A few seconds later and Jake Bamber was shaking his now less-immaculately-coiffured-than-usual locks at us.
“What took you so long?’ he asked me. ‘I mean, I know that I owe you a few bottles of vino but… trying to drown me… is simply not cricket, my girl.’
“Ooh get you!’ sneered Dee. ‘Simply not cricket!’ Not heard that one since I last read me Enid Blyton!”
“Can you read, then, Dee? Well, wonders never cease.” Bev was back on for an all-out war. But Jake stepped in, placing his car keys on the reception desk and giving it a touch of the teeny shoulder-twitch. He liked to dredge up the camp affectations when it suited him.
“Hmm. Well. Rachael enjoys a man with a bit of finesse – don’t you, chickie? A man who’s rather well-bred.”
I gave him a filthy look. Don’t Jake. And certainly, not in front of the service users.
Dee winked at Jake as she started fiddling with her lighter and leered;
“You two shaggin’ each other then?”
Bev burst out laughing, spraying the telephone handset.
“Jesus! Talk about ‘as thick as pigshit!’”
Jake - whilst not having had the pleasure of meeting Dee before - was a housing officer and therefore was a quick judge of personality, temperament and of atmospheres that were about to lead to either the decimation of someone’s shrubbery or to cold-blooded murder. He reached over to Gobshite Central and took her hand, stroking it gently.
“Sweetie,” he said to Dee. “If I’d be shagging anyone in this room right now, it’d be you my darling. Not these two skinny old trollops.” Dee coloured slightly. Jake was an extremely good looking man. Fine featured. All latino eyes, fringed with flutteringly long lashes.
“Ha!” said Bev. “Skinny’s summat I’ve never been insulted with before.” Jake continued.
“But unfortunately, I do have to tell you that much as I admire the female of the species, they don’t really happen to be the gender that dingles my dongle, as it were. And that – oooh – your bracelet! Isn’t that a Pandora? I love Pandora! I adora- Pandora!”
Jake had expertly diffused the situation. Dee was now showing him her shiny stuff and waxing lyrical with her new friend about bunny-shaped trinkets and the like. I gave them a minute and then cleared my throat.
“’Scuse me, Jake - for interrupting your attempt to convince us that you moonlight as a presenter on the Jewels for Fools TV channel - but one of the old trollops here is wondering; to what do we owe the pleasure? Of your visit, I mean.”
Jake stopped tinkering with Dee’s bracelet and answered.
“Oh yes. Just been trying to track down one of your service users at Sisters’ Space.”
He didn’t say any more than that. Not politic – or professional to discuss - one woman’s case in front of the others. I was going to ask him to come through to my office for a private chat, but then Bev waded in with;
“Bet it’ll be Dawn, eh? What’s up? You lot in housin’ all ready to evict her just ‘cause that piece of shit, Vinnie Murray tried to kick her head in on Sunday night?”
“Nothing of the sort, my love,” Jake shook his head and I added,
“Down, Bev. Jake’s one of the good guys…”
But Bev’s butterfly brain had moved on.
“And hey up! Here’s one of the bad bitches!”
I was about to remind Bev about our policy in relation to derogatory language towards other women, but I changed my mind when I saw the figure that appeared on the screen before us. The buzzer sounded. And Bev yelled at the intercom;
“Yeah – whoareyer and whaddyawant?”
I elbowed her. “You could at least try and remember some of your training…”
Bev sniffed. “I’m only covering reception. Not properly trained. And anyway. I hate her guts.”
“Renee McCauley,” came the all-too familiar nasally tones over the intercom. Her addition of;
“… From Communities and Leisure, Medlock Council,” was nearly drowned out by an enormous thunderclap. The rain began to turn into hailstones.
“Jesus wept!” Jake murmured. “That was just like a scene from Twilight! Do you think that she made that happen all by herself?”
“Well, with any luck – she’ll turn into a bat and fly off or summat,” said Bev. “Can’t stand the cow.”
I peered at the monitor. Renee didn’t appear to have an umbrella. So, I asked Bev;
“How do you know her then?”
She snorted. “I used to clean the Town Hall before they sacked off the contractors what I was workin' for and brought the Polish lot in. She’s a complete bee-yatch – yeah soz, I know Rach – you’ll be tellin' me off for horrible language about another woman – but… she is!”
“Oh, don’t mind me, for once,” I commented. I was going to add that my own preferred label for the woman was ‘Renee The Rottweiler.’ But then I remembered that Bev had a big, scary dog herself and might find the comparison to Renee, to be insulting towards her own prized pooch.
The buzzer sounded again.
“Is anyone going to let her in? It’s awful out there,” Jake asked.
“Oooh… I can hardly hear that buzzer above the weather outside!” Bev smirked. “But yeah. In a min. Those hailstones must sting like a bugger. Anyway. Yeah - at the Town Hall - my shift were at five o'clock and she’d always be out the offices, on the dot.”
“Jobsworth,” Dee nodded. I tried not to grin. If anyone could shirk the work, it was Queen Dee.
“And, so I’d always pass her in the corridor – every day – but she wouldn’t even so much as look me in the eye.”
“Maybe she’s autistic?” Jake added helpfully. We ignored him.
“So, I’d just do my stuff. Clean around – always had to be ultra-careful with the Head Man’s office – you know – the Shaun Elliot big fella. Hey, get this – he’s that ginormous – he has to have a special chair and everything,’
“We know,” said Jake. Quietly. Eyeballing me. “Rachael and I once had the pleasure of working with him. Many moons ago. He even came out on strike with us a couple of times. Before he sold out completely and fell for the trappings of capitalism. Power and wealth. Etcetera.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bev. “He’s even got a massive rubber tree plant thingy in there – so I bet that they’re payin' him a fair bob or two. And that’s what I got in trouble for. Not dustin' his rubber plant properly.”
“Jesus!” Dee sang. “Look at the size of the hailstones out there! She’s gonna be piss wet through!”
“Does anyone – really – still own rubber plants these days?” Jake asked. “I mean, they’re so 1980's, aren’t they?”
“Shaun does. I saw it in his office the other week,” I said. In error.
Jake’s eyes widened. Mine mirrored back; Don’t Ask Me - Right Here, Right Now. Or Else.
“So yeah. Uptight bitch out there - sorry Rach – grassed me up for not dustin' his plant properly. And then for fiddlin’ with his pens.”
I was intrigued. “His pens?”
“She always laid them out for him at ten to five every day. Ready for him for the next day. In a certain order. It was… let me see… it was from left to right – hum – red, green, orange, blue, purple. I remember it see, ‘cause she wrote it all down in a report to my supervisor.”
“What a rotten cow!” I couldn’t contain myself anymore, adding; “Sorry. To all of you, I mean. For using deroga…”
“Yeah, yeah.” Bev flapped a hand at me.
“Well… that really is very autistic… very spectrummy behaviour,” said Jake. “The pen-thing. Perhaps we should feel sorry for her. The pens. The lack of eye contact.”
“The pens might not be her problem. They could be a Shaun-thing,” I added. “You know… Shaun proving to himself that he’s reached the dizzy heights of municipaldom. ‘I can afford different coloured pens, me, I can.”
Jake and I had been trying not to be too blasé about the mention of Shaun in front
of the others, but by now we had given up, and me and my old buddy were chortling away. It was all going over the heads of both Dee and Bev thankfully, though. Dee chipped in with;
“Anyways – I don’t see why we should have to feel sorry for someone, just ‘cause they’re autistic. Joel Patterson round the corner from us is well-autistic and he’s just… like a sicko. He kills cats n’ everything.”
“Well, I’ve only ever known dead nice autistic people,” Bev disagreed. “So, you might wanna watch what you’re labellin' people with there, Dee. You’re probably getting ‘autistic’ confused with ‘psychotic’ or summat. Like – my nephew Neil, what’s autistic. He’s lovely and he’s well smart and he knows the entire bus network of Greater Manchester off by heart. Timetables and everything.”
“Really?” asked Jake. “I love people who have gifts like that. So much more useful to society than a Theology degree from Cambridge!”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Bev continued, “so you just send him a text message and tell him where you wanna go and in seconds you get one back that says fifteen hundred hours, the number four-oh-nine bus, Buxton Road chippy stop, journey time approximately twenty-two minutes, watch the dogshit near the post office.’ And then he’ll text you again to advise you on the best route back home.”
The buzzer rang again. And this time it wasn’t stopping. We all realised that we were pushing it just a bit too far now.
“Oh, come in, then, won’t ‘cha.” snapped Bev, jabbing the ‘open’ button.
A waterlogged woman carrying a plastic bag stalked into the reception. Her bottle green coat was pebble dashed with half-melting hailstones and her wiry black hair dripped onto its sodden collar. Her glasses hit instant ‘steam me up, Scottie’ mode as soon as she entered the building. She took them off to glare at us.
“Is there something wrong with your intercom?”
“Hello, Renee,” I gave her my friendliest smile. God knows where I dredged it up from. But I remembered not to bare too much teeth. (Rottweilers don’t take kindly to that.) “But no. The intercom’s fine. It’s just that – unlike working for the local authority – our service isn’t cushioned by salaried staff and the like. We rely on the use of volunteers. So sometimes things take a bit longer.” I patted Bev on the shoulder. “No offence, Bev!”
Bev smirked. “None taken.”
“Anyway,” I continued to gurn at Renee – smiling with the mouth and not the eyes. “Sorry about the little wait there. So. How can we help you?”
She shifted her handbag from her shoulder, attempting to juggle the plastic bag which was emblazoned with the logo of Medlock’s finest delicatessen, providing Jake with a license to coo;
“Oooh! Lunch from Webster’s! My favourite sandwich shop! Although it’s more of a sandwich experience , as they like to call it. I haven’t been there for ages. It’s ever so expensive. But I can’t really afford it these days on my salary. Are you treating yourself then?”
Renee gave him a blank look. And then peered into the handbag, looking for something. She had clearly not met Jake before and didn’t know anything about him. If she had, she wouldn’t have supplied him with yet more evidence of Shaun’s nascent progression to recently becoming Satan’s Capitalist Bum-Boy.
“For Mr Elliot. The Director of Communities and Leisure — ”
I cut her off.
“And a Very Important Person, Jake,” tipping him a subtle wink. Jake got the deal.
“Oooh, I can imagine. So, has the boss treated you to lunch as well, then?”
The Rottweiler gave us her best no-nonsense judder of the head, sprinkling more moisture onto the reception floor.
“I make my own packed lunches. I’ve got a wheat allergy. And I need gluten-free. I struggle with nuts too. Even with the most high-end food shops, you can never be too careful, when you suffer with a severe allergy.”
“I struggle with nuts too. Especially the big ‘uns.” Dee was still flicking her lighter and waiting for the storm to pass. I wasn’t sure whether this was Dee being crude or whether she had a real issue with KP or Planters. “But anyway,” Dee carried on “What’s he got on his butties then?’
I had been wondering this myself. In the old days – the Whalley Range Housing Officer days - Shaun had always gone for cheese and tomato, white muffin, no onion and loads of salad cream.
Renee was irritated. She ignored Dee and continued to ferret around in her handbag, finally bringing an envelope out of it. I was enjoying the fact that The Rottweiler wasn’t on her home turf. She passed the envelope to me. It was slightly damp but had escaped the worst excesses of the downpour.
“Mr Elliot asked me to deliver it directly to you, rather than you have to wait for the post.”
Jake might not be aware of the current scenario in terms of Shaun’s refusal to sign his support for the loan, but he knew about the past. The past the first time round – not the second time after Adam had died – I mean. But still, his eyes were burning into me. He was clearly thinking the worst. Meaning that it might be best if I opened the envelope in front of everyone, in order to get Jake off my back.
“Cool,” I said, as I ripped it open. Realising that I must sound like Matthew when he’s found a crappy toy in a packet of cereal. “But just dull financial stuff here, folks. No orders for our chocolate from the Town Hall. Which is a shame – as you’d hope that our local authority personnel would be the first to support us, wouldn’t you?”
I smiled sadly at Renee. Jibes about voluntary versus public sector workers were above and beyond her. She was about to turn around and leave, when Dee asked again;
“So, come on. Tell us what the big bloke has on his butties, then. Not like it’s a state secret or owt, is it?”
Renee pursed her lips. She wasn’t used to dealing with members of the public. And certainly, not members of the public with a gob like the Mersey Tunnel. But she told us;
“Curried lamb and lemongrass. With cranberries. On Focaccia”
I was surprised. But then Shaun had grown up in Harrogate after all. Or Ilkley. Or wherever. And as people get older, they often like to resort to childhood comforts. I felt sorry for the old cheese sarnie on a white muffin. Not swanky enough now, for Mr Hot Shot Town Haller. I half-expected Bev to trot out her usual disgusting analogies on the contents of sandwiches, but she was busy scribbling away on a notepad next to the phone. So perhaps it was only me that ever happened to be the ungrateful beneficiary of her revolting luncheon comparisons.
“Right then,” I said. “Give our best to Mr Elliot.”
She nodded.
“And tell him,” added Jake, “that we’ll bump into him at the Local Government Association charity night in London. Oh no. Scotch that idea. We can’t afford the train fare, can we Rachael? Never mind the two thousand pounds that Shaun Elliot managed to pull together for a table there last year… even without the wine bill.”
Renee tossed her head and dappled us with droplets as she walked back to the front door, pressing the release button in order to exit. But Bev had decided to winch herself out of the receptionists’ chair and was heading after her. As The Rottweiler pushed the door open, Bev caught up with her, handing her an envelope;
“Nearly forgot. Can you give this to Mr Elliot? Says ‘Private and Confidential’ there, see? So, that means that it’s only to be opened by ‘im. Yeah?”
“I do know what that means,” came the frosty reply. And then the door clicked behind her.
Bev scooted back to her seat at reception whilst Dee slouched towards the door, finally moving out for a ciggie, now that the torrent had subsided.
“Well,” said Jake. “Wasn’t that fun? I almost felt sorry for her at one point. Yet another poor, deluded woman who has fallen for Shaun Elliot’s charms.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Change the subject, please.
“So,” he said brightly. “Let’s go and see if you can help me find this service user of yours, who seems to have fallen off my radar….�
��
“You mean Dawn,” Bev chipped in.
“Oh, pack it in, Bev,” I told her. “And anyway – what was the envelope business all about? This letter thing for Shaun Elliot?”
“Ha. Just a few words from the wise. For ‘im an’ ‘is eyes only.”
“What do you mean...?” Jake and I looked at each other.
“Oh, don’t be worryin'. I was going to tell old sour-faced cow herself, but I knew she wouldn’t pass on the message. So, I thought that writin' it down would be best.”
“What message?” As I do with Liddy when she’s too engrossed with Dennis the Menace and The Beano to answer me, I swiped Bev's newspaper away so that she had to give me her full attention.
“Just a little bit of advice from the expert.”
“What? What did you write, Bev?”
“Nowt. Nowt major anyway. I just wrote ‘Lamb and lemongrass might sound very nice – but watch out for the cranberry bits ‘cause they’ll be the winnits from the lamb.”
“You never did!” I yelped. Hand to mouth. Not sure whether to laugh or to throw up.
Jake said;
“Winnits? What’s winnits?”
“Ha. Can tell you’re not from round ‘ere,” said Bev. “Everyone knows what winnits are.”
“Do enlighten me.”
“The little balls of shit that hang round a sheep’s arse. Did your mother never say to you ‘always wipe your winnits off?”
“No, she didn’t,” Jake beamed a glorious smile. “But this new-found knowledge has certainly made my day. Especially if it puts Shaun Elliot off his lunch.”
Bev looked pleased with herself.
“And,” she added. “Just in case he didn’t know what winnits were himself – I added, like, a reference note. Like what you’d do in a dissertation. An’ I drew a little picture for him. Of a sheep’s arse.”
“Oh, Bev,” I said. “Please tell me that you’re joking.”
“Soz!” she said “All true. Now gimme me paper back. An’ sod off and find Dawn.”
CHAPTER 19
There had been no little, sticky Post-it notes added to the document that Renee had handed to me. No SWALKS or death threats. Simply Shaun’s scribble. Actually, Shaun’s rather violent moniker of a signature. I noted that the ballpoint of the pen had nearly gone through the paper.
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 19