Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Ha, no. She takes a back seat on the food side of things. We were getting too many references to ‘the brown and sticky’ way back when we were developing the chocolate side of things.”

  Michael reached over for my hand. He paused for a second and said; “You truly love that job of yours, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I confessed, finishing the remnants of my pita bread. “And it’s getting even better now that we’re not under the threat of closure. Although we're still a bit under the cosh. We need to get the signature – from the council – for our social enterprise loan. For them to agree to sell the building to us.”

  Quick as a flash, Michael was back at me, curling his lip. “Oh, yes, I can just imagine this. A signature which will no doubt have to come from a certain Shaun Elliot. Who happens to be an ex of yours. Who happens to have recently been spouting off about me and my depraved government department, thanks to our ever-so obliging national media.”

  I looked away. I wasn’t in the habit of talking about Shaun, to anyone. And especially not to Michael. I noticed that Lydia - who had previously been happily poking around the museum shop - was now hovering in the doorway of the café. She was talking to the two elderly ladies that we had encountered before. Probably trying to extort money from them for a crap pencil sharpener.

  “Yes, that’s it, I'm afraid,” I admitted. “And I don’t get why he’s stalling. It makes perfect financial sense. It cuts the burden of the Women’s Centre from the council’s budget. And gives his lot much needed capital so that they can purchase more dog wardens, or whatever.”

  Michael cocked his head to one side. “Ah, well, I think that you’re playing the Rachael factor down here… what about that job offer of his, the other week?”

  “Yeah, right. Shaun’s playing games to try and win me back. In your dreams, Michael. It’s never so straightforward with him. He’s never been after any kind of… normal relationship – not with me, at any rate.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I exhaled and gripped my coffee cup.

  “… He had this really bizarre thing about us not being seen in public together. I mean… this was a time before either of us were married… when there was no real reason at all, for all the secrecy. So, I hardly think that he’s going to start prancing about, refusing to sign documents for Sisters’ Space, to get my attention. Lovely, though I am.”

  “Well… you’d be surprised what men in love - or in lust - will…” He was interrupted by his phone. “Sorry. Got to take this.”

  I stood up, smiling briefly at Trevor – Mr Gooseberry Bodyguard, who had been sitting all on his lonesome at the table next to us. I strode past him, towards my daughter. As anticipated, Lydia had indeed managed to wangle something out of the two elderly ladies. Not a pencil sharpener however - but a badge with the museum’s logo on it.

  “Mother! See – what these Londoners bought for me! It's going to be a coat badge. I'm going to put it right next to my ‘Jesus Loves You!’ badge here. I’m all about God and orphans today. I’m going to start a badge collection and I might nick some of Matthew’s superhero ones for it. But don’t tell him…”

  I apologised to her new-found friends, but they refused to take any money from me, saying;

  “Not at all. We've both always quite liked your chappie and his opinions on society. Although we both could have sworn that he was gay. But now we see that he clearly bats for the other side. What with you and your little girl. Bit of a shame. Far too many heteros in this world eh, Annabel?”

  She winked at me. She pinched her friend on the arse. And then they left the building.

  Interesting place, Bloomsbury.

  We joined Michael and Trevor at the museum entrance.

  “Michael, I’ve just been chatting to two elderly ladies who Lydia befriended. It turned out that they were very disappointed with regards to your sexual orientation.”

  “I won’t ask,” he replied, eyeballing Lydia. “Now, look. I know that you were wanting to get the four o’clock train back, Rachael… But I’m in a bit of a pickle here. The PM and his lot were wanting to pitch up at my place in the next half hour. Stupidly last minute. But important stuff. And I can’t really say no.”

  “Really? That’s a bit… wouldn’t you normally get summoned to Number Ten, rather than him coming to you?”

  “Normally. But Jane – the PM’s wife – she’s gone into one of her mad as a hen rages. Is insisting that he shall no longer neglect his family on a Sunday. Wanted him to go for a little walk with her and the baby. So, this way, he gets to keep her sweet - and he can also pop in to see me.”

  “Clever chap.”

  “Has to be. With a woman like Jane for his wife.”

  “Look, it’s fine. Neither Lydia or I will fly into one of our female hormonally-induced rages.” I gave him a pointed look and for a second his eyes wavered with doubt. Had he overstepped the mark with Ms. Feminist pushing Forty? But then I smiled. “But no worries, Michael. I can chuck my stuff into my bag in a couple of seconds and we'll get off to Paddington. Pronto.”

  He shook his head.

  “No. It’s not fine. Not at all. I want to squeeze out every last minute that I can be with you. And the PM says that he only needs fifteen minutes or so - on pain of death from Jane. So, you and Lydia can just kick your heels back, watch the TV or whatever, until they've all buggered off again.” He jerked his head towards Lydia, who was prattling on to Trevor, ahead of us, as we descended the steps of the museum. All about the horrors of morphemehood. And Jesus.

  “And maybe… if we can distract Lydia with the TV or something… we can find time for a last little tête-àtête…” His hand deliberately moved to my breast, giving it a gentle squeeze as we walked towards the boundary of Coram Fields. Lydia’s sixth sense must have kicked in, because she whirled around;

  “Hey, Michaelmas. Do you want to see my new badge? What those old ladies bought me? I’ve got two badges on my coat now. See?”

  “Very nice, Lydia. But I think that I definitely prefer the museum one.”

  Lydia glowered as she peered down at her lapel. “Why? What’s wrong with my other one?”

  “Well, nothing per se. It’s just that it offends my ethnic sensibilities. I’m more of a cultural… a secularly-orientated Jew, you see. Not a religious inclination in my body. But even then – I’m none too keen on being informed that Jesus loves me.”

  Lydia dismissed his words. “Well. If you don’t want to be loved by Jesus. And… as well as you being a sort-of norphan too… All I can say is that I feel very sorry for you. You must feel very unloved. And lonely.” I heard Trevor laughing to himself. Lydia was playing to the crowd now;

  “So, when you’re frying in hell with the devil… Don’t come crying to me and asking me for help!”

  Michael’s eyes caught mine and he whispered;

  “Is she learning the Christian fundamentalist beliefs from her school?”

  “Hardly. The most that they do in relation to religion at Liddy’s school is to teach them that there were seven commandments rather than ten. They've dropped the ones about murder and sex and theft. We can't afford to put ideas into the kids' heads, apparently.”

  “Bloody hell. Well… perhaps you’re brainwashing her at home then.”

  “Yeah, right. The last time we went to church was shortly after Adam’s funeral. And whilst I do have my own beliefs – I don’t bother discussing them with Lydia. She'd just tell me that I'm wrong wrong wrong. 'Yes. Jesus did rise from the dead. No two ways about it, Mum. You don't know what you're talking about.'”

  “I see. Well. Does she still believe in Santa Claus?”

  “No. She's never believed in him. Far too cynical. She's so very unlike Matthew, who believes anything you tell him. Like.... we told him that Bob our postman lives in next door's wheelie-bin. And that he likes leftovers.”

  “And yet she can't see the similarities between the myth of Santa Claus and of our so-called 'Christ'?”


  “She's seven, Michael. She's seven,”

  He sighed.

  “And sadly, so very sure of her spiritual convictions. Too many like that in this world.”

  “Well, fair do’s, Michael. It's her generation that'll be in charge of running the nation before you know it.”

  “Hum.”

  “So, if you can’t take it, don’t dish it out. Or would you prefer for me to start calling you, 'Satan's Plaything'?”

  CHAPTER 8

  We returned to Michael’s flat. Lydia drank in the pristine burgundy carpets, the vast bookcases and the complete absence of Early Learning Centre toys and for once, seemed a little bit overawed. I told Michael that online games were the best way of keeping her occupied. He showed her through to his office and presented her with a choice of tablets, laptops or a good old fashioned PC. She slumped into an armchair with her chosen screen.

  Michael went through to the kitchen to put some coffee on, whilst I nipped back into his bedroom. I began to fling things into my overnight bag, hoping that Lydia wouldn’t ask any awkward questions about where I had slept for the last two nights. Michael then arrived, closing the door behind him. An ominous smile on his face. He handed me a small, shiny gift bag bedecked with ribbons and feathers. It turned out to be a nightdress. Black silk, with a delicate cream-lace edging. 1950s baby-doll style. He shrugged, looking slightly abashed, as I laid it out on the bed to look at it better. I said;

  “It's beautiful. But it’ll be covered in Marmite and Vimta stains before you know it…”

  “Ha. No. I don’t expect you to be wearing it in the presence of your children, you know. But, go on - do try it on for size.”

  I looked at him, askance.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  “That sounded a bit too much like a command for my liking. You’re not going all Fifty Shades on me are you, Michael?”

  “Fine. Whatever,” he sighed, flapping his hand at me. “Would you feel more turned on if I opted for the pleading? If I went for a bit of pathetic degradation?” He glanced at his Breitling and continued; “Because we’ve still got a few minutes before our visitors arrive… Oh, alrighty then. Please, Rachael. Pretty, pretty please!”

  “Oh, no. Crap, no. Stop it with the begging thing. Doesn’t do it for me at all. Okay. Give me a sec.”

  I headed to the en-suite and threw my clothes off. The nightdress was a perfect fit. I eyed myself in the mirror, hands on hips like Liddy does when she's posing. I didn't look half-bad for once. Even with the red socks (which I duly took off). I was all set to make my exit and demonstrate to him that he had achieved full marks on memorising my vital statistics (via the Coppafeel form of measurement) when I heard the trill of his mobile.

  “Sorry – I’d better just get that,” he called through the door. ‘Back in a minute.”

  I left the bathroom, trying not to feel a tad bit jaded at the fact that he had egged me on to parade myself in front of him like some old slapper - but had instantly abandoned me for a chat about Council Tax reform or whatever. So, I decided to make the most of the time and began lobbing my bits and pieces into the suitcase, hoping that Lydia wouldn’t wander into the room and catch Mummy all got-up like a slightly gone-off-the-boil, more burlesque version of Doris Day.

  The sudden squall of a baby echoed up from the street outside. I moved over to the window to have a nosey. But my heart skipped a beat, as I looked down to see Lydia, standing on the pavement below. She was bending over a baby’s pushchair, helping the child’s mother to tuck a blanket in. Somehow, she had managed to get out of the flat and was chatting to a random stranger. And this wasn’t West Yorkshire - where you could trust Bob the Postman to look after your kids for ten minutes whilst you try and free a sheep caught on barbed wire at the back of your house. No. This was That London. Where anyone could nick your kid from under your nose and have it sold off to child traffickers via Luton airport before you could say boo to a goose.

  I dashed out of the bedroom, sliced my way through the lounge and yanked open the front door. Sticking my head out, I called down the flight of steps to Lydia. She looked up.

  “Oh, hello, Mother! Come and look at this baby. He’s called Toby. And he’s a little sweetie-pie - aren’t you, Toby-Woby?” She turned back to the baby and started smoothing his hat down.

  “Lydia!” I yelled - my jaw locked in anger. “Come back here, right now! That was very naughty of you – letting yourself out of the flat like that!”

  But Lydia just replied;

  “Sorry. Can you bring me my coat, Mum? It’s freezing out here isn’t it, Toby-Woby?”

  She chucked him under the chin as a familiar ball of fury in my stomach began to form. I can just about manage cheekiness, crabbiness, the biting and the attacking of siblings, but I have never reacted well to being ignored. The woman glanced up at me. She smiled sympathetically at this strange lady peeping out of the door, who clearly wasn't much cop on the disciplinarian front.

  “Best go back to your mummy,” I heard her say. But Lydia just carried on fussing the baby.

  I pushed the door outwards, hoping that Lydia would recognise it as a threatening gesture - evidence that I was going to sort the sassy little sod out. But a sudden gust of wind yanked the handle from me. As I struggled to grab it back, I lost my footing and stumbled down the first few steps. The wind slammed the door shut behind me.

  Thank God, though - I managed to grab the banister before carrying out a repeat of my sister’s performance of the night before. I exhaled and then steadied myself. The woman’s eyes were fixed on me - all concerned.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine!” I answered breezily. “No worries!”

  And then, I recognised her face from the television. This was Jane. That Jane. Famous-for-being-wife-of-the-Prime-Minister-Jane. Her initial look of anxiety had now melted into one of shock. Because here was the mother of this friendly little girl – teetering in bare feet on a stone staircase. And all kitted out in rather slinky night-attire.

  I thought;

  “Holy crap, it’s cold.”

  And then;

  “I can’t believe that Michael didn’t even notice that Lydia escaped! What planet does the man live on?”

  Always helpful to blame someone else when you could quite happily expire… Cause of Death being Misadventure By Embarrassment. I hoped to God that the PM’s wife didn’t get out to meet the general public very often. If so, perhaps she might think that parading around in your skimpies was the kind of thing that most of us plebs got up to of a Sunday afternoon.

  Lydia looked up again. And stared hard.

  “Ooh, Mum - that’s a pretty nightie! When did you put that on? You had your jeans on, only a minute ago, when you made me sit in Michaelmas’ office so that you could get me out of the way.”

  She turned back to the baby and started pulling goofy faces at him, as he gurgled away at her. I flashed Jane my broadest ‘everything is fine and dandy!’ smile as I tiptoed back up a couple of icy steps and rapped on the door. No answer. I tried again. No answer. So, I slammed it with the palm of my hand. Still no answer. I remembered that Michael had an intercom system at the bottom of the stairs. I was about to call out to ask Liddy to buzz it for me, when a bumble of voices floated around the corner. Several men in suits arrived. And wouldn't you just know it – but one of them happened to be the Prime Minister. He was dressed less formally than the others; wearing a bright red fleece. Which just seemed – wrong – somehow. Lydia looked over at them and flung out a greeting;

  “Hey! You’re that man, aren’t you? The famous one.”

  The Prime Minister’s expression wavered into a bewildered smile.

  “Well, I might be. Perhaps you’ve seen me on the TV?”

  “Yes,” said Lydia “The Prime Minister. You’re normally being very bossy and in charge. Like a vicar. Or a monk. But not as special to God, probably.”

  The Prime Minister had the grace to look amuse
d. The five men who were with him - two of them I presumed were bodyguards, given their earpieces and their similar stature to Trevor - burst out laughing. One of the others - a man so blonde that he was bordering on the verge of albino - commented;

  “Out of the mouth of babes or what, PM?”

  Lydia narrowed her eyes. She had taken an instant dislike to this one. But she chose to ignore him and, instead, held out her hand graciously to the Prime Minister.

  “Well, I’m Lydia. And that's Mother, over there. We're from all the way Up North on the train, we are. And we're visiting Michaelmas. He's another of your minister-vicar sorts.”

  The Prime Minister took her hand and shook it. He nodded, realising who she was referring to.

  “Ah yes, we’ve also come to visit Michael. If you don’t mind us intruding on you, that is?”

  Lydia smiled prettily, wrinkling her nose with a ‘no’. And for a few seconds I experienced one of those oh-too-rare moments of overwhelming love and pride for my little girl as she greeted the leader of the land. It dissolved in seconds, however - morphing into Michael Open The Sodding Door desperation again. Because as always, Lydia’s impeccably sweet manners were accompanied by a barbed edge;

  “... But you’ll have to help Mum to get back into the flat first, I think. We’re locked out. And she’s only got her new knicker-nightie things on.”

  Until this point, the men hadn’t noticed my presence but as Lydia pointed her finger towards the steps, seven pairs of eyes looked up at me. I shivered a cheery smile and hugged my arms across my chest, hiding any gratuitous nipple-action.

  Seconds suspended in time. No-one moved a muscle, apart from a gangly chap with sticky-out hair. His mouth dropped open. It took Jane to break the silence. She turned, snapping at the men.

  “Can’t you see that she's going to catch her death? Can’t one of you be a gentleman? Give her your bloody coat, for Christ’s sake!” The baby screamed – all excited - at the sound of animation in his mother’s voice. He brought up a slick of luncheon.