Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  No reply.

  “Even if it means screwing up your marriage, which – incidentally, Shaun - I actually don’t give a shit about. Sorry and all of that. But you’re leaving me with no other option.”

  He rubbed his head, nails grating against the number two haircut.

  “There’s no way that you’d — ” he began again, but his words got no further. Instead, his head suddenly whipped around. He slammed his palm against the window and shouted;

  “Oi!”

  And then he ran out of the lounge.

  He clattered down the hallway and tore open the front door. I followed him. A ferocious wind rushed into the house, knocking over Lydia’s bike with a crash. I heard Matthew yell again from upstairs but I went outside, ignoring him. Shaun was stalking around his car, hissing into the wind.

  “Fucksake! Look at this! Just look!”

  I peered through the darkness. The whole front of the Lexus’s bonnet and the windscreen was swathed with pale yellow globules. They were swimming in a runny liquid.

  “Eggs!” he said. “Fucking eggs!”

  “And...” I put my finger gingerly on the bonnet. “And flour too. Bizarre.”

  “Not fucking bizarre, it’s fucking vandalism!”

  For Shaun, this was tantamount to disaster. The Lexus was his pride and joy and he upgraded it every couple of years. I used to find it highly amusing that wherever we went in his car (when I wasn’t ducking down and hiding from being seen, that is) he entertained extreme paranoia about getting it bumped, scratched, vandalised or stolen. Motorbikes and cars were Shaun’s babies. Probably came above even Jess and Ozzy the cat.

  He had found a torch in his glove compartment and was walking about the car now, shining the beam on his beloved and trying to discover any hidden damage.

  “Do you want me to ring the police, Shaun?”

  “No. What’s the point?” he huffed, having made at least five routes around the car.

  The beam of his torch moved onto me now.

  “I need to get this crap off right now, before it freezes and eats into the paintwork. And eggs are a fucking nightmare on windscreens.”

  I flip-flopped back into the house in my ridiculous slippers and filled the bowl from the sink with some warm water and washing-up liquid. I lobbed a sponge into it, brought it outside and handed it over, telling him;

  “See? I’m still a nice person, Shaun. It’s just that you’ve backed me into a corner. And I don’t really want your marriage to take a battering… like your poor car has just done… ”

  But at that point I lost the plot completely. I had to return to the porch and try to stop myself from giggling too much. Shaun was shooting me evil looks every thirty seconds or so. The wind was icy and it made his mission an utterly miserable one. I stood in the porch and in between trying to stifle my laughter, called out;

  “I’d honestly help you – but I really need to keep my ear out for Matthew!”

  I shivered as he sloshed water over the car and mostly over himself. He swore repeatedly and finally handed the empty basin back to me, saying;

  “I'll have to wash it properly when I get home. Get it to the car wash first thing in the morning.”

  “No doubt.”

  “If I'd only been five seconds faster I could have caught the bastards, right in the middle of it all. I saw the back of two mopeds racing off. Bunch of freaks you’ve got - living round here.”

  Through the gale, I could hear Matthew shrieking in his sleep again. I grabbed Shaun’s coat from the back of the kitchen chair and handed it to him.

  “Look, I have to go and see to Matthew. Can’t you hear him screaming? Some of us have more precious cargos than cars, to think about.”

  “Right. Fine.”

  He opened the vehicle’s door and a gust of wind threatened to rip it off its hinges.

  “And Shaun?” I called out. “I don’t want to come over all Poison Penelope with my letter. I mean, really I don’t. So you will sign and send the documents to us tomorrow. Won’t you?”

  He was shaking his head as he folded his frame into the driver’s seat but despite the wind, I could make the words out clearly enough;

  “Whatever, Stan. Whatever.”

  I turned away, closing the front door. Warmth from the house and from liberation, leaching into my bones.

  Matthew had managed to turn himself around and get stuck at the bottom of his bed. His head was now inside the cardboard box. He was still fast asleep, despite the yelling at whatever X-Men mutations he had been dreaming about. I was glad that he didn’t really have the trots. I hated having to share my bed with either of my two kids. Lydia wriggled and talked non-stop in her sleep and Matthew was a fighter and a farter. I straightened him out and then went back downstairs as my mobile phone bleeped. It was Kate.

  “Ha. You answered. Kept your promise to me for once. So, did you do it? I don’t mean you not-screwing Shaun – I’m taking that as read! I mean - the blackmail.”

  “I did.”

  “Attagirl! So, he took ‘the hint’?”

  “Oh yes. I did what I had to. But Kate… How did you do that?”

  I could almost hear the silent mirth down the phoneline.

  “No idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been sitting here, conjugating lies about Olivia Ogden being a ‘pleasant child’ when neither the kids nor the teachers like her. In fact, the Lollipop Lady tried to get the kid run over last week by the…”

  “Shut up! I don’t mean what did you do. I mean what did you and yours do?”

  “Haven’t a clue what you’re…”

  “Nothing to do with your moped-loving husband then?”

  Kate was still trying it on with the innocence.

  “Whatever do you mean? Bob’s not here. He’s round at Bigsy’s this evening. Watching the footie.”

  “Hmm. Would that be Bigsy who happens to live just a mile down the road from me?”

  “Could be.”

  “Bigsy who also has a moped? And who has about a dozen hens in his back garden? Bigsy who is always very generous with his egg surpluses to friends and family?”

  “Yeah. Did I tell you that he named his latest hen ‘Motherclucker?’”

  “Don’t change the subject, Kate.”

  “Well, some people just don't like asking for help, do they?”

  “Hmm. Fair do's. You might be right on that one. But old Mrs Finnegan next door isn’t going to be impressed. Tomorrow morning she’ll take one look at the state of the road outside and be onto the refuse collection team again. The bin men are usually messy sods, but even they can’t be blamed for the frozen omelettes all over the tarmac.”

  “Yeah, but Rachael, if she had realised what her nicest neighbour was faced with – she wouldn’t mind… Oh. Ha. Get this. Just got a text through from Bob. It says; ‘Tell Rach that Moped-heads beat Biker-boys. Every time.”

  “Hmm. Well. I suppose I should say thank you to him. Not that I needed rescuing, mind.”

  “You? Need or ask for help? That’ll be the day, pal. Anyway. Go and ring your Michael, fella.”

  “Oh crap! I totally forgot… “

  The tickle of a glow that had been kindled by Kate and Bob’s loyalty began to fade as I dialled Michael's number. What if Michael was going to get all cool, all condescending again? He might even think that I had delayed returning the phone call just to toy with him. Thankfully, I didn’t have too long to wait as he answered after a few rings. We both commenced with trying to apologise to each other. Michael began;

  “I’m so sorry about it all. It must have sounded like I was trying to railroad you into party political concerns or... And, I mean, I do realise that you’re a bit of a free spirit. Very down to earth. And now I… see that you’re proud of whatever, er, kind of faith – religious thinking or whatever it is – that you have. And that you've been around the block a bit, what with one thing and another. And you can get quite prickly about — ”

  “Prickly?”


  “No… Sorry. Wrong choice of words. That you’re quite sensitive… and very self-aware, so that you don’t want to feel that you’re at all kow-towing to the ‘powers that be.’ And you know, that’s one of the reasons that I find you to be so damned attractive…”

  “Gee, thanks Michael.”

  “Not at all. Oh. Are you being sarcastic again?”

  I laughed.

  “No. Not really - but you’re not helping yourself here. You’re coming across as though… you’ve got a bit of a penchant for religiously obsessed, pikey old slappers.”

  “Oh. Ha. Sorry. Again.”

  So, the ice had been broken and the fire had been stoked again. For the next half an hour we talked politics and poll ratings. With the odd smattering of smut in between. But I still went to bed wondering whether I should have provided him with the truth about my evening at home. Although perhaps, when it comes to burgeoning relationships with a senior cabinet minister, the phrase 'less is more' might be the best approach to adopt.

  CHAPTER 18

  On Wednesday morning, I fired off a quick email to Martyn Pointer:

  Martyn

  Tried my best to convince Shaun E. But until the forms arrive here at our place, or with you lot – we’d best not hold our breath, eh?

  Bye for now

  Rachael

  Only a few seconds later, I received:

  Rachael

  How are you? All good, I hope.

  Thanks for trying. I think that I’ll have to contact Cllr. Casey if we don't get the papers by close of play.

  I don’t like to pander to the politicians, but sometimes desperate measures are called for.

  Kind Regards

  Martyn

  I bit my lip and scowled. Kath Casey was Chief Politico-Supremo in the fair land of Medlock. Leader of the Council. And she was not a big fan of Sisters’ Space. In the past, she had referred to the women’s centre as a ‘Leftie Feminists Coven,’ so she was the last person that I would want to be begging favours from. Shaun had also previously advised me that it would have been a complete waste of time asking her if the council could grant us a measly one hundred quid to pay for a face painter or other forms of kiddy-entertainment for our launch. Plus, Gill had also told me that Casey’s husband was a bigwig in Medlock’s property development circles; that he had had his eye on our building – a former primary school – for some time. Mr. Casey’s specialism happened to be converting existing non-residential properties into flats for ‘young professionals.’ So, no, Kath Casey probably wouldn’t give a toss as to whether her council backed a loan for Sisters’ Space or not. Martyn would be better off praying to his God about all of this, rather than cosying up to the politicians.

  During the lunch hour, I headed down to the reception to see our new display. The women’s art group - led by our chairperson - had recently won an award from one of the North’s most prestigious galleries. Cynthia had been over the moon about it all and she and the lasses had just finished hanging their pictures in our foyer area.

  Bev was sitting behind the reception desk, indulging herself in cursory half-spins on the swivel chair.

  “Crikey,” I said. “They've managed to hang all of that lot up there pretty quickly. Where have they all gone? The art group, I mean.”

  “Pub. To celebrate. Again.”

  “Right. Don’t blame them. And where’s Stacey?” I asked, referring to the receptionist.

  “I said I’d cover for her. She’s buggered off to TK Max on her lunch. They’ve got a load of new candlesticks in – and she’s well-weird about havin’ candles in all her rooms, is Stacey. Even in her toddler’s. Which is just askin’ for tears before bedtime, if you ask me.”

  Dee, who had (allegedly) been on a volunteering shift at Sisters’ Space in the new café, also happened to be hanging about in reception, waiting for the rain to stop, before she dared to venture outside for a smoke. Bev hissed at me that Dee was now;

  “On her eighth fag break of this mornin’. She’s a right pillock. She bought all her new e-ciggy equipment the other day. Were raving about this Jamaican White Rum flavoured one, but… what a load of bollocks! ‘Cause she’s back on the Benson and Hedges, already. No bloody stayin’ power.”

  In between twirling around on the chair, Bev was taking the incoming phone calls whilst reading the Manchester Evening News, which was spread out in front of her. I peered over her shoulder for a gander. But there was nothing more interesting than a decapitation in Prestwich, followed by a geography teacher who had been stalking his students via the internet and finally - the inevitable feel-good story; a burned-out, former Coronation Street star who had set up a ‘Shabby Chic’ shop over in Ashton in partnership with a chap who used to play one of the Teletubbies.

  I called over to our mutual friend:

  “So, Dee. What do you think of the paintings? They’re good, aren’t they? Especially when you consider that they've only been studying art with Cynthia for just a few months.”

  Dee didn’t even bother to turn around and look at the paintings.

  “Load of shite. Don’t know why they bother. I mean – that Cynthia’s supposed to be, like, a proper artist or whatever. From Bristol or Brighton, or wherever they reckon they’re a cut above the rest. But I don't reckon she's got a bleedin’ clue. Like – that one over there that she actually did herself… it looks like. Like urghh…”

  The ever-eloquent and adjectively-gifted Bev finished Dee's sentence for her;

  “Like someone shat on a bit of canvas, got a three-year-old to glue some clippins’ from ‘Hello’ magazine onto it, ripped up a pair of tights, stuck ‘em in the lumpy bits what look like shit… and then gave it the ill-ustri-ous title of; ‘Female Eunuchs; A Northern Eulogy.’”

  Dee snickered and Bev actually grinned at her. I was impressed; I had never seen either of them enjoying each other’s company, or sharing a co-commentary on life before. Normally they were all bicker-city and at each other’s throats. I flirted with the idea of conveying this to Cynthia. That her work of art had led to a reconciliation between the Dee n’ Bev War of Words. But then I thought better of it. Cynthia’s heart was in the right place but, well. Art Is Art and not really to be ridiculed, is it? No, it wouldn’t be wise to piss off our well-connected chairperson by informing her that Bev had compared Cynthia's very own personal portrayal of the patriarchy - to a big pile of poo.

  I returned to reading the Manchester Evening News over Bev’s shoulder, only to be interrupted by the sound of the buzzer. Bev stabbed the intercom;

  “Yeah?”

  A husky velveteen voice answered;

  “Hi – can I get access please? I’d like to see the hot babes that hang out at Sisters’ Space. That is - if I’m not interrupting your pole-dancing-whilst-making-a-latte class - or whatever bizarre combination of training you've got on there today.”

  “Yer what?” Bev asked, peering quizzically at the screen in front of her. The computer showed the image of the person standing outside the door, as captured by our rather swish CCTV camera - one of the few modern attributes belonging to our fraying-at-the-edges building.

  Dee said;

  “Who the frig’s that weirdo, then?”

  Bev brightened;

  “Oh yeah – I know now. It’s that mad mate of yours innit, Rachael? Your buddy from the housin’”

  “Yep,” I answered. “Jake Bamber. Let him in.”

  “Eh? We can’t let a bloke in,” said Dee. “We hate blokes, don’t we, Rach? That’s what you said to that Michael fingy that time. That Minister fella. You said that Sisters’ Space is ‘sclusively for women what have been knocked about. And no blokes allowed. An’ you told him – din’t yer? That we were havin’ none of his Smack Me Bitch Up attitude round ‘ere.”

  Even Bev was shocked by Dee’s brazen distortion of the facts.

  “She never said nowt of the sort! Don’t you remember? Your posh MP, Minister fella were givin' her the usual ‘Oh! So why don't you
hahlp male victims of domestic viohlence then…is all of thaahs really an effective use of public monah’ thing…”

  I was speechless. Bev had Michael down to a tee. More clipped, more horsey – but she’d even picked up the way he used intonation in his sentences. I was about to smile and then realised that going all-dreamy and la-la à-la Michael might give the game away. Bev continued;

  “And then after that - Rachael were a right sarcastic bint with him, weren’t you?”

  She did have a point. Quipping to the Minister for Communities on our first meeting – after he’d asked me whether Sisters’ Space would ever help a man who was a victim of domestic violence - that, no, we’d never help a bloke out “ Even if he was bleeding to death and shouting, ‘Help me! Help me!’ through the intercom. We’d just ignore him, of course,” perhaps hadn’t been my finest attempt at winning a VIP over.

  But thankfully Michael seemed to have warmed to my particularly East Mancunian dry sense of humour. Dee clearly hadn’t been following the plot though.

  “Don’t you remember that, Dee?” said Bev – all Mother Superior tone. “Don’t you remember that Rachael were a bit cheeky with him? But that - then - she explained properly to him, our policy towards protectin’ women. An’ that we don’t discriminate against men.”

  Dee shrugged. And yawned. So, Bev decided to answer her own question.

  “Yeah well, Dee. You were all tammied out of yer head that day, weren’t yer?”

  “Oh, Piss Off, Bev,” Dee growled. “At least my eldest weren’t banged up for dealin’ to kids at Medlock High.”

  “No. Your eldest were banged up for nickin’ computers from the same bloody school – and not even havin’ the friggin’ brain to notice that the police van were sat there, watchin’ him the entire time…”

  Temporary truce forged by mutual dislike of shit-art display was already over, then.

  “Look,” I said. “Will you just let Jake in? It’s piddling it down out there. And he’s got lovely hair.”