A chunk of apple scratched my throat, causing me to wince. I cleared my voice;
“Sorry, Kev… maybe I’m being a bit pedantic here, but I would have thought that a woman having her face smashed in was a bit of a problem for her , as opposed to you…”
“Well, yes. You know what I mean.”
I gave Kevin the benefit of the doubt. He had never even tried to pretend to be part of the politically correct brigade, but at least he meant well. I tossed my apple core towards the bin. Missed it. He carried on;
“Another tenant of ours - a neighbour - just told us about it. Saw the family coming home in a taxi last night. Saw the blood all over the pavement this morning. Saw the state of Dawn Hibbert’s face this morning when she left the house. The neighbour's concerned that Dawn’s type might have an adverse effect on the standing of the street. It’s one of our better areas in Manchester, is Tranmere Avenue…”
A bolt of anger coursed through my veins.
“Well, it’s nice to know that New Banks Housing is more concerned about curtain-twitchers obsessed with their neighbourhood standing – as opposed to a young woman getting the shit kicked out of her by a total nobhead.”
Kevin interrupted me; a dreadful, hacking smoker’s cough. The symphony of phlegm lasted for a good ten seconds.
“Eew. Sorry about that - trying to cut down on the ciggies, but after forty years… you can well imagine. Anyway. Look. Let’s not get funny with each other about this. I’ll level with you. I’m a bit pissed off that your Marsha promised us there’d be no bother with this nutcase…”
“But you’ve had no bother from him. Not on your patch, anyway.”
“True. But she has – Dawn has. And Marsha reassured us that the two of ‘em had split up. So how long, Rachael - before Mr Charm Himself turns up on Tranmere Avenue, kicking her door down?”
I sighed. It was fair do’s really. I’d worked on the other side of the fence for long enough to know that at the end of the day, a social landlord had to look out for both the property and for the rest of the neighbourhood. Nosey Nimby next door wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to see the area going to the dogs. None of us want a bloke like Vinnie and his family around. But Kevin decided to answer himself;
“I mean, Rachael – you know as well as I do that managing property - per se - is a piece of piss. It’s all the bloody people living in the bloody places that send it all to cock… if I could be… if you could just…”
“Just what?” I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock. I hadn’t had enough sleep last night because Matthew had been up at four AM (“I just had a cool dream about Chewbacca eating a Jabba The Hutt pie. Can I watch Star Wars now, Mummy?”)
“… you know. Be assured that she isn’t going to bring it all home with her. This neighbour who…”
“Grassed her up.”
“Whatever. This neighbour also said that Dawn Hibbert’s kids are pretty feral too… you know, bad language… not at school every day… out on their bikes till all times of the night.”
“Well – Mason and West are a bit sharp around the edges maybe, but that’s to be expected. Hardly junior werewolf material. And sure, perhaps Dawn isn't the most vigilant of mothers…”
I bit my lip. Pot. Kettle. Black. I could hardly claim Mother Of The Week Award now, could I? After all, it was only yesterday that Lydia had tried to jump into the Thames whilst accompanied by two strange men. And shortly after, had managed to escape from Michael’s flat, whilst Mummy had other slinky negligee priorities to be distracted by.
I changed tack.
“Look. We’ll do our absolute best to press Dawn to report this latest incident to the police. That way we can sort the injunction out. And then everyone’s on safer ground. And sure – I’ll tell her to be more mindful of the kids. And the neighbours…”
This seemed to satisfy him and the conversation meandered off into chocolate Hob-Nob land (apparently, a sure-fire way to beat the nicotine cravings, but unfortunately you end up gaining thirty-six pounds instead).
After five PM had hit home, I signed out and headed off for the day. I cut across the A6 and just fifteen minutes later I had passed the invisible boundaries that carried me over Manchester's Lancashire, through a few miles of Derbyshire and then into West Yorkshire. Back home. Home to Holme. The name of our little village never ceased to make me smile. Before we were married, when we were looking for a house together, Adam had been hankering after moving to another wryly named little village in nearby Derbyshire (“'Cause it’s hilarious, isn’t it? I mean, I’ll never get bored of saying ‘I live in Hope’”). I counted my blessings as I drove. Of course, it’s always easier to do that, when you live right next to the most stunning moorland in the world. Yes, I thought - I might have lost my husband and been left to bring up two kids on my own; but I had a great job, the support of my parents, good pals and I was currently enjoying some steamy sex sessions with a government minister; as opposed to wandering round with a smashed-in face and a violent bastard like Vinnie Murray on my tail. So, I was all light spirits when I stopped at the childcare providers to collect Matthew. According to Pink Trinny, Matthew had experienced an okay day.
“Yeah, we only had half an hour of him refusing to wear clothes today. Not as bad as last week. Problem was though - when the younger kids started copying him. 'Cause it meant that at one point, we had five of them naked whilst they were eating their elevenses. And wouldn’t you just know it? We had our surprise Ofsted inspection today.”
“Oh, God. Really? What did the inspector think?”
“She seemed alright about it. Joked that they should have sent a nudist hotel inspector instead of her.”
“Oh. Oh well. No harm done then…”
Trinny shrugged;
“Matthew did get a bit fresh with her though…”
Matthew, now fully clothed and ready to head home, realised that his performance was being appraised;
“I didn’t, Pink Trinny! I just showed her my willy and asked if I could see hers.”
“Matthew!” I was horrified. “I hope that you didn’t! And you know very well that women don’t have willies!”
He scowled at me.
“Well, I thought that she might. ‘Cause she was all ugly and looked like a man with a moustache,”
Trinny rolled her eyes and commented;
“Well, Matthew, if we’ve dropped from ‘Improving’ to ‘Poor’ in the Ofsted star-rating and when no one wants to send their kids here anymore, we'll know whose mummy to blame, won't we?”
Matthew pranced towards the door and then turned to Trinny, blowing her a kiss. He sang;
“You’re just jealous ‘cause you’ve got no willy…”
I strapped Matthew into his car seat, pretending to be cross with him, whilst stifling a grin. But as soon as I was back in the front of the car and driving to our house, my mood became tinged with a sudden sadness. It shouldn’t have been like this. I was supposed to have returned home with Matthew, fed him a breadstick or two and then commenced the conspiratorial whispering with Adam. About the boys in the Russell household; their obsessions with willies. And their blatant disrespect towards women who happened to possess facial hair.
But Adam wasn’t great on the old two-way conversations these days.
I missed him. Bloody, bloody missed him.
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday morning and still lacking a Lydia to dawdle over her Coco Pops, Matthew and I were out of the house bright and early. By eight-fifteen AM, I was already at my desk, wondering if I would, indeed, need to call Shaun that day. Hopefully not.
The night before, I’d enjoyed a rather fruity phone conversation with Michael. It had largely involved him trying to persuade me to ‘do a selfie’ and to send him photographs of ‘Rachael posing naked in new cocoa bean necklace.’ He had done his best to try and convince me that this would somehow be of use to him;
“… on the dark and lonely nights, down here in Westminster.” I told hi
m to get a grip on himself. Or to hire a prostitute to perform that little deed for him.
“I’m too well-known to visit ladies of the night, these days,” he joked. “And I don’t want any more slip-ups in the press for the next few years, thank you very much.”
Famous last words.
At eight-thirty AM, my phone buzzed. A clipped message from Michael. He had used a ‘caller unknown’ SIM card:
It's Me. Seen News of The Nation?
Nothing else.
Oh, God. Here we go again.
I was just about to bring up the online version of the newspaper on my computer, but then remembered that we had recently had various news and views websites blocked, because one or two of the more work-shy elements of the team at Sisters’ Space had been idling away the hours, reading the less worthy sections of the press and generally frittering their time away on social media. So, I decided that the fastest course of action would be to resort to the old-fashioned black and white version of the day’s events. Thankfully everybody else in the building was too busy to notice my sudden need to nip to Mrs Singh’s to buy a ‘rag-for-the-lobotomised,’ as Adam used to refer to the tabloid. I hurried out of the office, my heart a-skittering. Given the events of the previous few weeks, an image had already semi-lodged itself in my mind. Me, adorning the front page. Clad in slinky nightdress and stumbling down Michael’s stairwell.
But then, as I’m often found to be lecturing my daughter;
“It's not all about Me Me Me now, Lydia, is it?”
Although, in a strange way, it was this time. It was all about Lydia. Or at least generated by her. On page four, the headline shrieked; “PM Pins His Cross to Mast!”
The Prime Minister has been hiding his religious preferences under a cloak of hypocrisy – causing an unholy war of words to erupt between Britain’s religious leaders. Despite his frequent claims of ‘not following any religion,’ this week, baby son Toby was spotted wearing a lapel badge which declared ‘Jesus Loves YOU!’
Expert in Contemporary Religious Studies at Sussex University, Dr Winifred Williams, told the News Of The Nation; ‘The wearing of this badge is very significant. It proclaims not only the Christian faith, but that its wearer follows evangelical Christianity – a set of beliefs which has strong right-wing affiliations. And as in the case of George Bush and Tony Blair, it is difficult for any world leader to follow such strong doctrines without it impacting on their political actions. This badge tells us that the leader of this country feels strongly about issues such as abortion or the death penalty and that they believe that their actions should be led by an entity other than themselves. A child wearing this badge would seem to belong to a family who practise evangelical Christianity. I imagine that the Prime Minister would rather keep his true beliefs hidden in order not to alienate non-Christian voters.”
Leader of the ‘Jesus Tribes’ church movement in the UK, Pastor Samuel Bannerman, told the News Of The Nation; “It’s great to see the man in charge of the country proclaiming love for the Lord! But it concerns me that the Prime Minister has felt the need to hide his faith until now. If our leader is a Jesus-Lover, he shouldn’t fear the darkness of Satan and those who are morally rudderless. He shouldn’t be trying to pedal the usual liberal wishy-washy interfaith rhetoric. Christianity is our British heritage! Let’s be proud of it! Let’s see the Prime Minister standing on the roof – never mind the doorstep - of Number Ten! Let’s see him out there - punching the air for the Lord!”
Imam Amin Yousef from Brixton Islamic Revival Mosque, commented; “Given the legislation that this government has recently been trying to force through in order to further persecute Muslims in this country, I am not surprised to hear this. Born-again Christians are nearly always anti-Islamic in their attitude. This means that now, more than ever, Muslims in the UK need to unite against the next inevitable wave of prejudice and persecution against us.
Next to the article was a close-up photograph of Toby. His little face was all pixelated out – the prerogative of having famous parents – but the reader could clearly see a badge pinned to his coat. I knew that badge very well. A cute little cartoon elephant, trumpeting out the now infamous words; ‘Jesus Loves YOU!’
For the second time that month, I performed a News of the Nation-induced zombie march back to my office with a copy of the so-called newspaper. I sat in the armchair next to the window overlooking the park, shaking my head at the craziness of it all. I remembered that Lydia had been wittering on about giving Toby a badge, at the very point when Michael had shut the screen in the car so that we didn’t have to listen to her anymore.
However, in the great scheme of things, I thought, it was hardly a big deal, was it? Lydia collects things. Badges, keyrings, shells, adult conversational skills – and she sometimes enjoys bestowing them upon others (unless Matthew is suggested as the beneficiary, whereupon the worst of Lydia’s Yorkshire tight-arse attributes are inevitably displayed).
I sent Michael a quick and apologetic message;
Just saw it. Lydia’s generosity, eh? All ok?
I sat at my desk for a moment, wondering whether I should call him directly or whether he would be busy trying to untangle yet another Russell family-induced media mess, but then my mobile trilled. It was the in-laws. Julia’s voice; all feathery, all concerned;
“I’m so sorry to bother you at work, Rachael – but it’s Lydia. She’s been wonderful so far. But we’ve just had a bit of an argument. Malcolm was watching the news on the telly and there was this thing about the Prime Minister getting converted, becoming a born-again, or something. Well, there was a photograph of his baby and they were all going on about this little badge that he was wearing.”
“Right…”
“And Lydia was in the lounge… and she told us that the baby was wearing her badge. Well, of course, we said that it might be like hers. But that it couldn’t possibly be her actual badge. But then she started insisting that she’d met the baby the other day. That she’d given him the badge! So, Malcolm told her not to be so silly and not to tell fibs. And she got very cross. And she’s now upstairs crying. She’s refusing to talk to us at all. Is she going through a phase of making up stories at the moment?”
I groaned inwardly.
How the hell could I explain that I had overlooked mentioning the fact that Liddy and I had been hanging about with the PM and his family at the weekend? For a split-second I contemplated telling Julia that – yeah - Lydia had recently turned into a right lying little sod. But then the phrase 'what a tangled web we weave' sprang to mind. So instead, I took a deep breath and said;
“Well actually… Lydia isn’t making it up. Really, I should have mentioned it on Sunday. But it was all a bit of a rush whilst we were swapping the kids over. Yes, we sort of… bumped into the Prime Minister at the weekend. And Lydia did tell me that she’d given her badge to the baby. So…”
There was a pause as Julia took in the news. Then;
“Really? Really and truly? Well. I never did. I really… never did. How did you end up meeting the Prime Minister then?”
Think fast, Rachael. But don’t lie to your nice mother-in-law.
“Oh… just through someone that I know. Someone from work. No point in asking Lydia about it though, Julia. You won’t get much sense out of her. Ha ha – I mean, I think that the entire weekend morphed into some kind of Lydia-focussed Hollywood blockbuster for her. You know; ‘Lydia Stars in London!’ ‘Lydia Saves Auntie from Tragic Accident!’ ‘Lydia Meets the Prime Minister!’ That sort of thing. Ha ha!”
Julia was quiet. We had never really shared the same sense of humour.
“Right. Gosh. Hmmm. I suppose we owe her an apology then, don’t we, Malcolm?” I heard a murmured exchange between Adam’s parents. Then Malcolm took over the phone;
“So, it’s true then...? Christ on a bike!”
“Yes – that’s him. But he was on a badge, this time round.”
Malcolm chortled.
“Oh
, bloody hell, Rachael! Only Lydia could meet the Prime Minister - and end up creating news headlines!”
I had to wait a few seconds until he had calmed down. Then he cleared his throat and carried on with;
“… I mean, how bloody stupid the world is today! These news programmes – they’ve been wheeling out every religious expert under the sun! All of your Muslim crackpots coming out of the woodwork… they're saying that because of all of this, there’s going to be more prejudice against them. I mean, it’s hardly like us Christians are the ones blowing people up and training terrorists up there in the Lake District, now, is it? I mean...”
He carried on in his usual ill-informed, sound-bite manner. His favourite form of media had always been the dreadful Star News Channel; part of the same massive corporation as News Of The Nation. I loved Malcolm to bits, but I had always felt it to be pretty tragic - that such an intelligent man didn’t engage himself with more challenging material when it came to current affairs. For a moment, I considered reminding Malcolm about the IRA. Or the UVF. Or the UFF. Or various other terrorist factions all over the world who considered themselves to be ‘Christian’ and who would quite happily slaughter people in the name of their religion, their cause. And of course, that the vast majority of ordinary Muslims felt that committing murder in the name of Islam was a blasphemy. But hey. This was Malcolm. And this would need to be a discussion for another day. Or rather – one for Lydia and Matthew to deal with when they were arsey students - and where the discourse would be aided by the buffer of a generation-removed. So, instead, I cut him off mid-rant;
“Sorry, Malcolm. Yes, I really should have mentioned it. Maybe you should just tell her that you were wrong. And that her mum also says she was sorry. That I should have told you about it. But yeah… if I were you, I wouldn’t try and ask her for the details of how we met the Prime Minister. She’ll just think that you’re trying to prove that she’s lying, or something.”
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 13