by Paul Clayton
He grabbed his laptop and settled back on the bed to find something to stream. A documentary about a one-legged American baseball player who may have killed two of his wives came up as recommended and he clicked on the screen. As John Humboldt the Third started to tell his story, Luke’s eyes started to close. His antics of the previous night were beginning to catch up with him and it wasn’t long before he closed the laptop lid, turned over and headed for sleep.
He might have thought otherwise about domestic management if he’d known he wasn’t going to wake up.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Frankie had never thought of herself as a bad person or a good person. She considered herself to be someone who got on with life. Sometimes she did things that she regretted afterwards, something she’d become more aware of as her family increased.
With the children dependent on her, she tried to manage her reactions but she found it hard. Her response in the supermarket car park was one occasion when, as Jonny would put it, ‘You just lost it, Mum.’ She worked incredibly hard not to lose it and yet sometimes everything seemed to conspire against her.
They all had a glorious summer. Having Cora around helped in so many ways and made things easier and more enjoyable. They had days out, and Shannon and Jonny seemed much keener to join in than they’d ever done when Frankie had suggested an outing. Frankie liked to think of them as a little group: the four of them and Auntie Cora, as Henry had started to call her on occasion.
School had started nearly a week ago, but getting back into the routine of making sure everybody was ready to leave at the right time was not yet the finely tuned machine it should be. Wednesday felt like the toughest day of the week, stranded as it was between two weekends. This particular Wednesday morning, nobody seemed able to do anything right.
Frankie laid the breakfast things on the table. She’d got up early to give herself some peace in the bathroom and put on a simple outfit, smarter than usual. This afternoon she was meeting with Mr Breen, the call supervisor. There was a vacancy for deputy supervisor and Frankie knew she had an excellent chance of getting the job. Same hours or less, more money, increased responsibility and a greater sense of achievement.
That was important to Frankie. Too many times in life she’d been told she would amount to nothing; too many times she’d felt pushed aside. She’d made an outstanding job of being a mum, she knew that, and yet the three people who’d seen her do it were the last people to realise it. Shannon was unlikely to come out with positive feedback on Frankie’s parenting skills – or feedback on anything else, come to that.
Frankie was aware that Mr Breen liked her. In the kitchen on a coffee break, he often stayed a little longer than necessary and made conversation. Twice he’d asked her out. She’d said she was sorry, but she had to get back to the kids. If getting the supervisor’s job meant being asked out a third time, then Frankie had decided she’d say yes.
‘Henry, Shannon,’ she called out down the hall. ‘It’s half past seven. Get yourselves up. You’re going to be late.’
She filled the teapot, put out orange-juice glasses, cereal bowls, crunchy-nut cornflakes for Henry. A slice of toast for Shannon, which would almost certainly remain uneaten. Table laid. One of the things Frankie did every day was try to instil order, keep a nice kitchen like her mother had done.
There was a commotion outside the bathroom. Frankie went to see what the trouble was. Henry was battering on the door. ‘Shannon ran in, Mum, and it’s my turn and she’ll be ages now and I’ll be late.’
Frankie sighed. ‘Wouldn’t have happened if you’d got up earlier.’ Henry’s face fell. ‘Come and have your cereal and then we’ll knock on the door and get her out of there.’
Henry dashed into the kitchen in his pyjamas. Frankie stood savouring her cup of tea for a second while he wolfed down his breakfast. He darted back down to the bathroom door and banged on it. ‘You gotta get out, Shannon. Mum says you got to get out.’ He banged on the door again.
The door opposite flew open. Jonny, all bed hair and sleep face, stuck his head out. ‘What’s wrong? What’s everybody shouting about?’
‘Shannon’s got the bathroom and it wasn’t her turn.’
The bathroom door opened. Shannon emerged, body and hair swathed in towels. She pushed past Henry and went back into the room she shared with her mother without a word.
‘There you go,’ said Frankie. ‘Your turn.’
Henry dived into the bathroom. Jonny disappeared back into the bedroom and Shannon closed the door to Frankie’s room. A moment of peace. Frankie sipped her tea.
Five minutes later, the compact kitchen resembled a game of Twister, everybody reaching for cereal or toast, struggling to pack schoolbags and finish dressing. Frankie stood by the door, car keys in hand, repeating, ‘Somebody is going to be late.’
Henry flew back into the kitchen, bag hanging from his shoulder, and bumped straight into Shannon, who hopped out of his way as she was finishing a glass of cranberry juice. There was an outbreak of moans, hoots and mirth as the cranberry juice poured down the front of Henry’s white school shirt.
Shannon giggled. ‘Oops.’
Henry looked on the brink of tears. ‘Mum!’
‘Fasten your blazer, nobody will see it.’
‘I’m reading in assembly,’ wailed Henry. ‘I have to take my blazer off. I’m doing the New Testimends.’
Shannon stood at the door and laughed. ’You? Reading?’
Henry managed to get out the words ‘clumsy bitch’ under his breath before thumping her in the breast. Shannon screamed, mainly for effect. Frankie pushed her way across the kitchen to separate them. ‘Henry Baxter, you do not hit your sister and you do not use language like that, whether you’re covered in cranberry juice or not.’
At this point Jonny emerged from the bedroom fully dressed, hair immaculately dishevelled. As soon as he saw Henry, he couldn’t resist a smirk. ‘Been paintballing?’
Henry lashed out at Jonny, who shielded himself from his brother’s blow as Frankie caught the back of Henry’s blazer and dragged him through the kitchen. She hauled him out of the front door and stepped straight into Cora. Henry glanced up at Cora, shame faced. Shannon piled into them in her attempt not to miss a lift to school and Jonny sauntered out of the flat, locking the door as he left.
‘Everybody off to school?’ asked Cora.
Frankie gritted her teeth. This was the last thing she needed.
Jonny headed off down the path but Henry couldn’t resist getting Cora on his side. He flung open his blazer to reveal the stain on his shirt. ‘Look, Cora. Shannon threw juice all over me. This is my shirt for this week. Mum doesn’t have any clean ones and I’ve got to read the New Testimends in assembly and everybody will laugh.’
‘That’s not good, is it? What can I do to help?’
Frankie pushed Henry towards the car. ‘Nothing, thanks, Cora. He’ll deal with it. We all have to learn that sometimes life throws cranberry juice at you.’
Henry and Shannon clambered into the back of the car, Henry resolving to punch his sister again at the first opportunity.
‘I could walk him to school if you want, Frankie. We could stop at that bargain shop on the high street. I could pick up a clean white shirt for him for a couple of pounds and he wouldn’t be too late. Shall I take him?’
‘No, thanks.’ Frankie got into the driver’s seat and pulled the car door closed. Cora was still speaking, so she wound down the window. She turned on the ignition.
‘It wouldn’t take a moment and it would make him feel better if he’s got something important to do. And I’d pay for the shirt. I’m more than happy to.’
Cora’s words made no sense in Frankie’s head. It was the last thing she needed on a morning such as this. She thrust the car into gear and leant out of the window toward Cora. ‘Learn when not to interfere. Yes? So, for now,
fuck off.’
She pushed her foot to the floor and the car sped away.
***
The interview with Mr Breen did not go well. After pushing Henry and Shannon out of the car at their respective schools, Frankie screeched into the car park twenty minutes late for her shift. She clocked on and raced to her booth, dumped her bag on the desk, put on her headset and booted up her computer. Mr Breen came over.
When Frankie had first met him she’d been sure he was gay with his glowing cheeks, swept-back blond hair and highly coordinated sense of fashion. According to several of the girls who worked alongside her, he most certainly wasn’t.
The Techno Factory was a contact centre that provided technical support and guidance to customers who had bought technology from independent websites. That was the official description; in truth, it was an office of thirty staff, mostly female, who knew little about technology. They sat at computer screens and answered calls from the public. They were guided through the solutions with on-screen prompts. If those didn’t solve the problem, the staff generally resorted to that most cunning piece of technological support advice: ‘Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on again?’
Frankie liked working there. The room always hummed with conversation but you didn’t have to talk to people. In fact, personal chat was against phone-room regulations. Mr Breen wandered round the booths once or twice an hour. Often he plugged his headset into someone’s computer to listen in on their call and check they were providing advice according to the Techno Factory’s code of conduct. He could have logged on and listened to calls from his office at one end of the floor, where he sat watching the staff through an enormous glass wall, but these personal checks gave Mr Breen an excuse for increasing his physical proximity to the girls who worked for him. On more than one occasion, a casual brushing of his crotch against a shoulder had led to the back row of the Odeon cinema, two margaritas and a bed for the night. Most of the staff avoided him.
‘Morning, Frankie. Cutting it a bit fine.’
‘Yes, Terry. Sorry, one of those mornings. Bit of a problem getting the kids off to school.’
‘Don’t let it turn into a regular thing.’ He stooped down nearer to her ear. ‘And don’t forget we’ve got an interview scheduled at 11.30.’
‘How could I?’ smiled Frankie.
‘Looking forward to it.’ Mr Breen moved down the line and plugged his headset into Monica Savage’s computer. His face collapsed into a grimace of alarm.
***
Cora paid for her coffee in Deli Do and strolled down the high street and into the park. A Wednesday morning in school term and there were few people around. Just how Cora liked it.
She set off down the No Dogs side of the lake. She preferred it there, with its manicured lawns and tidy flower beds running down to the water’s edge. The memorial benches on this side of the lake seemed more tranquil.
She sat on the third bench she came to. There was a powerful smell of mown grass mixed with the aroma of lakeside flowers. Two swans glided over in the hope of breadcrumbs but soon left her alone.
She hadn’t meant to offend Frankie or to interfere. She’d made a kind offer. Most mothers would have jumped at it. But not Frankie. Cora wanted to help – that was what being a friend meant, didn’t it?
Cora had few friends. She didn’t seem to have the knack of turning casual acquaintance into friendship. She’d had a wonderful summer – the trip to the seaside, expeditions into the country and on several occasions she’d dog-sat for Dimwit while Frankie had taken the children to the cinema for an afternoon.
This morning she’d been passing, hoping she could offer to do the same. Some days Dimwit was left in the house and even Cora, as a non-dog lover, knew that was wrong. On other days Frankie’s ageing neighbour, Mr Jenkinson, looked after the dog for a few hours in return for an occasional basket of shopping.
What had upset Cora was the anger with which Frankie had shouted at her from the car. They were friends; you should be kind to your friends. That’s what everybody said. You had to be kind. All the newscasts, even weather forecasts, now ended with a plastic smile and the words ‘Be safe and be kind’. That’s all Cora was trying to do, be kind.
In many ways being kind was the last thing she wanted to do. Being kind for no reason and no payment made no sense to her. Yet she tried.
Perhaps now it was time to stop trying.
***
Terry Breen clicked his mouse and closed down his computer screen. ‘Thanks, Frankie – sorry, Mrs Baxter. That’s all the information I need. One final question. What makes you think you’re suited to being deputy supervisor?’ He grinned at her and an oleaginous expression crossed his face.
Frankie wondered what his aftershave was. She thought it might be Market Day, smelling as it did of citrus and decaying cabbage. She grinned back. This needed to go smoothly. She’d dealt with all his questions and he seemed happy.
‘I think I’m well trained. I think I understand what we do here and I have a great record for my call delivery. I’m popular enough with the girls, but I’m not one of the gang so much that I couldn’t tell people when they need to pull their socks up.’ She’d rehearsed the answer in her head the previous night but somehow, as it spilled out into the air, it didn’t sound quite as good as it had done.
‘I think you’re right. I suppose the last question is, what do you like to drink on a night out and what do you like for breakfast?’ Breen gurgled like a radiator trying to get to full heat.
Frankie waited a moment then looked him straight in the face. ‘I don’t get chance for a night out and, as far as breakfast goes, I have three kids to get ready for school. I tend to put my social life last.’
‘Be good if I had a chance to find out. Particularly if I’m going to propose you for deputy supervisor. I think we should get a little closer, see how things go. I’ve always liked the fuller figure.’ With horror, Frankie watched him wink his right eye.
‘Sorry?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You can’t say that to me. This is a job interview. If I have a word with HR, you’re finished.’
‘They won’t do anything.’ He adjusted the angle of his computer monitor and gazed back at her, eyes wide, innocent. ‘It’s awfully hard for me to recommend you for the position if I don’t really know you, isn’t it?’
Frankie took a deep breath. ‘Well, if getting to know me means having a drink and sharing your fucking Weetabix, it’s not gonna happen.’
‘Mind your language, Mrs Baxter. This is a formal interview.’ Breen stood up. ‘I think I’ve got everything I need for now. Thank you for your time.’ He crossed to the door.
Frankie stood and watched him. ‘So that’s it, is it? I don’t stand a chance of getting a job I’m dead right for unless I let you get into my knickers?’
‘I couldn’t possibly say. The key thing is that, as far as the record goes, I’ve done nothing wrong. Everything’s been between you and me.’ He held open the door.
‘Done nothing wrong? Well, let’s make them see it from another angle, shall we?’ With that Frankie reached across his desk, pulled the computer keyboard towards her and hurled it straight out of the open door.
Mr Breen gulped air like an overexcited carp. Frankie moved round to the computer monitor. Picking it up in both hands, she heaved it at the glass that separated Mr Breen’s office from the call-centre contact room. Thirty operators turned mid-call as the monitor smashed through the glass and onto the floor. It was quickly followed by several filing baskets, two large leather-bound directories, an iPad and a whiteboard.
Mr Breen backed out of the room. ‘Somebody call security. She’s gone bonkers.’
Silence froze the air. Eventually it was broken by the voice of Monica Savage. ‘Oh, bloody hell, Terry. You didn’t ask her out, did you?’
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Little Girl and Lottie continued to delight in each other’s company. When one was feeling down, the other would cheer her up. After lots of smiles and gentle pleading with the staff, they now shared a room in the attic at the children’s home. They spent as much time in it as they could.
The local authority provided a teacher for the younger children in the home during the day, whereas most of the older children went out to a local school and returned to the home in the evenings. Little Girl and Lottie knew that next year school awaited them.
‘Next year, Charlotte, you’ll be at a proper school. They won’t allow you to behave like this. Now stop talking and finish your work,’ said Miss Threapleton towards the end of a morning lesson where her patience was wearing thin.
Lottie picked up her pen and started to doodle. She knew there was nothing much Miss Threapleton could do other than send her to her room, and often that was preferable to being in the lesson. She smirked at Little Girl and they both put their heads down, pens in hands racing across the pages of their textbooks.
The classroom door opened and Mr Dale stepped inside. Whenever Mr Dale came into a room, everybody looked up. He was the senior superintendent of the home and, as such, responsible for all their care. It was Mr Dale who handed out various punishments or authorised treats.
He was the Mr Bumble of his day and not unlike the Dickensian creation in manner and appearance. A cheery face with a deep, receding hairline, a swarthy complexion and a badly shaved upper lip made him frightening for the younger children and a figure of fun for the teenagers. He had picked up the nickname Dirty Dale. Lottie and Little Girl knew that wasn’t down to his olive complexion.
Miss Threapleton turned to him from the blackboard. ‘May I help you, Mr Dale?’
‘Yes, you may, Miss Threapleton. I require a conversation with Charlotte. Would you join me in my office?’
Lottie glanced at Little Girl. What could she have done? She wasn’t in trouble again, was she? She piled her notebooks into her school bag and edged her way between the desks to the front of the classroom. She walked past Mr Dale and into the corridor as he held the door open for her. He led the way down to his office.