Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  As Liddy was being taught the words to ‘Scotland The Brave’, my phone began to ring. I had taken a day’s leave in order to manage a long weekend away, but when I saw that it was Martyn, I took the call. This could be too important to get all prissy about the no work today rule.

  I had known Martyn for donkey’s years; from way back when we worked together with Shaun and Jake. We had all been based at Whalley Range housing office, overseeing Manchester's council estates. Even then, Martyn and Shaun had been career rivals and today they were still pitched up against each other, with Shaun heading up the Communities and Leisure Directorate at Medlock Council and Martyn the Chief Executive of New Banks – the housing association which had taken over the council’s housing stock. So, whether the issue happened to centre on homelessness statistics, food banks, disabled adaptations or photo opportunities with young lacklustre apprentices – the two men were forever trying to shaft each other. But these days, thanks to Martyn's offer of the interest-free loan, he was on my Very Best Mates list.

  Martyn originally hailed from Blackburn but he had lost a lot of the burr after twenty-odd years of living in leafy west Didsbury (“they castrate your accent, when you move to that side of Manchester, they do,” my dad had always said). In fact, his clipped tones on the phone perfectly reflected his straight as a die approach, or his ‘poker up the arse attitude’ as Shaun had always referred to it as.

  “Rachael. How are … But what on earth’s going on at Sisters’ Space today? Sounds like you’re having a bit of a sing-song over there…”

  I stuck a finger in my ear, trying to drown out Liddy and her gang and moved into the corridor.

  “Well, Martyn, I’m not sure whether I should feel insulted that you’ve mistaken a bunch of drunken Scottish football fans for the women at Sisters’ Space…I mean, I know that we can all get a bit lairy at times, but we’re not that hard-arsed…”

  Martyn laughed. “Ah yes, I thought I recognised the strains of ‘Loch Lomond’ there. Oh dear. Living up to their testosterone-induced stereotypes, eh?”

  “Nah, Martyn. Let's not sound like regionalist bigots. Three of them are drinking herbal tea from the buffet car and two of the fellas are snogging the faces off each other.”

  “Gosh. But ... anyway. Sorry, Rachael. I forgot. You said that you were having the day off today. I shouldn’t have —”

  “No. No problem. My daughter is entertaining our new pals here. I’d rather speak to you anyway. What’s up?”

  “Well. Two things really. Dawn Hibbert – now that we've sorted her out with a house, I'll need assurance that she'll keep it all schtum about the location of her new place. We don't want that idiot turning up and trashing the property.”

  I had met Dawn and her young family during the mercy mission to rescue Mary Simpson. Dawn and co had been fleeing yet another beating at the hands of her thug of a partner, Vinnie. We had managed to get them into the safety of Brindleford's hostel, with Michael surprising – and impressing - me as he managed to calm Vinnie down; making the most of what little that they did have in common. The two loves of their lives turning out to be? Motorbikes and The Military.

  I tried to give Martyn my utmost assurances. I had already stressed the importance of this onto Dawn. But at the end of the day you can't always keep this kind of thing quiet. Kids in particular, have a habit of blabbing out stuff to others. Martyn knew that. But he was a bit of a worrier, a bit of an old fuss-pot, was Martyn.

  “But, Rachael, the main reason that I'm calling you, is this. Something that I should have foreseen, I suppose. Shaun Elliot seems to be refusing to sign the paperwork. The referee section in the final application for the social enterprise loan, I mean.”

  “Refusing? Why?”

  “Can’t rightly say. Can’t get him to return my phone calls in order to discuss it. His PA is being all very evasive about it…”

  “Yeah. The Rottweiler can be a total bitch…sorry. Not very PC of me to say so - I know, but…yeah. That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Indeed. Indeed. But what’s really bothering me is that we’ve only got until next Thursday to complete. Otherwise we’ll miss the boat. And I can’t understand why he wouldn’t want to agree to … I mean - it gets the whole issue off his back, doesn’t it? Of his department being responsible for closing Sisters’ Space. He’d be crazy not to go for it. He’d get shot of all the negative publicity that your closure would be bound to generate for him. The redundancies of your staff alone - never mind pulling the plug on victims of violence! It would look dreadful for Medlock council, so I really can’t see why…”

  I clicked my tongue.

  “Yes – but you’re forgetting that Shaun doesn’t mind the odd bit of ‘negative publicity’. He courts controversy. And, let’s face it Martyn – at the end of the day, the problems facing a load of women who have been attacked and brutalised has never really tugged at the heartstrings of the great British public. People tend to care more about abandoned donkeys, don’t they?”

  “But surely even the likes of Shaun Elliot would want to see you succeeding with getting your ladies back on track. Or am I sounding very naïve here ...?”

  The train’s corridor door swooshed open and a giddy Liddy pranced through, cheeks aglow, the result of catching a case of north of the border excessively high spirits.

  “Oh hello, Mother!” she shrieked. “There you are! I was worried that you might have thrown yourself out of the window and killed yourself. Because you don’t like lots of noise, like what we’re all making. Do you? See ya! Wouldn't wanna be ya!”

  She span around and crashed through the doorway again. Back to her mates.

  “Yes, you’re sounding desperately naïve,” I told him. “And whilst I can’t really tell you what Shaun’s motives are…”

  I could attempt a bit of a guess on it. But I won’t be sharing that one with you, Mr Pointer.

  “… you’re right to be worried, Martyn. This is going to be a real pisser, if he doesn’t sign. I mean - what the frig is that total nobhead playing at?”

  A tiny chink of silence. A wee reminder to me of Martyn’s Jehovah’s Witness credentials. Which I always seemed to somehow forget, in my conversations with him.

  And then he sighed.

  “I don’t know, Rachael. As far as I’m concerned, Shaun Elliot never did have a strong moral compass. And these days it seems that it’s all about the car, the status, the face in the media – all of this kind of thing being much more important to him than the original reason most of us went into this line of work.”

  I was tempted to comment on Martyn’s one hundred and fifty thousand pounds’ salary, plus pension, car, expenses da di da as head of New Banks. But I kept my gob shut.

  “… Still, regardless of that, Rachael. Surely, he’ll listen to reason if you contact him. Had a chat. You always got on better with him than I did.”

  Don’t snort. Don’t give it away, Rachael. Poor Martyn had never had a clue about all of that. Hardly anyone did, in fact.

  “Look, I’m happy to give him a call on Monday, but I’m not ringing him today…”

  Definitely not today. Because here, streaming towards Paddington Station, it already felt like it had happened a year ago. Although in fact, it had only been yesterday, when I had rushed to Shaun's office to confront him about his plans to close us down – and when he had ended up kissing me. And wanting something more; much more. So I was planning to stay as far away from him as I possibly could.

  Because all of that had been a momentary lapse. A happen-stance hangover. Silly bint.

  “Fine, Rachael. Monday will be fine.”

  “And I’m not begging him, Martyn.”

  “Of course not. But do use that legendary charm of yours. People like you, Rachael. And you’re much better looking than I am – ha-ha.”

  There was a sudden burst of applause from the train compartment. A jarring cheer and a couple of inebriated ‘Wa-heys!’ I wondered what Lydia was up to now.
<
br />   “Right. Look, I’d better go and rescue that lot from Lydia. But yeah. If you’ve not managed to get his signature by Monday, I’ll call him and give it a shot.”

  Bloody great.

  The train was bang on time and my sister was waiting for us at the top of the platform at the station. Lydia launched herself at her aunt and Vicky lost all the usual reserve that she kept for adult company, plastering Liddy’s neck with lipsticked kisses. She gave me her usual, almost stand-offish, hug and then glanced at a rather expensive looking watch.

  “Right. Let's get a late lunch. Plenty of time before you said you were going to meet your … uh … ‘friend.'” She cast a quick glance at Lydia. “Uhm. Yes. That friend of your mum's who’s going to drag her round all of the boring museums and do… cultural stuff… the kind of thing that kids really… hate.”

  We found a small cafe just outside the station. After we had ordered the food we continued to struggle with adult conversation, thanks to Lydia’s constant tirade of questions in relation to policemen, red buses, homeless people, taxis and the inevitable;

  “Why does everyone in London wear black? Do people keep dying here or what? So… do you still have the Bubonic Plague here? Are there rats in every toilet?”

  Vicky was doing her best to extract information on who I was going to be staying with, but having Lydia around was a useful excuse not to go into too much detail. She knew that there was a man involved in the equation of big sister’s jaunt to the Capital and she quickly gathered that I wasn’t willing to part with any more information.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her to be aware of the Me and Michael thing. Vicky was the sensible, grounded sort. Not easily impressed by celebrity or status. I was pretty sure that she wouldn’t get all blabbermouth about it. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want her to know that I was seeing someone. In fact, Vicky had been aware of what had happened between Shaun and myself so soon after losing Adam - and she hadn’t judged me for it. No, instead, she had directed one hundred per cent of her disgust in the general direction of Shaun, ratcheting up her ancient hatred for him by another notch or two. If that was at all possible.

  So, my need to keep quiet wasn’t about Vicky. It was all about my own issues; my own reservations. That East-Mancunican born and bred default to negativity-tendency, again.

  Don’t get your hopes up, lass.

  After a quick farewell, I finally set my face towards the Underground and then cast a glance over my shoulder. Lydia was instructing my usually far too sensible sibling to “Skip!” away from the station. I left them hopping and jumping towards the bus stop, and made my way down the escalator. As a prejudiced northerner, I noted that it was good to see at least two people in commuter-belt central who weren’t looking like the usual dark-clad and dour-looking miserable sods who tend to hang out there.

  I battled with the little suitcase on wheels, trying not to trip people up with it. Adam had always hated such contraptions – he would insist on picking them up and carrying them.

  “They’re a completely selfish and dangerous invention. Designed to cause accidents or to inconvenience pedestrians. They’re like … the Hummer of the travel and luggage accessories world. But a lot smaller. Obviously.”

  A burst of sadness flowered in my chest. At the thought of Lydia and Matthew going through the rest of their lives without these silly little memories. They would never be able to recall any of Adam’s random pet hates; taxi drivers who beeped their horns instead of “getting off their fat arses and going to the door,” Manga cartoons, cling film, swimming hats, Steve Wright in the Afternoon, cottage cheese , talcum powder. A whole set of encyclopaedias could have been commissioned; ‘The Life and Dislikes of Adam Russell’. How could just one man feel so personally affronted by the bizarre trivialities of everyday life?

  By the time the tube had reached Westminster station, I had managed to override the melancholy and smile at the memories. The glum looking passengers sitting opposite me clearly thought I was a loon.

  Adam on our honeymoon in Madeira as he grabbed a hosepipe and drenched a huge bush filled with cicadas because;

  “ That non-stop bloody chirping is driving me mental!”

  The clang and the creak of the high-security turnstiles at Westminster station jolted me back to the present moment. Cold air slapped my cheeks as I reached street level again, and the brassy tones of Big Ben informed me that there was at least another hour to kill before I was due to meet Michael in Parliament Gardens. Thankfully I had a few caseworker reports to check over before he was scheduled to put in an appearance. Yet at twenty-five past he still hadn't arrived, and I was beginning to tell myself that the whole promise of scorching hot sex on the menu for this weekend had been too good to be true. I resorted to checking which tube line would be the fastest in order to take me back to Vicky's place. But at that very point, I heard a soft tread from behind me and a pair of hands suddenly cupped themselves over my eyes. A whiff of tobacco, of dusky herbs. An apology for lateness in those charmingly well-bred tones of his. Some banter. A lingering kiss. A promise of more. And then an insistent;

  “Right. Tube station. And for God’s sake, let me carry that suitcase thing for you. Bloody silly contraptions. Things like that should be outlawed in crowded places. I’ll get onto the Ministry of Stupid Luggage, pronto.”

  I sensed a smile over my shoulder.

  And I began to relax.

  CHAPTER 3

  Michael’s ‘second home’ - his London place - was an elegant Georgian flat, based just around the corner from Bedford Square. It was cosy and tidy, with every room containing bookcases crammed to the hilt with paperbacks and hardbacks. He had made a point on several occasions of telling me that he was;

  “A bit of a technophobe. And I’ll never do e-books. Over my dead body. Never.”

  The London apartment had quite a different feel to the earthy, more bohemian cottage back home in his constituency. Michael’s other home was in Mottram - a sweet little village nudging rural Derbyshire away from East Manchester’s urban sprawl, although my dad has never been a fan, “Wouldn’t live in Mottram for a gold bloody clock. Full of your traffic and your green welly brigade with their Range Rovers.”

  Mottram had been the subject of ‘we need a bypass’ bickering for some fifty years now. But despite local conjecture - that the crossroads where L.S. Lowry had once ambled about had somehow morphed into Birmingham’s Spaghetti Junction - Michael’s flat in central London was still a world apart from his Mottram place. Here was the roar of the traffic, the ever-present drift of honking car horns, the sounds of emergency sirens. Here there prevailed no wildly overflowing cottage garden, no Morning Glory going crazy. No random bits of Michael’s motorbike scattered about the hallway, or yellowing towers of The Guardian. But in many ways, I thought, as I noted a six-foot-long African tribal spear leaning next to the fireplace, it was just as child-unfriendly. And that was one of the other little dilemmas that I had been struggling to deal with.

  Michael Didn’t Do Kids.

  And personally, I would also like to have done Less of the Kids. But I had very little choice in the matter, these days.

  The view from the front of the flat was of a typical formal Bloomsbury street scene. At the back however, there was a private and expertly manicured quad shared with the other buildings, accompanied by a remarkable vista, taking in some of the more superior architecture of north London. You could even see the top of the London Eye. I murmured my appreciation;

  “This is hardly what you led me to believe, Michael. The view, I mean. Dead pigeons and fire escapes is how you described it…”

  “Well. I knew that you wouldn’t grace me with your presence if you thought it wouldn’t meet your own peculiar form of inverted snobbery. You seem like the kind of girl familiar with dead rodents and back door exits in grotty alleyways.”

  “Oi!”

  “Shush. Now. How about we finish the property inspection with a little look at the bed itself�
��?”

  He pulled me to him and his hands travelled to the back of my jeans. Then he squeezed my bum with his fingers. I sighed out loud.

  “God, that feels good.”

  “It's better with less clothing on, you know.”

  “We could always try that.”

  “I've missed you.”

  “Have you?”

  He moved my hand to his crotch and murmured;

  “Can't you tell?”

  “Show me the bed then.”

  An hour later and we were snoozing in each other’s arms, with my cheek on his chest, squashed up against a sprinkling of springy auburn and grey hair. But Michael suddenly sat up in bed, causing me to wonder if my semi-conscious state had resulted in me inadvertently slobbering on him.

  “Bloody Hell!” He said. “It’s just gone five o'clock! And I’m taking you out for the evening, in what…? In about twenty minutes. So, you’d best get yourself ready. Get changed - put some girl-clothes on etcetera.”

  His eyes met mine, hesitating for a moment.

  “… Not that you don’t already look ravishing. In your, erm… Black Sabbath t-shirt and, well. No pants on at all. But women usually want to faff about with make-up and hair and changing clothes and things…” I stared at him for a minute. No comment. He added. “Don’t they?”