by Gil McNeil
‘Actually you might be right, Elsie. A collection of pictures of the shop would be rather good, and I could take some of the kids at school, too, once we get started on the knitting, and the Stitch and Bitch group. And we could do with something on the walls upstairs, they still look too bare.’
She looks very pleased.
‘That Mrs Morgan’s a terrible woman, isn’t she? I don’t know who she thinks she is, I really don’t. Just because she’s got one of those big houses up on the Estate, she thinks she’s Lady Muck. She’s always upsetting people, and she’d hate it if there was a picture of you and Grace Harrison up in the shop.’
‘True.’
We both smile.
The supermarket doesn’t yield anything remotely familiar in the chunky marmalade department, and the boys attempt a pasta boycott at supper, which is tricky since it’s macaroni cheese, so I’m sitting knitting flower brooches and feeling rather shattered when Ellen calls. She’s been out to another drinks party, and she’s got lots of gossip to share.
I tell her about the photos. ‘Wasn’t that kind of him? It really made my morning. Annabel Morgan was in, trying to put the frighteners on me again, although God knows why.’
‘Because you’ve shown up on her radar, that’s why. She’s just another playground bully and you know how to deal with them don’t you?’
‘Run away?’
‘Outflank, outmanoeuvre and then retreat to gloat.’
‘Yes, well thank you, Lucrezia Borgia.’
‘Darling, where’s the fun in letting her get away with it? She’ll just get worse and worse if you don’t stand up to her – people like her will knock you flat if you let them. The only way you’ll get her off your case is if you frighten her off. Now, talking of being knocked flat, what are you going to say to Fitzcarraldo when he rings back?’
‘Nothing. Thanks, that kind of thing. It’s no big deal, Ellen, he’s only being friendly.’
‘Christ, what does he have to do? Take out a full-page ad in Knitting Weekly? What will you do if he asks you out for a drink?’
‘What, next time he’s in Broadgate, as opposed to New York, or Milan, or wherever he’s off to next?’
‘We definitely should have played strip poker, and then we’d know.’
‘Yes well I already know, thank you very much, and I’m very glad we didn’t.’
‘We’ll see. How are the texts from your mum going?’
‘Hopeless. She’s got me searching for marmalade now.’
‘Mine wants to know if I want a wok, from Aunty Paula.’
‘Doesn’t she know you never cook?’
‘Yes, but she thinks that’s because I haven’t got the right equipment. She got me some steamer thing last year that I’ve never even had out of the box. It’s so annoying. You should try Fortnum and Mason for the marmalade, they’re bound to have something.’
‘I was rather hoping to avoid buying the world’s most expensive marmalade, but it might come to that.’
‘They’re a fucking nightmare, mothers, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. If I ever get like that with the boys I want you to promise you’ll shoot me.’
‘I promise. But Archie would soon put you straight, don’t worry, and anyway it’s different for daughters; they seem to save all the real madness for us girls.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. Mine gets pretty twilight zone with Vin too.’
‘Yes, but she’s an exceptional case, your mother. She’s always been barking mad. Now, let’s talk about something much more important: my Christmas present. Have you got it yet?’
‘No.’
‘You have, I know you have. Give me a hint.’
Ellen loves getting presents; it’s one of her favourite things. I’ve knitted her a shawl in sage green, which is one of her top colours at the moment, with tiny green beads around the edge.
‘It will keep you warm on long winter nights.’
‘Johnny Depp in his pirate costume?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. Wrap him up and bike him straight over, would you? I could do with a treat, and Harry won’t be home for ages.’
Mr Pallfrey’s limp is getting worse, so we’ve taken Trevor for a few trial runs after school, before the official launch of Operation Dog Walk, and so far it’s been going every bit as badly as I knew it would. He’s fairly sedate at first, especially if the boys are holding his lead, but when we get to the beach, or the path leading up to the cliffs, he practically loops the loop, especially if he spots a seagull; and there’s always a bloody seagull somewhere. We’re on the beach today because the cliff path’s muddy, and the tide’s out so it’s all rather beautiful; very French Lieutenant’s Woman, only with more fleece and less billowing silk.
Trevor’s racing along when we see Lady Denby with Algie and Clarkson. Terrific; I bet she’ll be giving me unsolicited canine tips before I get the chance to tell her he isn’t my bloody dog.
‘You mustn’t let him pull you along like that. Oh, it’s you, the knitting girl.’
I’m quite pleased to be called a girl, but I’m rather dreading the lecture.
‘Not yours, is he? Belongs to that man Plumley, doesn’t he?’
‘Mr Pallfrey, yes.’
‘We see him quite often. Always running.’
Jack smiles at her.
‘We’re helping him with Trevor, because he’s got a sore leg.’
She nods, then turns back to me, looking friendly but determined. Bugger.
‘Well, I’ll tell you how you can really help him, shall I? You can train his dog properly for him.’
‘I don’t know all that much about dogs, to be honest.’
‘Any fool can see that.’
We both look at Trevor, who’s lounging on the sand and panting, looking like a rather scruffy foal.
‘Right. Here’s what you do. When he pulls on the lead, lean back and say, “Heel.” Root yourself to the spot. It’s absolutely vital you don’t move at that point. Then as soon as you get him back beside you, walk on slowly, and have a bit of spare sausage in your pocket to give him. It will encourage him. Always works.’
Put a bit of sausage in my pocket, is she Mad? Archie would soon take care of anything spare in the sausage department.
‘He walks very nicely for the boys.’
‘That’s because he’s playing with you. They’re intelligent animals, dogs. Clarkson, stop that.’
Clarkson is now lying down next to Trevor, looking totally dwarfed, and giving him a very flirty look. Suddenly he sits up.
‘Blast. He’s seen a rabbit up in the dunes.’
There’s a tangle of leads as Algie and Clarkson both make a break for it, and while she’s sorting them out Clarkson manages to give her the slip, closely followed by Trevor, who soon overtakes him.
‘Oh dear.’
I give Lady Denby what I hope is a supercilious look, but she produces a piercing whistle from the pocket of her Barbour and blows it twice. Miraculously Clarkson slows down, then turns and comes back, looking like a sulky teenager who’s just been told to turn his music down.
‘Now remember, you’ll be doing him a favour if you nip it in the bud.’
‘If he ever comes back, that is.’
She smiles, and sets off back towards the pier, while the boys run ahead to try to catch Trevor. They’re having a lovely time running up and down yelling, and now it’s starting to spit with rain. Christ.
My phone rings. If this is Mum with another Mystery Shopping Item I think she’ll be finding I’m Not In The Mood.
‘Yes?’
‘Is this a bad time?’
It’s Daniel.
‘No, sorry, it’s just I’m out on the beach and Trevor’s run off again. And Lady Denby says I’ve got to keep sausages in my pockets.’
He laughs. ‘How attractive. Handy for picnics though. Can you whistle?’
‘No. Can you?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure he’ll hear me
from Berlin.’
‘True. God, I hate that bloody dog. The boys have gone after him, so that’ll be all three of them covered in sand, and it’s starting to rain. But apart from that it’s all going brilliantly. How are you?’
‘Wishing I’d got a dog, that’s for sure. How’s the shop going?’
‘Quite busy, which is great, although we keep having to reorder stock at the last minute, because I haven’t got a proper system worked out yet. But we’re getting there.’
‘And how’s Grace?’
‘Great. Getting more pregnant-looking by the day, and more beautiful. It’s so unfair; most people go all puffy but she just looks more stunning. And I’ve been volunteered to do a knitting project at the kids’ school.’
‘That sounds like fun.’
‘I’ll put you down for Wednesday afternoons then, shall I?’
He laughs again. ‘So all’s well by the sea then?’
‘Yes, pretty much, and thanks so much for the photographs, Daniel. It was really kind of you.’
‘I wanted to thank you for that supper. You saved my life: I’m allergic to hotels like that one. How’s your friend Ellen?’
‘Great, but she keeps trying to find out what I’ve got her for Christmas.’
‘Are you getting her one of those Goats for Peace things I keep reading about in the papers?’
‘No, mainly because she’d kill me. I got one for the boys, though, and they send you a little card with a picture on, it’s terribly sweet. I got them a flock of chickens for an orphan in Africa, so at least they’ll be getting one useful thing this year, in amongst all the plastic.’
‘What a great idea. I could get something like that for my lot. They could call it the Fitzgerald Flock.’
‘I meant to ask you, about the photographs, would the magazine people mind if I show them to people?’
‘No, of course not. Just don’t sell them to the papers or they’ll get very pissed off.’
‘Elsie’s desperate to put one up in the shop.’
‘That’s fine by me. So are you all set for Christmas?’
‘No, I’m not, and if you’ve already got everything wrapped up on top of your wardrobe, please don’t tell me; I haven’t even started on most of mine yet.’
‘I usually do most of my gift panicking at the airport, so the chickens are going to be a real departure, especially for my mum. Are you still off to Venice for the duration?’
‘Yes. Unless I can invent a mystery illness.’
‘I might be there myself at some point. We’ve got a rush job on and I need to meet the client, but I’m not sure about dates yet. If it works out, perhaps we could have a coffee or something. I’d like to see what your boys make of Florian’s. Do they like hot chocolate?’
‘Has the Pope got a balcony?’
‘Any sign of the Wonder Dog yet?’
‘No, but something dog-shaped has just run into the sea, miles up the beach, and I’m really hoping it’s not him.’
‘Well I’d better let you go and investigate then. Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
How nice; I knew he was just being friendly. And if he is in Venice at the same time as us I might ask him to take some pictures of the boys for me. I could have my camera with me and ask him casually. It would be great to have some really decent photographs of them, although I should probably get a black-and-white film just in case, because I’m not sure professional photographers are that keen on free Bonus Print colour films.
The boys have finally caught up with Trevor, who’s covered in bits of gorse and looking very pleased with himself.
I grab his lead and wrap it round my hand. ‘Off we go, Trevor.’
He lies down.
‘Heel.’
I tug at the lead, and he looks up at me and yawns. I pull a bit harder and he narrows his eyes.
‘Please, Trevor.’
I pat my leg in what I hope is an encouraging manner, and he rolls onto his back. The boys start to laugh.
‘Right. That’s it. Let’s start walking up the beach.’
I drop the lead. ‘Naughty dog.’
The boys roll their eyes but start walking, recognising the tell-tale signs of Mother Close to Meltdown.
Trevor lopes along behind us and Archie starts to giggle.
‘He’s following us, Mum.’
‘Is he? Well just ignore him. He’s being very naughty.’
They both sigh, and carry on walking.
‘Why are you being such a grumpypotamus?’
Grumpypotamus is one of Archie’s favourite new words, along with catatonic, which he overheard me saying to Ellen on the phone, and which he thinks is an alcoholic drink, and masticate, which he keeps saying at inopportune moments like when we’re standing in the queue at the baker’s. But I know if I tell him I’m not keen on being compared to a bad-tempered hippopotamus, especially when I’m wearing my new jeans, which I had hoped were rather flattering, he’ll be chanting it for months.
‘He’s still following us, Mum.’ Jack’s getting anxious.
‘I think he’s trying to make friends.’
I stop and pick up the lead, and glare at Trevor. ‘Walk, all right? Walk.’
We start off quite well. He pulls a couple of times and I yank and shout Heel and it seems to be working. How very brilliant. I have single-handedly trained a mad dog, in under ten minutes without the aid of sausages. Hurrah.
And then he spots another bloody seagull, busy showing off to its friends by perching on the railings and squawking. Trevor’s ears go flat, and I lean back and brace myself as he leaps forward. He turns to look at me, and pulls again, nearly yanking my bloody arm off, but I still hang on. And just when I think I’ve got the bastard thing under control, he does an enormous leap sideways and I fall over, right on top of him, which the boys think is brilliant. He struggles out from underneath me, looking very shaken: he probably thinks I’m going to try to ride him home.
‘Right, let’s go. And get up, Archie, or you’ll get wet.’
Trevor looks at me. I tug the lead. ‘Walk nicely, and I promise I won’t sit on you again.’
He walks, giving me the occasional worried look.
Excellent.
‘I’m going to ask Father Christmas for a dog, just like Trevor, only a puppy. Of my very own.’
‘Archie, Father Christmas doesn’t bring people dogs, I’ve told you before.’
He ignores me, and mutters ‘Grumpypotamus’ under his breath.
Jack smiles. ‘A dog is for life, not just for Christmas, isn’t it, Mum? People have that on their cars, sometimes, don’t they?’
‘Yes, Jack.’
Archie smiles, too. ‘I bet he’ll bring me one if I ask him.’
I bet he bloody won’t.
There are eight shopping days to Christmas, and Bluewater is just as appalling as I knew it would be. Reg drives us up there in his ancient Rover, which is very kind of him, obviously, but means I’m stuck in the back of the car for hours and hours, so I’m tempted to start counting lorries and whining for a drink. He never drives above forty, and seems completely oblivious to the unusual hand gestures this prompts from other drivers, since he’s busy chatting to Gran about the cruise, and offering round his packet of Murray Mints. He moves on to telling us all about his daughter’s new carpet in her lounge, which isn’t quite grey, but isn’t blue either, and by the time we’ve arrived I’ve practically slipped into a coma, and my legs have gone numb, which isn’t the ideal way to start a shopping marathon. We have to tour round the car parks until we finally find a space on Squirrel Level 2, in the Green Zone. Or it might be Green Level 2 in the Squirrel Zone, but I’m so pleased to be out of the car I really don’t care. Actually I’m half hoping he won’t find the bloody car again, and we can go home on the bus.
Gran spends ages finding the perfect suitcase, after making the poor man in John Lewis dismantle his entire display, much to his obvious annoyance, and then we all trot off to Lakeland,
where Gran spends ages trying out all the lids on the plastic boxes and marvelling at the extra-wide trays for soaking your oven shelves in. She tries to buy me one, which given I can’t remember the last time I cleaned my oven isn’t exactly top of my Christmas list, but I divert her by showing her the yellow plastic boxes shaped like bananas.
‘Isn’t that a clever idea? I’ll get one each for the boys for their school lunches, because there’s nothing worse than a squashed banana.’
Actually, I think the boys may feel differently, and turning up at school with a bright yellow plastic banana-shaped box in your lunch bag might turn out to be far worse, but never mind.
‘I think I’ll get one for Betty, too. She often brings a snack with her when we go on our coach trips, and she’s quite partial to a banana.’
‘Good idea.’
I leave them piling up the trolley in Lakeland while I race round like I’m playing some very expensive version of that game where you put loads of objects on a tray and cover them with a tea towel, and then have to try to remember what was on the tray. I’m up and down escalators and along the hallways chanting Sellotape and Chocolate orange, and trying to remember what I need to get in Boots, until Gran finally emerges with lots of new plastic stacking objects, and Reg staggers backwards and forwards to the car stashing carrier bags while we search for something for Betty, who collects china rabbits, and likes roses, and Elsie, who doesn’t. I’ve bought Gran’s suitcase as her main present from me, but I still need to get her something from the boys, and then she spots a teapot with a matching milk jug which she likes, so that’s another thing off my list. We get one for Elsie, too, only with blue flowers on it, rather than pink, and then we spot a group of hideous china rabbits, including one clutching a posy of roses, so that’s Betty taken care of. Naturally, Gran did all her Christmas shopping weeks ago, so she’s quite happy to sit in a café with Reg having a toasted teacake while I brace myself for round two.
I gather up bottles of bath stuff and candles in M&S for Connie and Lulu, along with smaller versions for the boys’ teachers, and some spares for whichever bastard I haven’t thought of who turns up with an unexpected gift, and some Christmas pants for Vin, because we always get each other really crap presents, before I head down to the food hall, where for some reason best known to middle management they’ve decided to put all the trolleys outside the main doors, in the freezing cold, so you have to leave whatever shopping you’ve got in your arms in a pile on the floor, as lots of other people seem to be doing, or else take it outside with you and run the risk of being arrested for shoplifting. So that’s all very helpful. I finally track down some chunky-looking marmalade in a vaguely familiar jar. I’m balancing two baskets on one arm, which leave big red marks, so I decide not to do any other food shopping as my personal protest about the new trolley relocation policy. I bet that’ll have Head Office rocking in their seats. But as Tesco keep telling us, every little helps, and maybe next time someone might join up the dots before customers are forced to abandon their shopping in little piles all over the bloody food hall. Christ, I think I might be developing shopping rage.