was a snug fit and the hem sat just above her knees. Breathing in she managed to encourage the zip to close. To be comfortable she would have to wear very thin underwear or none at all. She tried not to giggle at the latter idea, particularly as the dress was on the short side.
‘Don’t be racy,’ she tittered looking around for a mirror to see how fabulous the dress looked. There wasn’t one. Raising her arms in the air, as if she was a model revealing the latest fashion, she skipped out of the kitchenette and with a twirl, cried out. ‘What do you think?’
‘Good grief!’ Mrs Jordan squealed staring as Doreen cavorted around on the spot in stocking feet.
‘It fits like a glove,’ Doreen said triumphantly. Holding in her breath she traced her finger tips down the sequins.
Speechless, Mrs Jordan stared, her face a mixture of amusement and astonishment.
‘No clue what it costs, but I’ll take it,’ Doreen called over her shoulder hurrying back into the kitchenette.
‘It’s for a special do I’m going to tomorrow,’ Doreen offered, returning back into the shop and laying the dress on the desk where Mrs Jordan stood silently behind. ‘You see, I need something special and this is special. Oh, and I need a pair of shoes,’ she added, ignoring the stunned expression of the charity worker.
Stepping over to the shoe rack, Doreen raked over the collection and spied a pair of black shoes with a kitten heel. Lifting them off the rack, once again, she slipped off her trainers and pushed her feet into the shoes. Blimey, they pinched a bit. She checked the rack again, but there was nothing that would suit. She would have to take the black shoes. ‘I’ll have these as well,’ Doreen chuckled, dropping them next to the dress. ‘Oh, and I’ll have this too,’ she added, noting a bright red scarf on the side of the table, ‘it will make a perfect shaw
l.’
Taking hold of the shawl, Mrs Jordan grimaced, ‘Whatever function you will be attending, I am sure you will be noticed,’ she said, stuffing the dress in a plastic bag. ‘The dress is very unusual and has been in the shop for some time, so let me charge you just four pounds for it, two pounds for the shoes and one pound fifty for the scarf. One should not over charge for something so loud and reckless.’ With a sly grin on her face, Mrs Jordan stuffed the shawl and shoes into a used plastic bag, then handed the two bags to Doreen.
Doreen didn’t miss the sarcasm from the woman, but ignored it. She had far more exciting things to think about, in particular, where she would be going to wear her special purchases. ‘Oh, I will,’ Doreen said and headed for the door. She could not believe in a million years she would find something so perfect. She almost skipped home with the excitement of her purchases. Already she felt like a millionaire and tomorrow she would look like one too.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘Da da… What do you think?’ Doreen squealed entering the lounge with a twirl. She looked straight at her daughter then threw her arms in the air.
With a mug of tea in her hand, Trisha stared, her eyebrows arching.
‘Wow! That is so you,’ she cried, a beaming smile lightening her dark eyes. She had seen the dress yesterday afternoon after arriving home from school. It was impossible not to miss. It hung from a coat hanger, on the back of the lounge door, the purple sequins creating a dazzling prism on the walls from the big light. It was loud and over the top and it was just perfect for her mother. Seeing it had brought a lump to her throat knowing how important it was for Doreen to look and feel great. She had never seen her mother dress in anything other than jeans and trainers, though Doreen had changed her jeans for a pair of tight fitted trousers when she had needed to attend her school. She grimaced at the memories, she preferred the jeans!
Whilst admiring the dress, Trisha had heard her mother singing, a sound rarely heard; Doreen’s dulcet tones chorused with the clattering of dishes in the kitchen. Trisha was confident she had not been seen and had crept out of the flat, her destination to a small second hand shop near school. A sly smile now crept across her face as she remembered her little sojourn and wanted to keep her secret a little longer. It would be worth the wait.
Now as she took in her effervescent mother giggling and throwing her arms in the air, she felt tears prick the back of her eyes at what this day meant. She had never loved her more than she did now and knew her mother deserved it all, no matter how many noughts were on the end of those winning pounds.
Trisha blinked rapidly to hide her emotions and biting on her bottom lip replied, ‘Lordy, lordy, the bank will see you coming before you arrive, but you look absolutely fabulous.’ Not trusting her voice to add more, she stopped and edged towards her mother and wrapped her arms around her.
‘Awww, thanks. No matter how old you might think you are, you will always be my baby and I can tell you, I’m gonna make sure we have a day to remember. You and me are going to make this the best memory of our lives,’ Doreen said, her voice catching.
Feeling Trisha’s arms slacken, Doreen placed her hands around Trisha’s face and dropped a kiss on her daughter’s soft cheek. ‘Loves you, gal.’
‘Me too. I mean, I love you and we will have the best day ever, even if it is just visiting a bank.’
‘Not any old bank, it’s the queen mother’s,’ Doreen said, ‘and I don’t want to spoil my outfit, so I’m away to whip it off else I’ll end up crushing the sequins or worse spilling breakfast all over it and that will never do.’ Stepping back, Doreen padded to her bedroom, her voice ringing out, ‘Who want’s to be a millionaire…’
Dressed in a black top, black fitted trousers and black jacket, Trisha opened the cupboard under the sink. Fishing around at the back, she pulled out a paper carrier bag. She checked the clock on the wall then strolled into the lounge. Standing in the middle of the room, her arms behind her back, Trisha called out, ‘Better get a move on, Mama, or the taxi driver will be banging on our door or, worse, driving away without us.’
‘Gawd, Trish, I ain’t used to putting on tights these days,’ Doreen moaned staggering into the room and tugging at her bottom, ‘they fought me all the way up to me…’
‘Too much information,’ Trisha cut in.
Doreen threw her daughter an amused look and continued. ‘On top of that, I had to squeeze me feet into these.’ She pointed at her new shoes to reinforce her words. ‘I wore thick socks all afternoon yesterday to try get them to stretch and they have a bit, but overnight my feet must have grown.’ She sighed, trying to stand up straight.
Trisha took in the black court shoes with the kitten heels and sniggered; they were the only sombre part of Doreen’s ensemble. The shoes looked like they had gone to the wrong party. Thankfully, her mother had borrowed a pair of her black tights; she shuddered to think what colour would be adorning her legs today if she hadn’t. Trisha’s eyes travelled up from Doreen’s shoes to her shoulders. Stopping, she gulped at the sight of the scarf loosely draped around her mother’s shoulders. It wasn’t the size or shape that startled her, it was the colour. ‘You simply can’t wear that shawly thing. It clashes.’
‘What with?’ Doreen squealed, fingering the scarlet shawl.
‘Everything!’
‘Not my shoes, surely?’
‘Mama, we are going to the bank not a carnival. Come here.’
‘I don’t understand. I love red and purple.’ Sheepishly Doreen tottered over to her daughter, disappointment veiling her face.
‘That’s fine, but red and purple don’t go well together,’ Trisha explained. Swinging her hands from behind her back she revealed a paper carrier bag and with a look of triumph, handed it over. ‘What about this?’
Staring at the offering, Doreen’s voice, barely audible, asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Look inside and you’ll find out.’
Cautiously, Doreen reached out and retrieved the bag. As she peeped inside, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Then gazing into Trisha’s face, she removed her hand, ‘What have you done?’ she whispered and slowly pulled the contents out leaving the bag to fall to the floor. Holding the garment up in front of her, ‘Trish, it’s beautiful,’ Doreen’s voice faltered. A tear slipped down her cheek. ‘Where did you get this from?’ she murmured, leaving the tear to fall off the end of her chin.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Trisha said. Leaning forward, she removed the red shawl, took her present from Doreen’s hand and held it open. The cream faux fur shrug fit perfectly.
‘I simply couldn’t have you going to the Queen Mother’s bank without something that was you.’ Taking in the stunning picture of her mother, Trisha added, ‘Now you look a million dollars.’ She didn’t miss another tear slip down Doreen’s face as she stroked the soft fury garment. She had seen the shrug in the shop window before all hell had broken lose with the lottery win. After seeing what her mother had bought yesterday she knew the faux fur shrug would complete the outfit. It had taken all her money, but what the heck! It was priceless seeing Doreen so happy and, after today, her mother would be able to buy, not only the real thing, but brand new and probably the shop that sells them too.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘It’s not real,’ Doreen cried kicking her shoes off and flopping down on the sofa. ‘I’ve made a fool of myself, ain’t I? Because if not, where is that bleedin’ taxi?’
Gritting her teeth, Trisha ignored the outcry, aware her mother’s emotions were all over the place with so much happening and so fast. No way could this be a joke, but where was the taxi? Pulling open the front door with more force than necessary, Trisha marched across the landing and leaned over the wall. She looked down on to the street searching for the taxi. Apart from several parked cars and an elderly couple walking their dog, the street was quiet. She stomped back into the flat, leaving the door open.
‘This is not happening,’ Trisha simpered under her breat
h. Poking her head into the lounge saw Doreen reach for her packet of cigarettes. ‘I thought you weren’t going to smoke in your new dress,’ she snapped and instantly regretted it.
‘Bloody hell,’ Doreen shouted startled, ‘I wasn’t but what else can I do?’
‘Try to hang on a few more minutes, please. We don’t want the queen smelling stale cigarettes if she happens to bump into you,’ Trisha said thinking what a ridiculous thing to say. The chance of seeing the queen was as likely as meeting that scoundrel, fictional pirate, Jesamiah whose escapades she had enjoyed in the Sea Witch series.
Pushing crazy thoughts of queens and pirates from her mind, she tramped out of the room and again checked down on the road.
A taxi pulled up outside Wentworth House. Relief flooded through Trisha. ‘Yes,’ she said with force. Waving her arms to attract the driver, to her delight she saw him look up and wave back.
‘Get your shoes on, Mama, it’s not the posh black limousine we had the other day, but it is a car for us, Trisha hollered, racing back into the flat. ‘Come on, we’re off to see the queen,’ she added taking hold of her mother’s arm. ‘Bet you’re glad you didn’t have that ciggie now.’
‘Sorry I’m late,’ the driver said, his voice edged with stress as he opened the rear door. ‘The traffic was manic, the place will grind to halt before much longer,’ he added with conviction.
Doreen nodded. She couldn’t care less about the state of the traffic, the fact he had turned up was far more important.
‘Right,’ she said, feeling the need to acknowledge his statement. Slipping into the back seat her dress rode up her legs revealing the top of her thighs. ‘Blimey,’ she muttered, she was not supposed to be showing off her assets. She wriggled and tugged at the hem. With her dress pulled down she found she was unable to cross her legs. Crikey, the dress was much tighter than she had realised. Accepting she had better sit still, she pinched her knees together. What a way to travel to the Queen Mum’s bank, she mused and wished she could have a ciggie. The last one she’d had was standing outside on the landing. It was not the best place to be, half the neighbourhood walked past nodding at her or winking.
The Birthday Card Page 13