I plucked my eyebrows so I looked a bit less like a werewolf, and managed to squash myself into my jeans instead of my usual trackie bottoms. I fear my legs now resemble giant walking sausages, but there’s not much I can do about that in the timeframe.
Poppy took one look at me and decided to give me a mini-makeover, which I endured silently, and with what I like to think of as a great deal of dignity. She trimmed my hair, and opened a few buttons on my top to flash some boobage, and did my make-up.
‘You were always so much better at this than me,’ I said, as she shaped and blended, a look of utter concentration on her face.
‘I had to be. Spotty Poppy, remember?’
I do remember – not only that other people used to call her that, but that I said it to her myself the night before. I feel a blush of shame at the memory – she really had suffered.
When Poppy finished creating her masterwork of make-up, she gave my nose a little tap with the powder puff, just like Mum used to do, which threatened to tear me up and ruin all her magical mascara work.
I have to admit, though, that she did a good job, and I look better than I have in … well, years. She, naturally enough, just slipped into a tiny leather mini-skirt and swooshed her shiny hair out and became a supermodel. The cow.
Now, we are parked up outside the pub, and I really don’t want to go in. I’m driving, as I am temporarily off the sauce after recent excesses, and Poppy is checking her lipstick in the passenger mirror. The mirror that is held on by silver duct tape. I keep several rolls of it in my boot, like a serial killer.
‘Your car is a mess,’ she says, once she’s satisfied. ‘It’s like being trapped in a McDonald’s recycling bin.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, unhooking my seatbelt, ‘we aim to please. God … I really don’t want to do this.’
‘Why not?’ she asks, frowning at me. ‘It’s better than sitting in the cottage crying about the ghosts of traumas past, isn’t it? Besides, you have a nice voice. It could be fun.’
‘It’s not that … I just don’t want to see these people again. Look at this car park – it’s packed. Everyone in the village will be here. And they’ll all be, like, “look at those two little madams”, and “they’re only back now she’s dead”, and “God, she’s put weight on, serves her right”, and—’
‘And I think you’re overestimating how interesting we are, Rose. They have their own lives to worry about, without judging ours. And even if they do, who gives a shit? Once this is all done, we never have to see them again, do we? Now come on. Get into the groove, girl. It’s show time.’
She gets out of the car, and teeters across the gravel with way too much ease for a woman in those kinds of shoes. Frankly, they look like she stole them from a prostitute.
I pull a face at her, but follow on behind, grimacing as we open the door to the pub. This is a place I’ve been to so many times. A place where I spent large chunks of my childhood, eating a bag of crisps and drinking a lemonade while Mum had grown-up chats and the odd gallon of G&T – but I am still gripped with uncertainty.
Once we’re inside, I let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and try very hard to unhear the version of ‘I Will Always Love You’ that is being slaughtered on the karaoke machine.
I look around, and see that little has changed – still the same rugged stone floors; the ancient wooden bar; the horse brasses hanging from the wall. It’s been painted, and it smells a lot less of smoke, but other than that, it’s like stepping into a time machine. I almost expect to see my mother holding court in the corner that she always sat in, waving us over and sending us to the bar to get her a top-up.
Much to my relief, there’s not suddenly a huge silence as we enter, while everyone in the village stares at us with hostility. In fact, all that happens is that a few people wave, and some of the farmers give their traditional effusive greeting of one single nod.
I head for a free table, and Poppy goes straight to get drinks. I sit nervously, twisting my hair around my fingers, and watch her. There’s an exceptionally good-looking young man behind the bar, and they seem to be giving each other far more attention than it requires to order a white wine spritzer and a Diet Coke.
The mangled rendition of Whitney Houston finally comes to a stop, and I see as she steps from the makeshift stage area that Whitney was actually Tasmin Hughes, my old school friend from a million years ago. She’s all dolled up, wearing a flimsy white frock that makes her look like Marilyn Monroe after she ate all the cakes in the entire world.
She’s a big woman, but carries it in that proud, sassy way that makes her sexy – something I’ve never quite mastered. She pauses as she walks past, does a little double take as she sees me, and breaks out into a huge grin. I smile back, secretly hoping she’ll move on, and struggle to keep it on my face when she sits next to me instead.
‘I was hoping I’d see you around again!’ she says, fanning herself with a beer mat to cool her karaoke sweat. ‘How are you, Rose? God, it’s been an age, hasn’t it?’
She doesn’t wait for my reply, but instead reaches out and takes hold of my hand.
‘I was so sorry about your mum,’ she says, genuine sympathy on her face. ‘She was a lovely woman, and we all miss her. Especially here.’
‘Here? You mean the Farmer’s, or karaoke night?’
‘Both – she did a fabulous version of “Big Spender” every time. Had the old coots in fits, it did – she was one sexy mama when she wanted to be!’
I am momentarily thrown by this image, but once I squint at the stage, surrounded by disco lights, I can almost see it: Mum hamming it up, giving it some bump and grind, channelling her best Shirley Bassey and nailing it every time.
I burst into sudden and unwelcome tears, partly at that image, and partly at Tasmin’s unexpected kindness. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to grips with this emotional rollercoaster – one minute I’m coping, and the next I’m drowning in loss and regret.
Tasmin immediately produces a tissue from her cleavage, which I accept with a snotty gurgle, and says: ‘It’s all right, love, don’t worry – I’ve been where you are, and I know it hurts like buggery. It’ll get better, I promise. Just don’t try and control it too much. Let it have its way with you and it passes quicker. Like sex when you’re drunk.’
‘Your mum died?’ I ask, frowning as I try and remember if I’d been told. I remember Tasmin’s mother well – she was big and brassy and managed a team of macho men at the chicken plant. She was what my mother always called a for midable lady, one of her highest compliments, usually reserved for Dame Joan Plowright and Queen Victoria.
Tasmin nods, making both her blonde curls and her chins wobble, and replies: ‘About eight years ago. Breast cancer. They’ve told me I should think about getting mine lopped off as a precaution, but I’m still not sure I can bear to part with them.’
She gazes down at her glistening cleavage with adoration, and I find myself following her eyes and staring at her chest.
‘Anyway. Losing your mum is a killer, no matter how old you are. Still stings. I still get those fits of tears like you’re having now, only they come less and less often. Still miss her, always will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I blubber, her gentle words only serving to make me cry more. ‘I’m sorry your mum died. I’m sorry I’m crying. And I’m sorry I never visited you when you got pregnant.’
‘Oh lord!’ she says, throwing her head back and laughing. ‘Don’t worry about that one! You were only a kid yourself, and you weren’t the only one – it was like everyone thought it was catching! Worked out all right, though, see – that’s my Jake there, working the bar. Assistant manager, he is, la-di-da.’
I follow her finger, and see that she is pointing towards the good-looking guy Poppy is flicking her hair at. Jesus. He must be, what, 26, 27? Unbelievable.
‘Are you still with … what was his name, Sean?’
‘Miraculously I am, yes. Few ups and downs. The odd divorce, and th
e occasional death threat. But yes, still together, against all the odds – we have two younger ones as well, but obviously they’re over at the Tennyson’s. Is that your Poppy over there, talking to Jake, by the way?’
‘I think “talking” is a kind word for what she’s doing,’ I reply, feeling my face flame up on my sister’s behalf. ‘She looks as if she’s about to eat him for dinner. I’m sorry for that as well.’
‘Again, there’s no need to be sorry – do you ever do anything but apologise? Jake is a grown man, and I gave up worrying about his sex life a long time ago, once I’d drummed it into him that we didn’t want any repeats of my circumstances. He lives in a soundproofed flat over the garage, and what I don’t hear doesn’t hurt me. What about you? You have a lad, don’t you? Joe, isn’t it? Your mum was so proud of him.’
‘Yes. Joe. He’s sixteen – so I suppose I’ll need to start worrying about his sex life soon. And … thank you. For being so nice.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she asks, looking confused.
‘Because we’ve not been back here for so long. Because I thought you’d all … I don’t know, think we were cows for not seeing enough of our mum.’
Tasmin puffs out a long, befuddled breath, giving Poppy a little wave as she finally starts to make her way back towards us.
‘Don’t be daft. Life gets complicated, we all know that. Your mum was happy here, and she never had a bad word to say about either of you. She was always full of her weekends away and her trips to see you, honest.’
I know she’s trying to be kind, but I can’t help being struck by the sadness of that – the thought of my mum sitting here, telling stories about her wonderful daughters and how well they looked after her, when the reality was so different.
Maybe she was trying to fool them, or maybe she was trying to fool herself, who knows? But the truth of the matter is that we broke her heart, no matter how many spa breaks Poppy took her on or how many roast dinners I cooked for her in Liverpool. She was forced to lead two lives – three in fact: one for me, one for Poppy, and one for herself – because of our stubborn refusal to put the past behind us. It is unbelievably sad, and I am feeling less like doing karaoke than ever.
I look around and see all the familiar faces from my childhood, laughing and chatting in The Pub That Time Forgot, and know that this was a big part of Mum’s life – and I chose not to share it with her. All that time, wasted.
Poppy places the drinks down on the table, and makes mindless small talk with Tasmin until she leaves, making me promise to stay in touch.
‘I’m BigTas99 on Instagram,’ she says, waggling her eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t be a stranger.’
Poppy has finished half her wine while she was at the bar cradle-snatching, and has also managed to get hold of a karaoke book that lists all the songs. She pores over it, apparently oblivious to everything around us that is making me feel so bad. Which I suppose is a good thing – life will be easier if we can alternate our nervous breakdowns.
‘That was Tasmin’s son you were chatting up,’ I say, gulping my Diet Coke and wishing it had Jack Daniel’s in it. ‘He’s only twenty-seven.’
She looks up at me, frowning.
‘Well, that’s a perfectly respectable age then, isn’t it? He’s nice. Got some good ideas about marketing this place, and he was also annoyed about the apostrophe issue. Plus he’s fit as fuck. What are you going to sing?’
‘“Big Spender”,’ I say, without even thinking about it.
‘Cool. I can see that. Give it loads. I think I’m going to go for a bit of Girls Aloud. I love that “Sound of the Underground” song. You okay? You look a bit … soggy.’
I use Tasmin’s boob tissue to wipe my cheeks, and try to pull myself together.
‘Is it messing with your head, being here?’ Poppy asks, closing the karaoke book and giving me her full attention. I nod, not really wanting to get into it with her. We’re in this incredibly strange position where only the two of us know what the other is going through, but neither of us is quite able to offer comfort or consolation. We’re still like prickly cacti, trying our best but constantly spiking each other by accident.
‘I get that,’ she replies, reaching out to touch my hand but thinking better of it at the last minute and snatching it away. ‘It’s hard. Being in all the places she’s been, seeing her friends, finally being part of her life but doing it too late.
‘It’s like we’re retreading her footsteps and she could appear at any moment, isn’t it? I feel the same way – as soon as I walked in here, I remembered that New Year’s Eve we had together … anyway. I can’t deal with all of that right now. I need to switch off for a bit, if that makes sense, or I might spontaneously combust. I’m just planning on drinking and flirting my way through it tonight.’
I’m jealous of her ability to do either of those things, but am saved from further conversation by the arrival of Lewis, looming above us in all his bulk. He really is enormous, and still dressed in a suit and waistcoat, even in the pub on a Friday night.
‘Ladies,’ he says, nodding in greeting. ‘It’s nice to see you again. I’m delighted that you made it to K at least. I trust you’re both keeping well?’
‘If by “well” you mean “nervous wrecks”, then yes, thank you Lewis, we’re doing fine,’ replies Poppy, raising her eyebrows at him, her tone slightly snippy. I still don’t think she’s forgiven him for giving me the keys to the cottage.
‘Yes, thanks Lewis,’ I add, hastily. ‘Thanks for everything – for looking after our mother like you did. We really appreciate it.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for,’ he says, smiling. ‘Every moment I spent in your mother’s company was a privilege. I look forward to seeing your performances later.’
With a polite nod he ambles off, making his way through the crowds to sit in the far corner. The corner where Mum always used to sit. I’m probably imagining it, but I think he looks so sad, so lonely, sitting there on his own – as though the other half of him is missing.
‘Right. I’m going to chat Jake up a bit more, get another drink, and start on the karaoke. Are you with me?’ says Poppy, standing up and looking determined.
‘No,’ I say simply, ‘but knock yourself out.’
She shrugs, and I look on as she shimmies through the pub, attracting admiring glances as she goes. Still gorgeous, like she was as a teenager – but these days, she knows it.
I sit mainly alone for the rest of the night, chatting to a few passing people who stop and express their sympathies, to Tasmin again, and to Gloria Lubbock, our old head teacher, who seems unbearably disappointed that I never gained my PhD. She was hoping for her first doctor, she says.
Poppy sings the Girls Aloud track, which brings the house down, and Tasmin does ‘Like A Virgin’, and even Lewis gets in on the act, doing a splendidly dignified version of ‘My Way’. I manage to get through ‘Big Spender’ purely on adrenalin, acting it the way I thought my mother would act it, pretending I’m not me, but someone far sexier – someone farmers would like to watch waggling her huge hips.
It goes surprisingly well, and someone yells ‘eat your heart out Shirley Bassey!’ as I stagger back to my seat. Nobody has been hostile at all, everyone has in fact been incredibly kind, and somehow that is making me feel worse – like I don’t deserve their kindness. Perhaps I’d feel better if they chased me on to the village green and whipped me with sticks.
After a couple of hours, I am desperate to go back to the cottage and pull the duvet over my head, but Poppy is feeling extremely merry and shows no inclination to end the evening at all. It seems to have become an unwritten rule of the A–Z that at least one of us must be drunk at all times.
‘Can we go soon?’ I ask, as she brings me yet another glass of Coke.
‘Not yet, Rose … please? I’ve put us down for one more song. After that, I promise I’ll come. Or you can go, at least, and I’ll make my own way back.’
‘By make your own way
back, do you mean spend the night with Tasmin Hughes’s son and do the walk of shame through the village in the morning?’
‘Maybe I do, and maybe I do …’ she replies, grinning. She looks happy and, much as I want to resent her for it, I don’t seem to have it in me. Progress of sorts, I suppose.
‘One more song,’ I say, like a stern mum relenting on one battle in a long war.
‘One more,’ she says, ‘for Mum. We’ll do “Summer Nights” – bagsy being Danny …’
Chapter 43
Poppy
When I get back to the cottage the next morning, I find Rose already up and about – unsurprising as it is almost midday – pottering in the garden, a duster in her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, walking barefoot towards her, sandals dangling from my fingers. ‘Polishing the geraniums?’
She looks up at me, as though I’ve caught her out doing something sinful, and replies: ‘No. I was dusting the garden gnomes’ heads. You didn’t walk all the way from the village like that, did you?’
‘Nah,’ I reply, collapsing on to the grass and stretching out. The sun is warm on my face, and the blue tits and their friends are tweeting away so much it feels like something out of a Disney cartoon. ‘Jake gave me a lift to the end of the lane.’
I shield my face from the sun, and squint up at her. All I notice is her eyes – those big, beautiful eyes that are so much like my mother’s. That image goes perfectly with her disapproving expression, and her stern voice as she asks: ‘Did you have sex with Tasmin Hughes’s son?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘we stayed up all night listening to music, and just talked and talked and talked … it was so special. It’s like we’re soul mates or something.’
‘Really?’ she asks, sounding half hopeful, half disbelieving.
‘Nope. We shagged each other’s brains out. And just because he’s Tasmin Hughes’s son, it doesn’t mean he’s a child. I can assure you he comes with a fully functioning set of adult male bits.’
‘I don’t want to hear about his male bits, thank you very much.’
The A-Z of Everything Page 20