“Ah. Well. I normally just sleep in my undies, as you know. But before the ambulance came, Lydia fetched me some warmer clothes to wear. It’s a bit worrying though, Rach. She’s clearly inherited your dress sense. But hey, how did you get here so quickly?”
“Cadged a lift off a friend.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Michael and Lydia were now behind me, scoffing their chocolate bars. Vicky had to look twice. And then again.
“Yes – a lift.” I squinted and tried to telepathically convey the message of ‘Indeed. The friend that I’m referring to here, happens to be the Government Minister for Communities. And yes, it is nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. But let’s say no more about that, eh?’
Vicky frowned.
“Rachael - is there something wrong with your contact lenses? You’re blinking rather a lot.”
I scowled at her.
“Ooh – they look like they’re really hurting you!” she added.
But then she snapped into dream Our-Kid mode, flashing a beatific smile at Michael;
“Hello there. Nice to meet you.”
Michael stepped forward and shook her hand. Lydia decided to outline, using her best manners;
“This is some bloke; what Mother happens to know from work.”
“Yes. I can see that,” said Vicky as she nodded at Michael. “Oh, and I must apologise for my attire. My niece has been an absolute star - but she isn’t very well trained in early morning dress assemblage. Although I must say, Rachael, that it was Lydia who dialled 999. She repeated the address to the ambulance operators. And she even stood at the front door to wave them over to us. She was a little darling.” Lydia glowed.
Vicky had broken her ankle. Not a bad break. But enough to keep her from her usual tube-commute on the Northern line to work. In addition to the pot on her leg, she had been provided with crutches and was told to use a wheelchair to exit the hospital premises in case her early attempts at crutch-control failed. Michael took charge;
“Right. Let’s get you back to Dulwich.” And then he lowered his voice, “Before any of us catch MRSA or whatever they’re now calling the latest superbug thing that Bob Porteus’ Ministry is failing to control. But don’t quote me on that one, please.”
He moved behind the wheelchair and ushered us all outside. I knew that if security procedures were being followed correctly, Trevor should have followed Michael into the hospital. But perhaps this little venture was deemed to be of low risk. After all, even Al-Qaeda or ISIS couldn’t have pre-empted a pussycat inflicted accident laying low the sister of the Minister’s latest squeeze during the wee small hours of a random Sunday morning.
A traffic warden was hovering next to the ministerial car which had been parked on double yellow lines. By the looks of things, ‘the VIP discussion’ had already taken place with the man, who was no doubt hanging about to see if the scary-looking driver had been telling the truth. Trevor got out of the car and helped Michael to assist Vicky into the back seat. Lydia and I climbed in behind her; Liddy's eyes all agog at the sight of Trevor. And at the enormous space in the back of the car.
Trevor and I had finally met and enjoyed a brief chat on the way to the hospital. He was younger than Brian and less bulky, but considerably taller and he looked every inch the security man sort. He sported a buzz-cut, which Michael had been joshing about, on the drive to the hospital;
“When Trevor first came to work for me, he had an Afro but it ended up as a flat-top, didn't it? What with all of the sitting in the car. He’s incredibly fashion-conscious, is Trevor, and couldn't cope with having a flat-top. So he decided to get it all shaved off – despite him feeling like he had betrayed his ethnic origins.”
Trevor just gave him a look.
“Yehmon,” he answered. “And I smoked ganja and played Bob Marley to him, all the way up and down the M6 until Michael pointed out that I was actually British by birth, that I was doing far too much of the Afro-Caribbean stereotype. And that he was going to get his Minister mates to revoke my citizenship if I didn't stop playing the black man.”
Michael guffawed and told me;
“He’s actually an enormous Stevie Wonder fan.” Trevor shook his head again. These two clearly had a bit of a crack going on.
Vicky, however, was less interested in the lad-banter and more thrilled by the car.
“You know what? I’m really surprised that it’s a Beamer. I would have thought that all of your ministerial cars would be Prius’ by now.”
Victoria Russell was a cool cookie indeed. She hadn’t batted an eyelid at being introduced to Michael. There had been no indication of the fact that she had instantly recognised him. And yet within minutes, she was making chit-chat about the brands and models of government cars. She might be a bit of a smart-arse at times and could be incredibly rude about my parenting style, personal appearance and my taste in men, but that little sister of mine could always be relied upon to rise to the occasion.
CHAPTER 5
Michael called back to Vicky, from the front seat.
“The cars tend to vary. Last week it was a Merc. This week a BMW. All fleet stuff, generally. But the PM gets the Jag. And there’s always talk of Prius’ of course. I own one myself – it's back at home in Mottram. But I’m told that for the government they’re a bit more… But, hey - Trevor, my friend, now then. Come on. You’re responsible for the welfare of three ladies today. So, do keep the speed down, won’t you?”
Trevor attempted not to smile, shaking his head wearily at Michael as he stared at the gridlocked traffic ahead of us. Occasionally his glance would flick up at the Russell girls in the back. He had hot-cocoa eyes. I was reminded of Shaun. But, even so - not even these peepers were quite as dark as Shaun’s.
My meandering thoughts were interrupted by Vicky;
“You must be in demand quite a bit then, Michael. Popular with a certain type of folk, I mean - what with the armoured windows and the bullet-proof glass. No doubt a Kevlar-lined compartment. And I’m pretty sure there’ll be explosive-resistant steel plate underneath. It’s hardly your bog-standard government-issued car now, is it?”
Vicky never showed any interest in politics or in social issues, but her knowledge of modern cars had shed some interesting light on the level of Michael's seniority in government. She wasn’t trying to show off though. She just came over all geeky when it came to mechanical contraptions.
Michael shrugged his shoulders, playing it all down.
“Oh, well. I haven't a clue who gets allocated what - or why. I'm only interested in who the drivers are. Trevor’s main skill set is knowing where the best greasy spoons are. And how to avoid knocking down and killing too many anarchists - hey, Trev?”
“Ja, Baas.” Trevor didn’t miss a beat.
Michael grinned and then asked;
“Enjoying your weekend in London, Lydia?”
“Yeah! It's getting even better now - I’ve never been in a car what’s got a TV in the back before! And isn’t that a sort of little fridge thing? Is there any Pepsi in it? Can I have one? Oh, Matthew is going to be so soooo jealous! Can we watch some cartoons?”
“No,” Michael replied. “I only allow the Parliamentary channels on in my cars. Cartoons would just distract Trevor. I don't even let him listen to Radio Two. Especially Steve Wright in the Afternoon.”
“But that’s not ‘cause I’m lacking in concentration skills, Michael,” Trevor lobbed back at him. “It’s ‘cause the guy gets my goat up. Bloke’s a total wan…”
The blare of a taxi horn outside drowned out Trevor’s adjective. Certainly, his choice of words to describe Steve Wright were not ones that tended to feature in the DJ's own radio jingles. Adam would have immediately warmed to Trevor. Bound by a mutual dislike of ol’ Wrighty.
Lydia prattled on.
“But yes. London. We've done it all. Buckingham Palace, Traffy Square, Tower of London. And today was supposed to be me and Vicky going to the big wheel thing on the river. But it's all gone w
rong, 'cause stupid old Cubus turned up when I was asleep and started shouting at Auntie Vicky through the letterbox. Going on that he really does loooooove her - more than the smallpox, even. And he would even marry her if she would go and live in Ifrica with him. Wherever that is. And after that, it went quiet. And then Claude the Cat wanted to go out. And then Auntie Vicky fell down the stairs after him.”
I looked at my sister.
“Smallpox?”
“She probably means the Springboks”.
“Blimey.” I added, “A South African bloke said that he likes you more than the rugby? Wow. Never mind the offer of marriage – that says it all.” She nodded woefully;
“He was totally steaming, Rachael. He’d been at Covent Garden all night. Some big works do with a load of the other guys up from Jo’berg. You can’t believe a word that a bloke says, when they’re like that…”
Both Michael and Trevor snorted. There was a privacy panel located between the front of the car and the passengers in the back seat. I leaned over and snapped it shut.
“Excuse me!” Michael rapped on the glass screen. “Just whose car is this?”
“Belongs to the Great British Public. Us ordinary tax payers,” I called (or rather yelled) at him, then turning to Vicky, I added;
“Did he really say that stuff? The marriage bit?”
“’Fraid so,” she admitted with a hitch of her shoulders, as though in her book it was the height of shame to have a marriage proposal drunkenly garbled to you via your letterbox. “And if I’m going to be honest, I’ve been getting a bit sick of the whole long-distance thing. That’s why I was happy about using Lydia as an excuse for not spending time with him this weekend, whilst he’s been up from Jo’berg again. I mean, he’s top-notch in terms of knowing his stuff on field applications and the latest digital advances. But the only other stuff that he wants to talk about is sport. Or getting off his face. And I’m thirty-six now. I’m a bit past all of that.”
“Right. So, his widgets and gadgets no longer hold you in thrall.”
“Exactly. And even when I told him that I’d be looking after my niece this weekend – he turns up drunk in the middle of the night and starts bellowing through the front door. A door that I happen to share with other leaseholders in the damned building! And if he thinks depriving me of sleep and freaking out a little kid… meaning that I’m so bloody knackered later that I end up tripping down the bastard stair. Sorry.” She directed the apology to me. I batted it away. Lydia knew plenty more profanities than that one, but was usually canny enough not to use them.
“So, he doesn’t know about what happened to you? You didn’t call him?”
“No way. The state that he was in? I’m hardly going to call a drunken dickhead to come and help me. Anyway. Lydia was a hell of a lot more use than he would have been. He’s probably still sleeping it off on a park bench somewhere. And I’m not forgiving him for causing so much noise. The people above me are lesbian librarians and they’re not used to that sort of behaviour.”
“What’s a lesbian librarian?” asked Lydia. “Are they like normal librarians – but only, even scarier?”
We both ignored her.
“Are you sure? I can call him, you know.”
“No. No way. No thanks.”
She folded her arms and stared at the back of Trevor’s head. I wasn’t going to probe any further. My sister and I had always kept abreast of each other’s love lives, but we didn’t intrude.
Or I had thought that we didn’t intrude. Because then she asked me;
“So how long has this been going on then?” Not meeting my eyes, as she nodded towards the front seats of the car.
“Vick…” I gave her my warning voice. I didn’t want my daughter to be privy to this kind of conversation. But Lydia seemed to be distracting herself with a packet of Tic Tacs. She was trying to throw them into the air and catch them in her mouth. Adam used to do that. Perhaps she had remembered this.
“Oh, I don’t disapprove, Rachael. I think it’s time. I mean, you didn’t do yourself any favours after you lost Adam. Doing the whole rubber-ball thing - bouncing back for more with that tosspot Sh…”
I cut her off by clearing my throat loudly. She got the message.
Lydia said;
“We should buy Matthew a bouncy ball. One with a Union Jack on it? He’d like that. Might shut him up from being such a little whinge-bag.”
And then she started singing and bopping along to ‘Rubber Ball’ by Bobby Vee. My parents must have been over-exposing their grandchildren to their Crap Songs from the Sixties CD again.
I glared over Lydia’s dancing curls, at my sister. She replied;
“Yeah, alright. I get the drift, our kid. I’ll keep my gob shut.”
Fifteen minutes later and we were rolling up to Vicky’s place in Dulwich. Trevor steered the car between several wheelie bins that some London larkster had decided to push over for a Saturday night laugh. Michael opened the window panel and asked us if we had had a nice little chat about men and handbags. Lydia yawned;
“I wouldn’t worry about not hearing what they said. It was reet dull. Even God in his heaven was probably exquisitely bored off his trolley face.”
Michael raised his eyebrows;
“Lydia does have a remarkably eclectic grasp of language…”
“She's an avid reader,” I said. “And we can also probably blame her numerous Famous Five audio books for the words that she sometimes comes out with.”
Vicky smirked, adding;
“And her father’s genes, of course. Not the Stanley family’s. None of us lot are big readers. But Adam was. A real clever sod, he was. He was wasted in computers. He used to hate me for saying that, but it’s true.”
I reached over Lydia to squeeze my sister’s hand. Hardly anyone talked about Adam so freely and so full of natural affection as Vicky did.
The men assisted the invalid out of the car whilst I unlocked her front door, intending to whizz around her home to make it as disabled-friendly as possible. Lydia had already had a good attempt at messing up her Aunt’s usually immaculately presented abode. The living room floor now comprised of an elaborately woven tangle of Vicky’s beads, bracelets and belts, scattered with what appeared to be pot pourri. Liddy had no doubt been creating another one of her Magic Circles, inspired by her recent interest in Wiccanism and too many day trips to Hebden Bridge. After I kicked the pile of crap to one side, Trevor entered the living room carrying Vicky in his arms.
“Blimey, Trevor,” I said, “You’re earning your wages today!”
“No probs,” he replied; “She’s a mere slip of a lass, your sister.” He flashed her a brilliant white smile and gently manoeuvred her onto the sofa. Lydia was galloping behind them both, screeching “Me next, Trevor!” Michael trailed at the rear and then leaned against the door frame, watching me scurry around moving random pieces of furniture. I thought that he might at least offer to help me with things. But then he astonished me;
“Look,” he said. “Why don’t we get Lydia out of your hair for an hour? Whilst you make the place more suitable for Vicky.”
Lydia curled her lip at him.
“I’m not in no-one’s hair. Like I’m a nit or something! That’s well mucky, that is.”
“Sorry Lydia – I was just using an idiom. Something I would have thought you would have mastered by now, given your verbal gifts.”
“And you shouldn’t call me an idiot, neither,” said Lydia, deliberately throwing Michael another language related curve-ball. Michael ignored her, and I moved through to the kitchen. He followed me.
“So, Rachael – what do you think? Lydia could come out with Trevor and me. Just for an hour. We could nip down to the Embankment. Can't really get tickets for the wheel at this stage, but we can at least have a look at it. Get her an ice-cream or something.”
“Oh. You don’t have to do that…” I began. And I could see that he was already wavering about the suggestion himself as he
glanced at his watch. But then Liddy Loudmouth broke in;
“Oh, yes he flippin’ well does! I’ll have a Mr Whippy one with a flake. Definitely not a sicky-yellow hard one. And lots of sprinkles…”
I picked up the kettle and looked around for tea bags. Then I checked out the clock on the kitchen wall.
“It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday morning. And it’s pretty chilly outside. Ice-cream?”
Trevor appeared at Michael’s shoulder now, smirking at Lydia.
“Where I grew up - not so far from the beach at Southport - we always said that it was never too early for an ice-cream. We even had it for breakfast in the summer. My dad used to say ‘Well, it’s all dairy – innit?’”
Lydia nodded furiously and began to embark upon her begging mode. This was a recent development of hers. It involved hands curled over in the fashion of furry paws, a protruding tongue and a lot of panting. If we had been at home on our own together, I would have told her to pack it in and stop acting like such a mentalist. But instead, I said;
“Well. Go on then. But Michael…”
“I know. I know what you’re going to say. But we’ll have to bring her back to you – even if you’d rather that we lose her…”
The two men turned to leave, with Lydia scampering behind and yelling “Oi – cheeky chops!”
I put the kettle on and dished out the green tea for my sister and then the bog-standard for me. Then I set up a small table at arm’s length distance from her, so that her various electronic devices, remote controls and painkillers were close to hand. She commented;
“Hey – you’re not as crap at this mothering malarkey as I thought you were. I’ve got all of my basic necessities right here, in the space of a few minutes!”
“Huh,” I replied. “Well, you’d better tell me where you hide your vibrator. ‘Cause you’ll be needing that after buggering things up with Cubus…”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 6