by June Hopkins
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Copyright
© 2011 June Hopkins
The right of June Hopkins to be identified as the Author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in July 2011 on e/book
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the author or in the case of reprographic production in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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For Uncle Tony
You always believed that I could do it.
For my Dad and Mum
You are always there for me
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Acknowledgements
This book has taken me 4 years to write on and off and only last year did I pluck up the courage to show it to anyone other than my lovely husband Pete. I need to say a huge thank you to Rachel and Marie who read my first draft and encouraged me with kind words to carry on and finish the book. After that initial boost I plucked up more courage and allowed my workmates, Leila, Debbie and Vicki to read it. Once again they enjoyed it and pushed me to finish it.
Eventually I confessed to other friends that I was a closet writer and offered up the book for criticism to Shelly, Leanne, Rose, Claire, Karen and Sue, they were all enthusiastic and because of all of these fantastic friends I have now published my first book as an e/book, excited doesn’t come close to how I am feeling.
Leila and Rose you have read and reread this so many times I am sure you know the story better than me so a special thank you to both of you for your endurance.
And last but not least, thanks to my cousin Ellen Hopkins for the fabulous front cover.
Chapter 1
The shrill buzzing and crackling sound of loud disjointed music penetrates my alcohol soaked brain. I carefully open one bloodshot eye, then immediately snap it shut again as the morning sun shines into it from my open curtains. I reach out a heavy arm to locate the offending noise, swatting ineffectually at my old clock radio. Finally finding the off button, I groan with relief as silence returns to the room. Gingerly I sit up keeping eyes closed and head very still, testing my hungover state. OK, not good.
With bleary eyes and heavy limbs I extricate myself from the tangle of bedclothes and take slow steps to the bathroom as sounds of the Hair Bear Bunch drift up the stairs from the TV.
Crikey that's apt, judging by my reflection in the bathroom mirror. What a mess! Bloodshot eyes artistically rimmed with last night's make up, pale cheeks and dark brown hair which is completely flat to the head on the left, sporting a bush effect at the back and what can only be described as large tufts on the right. Bloody hell, worse than I thought, "Annie what were you thinking?" I ask my reflection.
A quarter of an hour later I am showered, dressed in jeans and t-shirt and running down the stairs with wet hair and zero makeup shouting, "Harry have you had your breakfast? Are you dressed? Oh please say you're dressed." I bound into the lounge and pull up short when I take in the sight of my seven year old son who is sitting on the sofa dressed in his school uniform, shoes on and partially laced, school bag in hand, his breakfast bowl sitting empty on the coffee table.
"Gosh Harry, you're keen," I exclaim in surprise.
Harry smiles at me showing the gap between his top teeth.
"It's walk-to-school week next week mum, we have to walk today for practice and then if I walk for the whole of next week I get a badge and a 'tificate. I gave you the letter mum," Harry tells me proudly.
"What?" I shriek, “We can't walk darling, we'll be late!"
Harry throws his bag down on the floor. "You always say that, it's not fair, all my friends are walking. You always say we'll be late and if I don't walk I won't get a badge!"
I cringe. He's right of course: we never walk anywhere. I'm always late for everything. I don't have the time to walk.
"Look Harry what if I promise we will walk all of next week: it doesn't start until Monday, just give me time to get used to the idea?" I'm pleading with him now. The thought of a brisk walk right at this moment is enough to turn my stomach and it will have to be brisk. It's nearly 8.45am and Harry has to be there in ten minutes. Guiltily I know that more often than not we arrive at the school just before 9.00 am, pull up outside the gates, Harry dives out of the car and runs full pelt across the empty playground and into class after everyone else is already inside. Drive-through mum that's what I am.
"No!" Harry is adamant. His beautiful bright blue eyes hold a look of mutiny. He jumps up and glares at me: he clearly has no intention of backing down on this issue.
"Oh God," I groan with feeling, "well come on then." I snap. "I can't believe you are making me do this.” I bend down to redo his shoe laces roughly. “You will have to walk fast and don't start complaining to me if you get tired. Have you done your teeth?"
"Yes." Harry tells me proudly as he picks up his school bag and rucksack and merrily breezes past me on his way to the back door. Bloody hell, I could grab him by the neck and cheerfully throttle him, not to mention the sadistic person at the school who thought of this cunning plan in the first place.
The school is only a six-minute walk on a dry day from our little cottage if we cross the style at the bottom of the garden and follow the footpath over the field; and so I follow him with teeth grit, shoving my feet haphazardly into an old pair of trainers. I mutter crossly to myself as I lock the back door and stomp off down the garden after him. Another niggling, guilty thought is shoving its way to the forefront of my brain: I can't drive anyway; I must still be over the limit. God, I am a bad, bad mother!
We climb over the style and trudge off over the field, wet hair clinging to my head and Harry clinging to my hand.
Surprisingly we arrive at the school gates before the bell. I hug and kiss an excited Harry, who can hardly believe that he is going to get the chance to line up and actually go into class with his friends. "Now listen baby, you remember you are going to Tyler's tonight to stay for his birthday. Are you still ok with that?"
"Of course mummy" he says impatiently, "I can't wait. We’re going bowling and to McDonalds."
"Ok, your clothes and the present are in the rucksack so don't forget to take it after school. Now give me a kiss. I'm not going to see you until tomorrow lunch time and ring me later if you have time."
Harry is now squirming to get away. He gives me a quick kiss, grabs the rucksack and I watch with a lump in my throat as he runs off into a group of boys, his black head bobbing up and down as they all inspect some brilliant thing or other. I try to wave once more but he is too busy lining up to notice. Harry is off to yet another party tonight with a sleep over. Honestly, it comes to something when your soon to be eight year old is having a better social life than you. There seems to be a party most weekends. It drives me mad, not to mention into the red bank statement-wise: these endless presents are not cheap.
I sigh and head for home. I have to begrudgingly admit that this morning, hangover aside, has left me feeling rather “mumsy” in a pink apron and cookie baking kind of way, not that I ever bake cookies.
"Oh bugger, cakes!" I'm supposed to take cakes for the school fête tomorrow afternoon. "Shit, money!" I quickly check the pockets of my jeans and smile smugly as I pull out a screwed up £10 note. I am pretty rubbish with money and usually have something tucked away in my pockets. Doing the laundry can be quite profitable. I turn and head back to the village and the local shop.
Please don't be under any illusion here. I'm not off to buy
flour and eggs to make a cake as one would expect. Oh no, I have a master plan which has stood me in good stead over the last few years of play school cake sales and school fêtes. Oh yes. You see, the local shop carries a wonderful line in plain fairy cakes in little white paper cake wrappers. Twelve cakes for 99p, a true bargain. My plan is simple and it involves one packet of said cakes, a little icing sugar, a few hundreds and thousands, maybe cherries depending on how generous I am feeling, and a nice Tupperware container. A simple but brilliant con job which never fails.
Half an hour later I let myself back into the cottage with my wares and find my mum in the kitchen virtually up to her elbows in greasy washing up water. "Morning mum" I say cheerfully as I dump the carrier on the kitchen table. Mum peers over her shoulder at me and raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"Well, I'm surprised to see you looking so sprightly after last night." she says with a wry grin, and immediately returns her attention to yesterday's lasagne dish which she is attacking with a Brillo pad.
I cringe inwardly but decide to brazen it out.
"Actually you'll be surprised to learn that I have walked Harry to school, bought shopping in the village and I'm not feeling too bad at all. Do you want a cup of tea?" I ask as I pick up the kettle, apologising, "Sorry about the washing up; should have done that before I went out last night."
"Oh don't worry, I thought about it last night as well but I ended up playing Monopoly with Harry, and by the time I managed to get him into bed it was time for my programme and that was that."
I reach past her to fill the kettle and give her a spontaneous kiss on her cheek. "What was that for?" she asks with a smile.
"Oh just to say thank you for baby sitting. It's been ages since I've had a good night out. And for the washing up of course."
"Well, I should hope it was a good night young lady, considering the state you were in when you got home. The taxi driver had to knock on the door and ask me to help him remove you from his car. Apparently you could sue him if he manhandled you himself. Ridiculous. I suppose he would have left you lying in the lane if I hadn't been here, would he?"
"Oh yes, sorry about that." I say sheepishly. I keep my head down and busy myself with making the tea. I know she is going to remind me of every last detail of my drunken behaviour, and I sigh quietly to myself.
"And then," she continues, getting into her stride, "not satisfied with that, you promptly vomited down the side of his car. I had to drag you inside and leave you in a heap in the hallway, where, may I add, you tripped and fell. I then had to go back out with a bucket of water to clean it. Mind you, I told him it could have been worse, you could have been ill inside the car, which did not seem to cheer him up any. I then had to pay him for you, as you were incapable, and off he went muttering to himself and spinning wheels up the lane and probably waking the neighbours. Horrid little man."
She pauses for breath and finishes wiping down the sink. At last she turns, removes her apron and joins me at the kitchen table.
"Sorry mum." I tell her guiltily. I had felt myself regressing to the age of 15 during mum's tale. It appears my voice has also regressed as now I also sound like a truculent 15 year old.
Mum gives me the old eyebrows raised, lips pursed look and my head starts to disappear into my shoulders until she grins at me. My head pops back out and I smile with relief. She can't be too mad with me then.
I pour the tea and hand one to her. My mother, Mary Farnsworth, is an attractive lady at 52 years old. She still looks great, not to mention ten years younger. She might not be Madonna, but she could certainly give some of those Olay models a run for their money in the lack of wrinkles department. Mum's bobbed straight blonde highlighted hair is sleek and shiny from regular trips to the hairdresser's. She has wide, slanting, bright green laughing eyes, which I have luckily inherited, and a delicate heart shaped face which I haven't. Today she is dressed in a floaty summer printed dress and sandals, with just a dusting of nearly-there makeup. She is elegant and classy. I never fail to wonder how her natural style has not rubbed off on me: it certainly wasn't for the lack of trying on my mother's part. I've just never had that much interest in fashion. I spend most of my time, especially nowadays, in jeans and t-shirts. The only time I bother dressing up is on the odd occasion that I get out for the evening.
Taking a sip of her tea mum continues, "That's why I popped over this morning. I was worried that you hadn't got Harry off to school. The car was still outside, and I had quite a shock to find the place empty. I wondered if you'd been abducted by aliens."
I laugh, "Well, if that were the case, I can assure you they would have thrown me straight back, considering the mess I looked this morning. It wasn't pretty."
"What do you expect if you will insist on going out on a Thursday night when you have to be up in the morning? It took me ages to get you up off the floor and I couldn't leave until I had managed to force at least two coffees and some toast down you. Oh the stories you hear of these people dying in the night after getting drunk. I very nearly stayed, but you were quite adamant that you would be fine."
"Mum you know it was Mia's birthday, and you are also well aware how determined she is about celebrating her birthday, on her birthday. According to the 'Laws of Mia' there is absolutely no point in having your birthday bash on any other day; otherwise it just isn't your birthday."
Over the years this has been one of the standing jokes amongst my group of friends, to look through next year's calendar with the fervent hope that Mia's birthday (8th July) would land on a Friday or Saturday.
"So come on then, tell me all the gory details. You were wittering on last night ten to the dozen and may I say not making any sense. Where did you go, what did you get up to and most importantly, did you meet any nice men?" mum asks with a gleam in her eye.
"Mum honestly, why do you insist on trying to set me up with a 'nice' man?"
"Because my darling, you haven't got one."
"Well, no, maybe not at the moment and for your information I didn't meet one and neither do I want to right now. We went in to Cheltenham for a pub crawl, bought kebabs and went back to Mia's where we drank God knows what and the taxi picked me up at 1am. The rest you had a first hand view of. I have got some gossip though..."
"Oh yes, what's that then?"
"You'll never believe it. Guess who's getting married?"
"Who?"
"Lissa!"
"Nooooo never! You are right, I don't believe you." mum gasps, her eyes wide.
"She is, it's confirmed. Saturday 14th August, five weeks’ time, Lower Becksley Church at 4pm and afterwards at Lissa's parents' house. They are having a marquee on the lawn." I grin smugly at her shocked face.
Melissa Heaton is my best friend since school. She has been with her boyfriend Ben Rimes for eleven years; they have lived together for six and have a little girl, Holly, aged five.
Both Lissa and Ben profess to not believe in the sanctity of marriage, although truth be told Lissa is the one with the strong view on marriage, or lack of. Ben would have married her years ago but learnt to stop asking; she can be pretty stubborn. Eventually he began to believe it himself. Their views are entirely at odds with both sets of parents, especially Lissa's, as her father just happens to be the local vicar.
"Well I never thought I'd see the day. Elspeth and George must be over the moon. They have been saving for Lissa's wedding since the day she was born but why now, what's changed their minds? Lissa's not pregnant again, is she?"
"Mother, I'm shocked! As if! You know very well that Lissa would never put her gorgeous figure at risk again by reproducing. I'm stunned that you'd ask."
Mum laughs, "When did they change their minds? And, more to the point, why?"
"Apparently they made the decision on Tuesday night. I didn't get around to the why. They told both sets of parents at dinner on Wednesday. By yesterday afternoon Elspeth had booked the church, found another vicar to take George's place and ordered a marquee all for
the earliest Saturday available. That's got to be a world record, managing all that in one morning. Still, I suppose they're in the right business."
"Well I never, what an odd turn of events. I would imagine Elspeth wanted to get in there quick before they changed their minds again, and Lissa is ok with all of that?"
"Actually she is ok with it, bizarrely ok in fact." I tail off and stare through the window, as I slowly shake my head. With the excitement of Lissa's announcement fading, I now find myself somewhat confused about the whole scenario.
"Hmm, I suppose we all have the right to change our minds, don't we? Well can't sit here all day," mum briskly finishes her tea and prepares to head off home. "Now don't forget Darling, you are more than welcome to come over for dinner tonight."
"No mum, I'm fine. I don't know what I am going to do with all this free time but I am sure I will think of something wildly exciting, and if I change my mind I'll give you a ring."
"Alright my darling if you are sure. I would hate to cramp your style. I am surprised you didn't take the opportunity of an extra shift at the pub tonight seeing as you have today off."
"Oh don't worry I did ask, but James is already covered for tonight. I might pop down there anyway later; might as well finish the liver off now I've started. I'm sure a hair of the dog would help at some point today."
"Ah but aren't you at least supposed to have some idea of which one bit you?" mum smirks and kisses me on the head. "I'm off darling, it's my turn on reception at midday and I've got things to do first. See you tomorrow at the fête if not before. I hope you have sorted cakes; I've made a lovely fruit cake and Victoria sandwich - you can take one of those if you like."
"No thanks, it's fine; I have it all under control." I open up the carrier bag and flash the ready bought cakes at her with a flourish.
She tuts at me and shakes her head. "Honestly darling, you could make an effort. You were always so good at making cakes when you were little. Anyway I'm off; I am having no part of your cheating. Bye bye."