Malcolm screwed his nose up;
“Actually, Julia from what you told me, it sounded like the worst bit was when he climbed up onto the font and was trying to lap the water, like a dog.”
Matthew looked unabashed though. Matthew always did. He gave me his most handsome could-charm-the-pants-off-every-lesbian-in-the-world grin (that crooked smile, the one that Adam had won me over with.)
It took only ten minutes to swap the children, luggage and coats over, during which time the battle for armchair supremacy had begun; (Lydia had always objected to the fact that Malcolm had his ‘own favourite chair’ and wouldn’t even allow small children to sit in it). But I left Julia to sort out the spat between elderly toddler and bossy granddaughter.
Matthew and I were soon back in the car and streaming up north on the M1. I listened to Gardeners Question Time on Radio Four as Matthew dozed. The panel were rambling on about the kindest and most organic way to kill slugs. I kept shouting ‘Salt! For Godsake! What’s the matter with you lot?’ But my mind was wandering. I kept trying to feel positive about the fact that I wasn’t one of those poor, jaded weekend commuters, returning to a Monday morning in London from a weekend away of northern-loveliness and now jammed nose-to-tail on the opposite side of the carriageway. But for most of the journey back to West Yorkshire, I felt on edge. I couldn’t quite fathom out why. But there it lay. A dubious dredge of something or other at the pit of my stomach.
CHAPTER 10
Monday morning proved to be better than the usual kick-off to the week though, with just the singular child to wrestle out of the front door and into a crisp and cloudless Autumn morning. We only had one small battle, when Matthew wanted to take a toy to his day nursery. We had been having this argument rather a lot recently. At first I thought that I had convinced him not to do this, by saying;
“Best not, Matthew. I mean, that Archie is a bit of a klepto, isn’t he? He nicked your LEGO ninja. Remember?”
However, when I dropped him off at the brightly painted front door, he whipped a small Marvel superhero from his underpants and proudly presented it to Pink Trinny, his favourite nursery nurse.
“It’s Batman. For you. To borrow. ‘Cause your hair’s pink. But your face is all black and your arms are too. Like Batman.”
As per usual, Trinny didn’t miss a beat;
“Wow. Thanks for that, Matthew. Just what I’ve always wanted. A Batman that smells like your bum.”
I love that nursery.
I arrived at work, checked the staffing schedule and re-jigged the rota, because one of our volunteers had called in sick. Then I met with the steering group – a small band of the women who were responsible for co-ordinating the launch of Charlene's Chocolate Factory and Café. So far, I had managed to keep any of my previous worries in relation to the threatened closure of Sisters’ Space away from the service users and from most of the staff. Things were looking a lot more chipper for us, since Shaun had dropped that particular little bombshell on me several weeks ago. Still, I had decided not to regale them with any jubilant tidings of our new social enterprise loan and freedom from local authority control. I would be playing all the cards close to my chest, until I had the signed documents in black and white.
The steering group consisted of the usual suspects. Me, my deputy Gill, along with Marsha - one of our caseworkers – and then four of our ‘regulars’ at the Centre. Firstly, there was Bev. She was full of the smutty jokes as per usual, which I always managed to forgive her for, because she had a knack of following them up with a few cracking ideas. Shirley was there too - our newly trained master-Chocolatier and our oldest and most sensible participant - as well as also being our most badly abused service user in terms of domestic violence; totting up a score sheet of forty-five years of hell. And then there was Jade and Gemma - two of our youngest women who had radically differing attitudes in relation to Sisters’ Space - their respective outlooks being reflected in their answers to a recent service-user questionnaire; when responding to ‘Why do you come to Sisters’ Space?’ Gemma had replied ‘I like the solidarity and learning about male oppression. And it beats turning into a vegetable, sitting at home and watching crap daytime TV.’ But Jade had replied, ‘Cuz I like yr biscits and cn save on the heating bills and yr loo flushes proper here.’
I started the meeting and we began to iron out the details for the launch day. We finalised the logistics; which stall holders had confirmed their attendance, how much coffee and chocolate we could be expected to sell, which guests had responded to our invitations so far – and then we all jumped as the meeting room door was booted open.
It could only be Dee.
“Soz for bein’ late. Alarm dint work. Police had us up till three AM. Our Tony’s been taken in for questionin’. Over that break-in at the mattress factory. Anyway. I’m well fucked-off about it. They won’t leave the kid alone. Always on at ‘im, they are!”
Bev was all sympathy.
“Wouldn’t worry about it, Dee. If he gets banged up at Strangeways again, you’ll have one less for Christmas dinner. He told our Simon that he always has a better Christmas inside - than he does at your house, anyways.”
Dee sneered;
“Oh, fuck off, Bev. At least some of us know how to cook a proper Christmas dinner, rather than just givin’ your kids some fuckin' microwave meal from Lidl!”
“Oi! Pack it in you two! Rachael’s trying to run a meeting here!” Gill bellowed.
They both instantly shut up and morphed into sulky mode. Because Gill was scary enough without the additional attribute of having recently shaved her entire scalp. Adam had always referred to her as ‘your classic butch lesbian’ – but I’d told him that there was nothing classic about Gill. She made her own way in the world and followed no fashions or lifestyle advice. And anyway, I had said to him: “You, Adam Russell, are simply jealous of the fact that Gill has a way-cool sports-bike and you’re not allowed to have one anymore, since you became a father.” Ha.
Which was all kind of ironic really, because despite me putting my foot down about the biking-thing, it was still his yearning for them that had brought our kids to their current fatherless status.
My thoughts must have been drifting towards Adam and bikes, because I caught Gill glancing at me, with a quizzical expression. We wouldn’t exactly call ourselves ‘friends’ outside of the office, but I had the measure of her and she often seemed to be able to read my thoughts. A mutual respect, perhaps even an affection for one another.
“Rachael? You were saying about the invites…”
“Sorry. Yeah. If you still want me to – like you all said last week – I can try and get hold of Michael Chiswick’s constituency office. See if he can make it. They might think it’s all a bit too last minute, though.”
Dee snickered;
“Hey – why don't we sack Rachael? We per-spiffically instructed her to do those invites last week, dint we? And we’re a co-operative so she should be doin’ as she’s told… Bet she’s not done the Mayor’s invitation either! Or that giant-bloke's.”
Dee was getting underneath my skin now.
“Excuse me, Dee. But I have had rather a lot on the last few days.”
Although to be honest, the delay on my part was more because I had been doing my best to put off the rather uncomfortable proposition of inviting Michael to my workplace for a second visit. Especially given that we were now experiencing carnal relations.
It was Bev’s turn next. But at least she was trying to defend me;
“Yeah – in’t the lady entitled to a break every now and then? She’s been to London, haven’t you, Rach? Did you try and shoot any of the Royal Family or 'owt? I would have done. Shower of shit, that lot.”
“Anyway,” I interrupted. “I’m going to do the invites as soon as we can get this meeting finished. So please…”
“Hope so,” said Dee. “’Cause Bev fancies the arse off that Shaun Elliot bloke. Even if he does look like Lurch off The Addams Famil
y.”
Bev was straight on the defensive;
“Look. For once and for all – I do not fancy that miserable get. I like his clothes and I like the fact that he speaks his mind. But I prefer a bloke who’s got a sense of humour. I wouldn’t touch someone like him with a barge pole.”
“Ha! He’s that friggin’ tall that you’d never reach the top of his head with a barge pole!”
Now Shirley joined in.
“Well, I think that Michael Chiswick seems to be a much nicer person to invite. He seemed to really care about what we do here. And I also felt sorry for him. When all that tabloid muck-raking was going on, the other week – about him and his bimbo on Brindleford.”
“Ha!” Dee spat. “Now, he's one – he’s one bloke what's that posh – it’s like… he’s got a barge pole rammed up his arse!”
Previously, when my colleagues and service users had trotted out ill-informed gobshite opinions about the two men whom I had happened to have dalliances with (unbeknownst to them, of course), I had parked myself in ‘rabbit caught in headlights’ mode. This time, though, I was having none of it.
“Look. Like Gill just said. Will you all just shut up for a minute? Can we please just have this meeting over and done with? I’m sure that you’ve got as much to be getting on with as I have today.”
Dee couldn’t stop herself and squeaked a quiet; “Ooooh. Get Miss Important here…”
I moved the meeting back to the agenda. For the last two weeks, I had spent a great deal of time briefing others on the need for even tighter than usual security systems. Given the fact that this would be the first time that men would be allowed into the Centre - and that lots of publicity had already appeared across the borough about the occasion - I felt that we couldn’t be too careful. Our volunteer receptionists had both offered to work on the morning of the launch. They were familiar with the usual protocol, but as we prepared to embark upon our new venture, they knew that we would have to be more vigilant than ever. We already kept photographs available to reception on the computer system in our ‘Violent Partner Parade’ and we agreed that the receptionists would continue to use the CCTV camera at the front door, in order to vet people through the entrance, before allowing them inside on the big day. Any sign of problems, or recognition of one of the men from the mug shots, and staff would contact the police immediately.
I reminded the others that security would be hiked up even further if Michael Chiswick was going to attend. And that he would also bring his own government protection guards with him. This gave Bev and Shirley licence to indulge themselves in a bit of drooling over Kevin Costner in ‘The Bodyguard’; an old favourite with the ladies, so it seemed.
After trying to bring the conversation back from the fact that, yes, it really had been ‘that many years ago,’ since Whitney Houston had died, I decided to abandon Stupid Meeting Anonymous and return to my office. I checked my mobile. There was a voicemail from Martyn;
“Rachael. Still not got the forms signed and returned from Shaun Elliot, after many attempts at my PA trying. I even told her that I’d sort it out myself. But the man won’t return any of my calls. Not that he ever did when we were lowly housing officers in the past. So why change the habit of a lifetime, eh? Anyway. I think that, if by close of play… we haven’t heard from him… we’ll need you to work your charm on him a bit. Call me if you come up with any better ideas.”
No better ideas. Unfortunately.
And then - because I had been instructed by my fellow colleagues – and because we were supposed to be a co-operative after all, I rattled off the VIP invites, added in the e-signature of our Cynthia, our chairperson, and emailed them off to Michael’s lot, to Shaun’s PA and to the Mayor’s office. Next, I called the nursery to remind them that the underpants we had borrowed from them had been washed and placed in Matthew's Shaun the Sheep rucksack. Following this, I rang the bank to tell them to stop calling me in the evenings about my overdraft and my ever-spiralling personal debt problem, because every time the phone rings “you wake my children up and it's going to be me taking legal action against you lot - as opposed to vice versa - if they both continue with being even more bad-tempered than they usually are in the mornings…”
By the time I had hung up, there was an email in my inbox. From Shaun’s PA, or rather his PR. His Pet Rottweiler, Renee. It confirmed that – yes - Shaun would be available to attend as VIP at the launch.
But the Rottweiler’s email contained the obligatory snotty endnote;
'Of course, an invitation at such short notice would usually be impossible for someone as busy as Shaun Elliot. In the future, Mr Elliot would appreciate it if you could give us at least two months’ notice of any requests for attendance at events.'
So. Shaun was around and about, after all. He was available enough to give Renee a specific go-ahead in relation to the invite to Sisters’ Space. But he wasn’t available enough to respond to Martyn Pointer in matters appertaining a signature required for our loan paperwork.
Interesting.
And frigging annoying, too.
CHAPTER 11
For the next hour or so, my mind continued to skip from one minor item to another, on the never-ending task list of work and of home, but just after midday I was interrupted by a soft tap against my door.
“Come in,” I called. But there was no answer. I stood up and opened the door. It was Dawn Hibbert. Ferreting in her handbag for something or other.
“Are you after me, Dawn?”
She glanced up and I inhaled sharply. One eye was horribly swollen. Purple and bloodshot.
I had first met Dawn over two weeks ago; the day on Brindleford when Vinnie – a rather cerebrally-challenged chap, to say the least - had mistaken Michael for the more religious sort of Minister. Which, to be fair to him, our Lydia also did from time to time. But then again, Liddy is just seven years old. Still, Vinnie's misconceived awe at Michael's spiritual occupation succeeded in preventing him from kicking the crap out of anyone else on that afternoon.
And so, this is how I got to know Dawn. A sparky, confident woman in her mid-twenties who had managed to procreate early on in life (young Mason), had gotten hooked up with Vinnie (outcome being West and Poppy-Rose) and then who had ended up trapped in your typical but tragic cycle of ‘relationship violence.’ As us smug do-gooders at Sisters’ Space refer to it.
During the last few weeks, I had been all fingers-crossed and touchy-wood that we had finally helped Dawn to break the pattern of abuse. Thanks to Martyn Pointer and his team, we had found her a New Banks housing association home - away from Brindleford estate and at an address closer to Sisters’ Space. And we'd also been trying our damnedest to get her to take out an injunction against Vinnie.
But now this. Fan-bloody-tastic.
She looked at me wearily.
“Yeah. I know. I know what you’re gonna say. Like what all the other women sat in the kitchen are saying. I should’ve sorted the friggin’ injunction out.”
The Dawn that I had been getting to know – the zippy, mouthy, belts-and-braces Dawn – had clearly evaporated. Stuffing knocked out of her. Her shoulders were slumped, clothes creased, even her hair looked lank and in need of a good wash. But she had been trying to disguise the dishevelled look; had applied far too much foundation which only served to render her a strange shade of orange. She took a bottle of perfume out from her handbag and was spraying some onto her wrists, across her collarbone. Trying to pep it all up a bit. Keeping up the appearances. I told her;
“I’m not your bloody school teacher. And don't predict how anyone might react to you. You’re not a mind-reader, either.”
She half-smiled. I asked her where the kids were. Her mouth drooped and she closed both her eyes and inhaled. And then coughed at her own OTT application of perfume.
“They saw it all. Last night. Mason’s gone to school but West were really freaked out. Wanted to stay at his Nan’s today. Poppy-Rose is down the corridor. In your crèche.”
I took her by the arm, guiding her into the office but as I did so, she winced. Some other, non-visible injury. Se we sat there, facing each other, on two scruffy but comfortable armchairs, at the far end of my office. Seats that had soaked up the stories from dozens of women during the past couple of years in my time as manager at the centre. As she relaxed into the sagging cushion, Dawn’s head flopped into her hands. She said nothing. I resisted the temptation to try and fill the silence. Instead, I waited to see what she might want to say. After a short while she finally looked up.
“I’ve 'ad it. I can’t do this no more.” Shaking her head to herself. “‘Fing is. I was right – right sorted about it all, I mean - when you got us the new house the other week. Made sure there was no ways Vinnie could find out the address. Bribed the boys with some new Xbox stuff, to make ‘em keep their gobs shut. But then all last Thursday and Friday… and Saturday… Vinnie kept sendin’ me these dead nice texts. And I didn’t have no credit on me phone. So, I couldn’t even have texted him back to tell him to shove it up his arse.”
She looked beyond the office window, to the park’s playground. Toddlers were flapping mitten-clad hands and shrieking with joy.
“What did his texts say?” I nudged.
“Just… just nicer stuff than usual. He never apologises for ‘owt, does Vinnie. But he sent one sayin’ he were dead sorry. First time I've ever had that from him. Asked if I could maybe forgive him?”
“Right.”
She puffed a breath of air. Exhausted carbon monoxide. The scent of watermelon chewing gum.
“Anyway, yesterday tea time, I’d arranged to see me cousin – you know – our Katrina – the one what married SFB - Shit For Brains – you know, Vinnie’s cousin.”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 11