The Never Have I Ever Club

by Mary Jayne Baker

  He showed them a photo of a man around their age, mid-thirties. He was good-looking, greying at the temples in a sexy, silver fox type of way. Nice smile, fashionable shirt, deep brown eyes. He looked pretty perfect to Robyn.

  ‘Serial philanderer?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Possibly, but he’d hardly put that in his dating profile. No, it’s worse than that.’

  ‘Ooh, let me have a go.’ Freya snatched the phone off her brother and examined the photo, her nose practically against the screen. ‘Okay, I’ve got it. You’ve cropped the photo in the middle. Corduroys, I bet. Or – shit, it’s not board shorts, is it?’

  Eliot shook his head. ‘Wrong again. You want me to tell you?’

  ‘Yeah, go on,’ Robyn said, intrigued as to what could possibly be wrong with George Clooney’s fit younger brother.

  ‘Winnie.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s his name. Winnie. Short for Winston, I guess.’

  ‘Yikes,’ Freya said, casting a gleeful look at poor Winnie. ‘You’re right, that’s irredeemable.’

  ‘Come on, girls, tell me honestly. Could you ever do it with a Winnie?’

  Robyn shook her head. ‘It’s just too posh. I mean, unless he’s from a family weirdly obsessed with bears. “Oh, this is Winnie, and have you met Paddington, Rupert, Yogi and our youngest, Gentle Ben?”’

  Freya nodded. ‘Seconded. Sorry, Winnie.’

  Eliot presented another three candidates for their consideration – unlucky-in-love Gerard, who at thirty-four had been divorced no fewer than four times; Paul, who was forty-three but only interested in women twenty-five or under (‘And ladies, please don’t waste my time and yours – no munters’), and handsome, grinning Bradley, who had a passion for collecting lawnmowers. ‘What’s Wrong With Him?’ was voted a success and added to the official list of club games.

  ‘Okay, hobbies,’ Freya said. ‘Robyn, how’s the plan to replace sex with crochet going?’

  ‘It’s going well, in that I’m not having any sex, and badly, in that I’m crap at crochet.’

  ‘Well, keep practising. El, how about you?’

  ‘Not so well. I joined a film club at the village hall.’

  ‘Okay, and…?’

  ‘They’re having an Idris Elba season. How am I supposed to not think about sex when there’s Idris Elba?’

  ‘Hmm. I can see how that might be rough. Maybe try something a bit less stimulating, like vegetable-growing.’ She banged her gavel. ‘Right, we’ll catch up again next week. Meeting adjourned.’

  2

  When Robyn headed out for work the next morning, Will was on his driveway, scraping ice off his windscreen.

  ‘Morning,’ he said with a cheery nod, entirely unembarrassed at being caught in his Oscar the Grouch lounge pants and dressing gown.

  Robyn wished she felt as relaxed as he seemed to be. Despite the November chill, she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks as she thought about the last time she’d seen him. Or rather, the last time he’d seen her. A whole damn lot of her.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, summoning her brightest smile. ‘Dress-down Friday at the surgery, is it?’

  He laughed. ‘No, just thought I’d better tackle the ice before I jumped in the shower, give the antifreeze time to work its magic. I’m at the Glen this morning. So, did you have a good time yesterday?’

  She stared at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s meeting night on Thursdays, isn’t it? The Shag Marry Kill Club?’

  Robyn laughed. ‘Oh, that. For a minute I thought you meant – you’re way behind, Will. The Mid-Nineties Sean Bean Appreciation Society replaced The Shag Marry Kill Club yonks ago.’

  ‘Freya’s idea?’

  ‘Yeah, she made us switch after retro Beany kept cropping up as her shag choice. She’s got her own gavel now, you know.’

  ‘Heh, I bet she loves that. So are you guys still Beanying?’

  ‘No, after Eliot broke up with Jackson and we ran out of episodes of Sharpe we changed to The Happy Singles Club. We haven’t quite finalised the official club badge design yet, but otherwise it’s going well.’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence as Robyn’s unasked question hung in the air. Not so long ago, Will would have been welcome to join the three of them for their regular Thursday pub night. But now… now everything was weird.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said at last. ‘I have to brush Cerberpus before we open, otherwise she gets mange.’

  ‘The glamorous life of a folk museum curator, eh?’

  ‘Technically, I’m only a folk museum steward, but I appreciate the promotion.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘The money, I think.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She shrugged. ‘To be honest I’m lucky to still be in a job. Not many backwater museums like ours have a full-time steward these days. Most run on a volunteer rota.’

  ‘How come ours has one then?’

  ‘Some of the exhibits are pretty valuable, hard as it is to believe.’ Robyn sighed. ‘Still, it does feel like I’m one budget review away from redundancy. If visitor numbers don’t improve, the council might even decide to close us and house our stuff elsewhere.’

  Will looked up from his de-icing. ‘Bloody hell, are things as bad as all that?’

  ‘Other than the odd tourist, we’re like a ghost museum.’ She managed a smile. ‘Anyway, I’ll stop boring you with our woes. I’d better go get the place smartened up. Eliot’s bringing his class over this morning.’

  ‘Hey,’ Will said as she turned to leave.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, would you be free a fortnight Wednesday for a thing?’

  ‘What type of a thing?’

  ‘I got talked into helping at the senior citizens’ Christmas social at the village hall. Wondered if you fancied pitching in.’

  ‘Senior citizens’ social?’ Robyn pulled a face. ‘Yes, well, fun as that sounds, I’ve actually got some unsightly facial hair I need to epilate that night, so…’

  He shrugged. ‘I just thought it’d be nice to hang out. I hardly see you any more.’

  Again, the wave of guilt. Again, the sharp stab in her gut when she looked at Will – good old Will, who she’d known since they were both eight years old – and saw his brother’s charming, treacherous face looking back at her.

  ‘I’d have thought you saw plenty of me yesterday,’ she said, attempting a light-hearted tone.

  ‘Come on, Bloom, what do you say? Yesterday was all well and good, but it’s the other bits of you I miss.’

  She flushed. ‘Look, Will, I’m sorry we’ve not seen much of each other lately. Just… you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He smiled sadly and turned back to his car. ‘I guess I’ll see you around then. And try not to worry, eh?’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ she muttered as she headed in the direction of Kettlewick Castle.

  The castle was, in fact, not a castle at all but a two-storey cottage in the village’s main square. The name had been the original owner’s idea of a joke. The cottage sat right opposite the war memorial and one on from Cockburn’s corner shop.

  The whole place was a bit of a joke really, although Robyn would go full Scrappy Doo on the ass of anyone who had the chutzpah to say so. Only she and her Aunt Felicity had that right, earned through years of polishing the creepy wax dolls and brushing down their star exhibit, a stuffed cat with three heads they’d christened Cerberpus.

  ‘Morning,’ Felicity said when Robyn got in. She was hard at work, applying generous squirts of Windolene to the glass cabinets.

  Robyn smiled at the lively old lady, clad in one of her homemade tie-dye dresses. She could never fathom why Felicity chose to spend her retirement volunteering in the world’s naffest folk museum, but she was grateful for the company.

  ‘Morning,’ Robyn said. ‘All set for today?’

  ‘Oh yes, the precious lambs of Year Three will be
joining us, won’t they?’ Felicity said, pulling a face. ‘I’d better check our supplies of squash and arsenic don’t need topping up.’

  ‘At least we’re getting some guaranteed custom. If the council gets wind of how few people we’ve had in this month, they might finally decide to pull our funding.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ Felicity said, looking fierce under her long silver tresses.

  Robyn sighed. ‘I wish we could afford some new exhibits.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the ones we’ve got?’

  ‘Nothing, except that everyone round here’s seen them a hundred times over.’ She pulled up a chair behind her desk. ‘A new exhibition might go some way to bringing in more customers.’

  ‘Could we put in an application for extra funding?’

  ‘I’ve applied for every pot going. It’s so competitive now, little museums like ours never seem to get a look-in.’

  ‘Our time will come, you’ll see.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Robyn shoved the mess of yarn and crochet hooks on her desk to one side and seized gratefully on a mug of coffee that seemed to be for her. Felicity glanced up from her polishing.

  ‘So, my duck, how did you get on at the doctor’s?’

  ‘Medically? I won’t know for two weeks. Socially? I’ll never live it down.’

  ‘Oh dear. It didn’t go and do something odd while you were having it looked at, did it?’

  ‘If by it you mean my vagina, then no.’ Robyn grimaced. ‘They assigned me the wrong doctor. Will had to examine me.’

  ‘Young Dr Barnes, eh?’ Felicity shrugged. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. He’d be welcome to give my bits the once-over.’

  Robyn smiled. ‘Really, you’re trotting out “randy old lady”? You’re not going to get a rise out of me with that, you know. It got old with The Fast Show.’

  ‘I don’t know why I still bother trying,’ Felicity said, laughing. ‘I know you pride yourself on being unshockable.’

  Robyn took a sip of her coffee and coughed. ‘Bloody hell, Aunty, what’s in this?’

  Felicity grinned. ‘Just a nip of bourbon. I thought you might need a pick-me-up after yesterday’s ordeal.’

  ‘Fliss, it’s half-eight in the morning! I can’t be drinking on the job. The kids’ll be here soon.’

  ‘It’s only a tiny bit – help settle your nerves.’ She shot Robyn a keen look. ‘You know, I wasn’t entirely joking before. Handsome lad, Will Barnes.’

  Robyn took another sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste. As soon as Fliss wasn’t looking, she’d pour it down the sink and make a proper cup. The last thing she needed was the Kettlewick Primary kids telling their parents that the museum lady reeked of booze first thing in the morning.

  ‘And my evil ex’s exact double,’ she reminded her aunt.

  Fliss shrugged. ‘A good-looking man is a good-looking man. How did Will feel about it?’

  ‘Oh, he was all professionalism, with a few jokes chucked in. He’s good at that stuff – knowing what to say to put you at ease.’ Robyn blinked into her coffee. ‘I’m worried, Aunty. Worried it might be something… bad.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘It’s not daft though, is it? You remember Grace Barnes.’

  Felicity hobbled over to rest a hand on Robyn’s shoulder. ‘Robyn, you’re a healthy young woman with many years ahead of you. That’s all that’s worrying you – you so rarely get ill that one little change in your body sends you into a panic.’

  ‘Has it ever happened to you?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I’m seventy-six years old. I’m in and out of doctors’ surgeries more times in the week than you need to visit the little girls’ room.’

  ‘But has this ever happened to you? Have you ever had any bleeding where you didn’t know the cause?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But it’ll be nothing, I’m sure of it.’ She pressed a small gemstone into Robyn’s hand. ‘Here, I brought you this.’

  ‘You know I don’t believe in that crystal stuff.’

  ‘But I do. Take it for me, eh? I’ll feel better knowing it’s with you.’

  ‘Oh, go on then.’ Robyn gave the hand resting on her shoulder a pat. ‘Thanks for caring, Aunty.’

  Felicity drew one finger over the stone. ‘Clear quartz, for healing. I’m sure you won’t need it, but just keep it in your pocket. Can’t do any harm, can it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Robyn slipped it into her pocket and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s get the place spruced up. The little poppets of Year Three will be here in an hour.’

  *

  Robyn was trying to occupy her mind with the granny square blanket she was crocheting when she heard the chatter of young voices outside. Eliot poked his head through the museum door.

  ‘Are you ready for us, Ms Bloom?’

  She put her crocheting down and stood up. ‘Yeah, in you come.’

  Eliot beckoned to the gang of seven- and eight-year-olds lined up behind him. ‘All right, you lot.’

  The kids piled in, a couple of parent helpers bringing up the rear.

  ‘Okay, gang,’ Eliot said in his bossy teacher voice. ‘We’re very lucky to have the castle to ourselves, so I want you all on your best behaviour while Ms Bloom shows us some interesting things from Kettlewick’s history. No wandering off, talking out of turn or generally being a pain in the backside until we get back to school. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Miller,’ the kids chorused.

  Robyn stifled a smirk. It was weird seeing her friend doing his job, like a real grown-up.

  ‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to Kettlewick Castle Heritage Museum,’ she said to the group, who were already casting underwhelmed glances around the exhibits. She nodded to Felicity. ‘My lovely assistant, Miss Heath here, will hand out some Treasure Trail sheets and then we’ll—’

  A hand attached to a brassy-looking ginger lass shot into the air.

  ‘Why’s it called a castle when it’s not then, Miss?’ she demanded.

  Eliot frowned. ‘I think Ms Bloom would prefer to answer questions at the end, Laurie. You’ve been told before it’s bad manners to interrupt.’

  ‘But I put my hand up!’ Laurie’s lip started to wobble. ‘I did it like I was s’posed to, didn’t I? Put my hand up, didn’t I? Don’t see why I’m in trouble if I put my hand up.’

  ‘It’s okay, I don’t mind answering questions as we go.’ Robyn flashed the little girl a smile. ‘It’s not a very interesting story, I’m afraid. The house was known as Kettlewick Castle long before it was a museum. I think the man who built the place thought it was funny.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because it’s not a castle. Just an ordinary house. It’s a joke, you see?’

  Laurie pondered this for a moment. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. The other kids nodded in agreement.

  ‘I guess it’s not a very funny joke,’ Robyn conceded. ‘There was no TV in those days so people had lower expectations when it came to comedy.’

  The children stared at her blankly.

  ‘No TV?’ one lad whispered to his friend. ‘What did people even do?’

  ‘Aha!’ Robyn seized gratefully on the prompt. ‘Funnily enough, that’s one thing you’re here today to learn about. The Treasure Trail sheets please, Miss Heath.’

  Felicity handed out worksheets and pencils, then the kids followed Robyn upstairs.

  ‘This,’ she said, gesturing around a second-storey room, ‘is our Cabinet of Curiosities.’ She tried to convey a bit of PT Barnum showmanship in her tone, although she might as well have been exhibiting wallpaper swatches for all the interest the kids showed.

  ‘Oooh!’ Eliot said in a painfully transparent attempt to drum up some enthusiasm. ‘That sounds exciting, doesn’t it, guys?’

  There was a noncommittal murmur from the group.

  Robyn tried not to feel hurt at the kids’ lack of engagement. It did seem like she had to work harder to impress school groups t
hese days, in the era of smartphones and entertainment on tap. Well, that was to be expected. They were children, after all.

  Still, she couldn’t help feeling it was a little unfair. They did have some really interesting stuff in the museum. In this room alone were three of Robyn’s favourite pieces: a nineteenth-century mask from South America, a genuine German First World War helmet and an ivory Meerschaum pipe carved in the shape of a lion’s head. Not to mention the other fascinating little pieces dotted around the castle, a story behind every one of them.

  ‘What’s curiosities mean, Miss?’ the gobby kid, Laurie, demanded.

  ‘Curiosities, or curios for short, were sort of conversation pieces,’ Robyn told her. ‘They could be anything rare or interesting. The Victorians were very keen on them. In fact, people used to travel miles to visit fairs and private collections where they could look at them.’

  ‘What, and pay money?’

  ‘Sometimes. I know it seems strange to us now, but like I said, there was no internet or TV back then.’

  The boy next to Laurie curled his lip at Cerberpus, who’d fixed him with a creepy blank-eyed stare from her glass case. ‘You mean people paid money just to see a yucky old cat with three heads?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Robyn felt her smile wobble and screwed it back into place. ‘Things like Cerberpus – the cat, I mean – were seen as wonders of nature. People were fascinated by them.’

  ‘Why’s it got three heads anyway? I never seen a three-headed cat in real life. Is it special effects?’

  ‘Multiple heads sometimes occur when an animal has a partially formed conjoined twin,’ Robyn told him. ‘They’re usually born dead though, sad to say. But our friend Cerberpus here is actually a fake. The conman who made her just took three cats and stitched them together, then sold her as a curiosity to the house’s original owner. When that owner’s grandson died in the 1950s, he left the family curio collection and this house to the village to be preserved as a museum.’

  ‘What, he stitched the cats together while they were alive?’ one little girl whispered, staring at Cerberpus in horrified fascination.

  ‘Oh, no, sweetie, nothing so awful as that,’ Robyn said. ‘He’d have used three dead cats.’