“Right then! Enough. Someone’s got to do something. No point in standing about gassing like a load of old biddies. Let’s get back to the eviction days of yore – eh? Remember all of that - Bamber boy?”
Jake glared at him. Until this point, he had been uncharacteristically restrained about the Tinkerbell and the fairies comment. And the irony of the insult was that Shaun didn’t possess a homophobic bone in his body. But he also didn’t do politically-correct speech just to pacify others; especially when the mood of being rude about anyone and anything had seized him. Jake knew this and so he clearly didn’t see the point in whipping out the anti-gay card and flinging it at Shaun. It wouldn’t be accurate - and it would just be water off a duck’s back. But Jake wasn’t going to take any form of insult on the chin;
“So, you still enjoy evicting people, Shaun? Some of us always thought that you enjoyed kicking people out of their homes just a bit too much for your own good. Early signs of tinpot dictatorship, even back then —. ”
Martyn cleared his throat from behind his handkerchief, adding a loud cough for effect. Jake took the warning from his boss and stopped himself mid-sentence.
“Well,” Shaun nodded towards me. “Seeing as though our New Banks colleagues have failed miserably in their attempt to remove one of their tenants from our local authority council property - I vote that me and Rachael here have a go. Bit of a blast from the past eh? She can show me how she works her magic on the vulnerable and marginalised in society. You lot wait here.”
Martyn shrugged and snuffled. Jake rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Casey simpered at Big Brave Handsome Shaun.
“Derek,” Shaun commanded. “Lead the way.”
We turned a corner past the ‘Medlock Council Members-Only’ lavatories to find our way to Derek the Caretaker's kingdom. Or broom cupboard – stroke - office judging by its size.
“Here we go,” said Derek, gesturing at a closed door. “Now, I’ve still got no bloody idea how she managed to get hold of a key. “He gestured at the floor. “See – there’s all the disinfectant and cream cleaner what she threw at us… She just yanked the door open - made a right mess and… oh-ho – what’s this?” He stooped down to pick up a piece of paper which had been pushed under the locked door and began reading it, lips moving silently.
“Bloody hell! Cheeky old sod's scoffed all of me stuff. I buy that meself!”
I took the paper from him. An A4 sheet embellished with a scrawly message;
“It says,” I told Shaun; “’Simpson has enjoyed the fig rolls and the fondant fancies provided by Medlock Council, but must protest at the poor quality of the custard creams. Shop’s own brands are always unwise in terms of biscuit choices. She demands that currant teacakes are delivered forthwith.’”
“She actually wrote that?” Shaun looked impressed.
“Why shouldn’t she have done?” I gave him a dirty glance. “Just because she’s elderly and because everyone is saying that she has dementia - doesn’t mean that she lacks intelligence. In fact, both her handwriting and her spelling… and her sentence structure are far better than yours, that’s for sure.”
He scowled at me.
“Anyway,” I said. “Let’s stop fannying about here.”
I knocked on the door.
“Miss Simpson? It’s Rachael Russell here. Do you remember me? I helped you out of your flat the other week and took you over to Brindleford. In the taxi. Remember?”
The sound of shuffling feet. I hoped that she was moving towards the door.
“She’s extremely deaf,” I told Shaun. “I'll have to shout through the keyhole – although I doubt if she’ll still be able to hear; she’s not one for wearing her hearing aids.” I cleared my throat and bent down, moving my mouth towards the door handle. “MISS SIMPSON? CAN YOU PLEASE PUT YOUR EAR RIGHT NEXT TO THE KEYHOLE HERE?”
I nearly toppled over when her voice came right back at me, straight through the keyhole and into my ear;
“ I’M NOT GOING BACK TO THAT PLACE!” she shrieked; “ THAT PLACE WHICH WAS ONCE A HOME! ONCE A CASTLE! BUT WHICH THEY’VE NOW FILLED WITH THEIR NEFARIOUS ACCOUTREMENTS!”
I shouted back. “SORRY… WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY ‘NEFARIOUS ACCOUTREMENTS ?’”
Derek the caretaker helped me out.
“Bloody bloke – your boss-man over there from the housing. That’s what did it. He tried to coax her out, like – all nicey-nicey - by passing his phone through the door when she first opened it a bit. Showed her some photos of the work what they’ve done to her flat. Your adaptations and your grab rails and all of that. That’s when she chucked the phone back at him. Along with the cleaning fluids…”
“Right.” I nodded. Martyn had neglected to mention that part of the little tale to us. Meaning that both he and the social worker had misread the lady's personality. Miss Simpson was certainly not the type to let you fiddle about with her home and then to meekly shuffle back into her house and act the grateful beneficiary.
I addressed the keyhole again. “MISS SIMPSON!” I paused and tried to summon an inflection of positivity and excitement. “I KNOW THAT IT MIGHT SOUND… I KNOW THAT SEEING THOSE PHOTOGRAPHS MIGHT HAVE SEEMED A BIT STRANGE TO YOU. BUT HONESTLY. YOU’LL FIND THAT VERY LITTLE HAS CHANGED IN YOUR HOME. JUST SOME NEW BITS AND PIECES TO HELP YOU OUT.”
Silence for a few seconds. Then;
“ I DON’T NEED YOUR MARKETING SHENNANIGANS, YOU YOUNG STRUMPET, YOU! TAKE YOUR AVON CATALOGUE AND YOUR ENTRAPMENT LINGERIE ELSEWHERE!”
Bloody door. Bloody lack of hearing aids. Bloody refusal to acknowledge what was going on in the twenty-first century. Or whatever.
“Entrapment lingerie?” Shaun had definitely picked up on this one. “I know that you’ve been struggling for money, Rachael… but I didn’t realise that you’d had to resort to selling pairs of knickers.”
I ignored him and tried again. Less shouting now, as she seemed to be picking up the gist of things.
“I’ve seen quite a bit of Dawn recently, Miss Simpson! You know – we got her and the kids away from that man who had been hurting them… and into Lockwood House on the same day as you. You got on very well with little Poppy-Rose, didn’t you?”
A high warble came from the other side of the door. It was the chorus from ‘Rose of Tralee’. I took this to be a good thing. Miss Simpson liked to sing. She seemed to enjoy interpreting the events that unfolded around her using words and phrases that struck a chord with her memories of the songs from a bygone era. She would probably get on with Lydia. Perhaps the two of them could become the next Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice combo; working together to produce ‘Miss Simpson – The Musical.’ Christ, that was a scary thought.
But in response to the singing, Shaun simply tapped his watch.
“Are you going to take much longer, Rachael – in showing me how well you work with vulnerable people? Because I’ve got an interview with a journalist in twenty minutes…”
I whirled around and took a few steps away from the door.
“Well, funnily enough, some things in life can’t be earmarked into little pockets of time, Shaun. Some people need a bit more help than others. They can’t be shoved from pillar to post… just so that you can do your whole darling-luvvie-boy of the northern-municipal-media thing!”
Derek was goggling at the two of us, enjoying the show. But obviously, Shaun wasn’t too keen on one of his lowest paid underlings seeing a small, crabby woman speaking to the head honcho like this.
“Derek. Can you do one, please?” He jerked his head at the man and looked towards the entrance of the town hall. Derek shrugged and slouched away with a;
“No probs, Boss. Got quite enough on me plate with the one mad-as-a-hen female round here.”
“Well, hey, Shaun.” I said. “You're obviously skilled at issuing instructions to people. Maybe you should just have a word with her.”
“Jesus! Alright then. If I must.”
He almost had to double his frame over, in order to crouch do
wn towards the door handle. I had a sudden urge to kick him in the arse and run away laughing, just like the kids do with me when I’m reaching into the freezer for something. But I resisted it.
“Hellooo, Miss Simpson,” he projected bass tones through the door. “I don’t normally shout through keyholes at people. So, if you don’t mind – I’d much prefer it if you came out and we could talk face to face.”
I tutted. “Well, that wasn’t the best approach, Shaun. What you just said to her – that was all about your needs. That’s not the way to communicate with someone. Although on the other hand, why change the habit of a lifetime?”
He ignored me and carried on with;
“So, come on out, won’t you? Let’s have a chat. Maybe make a deal. Or something.”
“Ha! It’s not like she’s taken anyone hostage, Shaun. God, I bet you're still obsessed with watching your crap Hollywood films, aren't you? Still think that you're Bruce Willis or something.” He turned his face back towards me, furnishing me with his best Robert de Niro gurn. Shut it, Rachael.
Miss Simpson shrieked;
“Well, it’s just lovely to hear your voice, dear! It’s been far too long. But I know that you move in higher circles than the rest of us these days. Simpson thinks that it’s nice that you spare the likes of us any time at all!”
Shaun looked at me and tapped his forehead. Murmuring; ‘ Nuts. Never met her in my life .’ But he gave a little shrug and then responded.
“Actually, I am very busy today. I’ve got a press interview in a minute. So, it’d be helpful if you can come out now. And – didn’t you say in your note - that you wanted currant tea cakes? Well – you know what? Our market sells them - just outside of here. Medlock Market's won awards for them you know. Best in The North. Golden Fork award, they call it. How about we… get you a dozen. Take them home with you.”
I tutted. Patronising tosser. Telling someone as other-worldly as Mary Simpson about his oh-so important media engagements and trying to bait her with the promise of oven-bottom muffins and impressive talk about awards. Who the hell did he think he…
We heard the key turn in the lock.
Shaun looked surprised, but stood up and backed away quickly as the door opened. Perhaps thinking that he might end up getting sprayed with Mr Sheen.
Miss Simpson narrowed her eyes at us. She was wearing that same old, hideous polyester frock. Her hair – as always – stood on end; a wild, white mess of candy floss strands.
She moved towards Shaun. Seeing as though she wasn’t armed with a can of fly-spray or a wadge of wire wool, he decided to thrust his hand out.
“Nice to meet you. Shaun Elliot.”
She took his hand and then stopped;
A jaunty shake of her head.
“Oh, dearie me, no. You’re not he , are you? I thought you were the other one. Gentleman from the news. With her,” she looked towards me.
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me…” said Shaun. His eyes were fixed on me now, but I shrugged. Shaun had seen the photos in the tabloids of Michael riding Vinnie’s motorbike on Brindleford, of the two of us getting a bit up-close in his garden later that day – but I wasn’t going to spell it out for him; that Miss Simpson had spent plenty of time with the minister and had taken quite a shine to him (mistaking him for a newsreader for some reason).
Yet how the hell she had mistaken Shaun’s hoarse Yorkshire tones echoing through the keyhole - for Michael’s clipped, cut-glass accent - was beyond me. But hey, the woman’s mental faculties were failing, after all.
Tapered, crêpey eyes continued to take in Shaun, as he towered above her. To date, Mary Simpson had displayed an obvious disdain for most of the men that I had seen her encounter. And for me, the fact that when she had seen fit to try her own hand at verbally tackling Vinnie outside Lockwood House she had referred to him as ‘a misogynistic miscreant’ seemed to speak volumes. I had always imagined the never-married Miss Simpson to have been an early feminist; well-educated, middle class and - these days - fallen on hard times. A woman who would put up with no-nonsense from the male of the species – and, what with her being a female who had never married - perhaps she even held a romantic preference for her own gender. A slight tendency to snobbishness too. So, she would no doubt be disappointed that Michael hadn’t been the chap to liberate her from the broom cupboard. Yes, Shaun was certainly going to cop for it now; was going to be in for an earful from her.
But Miss Simpson simply kept hold of Shaun’s hand. I detected a smile dancing over the corners of the many creases around her mouth. And a glint in her eye. And then she bobbed him a little curtsey (for God’s sake) and chimed;
“You’re even taller than they let on, you know! And your eyes are like… like coal mines. As black as the coal mines of the Welsh Valleys. Burning coal. Sends me all of a shiver. So very handsome too!”
Shaun glanced over the top of her wispy locks at me. He looked a bit disconcerted. I shrugged at him again and mouthed;
“ Must be dementia then.”
And then he smiled at her. Not something that Shaun had ever had much practice in doing. And then he put his arm in hers and patted her scrawny old hand, moving her away from Derek’s cupboard and towards the front of the town hall steps. I followed behind them whilst Derek – who had obviously clocked that the lady was about to leave the building – made a dash for his 'office' with an;
“Oh, bloody hell! Look at the shit tip that she’s left it in! And she’s drunk all of me fizzy Vimto!”
We found Martyn, Kath Casey and Jake Bamber still waiting outside. Martyn gave me a thumbs-up and burst forth with;
“Excellent - you did it, Rachael! I knew that you would!” I looked over at Shaun. A crooked smile was playing around his lips.
“Actually, it wasn’t so much me, Martyn. It was Shaun… It was Shaun, here, who managed to persuade Miss Simpson out. And as you can see - it looks like - he has a new fan now...”
Jake gazed at The Giant and Geriatric Show in astonishment. But he managed to mutter;
“Hmmm. Well, that’d be his one and only supporter in Medlock.” Martyn glared at him. Watch it, Bamber. But Jake swung back into cheery-professional mode.
“Well, all’s well that ends well. And it’s lovely to see you safe and sound, Miss Simpson. I think I’ll just hail a taxi and we’ll get you back to the hostel and then sort out getting you back home ASAP. All nice and cosy, eh?”
Mary Simpson shook her head fiercely and scowled at the housing officer.
“Only if accompanied by the regality of tea cakes. I’m a lady on a promise,”
Shaun began to laugh. It was a rare sound for all our ears. And then he tapped her hand and wagged his finger at her, all playful-like;
“Hmm, well. You had better promise me you won’t be doing silly things like this again. You’re a very naughty girl.”
Miss Simpson chortled back at him.
“Girl Guide’s honour!”
Jake gawped at me in mutual disgust at the display, so I stuck two fingers into my mouth and pretended to vomit into a potted plant next to me. It was unnecessary, it was childish – so it was probably entirely deserved - that at that precise moment Councillor Casey turned round and caught me doing it.
“Had fish and chips at lunch” I said. “Bit of a bone stuck… still feels like it’s there…”
She didn’t look particularly convinced.
Shaun was getting his wallet out. He pushed a fiver at Jake and jerked his thumb towards the market ground.
“Bamber - go and get us a dozen currant tea cakes from the inside market. Oven-bottom sorts. The pricier ones – the ones with more raisins in them.”
Jake was about to protest - What Did Your Last Slave Die Of - but noticed the look on Martyn’s face and instead, headed off towards the market hall. I felt sorry for Jake, being sent on a bread-buying mission, so I gestured to the grand entrance hall behind us and said to Shaun;
“Saw all your municipal trophies back there i
n the foyer, Shaun. But didn’t see any for award-winning currant tea-cakes.”
He avoided my gaze.
“Somebody vandalised it, when we had it on display in the tea-cake stall,” he replied.
“Wooh. Serious stuff.”
“We think it was a rival tea-cake producer in Huddersfield.”
“That’s my neck of the woods,” I said. “We’d never stoop so low.”
“Yeah, well. Your lot are pretty good at getting their mates over to trash people’s cars when they aren’t getting what they want. So, I wouldn’t put it past the West Yorkshire Mafia to throw a wobbler over the fact that their oven-bottoms aren’t as tasty as ours.”
I let it go.
Kath Casey had walked to the corner of the building to flag a taxi down. The remaining four of us stood at the bottom of the town hall steps, avoiding puddles produced by the quick cloudburst which had showered Medlock whilst we had been inside. Nearly all the outside traders had dismantled their stalls, packed their vans and were getting ready to head off back home. A watery autumn sun had fashioned a vivid rainbow. It streamed its way above the market ground lending a hint of exotica to what had been the usual murky-in-Medlock day.
“Oh look!” said Miss Simpson. “’The Lord gives us a sign!’”
This was the kind of talk that Martyn always warmed to.
“He certainly does,” the chief executive bubbled back at her; “A promise never to flood the Earth again! And that’s a particularly pertinent sign, isn’t it? Given the fact that your home was flooded the other week! I wonder what we can all learn from…”
But Miss Simpson just scowled at him, cutting him off with;
“No. That’s not the sign that He means. Not at all!”
I tried to disguise my smile. As well as the singing, Miss Simpson also had a propensity to talk a lot of religious nonsense - but in my book, it was more purposeful and helpful religious nonsense than the stuff that Martyn Pointer’s version of The Truth tended to consist of.
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 24