Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  Vicky grimaced. “You’re so vulgar. What’s a top-class man like Michael wanting with someone like you?”

  I smiled. All smug.

  “That’s classified info, Vicky.”

  “Well. Whatever. It’s been a bit of a turn up for the books. Normally, something like this happening to me would have had me in a really foul mood. But you trucking up with your Minister-man was a welcome distraction. Nice - getting a lift home in a government limo, too!”

  “Pleased to be a source of titillation for you, Vicky.”

  She mused on the edge of her cup as I plonked down next to her, disturbing Claude the Cat, who had been perching on the back of the chair. He jumped onto the carpet and stretched himself towards his owner. She reached over, scratching his ear.

  “You two must have something… well. Something good going, Rachael. If you can trust him to cope with Lydia the Lunatic.”

  “Nice way to talk about your only niece. And of course I trust him! He’s a politician, isn’t he?” Vicky snorted and began to plait her chestnut-red hair. But then her expression suddenly altered. She said;

  “Hey, hang on. Oh, my God!”

  CHAPTER 6

  She stopped, clapped her hand over her mouth and then pointed her finger at me, accusingly.

  “ You were that woman in the papers, weren’t you? It only just occurred to me now. The ‘blonde girl’ they were all talking about - that someone took a photo of him with.”

  I swigged my tea, letting her continue;

  “Christ – I don’t believe it. We had a copy of that News of the Nation, in the coffee lounge at work that day. I was actually reading it out to a colleague and laughing. Saying how he’s Mum and Dad’s MP and… well - how everyone in his constituency always thought that he was gay!”

  She began to chuckle to herself;

  “That’s so funny! I mean, you’re not like - all tan and teeth, are you? You’re more like a dirty, mousey sort of blonde. And I mean – you haven’t been a girl for decades! Hardly some young bimbo like they've made it out to be. Ha-ha! If only the journalist scumbags at the News Of The Nation knew it was someone as boring and as serious as you are. Ha-ha! Classic!”

  “Cheers for that, Vicky” I commented. “Yeah, thanks for describing me in probably the most unflattering terms that anyone ever has done. Faded, old, dull, etcetera...”

  “Oh, come on,” she teased me. “Don’t tell me your confidence can’t be sky-high now. Landing a catch like him! I mean, he isn’t really my cup of tea – but he hasn’t exactly been beaten with the ugliness stick either. I can see how he might appeal to you. And as dad would say ‘And I bet he’s probably worth a bob or two as well…’”

  “I wouldn’t know. And I haven’t been out there fishing for people or landing catches as you ever so elegantly put it. It just so happened that I met him through work.” I stared out of her window. But it was difficult to keep up the pretence of being all sniffy and offended when, in the upstairs flat of the house on the opposite side of the road, there appeared to be a semi-naked, middle-aged man doing tai chi exercises. Slow motion arm waving.

  It had been a long time since Vicky and I had had a heart-to-heart. She had moved to London only a few weeks before Adam was killed and although the telephone had kept us talking, it was no substitute for a face-to-face relationship. For the hugs and the hands-on help that I had needed over the last year and a half. With the phone, it was always too easy for her not to see the swollen eyes, to note the sleep-deprivation and, of course, for me to turn the dratted thing off anyway, or to ignore any incoming calls; to cocoon myself in the routine of everyday task-list ticking. And although I missed the company of other adults at home, for over a year I had felt well and truly stuck - rendered unable to reach out for even a simple chat, to ask for help when I needed it. (Not that I’d ever been any good at it, before losing Adam.)

  So, at long last, here was a chance to spill the emotional beans with my little sister. I moved quickly on from the affronted posturing and instead outlined the events of the last few weeks. She listened to me in silence, nodded every few seconds and then finally erupted into a full-blown belly-laugh as I outlined the latest part of the story;

  “Priceless, Rachael! Good bloody God! So, Mum and Dad actually believed you – that you wanted to come to London on a retreat for recently bereaved spouses? Bloody amazing. Wonderful!”

  She finished her tea and placed the mug primly on a granite coaster. “So, I’m best keeping my mouth shut about anything to do with what you actually did do here in London? No mention of you and your… some sort of burgeoning relationship or whatever you want to call it.”

  “Please.”

  “And is that what Michael wants?”

  “No. Not really. He’s not quite thinking along the same lines as I seem to be. In fact, I can’t fathom it out. He says that he doesn’t care what people think about him – with regards to his personal life, at any rate. That there’s nothing that he needs to hide. But my feeling is that he’s… maybe not being careful enough about it all. Especially after that mystery-blonde photo thing in the media.”

  Vicky reached behind her head to close the curtains. The morning sunlight was blinding me and I was having to shade my eyes with my hand to see her properly.

  “Well - if as you say - he’s lived the last few years with these daft ‘Michael Chiswick is gay’ rumours, perhaps now he’s happy to disprove them. It sounds like you're the one worrying… about being seen with him. ”

  “Well, I…” I looked at my watch. It had now been forty minutes since Lydia Had Left The Building. “… I – yeah. Maybe you're right. His career is so important to him. I guess that my concern is that him… hanging out with me - some working-class trollop from up north - will…”

  “Damage his professional credentials. Typical you. Freaked out that you might end up feeling responsible for someone else’s ill-advised choices in life. Especially if they happen to be far more well-bred and therefore worthy of having everything in life handed to them on a gilt-edged platter.”

  “Jake would admire you for saying that.”

  “Well, that’d be a first. I’ve only met Jake a few times and he didn’t exactly endear himself to me by calling me Queen Victoria the Second and telling me that my sympathy with tax exiles was uncannily close to the imperialist fascism that my namesake had peddled out across the Empire.”

  “Aw. Jake. He’s quite fluffy when you get to know him better.”

  “Well, anyway.” Vicky picked up a pen and pad which I had placed on the table next to her. She began doodling tiny sketches of chickens and miniature daisies. An odd habit of hers. “Yeah – anyway. I think that you’re neglecting to tell me the real reason here.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I think… Yes. I think that you suspect that Minister Michael mustn't be totally right in his head. That he’s… actually got a screw loose for wanting to be with you.”

  I shrugged. She was good. No point in trying to deny it.

  Vicky was now drawing a massive daisy. Its stamen was filled with mini-chickens. She shook her head thoughtfully.

  “Classic again. Classic ‘Rachael Mustn’t Tempt Fate.’ Because from what you always said to me - or rather didn’t say - Shaun’s approach to relationships was enough to cause anyone to grow even more doubtful about themselves than they already happened to be.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Yeah - meaning you. I was the one born with the excessive confidence levels, as you always love to tell me. You’re the one who missed out on the inner poise. And the high self-esteem.”

  I gave her a sarcastic glare.

  “But it’s true,” she pouted her bottom lip at me. “And Shaun messed with your mind even more. Playing games. Secrets. And no need for it. For any of it. Total freak, he was.” She looked down at her nails and sighed. Falling down the stairs had led not only to a broken ankle but to a broken nail. Horror of horrors. She looked up at me and adde
d quickly;

  “And I reckon, if you hadn’t put yourself through the Shaun experience again, after Adam died – well. You might be able to relax and enjoy yourself more now. With Michael, I mean. I tell you,” she looked over her shoulder, scanning the lounge for her ever-present manicure set, “If I ever get hold of that Shaun, I’ll rip his bloody head off.”

  Vicky wasn’t prone to such violent outbursts, or passionate words. But she was loyal. Always loyal to me, at any rate. She shifted uncomfortably.

  “Got to hand it to you, Rachael, though. Your Lydia really was a dream kid to have around during an accident. She flipped into adult mode. Ambulance man said it was like having another paramedic in the van.”

  “Yeah, well. We're not bad during crises in our family, are we? That's maybe one of our redeeming features.”

  FIRST AID TRAINING COURSE, MANCHESTER TOWN HALL, OCTOBER 1998

  Our first real, up-and-close attempt at flirtatious banter had taken place during a mind-numbingly dull first aid training course in Manchester Town Hall. Sure, we had been working together for a few weeks beforehand – me as the trainee ‘shadowing’ Shaun, who back in those days was the assistant manager for housing in Whalley Range. And sure, until this point we had always had plenty of the repartee going on. What with him hijacking my (then) maiden name - 'Stanley' - and forever referring to me as ‘Stan The Tomboy Lass.' And what with me taking the mick out of the posh grammar school that he had attended in Ilkley or Harrogate or wherever. Yeah, the joshing came free and easy. But the first real witticisms with a sexual undertone that had been uttered between us took place on a day that I still remember with sparkling clarity. We were stuck in the basement of the glorious Manchester Town Hall; a stunner of a building in itself – a true architectural smack in the gob for you Mancunian-doubters out there. But if you happened to be your average payroll pleb, and on a shit training course, it wasn’t the best location in the north of England to be. I could almost feel the clammy atmosphere of the ten-by-eight underground training room; no windows or natural light. Parked right up against the council canteen. Wafts of catering-sized Heinz Minestrone soup and Spanish omelettes fanning themselves down the corridor towards us. Shaun had said;

  “Everyone says that working in social housing is great, because no two days are the same. Well that’s not true, Stan. This training course is even shitter than the Equal Opps one. At least on that one, we got to have some good arguments about whether Britain would be overrun with immigrants by the year 2000.”

  “No doubt you wound everyone up on that one.”

  “Too right. If I had had a quid for every dickhead who was going 'I'm not racist but...' Yeah. I told ‘em all that Britain should be a damn site more worried about lard-arse benefit scroungers – your native Brits who’ve never done a day’s work in their lives - than these so-called foreigners.”

  “Bet that went down well with the course tutor.”

  “Just a bit. But there’s no debate to be had in this bloody First Aid course. That’s the problem with it.”

  “Yes, well. Even you, Shaun, can’t argue with an expert from St John’s Ambulance as to the best way to deal with a heart attack.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, but it’s the same as it was three years ago - when I had to do this bastard course for the council back then! Nowt's changed. Why waste my time?”

  “So now that you’re assistant manager you’re too important to be reminded of the rudimentary basics of First Aid?”

  “Shut up, Stan. Look – meladdo trainer, there - wants you to go and French kiss his dummy or whatever you lot in East Manchester are calling that kind of thing these days. And if I’m lucky, you might get to practice the same thing on me — ”

  “Excuse me? In your dreams, mate.”

  I toyed with the idea of telling Vicky about my most recent Shaun-encounter of several days ago. But then I thought better of it. A moment of weakness. A wee wobble that my little sister didn’t need to be aware of.

  “You know,” I said. “There’s this thing with widowhood. For women, I mean. I’ve been reading a book about it. Society has to… put women into a widow’s 'purdah'. Otherwise we’re a threat. Might steal someone else’s man and mess up the capitalist status quo.”

  “Bloody hell, Rachael, now who sounds like Jake the Trot? Have you been hanging out with him again? Has he finally forgiven you for having children and not being able to get off your face with him every weekend down on Canal Street?”

  “Well, I did see him the other week, actually. Although it was all about work – this woman called Dawn that we're trying to help. But seriously - men who are widowed, tend to receive more sympathy from society. They get mothered. They’re even perceived to be a bit more virile. Sexier. Women, on the other hand, become social pariahs. And that's certainly been my experience. Like, for example, we hardly ever get invited to kids’ parties since Adam died. Poor Matthew hasn’t even been to one in the last…”

  She raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow and answered;

  “Could just be because no-one likes Matthew.”

  “Very funny. It’s more to do with the fact that I’m some sort of a social leper now. So, God forbid that I have a sex life! That people know about it. It’s a huge taboo. If I do anything like that, I’m instantly being unfaithful to Adam’s memory.”

  Vicky's nostrils flared. Not impressed.

  “Soz, sis, but if you can’t hear him, then I can. Yeah, I can definitely hear a certain brother-in-law of mine, right now… speaking to me from across the Great Divide. And he says that you’re talking bollocks. Total and utter crap.” She sighed and then carried on with, “So what? So what if the odd opinionated bugger thinks that you should keep your knickers on forever? Adam wouldn’t have expected that of you. He’d want you to be happily shagging away. I’m sure of it.”

  “God, Vicky, you’re such a romantic.”

  “No. Never have been, as you damned well know. But Shaun… he messed with that logical bit of your head which, quite frankly, you were never much cop at anyway. And you need to get over it. Now.”

  I smiled. Vicky had known Adam so well. Had always appreciated his rationality, his black-and-white approach to life. But before I could respond to her delicate pearls of wisdom, there was a thud. And then an accompanying crash as the door flew open.

  Lydia bounded into the room. Her hair was wild – the curls had morphed into little devil horns. She had red stains all around her mouth.

  “Sorry, Auntie Vicky! I forgot about the door again. You should really get it fixed though, so I don’t have to keep kicking it, to open it. But anyway. It only looks like a little dent, that one.”

  Michael trailed into the room after her, carrying a pink heart-shaped helium balloon.

  “Here, Lydia – you can have the balloon now. It won’t float away again, now that we’re back inside. Do try and remember what I told you about the properties of helium though, won’t you?”

  “Look what Michaelmas got me, Mum! I kept asking and asking and finally he coughed up for it!” Lydia thrust the balloon at my face, hitting me in the eye with it.

  “Yes, but I told you that I would take it back to the stall-holder if you persisted in launching it into people’s faces, Lydia.” Michael looked weary. He sat down on the other armchair. I suddenly noticed that he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  Lydia ignored his comment, telling us brightly;

  “We’ve had quite a fun time really. Apart from what happened to Michaelmas of course. And to Trevor. That was all a bit misfortunate…” I looked at Michael. He shrugged and half-smiled. More grimace than a grin, though. Lydia elaborated;

  “Well, I ran away from Trevor as a joke. Because Michaelmas said it was Trevor’s job to follow us. So I thought - when we were near the river Thames… I thought ‘I bet I can run faster than Trevor and get away from him!’ So Michael and Trevor ran after me and Trevor grabbed me when I was climbing over the iron fencey thingy next to the river. I mean, I wouldn’t ha
ve been so daft as to fall in. But Trevor grabbed me anyhow. And my elbow sort of hit him in the nose. It bled. A bit.”

  Oh crap. Lydia had now attacked a member of MI5. Or the Close Protection Unit. Or Special Protection. Or whatever the spook n’ stake ‘em out agency employing Trevor called themselves.

  Michael said;

  “Trevor’s in the bathroom. Cleaning himself up.”

  “And then!” Lydia continued “Michaelmas had to chase after the balloon. Because I let go of it when I was trying to cuddle Trevor better. And Michaelmas ended up having to get a bit wet. Because I was crying ‘cause it flew over and landed in a fountain. He thought that he could reach it without getting his feet wet. So I tried to help him but sort of nudged him.”

  I stood up. Hands on hips.

  “Lydia. When someone takes you out and treats you to… that's an appalling...”

  I was lost for words that didn't include child-inappropriate profanities. I turned towards Michael. “I am so sorry… I never would have dreamed that she would have pulled a stunt like that.”

  For once my daughter had the decency to look embarrassed. She moved behind the sofa and began to fiddle with the curtains. Michael did his best to remain positive;

  “Oh, I don’t know. Rachael. I’ve seen much more appalling displays of behaviour in my time. Prime Minister’s Question Time generally has more…” But Lydia, possessing the attention span of a gnat, suddenly blurted;

  “Look! There’s a naked dancing man in that house over there! And speaking of dancing – guess what, Mum? Michaelmas might look clever and talk clever and be all posh and he went to that Oxfid school, but he hasn’t a clue about musicals. He doesn’t know any of the songs from The Lion King. Or from Starlight Express. Even High School Musical – which is, like, well old.” She sounded quite concerned at this revelation. I turned to Michael, explaining apologetically;