‘I want it!’ Her yell split the air. The masticating throng were momentarily stilled.
‘I’ll get you one!’ I rasped.
‘I want it!’
Amos grinned and waggled his head from side to side to show how absolutely great the hat was. I leaned over to him, restraining the writhing and sobbing Sinead as best I could.
‘Amos, darling – may she have it? I’ll get another.’
‘Sure.’ I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘In a minute.’
‘Sinead,’ I said, ‘darling – Amos says you can have a go in a minute.’
Gulping and snuffling, Sinead climbed on to the banquette and pressed up against her brother. He shuffled sideways. She did the same. He shuffled sideways again, reached the end of the banquette and ran round to the other end. She followed.
‘Sit still!’ I admonished. I turned to the young women at the next table. ‘Look, I wonder if I could ask you very kindly to keep an eye on these two while I’m at the counter?’
They said yeah, they would, with blank-eyed little smiles which did not inspire confidence.
‘Stay there, sit still and behave!’ I said once more. ‘These ladies are going to keep an eye on you and they’ll tell me if you’re naughty. I won’t be long.’
In fact it was several minutes before I returned, hot, bothered and ripped off, with a Family Fun Meal for four (you could only get it for four) and the accompanying forage caps. The crowd had eased slightly. There were now several empty tables. One of them was that of the young women I’d left in charge. Another was ours.
I gazed distractedly about. There was absolutely no sign of the children. I pounced on some gel-haired young men in suits at a nearby table.
‘Did you see two children – excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but my grandchildren were here – at the window table – and they’re not now. Did you by any chance see where they went?’
‘Sorry, only just got here,’ said one of them.
‘Tried the toilets?’ asked another.
‘No – good idea. I will.’ I dumped the Family Pun Meal on our table and rushed off. I could sense the young men shaking their heads and smirking. Poor soul.
They were not in the loos. I even braved the Gents in case Amos had dragged his sister in there. It was empty, and I only succeeded in giving a nasty turn to a lad unbuttoning his 501s.
I asked at the counter. I checked all the tables. I could not believe this was happening. I felt physically sick with the horror of it. This was something you read about, something you saw on television – and it was happening to me. Those girls – had they taken them? Were they not the gossipy little retail-assistant airheads I’d taken them for but a bunch of nasty sadists? Or had someone – oh God! – lured the children out on to the pavement? My heart fluttered and my hands and face felt cold as I scoured the room. In the faces of the other people I could see some sympathy, but mostly a smug, passive accusation. I had been negligent. Their children were sitting safely beside them, properly looked after. My grandchildren had been left, and had gone.
‘Halo, I’m Barry the manager. Can I help?’
Barry was about eighteen years old in a red and green striped blazer and white trousers.
‘I left my grandchildren at that window table – over there – while I ordered, and I asked the girls next door to keep an eye on them for me, but they’ve gone, and I can’t find them!’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Barry gently, placing his hand on my arm. ‘We’ve never lost a customer yet.’
His kindness, and the hand on my arm, made my throat and eyes fill with tears.
‘But where are they?’ I asked helplessly.
‘Let’s look in the street, shall we?’ he suggested, guiding me to the door. In retrospect he was probably intent on removing this embarrassment from the premises, but he did it so nicely that I allowed myself to be propelled out on to the pavement where we stood gazing up and down.
‘See them anywhere?’ he asked.
‘No – no. Oh God, where on earth can they be?’
‘Most runaways are found safe and well within a few hundred yards of their homes,’ said Barry.
‘But this isn’t their home, and they may not have ran away – they could have been abducted!’
‘How long have they been missing?’ he asked.
‘God – I don’t know – well – a few minutes.’
He smiled. ‘They won’t have gone far in a few minutes.’
My legs were shaking. To make matters worse I saw the rescue van from Bunker’s Garage go by with Becca in the passenger seat and the buckled Mini in tow. Becca, who knew nothing, who believed her children to be safe and happy in their grandmother’s care … I whimpered in panic.
‘They could have gone miles in a few minutes in a fast car! I think I should call the police, is there a phone I can use?’
Beside myself and oblivious to Barry’s soothings, I turned to go back into Planet Burger and almost tripped over Amos and Sinead going the same way.
‘Grannee!’
I couldn’t speak. Until that moment I hadn’t known what relief was. It felt as though my whole body were melting down. I crouched down and hugged Sinead so hard that I could feel her small, still pliable bones through her dungarees. Amos stood staring uninterestedly and I grabbed him too, but he backed off.
‘Hi, Gran.’
‘Well,’ said Barry. ‘Another happy ending. I’ll leave you all to it.’
‘Did you get the burgers?’ asked Amos, as I stood up and rummaged in my bag for a tissue to repair the ravages.
‘Yes, I did – but where did you go? That was so naughty of you when I’d specially asked you to wait for me.’
‘Actually,’ said a voice at my shoulder, ‘he was doing the right thing, coming after his little sister. She came into the newsagent’s and found me, and together we found him – and then we all came back to find you. Which we did.’
I had hardly been aware of this adult in attendance, but now I turned upon him what I’m afraid was a glare of naked suspicion and hostility.
‘We’re fated to meet, Mrs Lewis.’
And that was how I came to meet Patrick Lynch for the second time, and how the four of us ate a replacement Family Fun Meal on the house at Planet Burger.
Chapter Six
It’s traditional to say one can’t remember what was said at key moments in one’s life. But because of the rather curious circumstances I can recall a good deal of the conversation (if you can call it that) which took place over the yellow-and-white flecked formica in Planet Burger.
Patrick was conspicuously – almost ostentatiously – out of place. Glyn in this setting would have (and indeed often had) been a food franchise operator’s wet dream. He would have worn a hat, drunk a milk shake through a flavoured twirly-straw, done the colouring-in on the menu and entered for the free draw to win the holiday in Euro-Disney. He would also have checked out what the counter-staff earned, calculated the profit margin on the Inter-Galactic Megaburger, and discovered Barry’s mother’s maiden name. Glyn was fascinated by what people got up to.
Patrick – well, Patrick didn’t. He opened the batting by putting on hornrims, inspecting his unopened paper bags and observing, ‘I confess I’m a stranger on this planet.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘No, really,’ he peered into one of the bags, ‘I’m a populist to my toenails, but I’m not into fast food.’ This turned out to be only partly true, but at the time I was slightly embarrassed by my familiarity with the menu.
‘With these two,’ I explained, ‘one doesn’t have much option.’
Patrick glanced down at Amos, who sat next to him. I thought he was going to say something, but he was plainly uneasy with children, and after watching Amos take a huge untidy mouthful of burger he returned his gaze to me. The after-effects of the shock and distress were getting to me in the form of an absolutely raging hunger. I put a generous handful of fries into my mouth, but beca
me immediately selfconscious when he enquired, ‘Peckish?’
I flapped a hand in front of my face, munching madly. He laughed. When I’d swallowed I said, of course, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologize.’
‘Aren’t you going to eat?’
He glanced down at the paper bags again. ‘I may well do … On the other hand I may do the decent thing and let the rest of you have my portion.’
He was wearing a sort of lumberjack’s coat in drab, whiskery checks. He felt in the pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes. Tapping and turning the packet on the table, he glanced around.
‘I suppose this particular form of oral gratification would be quite out of the question in here?’
‘Absolutely verboten I’m afraid.’ He sighed gustily. ‘Please, don’t feel you have to stay.’
‘Nonsense!’ he said, and put away the packet as though the point had now been made. ‘I like it here. It’s a new experience.’
I pulled a face. ‘I’m so grateful to you for bringing the children back, but I can quite see this isn’t exactly the reward of a lifetime. Do, please, go and get on with your life – but leave me your number and perhaps you’ll come round and have supper or something some time.’
‘Me and the wife?’
Inexplicably, I was taken aback. ‘Of course.’
‘Fine, if I find one I’ll bring her along.’
He was fencing, something I was out of practice at, and though I found it annoying on one level, on another it was flattering.
Sinead made a gurgling-drain noise with the last of her banana-shake.
‘Do you want another?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Here.’ I gave her mine.
‘Can I?’ asked Amos.
‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ said Patrick, sliding his across. I wished he would stop being quite so condescending about Planet Burger. It wasn’t that bad.
‘Thank you!’ I prompted crisply.
‘Thank you,’ they mumbled gloopily, round straws.
‘What do you do?’ I asked with just enough obvious politeness to indicate that I was making conversation. If fencing was his weapon, this was mine – the acquired skill of the long-time wife.
‘I’m Professor in English at St Stephen’s.’
So he really was a creature from another planet. That shut me up.
‘And you?’ he asked with equal politeness. ‘I mean apart from bringing up a young family …?’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘no, these are my grandchildren.’
‘Right.’ He had, of course, known all along. ‘You never can tell these days with all the options there are available.’
‘I work at the Citizens Advice Bureau.’
‘In the Corn Exchange there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I shall definitely drop by next time my neighbours kidnap the cat.’
‘Is that what they do?’
‘Yes!’ he exclaimed almost quizzically, eyebrows raised, as though he himself could scarcely credit it. ‘They don’t care for her crapping on their alpines, so periodically, not content with whingeing to me about it, they lock her in their shed. It’s like clamping – I have to go and pay an extortionate fee in terms of arse-licking, accompanied by at least one bottle of decent wine, to get her out again.’
Amos glanced up admiringly at the mention of arse-licking. I quelled him with a look. Sinead, still sucking a soggy straw, burped wetly.
I said, ‘ I’m not an expert on the law, but I’d have thought that was cruelty.’
‘There you are, you see, you’ve already put your finger on the central issue. But I’m happy to say it’s a bit of a Pyrrhic victory for them because Peaches craps all over their shed instead.’
‘Good for her.’
‘Oh—’ to my surprise he next took out a cigarette and began absentmindedly to light it – ‘they’re not so bad really. I’d miss them if they weren’t there. Life’s all about conflict, I find.’ He inhaled with relish. ‘Conflict and copulation. Don’t you think?’
He leaned his elbows on the table, fingers linked before his face, and eyed me through his smoke, in a way which reminded me of someone. People were glancing disapprovingly.
‘Possibly,’ I said quickly, and then hissed, ‘Did you forget it’s no smoking in here?’
‘I did actually. Had I better go and stand outside?’
‘Yes.’ I was embarrassed. I could see nice, helpful Barry on his way over.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid we don’t allow smoking. Perhaps you missed our sign.’
‘Perhaps I did.’ Patrick gave Barry a wolfish grin. I prayed he wasn’t going to make a scene – he seemed exactly the type to do it.
‘Why don’t you have an ice-cream, sir?’ suggested Barry, doing everything but wring his hands in the face of the rising hostility all round. ‘Instead of the cigarette?’
‘You can get choc-chip,’ said Amos hopefully, wielding one of the spoons from the container on the table. It was a long spoon. Perhaps we were all supping with the devil.
‘Where can I get rid of this?’ asked Patrick. Barry scooped up a glass containing cola dregs from the next table and proffered it. Patrick dropped it in. There was a hiss and a smell.
‘Perhaps I can get you all one?’ enquired Barry. He really did deserve a good conduct award for his behaviour this afternoon. What with one thing and another we had been an instant management test in Dealing with Difficult Situations.
‘No, thanks, I’m quite capable of getting my own if I want one,’ said Patrick, with what I considered to be quite unnecessary crustiness since he had been transparently in the wrong. My hunger had been replaced by absolute exhaustion. I needed to pass the baton of responsibility back to Becca, and return to Alderswick Avenue for ten minutes with my tights off.
‘Thanks, but we must go. Come on,’ I said to the kids. ‘ I ought to take you home.’
Five minutes later we were all out on the pavement and I wondered if the other customers would club together to buy Barry a box of chocolates, like airline passengers saved from disaster by the safe hands and cool nerve of their pilot.
Sinead leaned against me whinily, rubbing one of her crepe soles up and down my shin.
‘Don’t do that darling,’ I said, ‘it hurts.’
‘Were you in a car?’ asked Patrick, glancing quickly around.
‘It’s on a meter along there. Can we give you a lift?’
‘No, I’m only a stone’s throw from here.’
‘Well – thanks again.’ I decided against further mention of the dinner invitation – he’d been thanked enough.
‘My pleasure. I’ll hope to run into you again some time.’ He’d obviously reached the same conclusion. His big, veiny hand clasped mine, and then he placed the other one on top, completely engulfing it.
‘Possibly – when next the cat’s banged up,’ I said, retrieving my hand.
‘Yes!’
Sinead needed a shoelace retying, and that gave me a chance to check which direction he was going in. It turned out to be the same as ours, so I did a double bow, and the other shoe, for good measure.
Becca’s house, rented with the aid of housing benefit, was in Sumatra Road, one of a network of drab roads with exotic names which made up the Smiley Meadows estate. There had been meadows, the property of the Chadderton-Smiley family, beneath the concrete and tarmac of the estate as recently as fifteen years ago. When the Chadderton-Smileys decided to cash in on the housing boom of the early eighties, the name must have seemed an absolute gift to the planners, with its suggestion of sylvan pastures in which contented people could engage in honest labour and children frolic happy as the day was long.
Now it was more like a bad joke. Bordered by the industrial estate, the municipal landfill and the bypass, Smiley Meadows was a repository for the town’s rougher element, such as it was, and a sprinkling of slightl
y desperate young marrieds in starter homes, slumming on toasted cheese and hope while they squirrelled away their two incomes with better things in mind. And, of course, Becca.
Glyn said I was too sensitive about Smiley Meadows, that I exaggerated its awfulness, and that in fact it wasn’t awful at all but colourful, with a real sense of community. By this I could only suppose he meant the Solomon Road Stores, a supermarket which sold most things, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year, including Christmas. I found the Stores depressing, with its assumption that bread meant flabby white slices in polythene, and its relaxed attitude to sell-by dates, but even I had been known to make use of it when there was nowhere else to go, and the owners – he Gujerati, she Basildon – were undeniably cheery and welcoming. They should have been, with their prices.
No. 10 Sumatra Road was a three-bedroom mid-terrace with a postage stamp of garden at the back. Some of the postage stamps had beaver-board fences round, but Becca’s had only chicken wire, bent severely in places where her own and the neighbours’ children passed to and fro. It didn’t bother her. She claimed to like her neighbours and not to feel the need for privacy. I wondered if they felt the same when Becca was sitting topless on the end of the phone, arguing molto con brio with one of the children’s fathers … She was a young woman whose epitaph would be: ‘She didn’t give a damn’.
When we arrived I thought for a moment that she wasn’t around because I couldn’t see the Mini, till I remembered that it was in the care of Bunker’s Garage. Its normal position at the kerb was taken by Glyn’s Shogun – a gleaming invitation to every scratch-happy juvenile in the area.
‘Grandpa’s here!’ said Amos.
‘Looks like it,’ I agreed.
We got out, and I locked the car – trying each door, and the boot, with a mean-spirited flourish – while the kids ran to the front door and pushed it open. It was rarely locked and, owing to a deficient latch, usually not even properly shut.
I heard Glyn’s irrepressible ‘Hi, gang!’ from within.
Life After Lunch Page 10