Strays and Relations

by Dizzy Greenfield

  Radar was bouncing from armchair to sofa, frenetic with lack of exercise and training. Vernon was oblivious so I offered to take him for a walk.

  When the dog and I got out of earshot of the house, we had a serious talk.

  By the time we returned, he was walking to heel. It was short-lived. As soon as I opened the back door he pushed past me, bounded inside and landed on Vernon, spilling his mid-morning coffee all over the white sofa.

  ‘He needs more walks, Vernon. He needs to go off the lead, and you ought to enrol him in dog-training classes,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right.’

  Vernon, now watching Homes under the Hammer, obviously had other things on his mind.

  ‘I thought you had a dog behaviourist round recently,’ I said. ‘Have you done what she advised?’

  ‘Aye? No, that’s Marie’s department.’

  ‘The whole family has to do it!’

  Marie had gone off to her job as a care warden, dealing with the elderly of Sheffield, so I took the dog out again, and we played fetch the pensioner on the tiny patch of grass behind the houses. Poor dog, living here when he should have fields to run in and pheasants to retrieve.

  Occasionally, we saw Marie dashing by, going quickly from one bungalow to the next. It was a small enough estate for me to be able to hear her voice as she stood on the pensioners’ doorsteps.

  ‘You all right, Bob, love? Did the Meals on Wheels arrive or shall I cook you an egg?’

  ‘Have you got your Sudocrem, Beryl? You don’t want that chaffing to come back again.’

  At one point, I saw Marie talking to a policeman. An ambulance was called and there was much disruption amongst the residents of the other little bungalows. When Marie eventually returned, finished for the day, I was waiting for her, sitting on the patch of grass outside her home with Radar. It was still early afternoon, and Marie didn’t look like she had been to work. She was made up like she should be going to a film premier, wearing a faux fur coat, high heels and black velvet trousers. She looked as though she should be mingling with the stars or be jetting off somewhere altogether more glamorous than her surroundings. She looked as if she really didn’t belong on this housing estate.

  Her words, on the other hand, were very much grounded in the grit of the pavements of the North.

  ‘I’ve had her from number three sectioned. It’s not safe leaving her alone with medication,’ she said.

  ‘Will she come back?’ I asked.

  ‘Hope not. She’s delirious poor lamb. She thought I were Esther Rantzen this morning.’ Marie delivered this line without humour – it was a tragic situation. She dealt with difficult situations like this every day.

  ‘How’s the training going with my little angel?’ Marie bent down to stroke the dog.

  ‘It’s going to take a while, Marie…’

  The dog behaviourist had given sound advice before taking her £180 fee from Marie, but I now told her the truth about the dog’s prospects.

  ‘Marie, I don’t think it’s fair to keep him. He’s not got enough to do. Unless you both commit to walking him several times a day and training him, he’ll always be destructive.’

  ‘Do you mean Vernon?’

  We laughed, but she knew that I was talking sense.

  ‘Vernon won’t help me, Dervla.’

  ‘Well, you clearly haven’t got time, have you? You need to both be firm with Radar and work with him. If you can’t, he’ll have to be re-homed.’

  Marie said nothing, but looked down sadly at the little spaniel. It’d been her desire to have a dog of her own. I felt sorry for her.

  ‘See how it goes, then,’ I conceded.

  Later, Marie’s sister Rosheen arrived in time for some beauty preparation for a night on the tiles. Like the rest of Marie’s siblings, she came fitted with the required, broad Limerick accent. We were all dispatched to Carla’s house to get ready. After witnessing their mysterious rituals, I decided that these women were world class experts at slapping on the face paint.

  I watched in awe as Carla, Marie, Rosheen and Helena expertly applied layer after layer of foundation, eye make-up and false eyelashes, and curled their hair. They were transformed.

  ‘Your turn, our Dizzy.’ Carla came towards me with the curling tongs. ‘Just going to do you up a bit,’ she said. ‘You need a bit of make-up now, love. When you get to a certain age you need a bit of help.’

  ‘Not where I live you don’t.’

  Carla applied far too much blusher. I was glad Sasha couldn’t see me – not exactly the maternal role model for her I had in mind. After being squeezed into one of Carla’s dresses and a pair of heels, I put aside all thoughts of my wellies. I was ready for the north.

  We clip-clopped our way through Sheffield’s streets, going from bar to bar, our laughter getting ever more raucous as the vodka washed away our inhibitions.

  It was surreal, going to a night club with your mother. My West Country mum and I preferred lunch and a dog walk. Where we came from, mums didn’t get to go clubbing with their children.

  In reality, though, I was loving this partying in Sheffield. We were all out to have a good time. I didn’t know anyone and nobody cared. To say that the man who approached me and asked for a dance was odd-looking would have been doing him an injustice. He had slightly convex eyes and a receding hairline.

  He was also wearing black boots with a small heel and he carried a man bag. In real life I wouldn’t have danced with anyone that carried a handbag, but this was Sheffield, so anything went. I wasn’t sure how to respond to a strange man wearing inappropriate footwear who kept standing on my feet with his boots. After a few times though, I’d had enough.

  Carla, Helena and Rosheen stole me away to the ladies.

  ‘Ooh, our Dizzy, look at you. Get his cowboy shirt. He loves you.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t know what came over me; the man is obviously insane and shouldn’t be out without a helper,’ I coughed.

  ‘Oh Dizzy, you’re just like us. What a laugh you are, you aren’t really a snob.’

  Marie, glamorous as ever, appeared as if by magic from one of the toilet cubicles. Rummaging in her bag, she produced more weapons from her make-up case, which she gave to Helena and Carla. They pinned me to the sink and started applying extra layers.

  Marie proceeded to strut her stuff until the wee small hours. For nearly sixty, she could still pull ‘em. We were set for hours of fun ahead. In fact, so serious was the party mood that Marie ordered twenty-eight tequila shots! But then her mobile rang.

  ‘Hello. Who is this?’ She shot us a look; then her expression changed.

  ‘VERNON! What do you want?’

  She held the phone at arm’s length and made impolite suggestions with a cocktail umbrella.

  ‘What d’you want to be doing, phoning me up now? Yes, there is more John Smiths, it’s hidden in the larder.’

  Five minutes later, he rang again. Carla, the most sober of us all, took the call this time.

  ‘All right, Vernon, love? Yes… yes… she is behavin’, you daft sod. What’s she going to be doin’ at her age. What? EXCUSE ME...? This is my mother you’re talking about!’

  Marie snatched the phone.

  ‘For feck’s sake, Vernon, what is it this time?’

  Marie listened intently, the mobile tucked under her ear so that her hands were free to take a shot of tequila. She half closed her eyes, her brow creased.

  ‘The TV remote is on the mantelpiece,’ she said, eventually.

  But Vernon was clearly so concerned about mislaying the TV control that he couldn’t manage any longer; he needed assistance. We sent Marie home in a taxi.

  On returning to Carla’s, we staggered upstairs. Carla, Rosheen and Helena got into a single bed. I stood by the door, holding its frame to steady myself. It was like watching s
ardines fit into a tin.

  ‘Where am I sleeping, Carla?’

  ‘In here, love.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’ll be four of us.’

  ‘Well, yes, love, there’s nowhere else.’

  They were laughing at me.

  Rosheen then told me how it was, her Limerick accent penetrating the quiet night; her words, although funny, stabbed at my conscience.

  ‘Get in the feckin’ bed, Dizzy! Jesus, you’re so spoilt. Back in Ireland there would have been twenty-three of us in a bed this size. Now get in the bed and shut the feck up.’

  And that was it, that was the truth. Life here wasn’t like my comfortable life back home where everyone had enough beds to go round.

  Helena had fallen onto the floor and passed out, so I stepped over her and curled my whole body onto the pillow without a fuss. I daren’t complain there was no blanket. At six in the morning, after only three hours of pillow contact, I couldn’t stand it. There’d been more laughing than sleeping, apart from Helena who was comatose.

  It wasn’t funny anymore. My lack of sleep had left me in need of a humour transplant. I staggered along the landing to the loo and, on my return, noticed two-year-old Jed wasn’t in his room; he had crept in with his dad.

  Seizing the opportunity, I scrunched my body up into Jed’s car-themed bed, which was designed for a two-foot-long toddler. The Formula One stickers raced round my head, reminding me of other kinds of transport options. They also prompted me to remember that I had a train to catch at ten o’clock that very morning.

  An hour later and Jed was peeling open my eyelids with his fingers. I woke to see a toddler in blue tracksuit bottoms and socks, staring at me – a stranger in his bed.

  Well, this was a new experience; surely we were all old enough to know better. Besides, the social worker had said nothing about situations like this.

  Chapter 23

  Marie gets run over

  Safely back in the West Country once more, I busied myself with more attempts at cooking. This time it was bread making I was intent on conquering. Unfortunately, the few loaves that initially materialised from Daphne’s oven resembled house bricks more than anything nourishing. Daphne just wasn’t keen on sustaining a temperature conducive to the slow rising of yeast. As there was a mounting loaf production line to grapple with, it was a while until I phoned north.

  ‘Hi, Marie, it’s me.’

  She sounded so delighted to hear from me, she almost sung her reply into the telephone receiver.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Have you been all right?’ I asked

  ‘Yes, fine thanks,’ she paused. ‘Well, actually no… I mean I am now, but Vernon ran me over last Wednesday, the daft prat.’

  ‘What! Really! Oh dear, what happened?’ This wasn’t going to be the quick call I’d planned.

  ‘We’d only been to the supermarket but, on returning home, I just got out of the passenger seat of the car to direct him back into the parking space. As he was reversing, Vernon pressed the accelerator not the brake. He can’t work his hands and feet at the same time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘AND the passenger door flew open so he hit me in the head with it. I fell to the ground, but he carried on driving.’

  ‘Oh no! Are you all right?’

  ‘I’d just got back onto my feet again when he drove forward, knocking me down for a second time.’

  ‘Did you go to hospital in an ambulance?’

  ‘AMBULANCE? I wish. No, worse than that, Vernon drove me.’

  I gulped, trying to stifle the giggles.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right, love. It were funny, I suppose.’

  ‘You should learn to drive.’

  ‘ME? Oh no, not after the last time. The driving instructor refused to learn me; he dropped me off at the side of the road and Vernon had to come and get me.’

  ‘That bad was it?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not the correct temperament to learn, it’s me hormonials.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘My hormonial levels, that’s what the doctor said.’

  ‘Have you had HRT?’

  ‘Oh yes, tried it all. My doctor’s lovely. He fancies me you know, he always looks at my chest.’

  ‘Um, right… Well, I’m sure he does, it’s a very splendid chest; I don’t expect he can help it.’

  ‘I’m on such good terms with him that I only have to make a call and he has antibiotics ready for collection, what with my past chest problems, you see,’ she said.

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Anyways, I’m well enough now. I’m going to one of my psychic readings on Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Shame you didn’t have one last week,’ I replied, ‘it could have predicted Vernon running you over.’

  ‘You all have The Gift, all my children have it.’

  This was the first I’d heard about our ‘Gift’.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ I said.

  ‘Well you have it and that’s that, I’ll do some cards for you. After the reading we’re goin’ up the club with Doreen on Saturday night. I hope she isn’t on one, I’m not in the mood for her. She can be a right snob sometimes, you know, and I hate snobs.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  She could be referring to me.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Speak next week then?’ I said.

  But she wasn’t letting me go quite so quickly.

  ‘Have you heard from Tommy?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Yes, an email anyhow. He’s away at the moment.’

  ‘Again? Where now?’

  ‘Australia.’

  ‘Humph… lovely, I’m sure.’

  I tried to move the subject on.

  ‘Are you going anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Torremolinos. Vernon likes it there. Personally, I’d prefer somewhere a bit more exotic, like Greece. But he likes Spain.’

  ‘Lovely. I’m sure it’ll be warm at least.’

  I was desperate to hurry this phone call on now, as I had to collect Sasha from school and time was ticking, but Marie was in full force.

  I’ve had another letter from your mum,’ she said.

  ‘Oh good, it’s wonderful that you write to each other now.’

  ‘She writes beautiful letters. I’d like to meet her… I could come down.’

  OMG! Marie in the country, being real, walking around our village. Dodging the cow muck in her high-heeled boots, meeting real live people and possibly some ghosts, given her ability to converse with the other side.

  ‘I don’t think you’d like it,’ I said – ‘it’s a bit bleak.’

  ‘It’ll be lovely to see you again and meet my granddaughter, Sasha. Meet your mum and step-dad, too. Ooh, I can’t wait. I’ll be down in October then.’

  Nonplussed, I drove to school, gripping the steering wheel very hard. I walked zombie-like to the school gates to wait for Sasha to run out to me.

  ‘Sasha, Marie Dishcloth is coming to visit,’ I told her. Then I repeated the words, unable to believe it. ‘Marie is coming here.’

  ‘Is she nice?’

  ‘She’s very nice, and she’s your nana.’

  My nan isn’t called Marie Dishmop, she’s called Nanny Paula. Is it the lady you went to meet, Mummy, when you were sad?’

  ‘Yes, it is my love. The lady that was my mummy – but when I was a baby some unhappy things happened to her and she couldn’t keep me with her, so she gave me to Nanny Paula.’

  ‘That was kind of her.’

  ‘She is very kind.’

  ‘You would never give me away would you?’

  ‘No, my darling, never, but I’m lucky, I don’t have to,’ I said.

  It was three months until October. I had lots o
f time to prepare. But could the West Country ever be ready for Marie?

  Chapter 24

  Miss Untidy

  By now, any illusions I had about Marie and this newfound family being like folk we’d met on a holiday were long gone. It wasn’t going to be a case of just keeping in touch by sending Christmas and birthday cards. The past was gaining speed. It seemed as if it was belting up the dual carriageway of life, in danger of screeching up alongside the present. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Marie’s impending visit exacerbated this feeling, and the Boots herbal remedies weren’t working. Clearly, this was something that I needed to sort. So, I took action.

  The Yellow Pages found me a local therapist to guide me through Marie’s dreaded arrival. I’ll call her Miss Untidy for the sake of confidentiality. On the allotted day, I wandered up to her front door. Next to it was a double garage with its doors wide open. It looked like she used it to house her junk pile, which was so colossal that she could have filled another house.

  Miss Untidy had many letters after her name, all of them engraved into a grubby-looking brass plaque outside her front door. Feeling uncomfortable, I waited for her to answer the bell, hugging myself against the cold.

  In her garden, homemade-looking art hung from branches, vying for space with dreamcatchers that spiralled in the late summer breeze. Unfinished stone sculptures lay, their limbs poking out from the grass that threatened to cover them. A strange doll’s head, detached from its body, was discarded on a grey, plastic table. When a skinny black cat came to check me out, rubbing around my ankles, I was glad of her welcome.

  Eventually, the therapist opened her door. I stared. She was tiny, with a mop of dishevelled hair and wearing a chocolate brown full-length corduroy skirt that had clearly dragged on the floor so that all the dirt worked its way up into the folds of fabric. Above this, she wore a baggy cheesecloth blouse with a grandad collar. At the end of her bare feet were long, dirt-encrusted uncut nails.

  As surprised as I was at her appearance, I was even more alarmed at the amount of stuff lying about the place. Inside the dimly-lit rooms lay books, discarded food wrappers, and overflowing cat-litter trays. Old bits of computer equipment jostled for space. This was where junk went to die; it clung onto tables, chairs, cupboard tops. Piles of magazines teetered over the edges of windowsills, looking like they were trying to leave. Briefly, I wondered whether someone with so many hoarding issues was qualified to help others. I didn’t like mess anymore than Marie did and, at that moment, I could have done with her and her faithful dishcloth to give Miss Untidy’s house the once-over.