Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “And I’ll be getting a sign myself,’ I chipped in. ‘From the local constabulary - if I don’t get back in time to pick the kids up - and the child care providers have had to dump them by the side of the road in Holmfirth again.” I fished in my handbag for car keys.

  “Right. See you Saturday then,” Shaun commented, as he stared out over the now nearly-deserted market ground.

  “Yep, at the big launch,” I answered. I turned to the old lady; “So, Miss Simpson, I really hope that things go well for you on the move back home. And I’ll make sure that I get Dawn to give you a call. I’m sure that she’d like to speak to you…”

  Miss Simpson was still clinging tightly onto Shaun’s arm and she nodded her head at me, beckoning me nearer. She reached out a veiny hand to the back of my head, poking yellowed fingernails into my hair as she drew me closer. So, near that I could smell the custard creams on her breath. She whispered;

  “ You know what the sign means, don’t you?”

  “Do I?” I mouthed back.

  “Yes, you do!” she hissed, waving her forefinger at me, in an Elderly-ET-Go-Home gesture. “But the Lord of the Earth and Sky doesn’t even know himself. So, who can tell? Who can say? Shall the chosen one be the Great Giant? Or the Man Off The Telly? It’s causing a proper consternation amongst us all - it is.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. And even a sacrificial tea-cake or two, might not appease the God of our ancestors.”

  I went to get the kids. They made a bit more sense. But only slightly.

  CHAPTER 23

  I was in the middle of a rather interesting discussion between Shanaz, Maryam and Dee, when reception called me away from the hall. It was eleven AM and fifteen women were assembled in the main body of the centre, all ready and waiting for the weekly belly-dancing lesson. Milly, the class teacher, was caught up in what sounded like a shrieking match with someone at the other end of her phone (probably British Gas; Milly never had much luck with utility companies) and Dee had taken the opportunity to saunter to the side of the hall, where I had been chatting away with Shanaz and Maryam.

  Dee, hand on her more-than-fair-share of hips, was twirling one of the tassels on her 'designer' belly-dancing costume. It was already shedding little tinselled strands onto the hall floor. She cocked her head at the two women.

  “You two gonna just sit, gassin' with Rachael, then? You not joinin' us?”

  They shook their heads. Maryam replied;

  “No, thanks.”

  Dee wasn't giving up;

  “Don't see why not. You can still have a proper boogie in yer tent-dress things.”

  Both women were wearing niqabs. Shanaz shrugged.

  Dee went on;

  “You fastin' then or summat? Some religious rule that you'll faint if you have a freak-out?”

  Maryam replied;

  “No. Not today.”

  “An' anyways,” Dee prattled on, “I dunno why you never take yer headgear off in 'ere. I know for a fact that you're allowed to show yer face and yer hair and all of that when there's no blokes about. An' there's never no blokes at Sisters' Space 'cause we don't let 'em in, 'cause we hate 'em all. Don't we, Rach?”

  I was appalled. Dee was turning into a stuck record when it came to our policy about male visitors.

  “Dee! You know that's not what we...”

  But Dee was doing the hand-in-air 'whatevoh' at me as she turned and walked away to the front of the class. Milly had now returned to the job in hand, complete with an ominous smile on her face; a complaint to the energy ombudsman on the cards, no doubt.

  “Sorry,” I said to the two women as we were left alone again. “I don't suppose Dee's particularly familiar with what the Qur’an says about dancing and sexual movements in public… modesty and all of that.”

  Maryam's eyes narrowed.

  “Nah,” she replied. “It's not about that. That's not why we aren't dancin'.” She jerked her head at her friend. “It's 'cause she's on the blob and she doesn't fancy leakin' all over yer hall floor.”

  Shanaz nodded. Her eyes deadpan. Her pal went on;

  “And me? I'd rather slit me own throat than do a Dee – prancing around looking a blubbery, hairy old walrus. I mean. At her age! No bloody shame!”

  Stacy poked her head around the hall doors;

  “Rach. Got a bit of a problem on reception.”

  I moved away and called over my shoulder to the two women;

  “Well, maybe not today – but if you ever fancy it, do feel free to lose the niqabs and join in with the dancing. No blokes about for a million miles.”

  Shazana shot back;

  “We would do - if you'd sort your friggin' heating system out. We're freezin' our tits off here. Neither of us has as much lard on us as Dee does.”

  Those two. I never know when they're winding me up or not.

  Reporting to reception though, it seemed that I had been wrong about the proximity of the next nearest male.

  “Bad news,” Sandra nodded towards the front door. “Got Mr Charm Personified outside. Demanding to see Dawn Hibbert.”

  “Oh great. Is it —.”

  “Yeah. That Vinnie Murray bloke. Recognised him. He's not bad lookin'. Shame he's such a nutter. God knows what that Dawn was thinking, getting mixed up with him.”

  She jerked her head towards one of the photographs on the computer that she had highlighted with her cursor. The system that we had named 'Our Violent Partner Parade' was beautiful in its simplicity and it came to be very useful at times.

  I looked away and towards the CCTV camera screen, at the image of the figure standing outside of our heavy-duty security doors. He was just finishing off a cigarette. Stubbed it out against our brickwork and then lobbed it over the wall. This was followed by a hacking cough.

  “Eeww,” said Sandra. “Did you see him just greb on the path there? Dirty sod.”

  Then Vinnie Murray followed this up with his party piece. He simultaneously booted the door whilst pressing the intercom button.

  “Anyone fuckin' in there – for fucksake?”

  Such a gent. I took over from Sandra, speaking into the intercom;

  “Hello, Mr Murray. You seem to have developed a nasty habit of attempting to kick doors in over the last few weeks. Would you like me to call the police in order to assist you with your little problem?”

  Yes, I knew that it probably wasn't the best way to deal with a volatile thug like Vinnie, but in my role as manager of the centre, I didn't usually get to witness the actual acts of physical violence; it was nearly always the imprints and the aftermath that I had to deal with. But on that sweltering day, a few weeks ago, in September, I had personally experienced the real-time horror etched upon the faces of his kids, along with the physical marks that he had just inflicted upon his girlfriend. So, it was hard for me not to rein in the feelings of profound disdain and disgust.

  Still, Vinnie didn't seem to possess the intelligence to realise that I was being sarcastic. And, ever so slightly, unprofessional.

  “Oi – is that, that... blonde woman?”

  “Which one?” I asked, followed by; “I believe that there are several million females in this country alone, possessing such hair colour.”

  A pause.

  “Yeah, it's you alright. You were the one helpin' fuckin' Dawn out on that day. With that bloke who turned out not to be a vicar, but to be a governmental whatsisname.”

  I sighed. Vinnie wasn't the most erudite of chaps.

  “Well,” I began. “My colleague tells me that you were asking to see Dawn Hibbert. Now, firstly, we don't allow men access to our premises. And secondly, Dawn isn't here. And thirdly, we certainly don't engage in discussions with misogynists who have a history of beating their partners.”

  Sandra nodded in agreement. We gave him the opportunity to respond. But he didn't. He was probably trying to figure out which B-list celebrity rap star Ms Ojinist was. So, I continued;

  “So, don't try and kick our doo
r again. You're on CCTV camera anyway. Please leave our grounds immediately or we'll be forced to call the police.”

  Vinnie already had a lengthy police record, but despite that, you can never tell whether the threat of the bizzies will work with someone or not.

  His voice came over the intercom again;

  “Yeah well, you do that an' I'll just be back 'ere in a couple of fuckin' hours. I know she's fuckin' in there.”

  I looked at Sandra. She muttered;

  “In the old days, we would have been quite within our rights to pour boiling oil on dickheads like him. Civil rights gone crazy, it is. This country's not what it used to be.”

  “Yeah, good job the Brexit vote went the way it did. I can't wait for the reintroduction of capital punishment as well, eh? And a spot of water-boarding for juvenile offenders.” I spoke back to Vinnie now. “Look. Never mind the fact that Dawn's all set to apply for an injunction against you and all of that. Because the way that you're behaving here, right now – I'm thinking that we should be applying for a second one against you. On behalf of the centre.”

  “Fuck that — ” he began, but then interrupted himself. His tone of voice completely changed. Raising itself from gruff aggression to almost polite enquiry. The attention span of a gnat.

  “Hey, you know that politician bloke what you know? Mr Not A Vicar man. Have you got his number? 'Cause I'm needin' to sort me carbs out on the bike and he said that he knew this fuckin' good bike mechanic over in Mottram. Called Andy, he were, but I can't remember the name of the fuckin' garage now.”

  I snorted. In the space of thirty seconds, Vinnie had gone from threatening thug, to wanting to speak to the Minister of Communities about motorcycle maintenance. Yeah right, Vin – like I'm going to give you the Minister's personal mobile number, so that you can call him in the middle of Prime Minister's Questions about carburettors and ignition coils or whatever.

  Sandra was giving me the eyeball. It seemed that I had been chuckling to myself. So, I reined my mirth back in again and answered him;

  “No. No, I can't really help you with that. But – tell you what – tomorrow he's off abroad on an overseas diplomatic mission for a few years. So, if you're quick about it, you can call his constituency office in Stalybridge and ask them. I'm sure that he'd call you back about it all before he leaves the country. You'd best be quick about it though —”

  Sandra whispered to me;

  “A local government minister… going abroad for a few years ? You're lying, aren't you?”

  “No flies on you,” I mouthed back.

  Either way, we weren't sure whether Vinnie's rapid departure from our entrance porch was due to his imbecilic belief that a senior UK politician would want to chat happily with a wife-beater about bike parts. Or due to the coincidental sound of a police siren in the distance.

  CHAPTER 24

  Only a couple of days were now left before the grand opening. Sisters’ Space was all aglow with positivity. Preparations for the launch seemed to have forged a new sense of camaraderie and I was beginning to feel very upbeat about things. Reet chipper in fact. And it seemed as though even my parents had caught the bug. My mother telephoned me to say that although they had originally agreed to keep the kids at theirs that day, they;

  “Fancied having a little drive over to see what's happening with your battered ladies' festival.”

  Normally, the prospect of my own offspring (or indeed, my own parents) appearing at a work-related event was enough to make my blood run cold. But my mood was still buoyant, bobbing along on waves of optimism, so I simply agreed. Mum replied;

  “Good. And I'll make some cakes for your cake stall. Parkin – it's that time of year after all. Plus, some salted caramel brownies for the more sophisticated sorts who live closer to the south Manchester side and who like their sun-dried tomatoes and their kumquats. But don't you go snaffling any of it yourself. You never really lost all of the baby-weight, did you? Different metabolism to Vicky-the-whippet, I suppose. Such a shame she can't get up from London for your little soiree, after all.”

  I did feel a bit down in the mouth about the absence of Vicky on the big day. The two of us had been having many more phone conversations than we usually did. She had informed me that my love life had proven to be a very interesting distraction for her; taking her mind away from her being 'Billy No Mates', stuck at home; ‘It’s driving me crazy, not even being able to go to work and shout at my team. Like, you can’t call someone ‘a Fuckwit’ in an email, can you? They’ll take you to a tribunal. I mean, at least if I do it in person, I can pretend that I said something in my Mancunian accent that they must have misheard.'

  “… so yes,” Mum continued, “I'll have the cakes all ready here for you on Saturday morning. They can be my little contribution for your Cause. And your dad – Stingy Sod here…”

  I could hear the fuzzy grumble of my dad’s voice as he objected to her words;

  “Yes, Terry, there’s a reason why people call you that. Along with plenty of other things, of course - well, your dad’s contribution can be to stop moaning about the cost of petrol for driving just the eight miles to Medlock in order to support his eldest daughter. And her abused people’s celebrations.”

  “Right, well. But go easy on doing so many different cakes, Mum. Baking can be expensive.”

  “Don’t be daft. You sound like old misery guts here – I can already see him stressing about the cost of butter and flour. I don’t give two hoots about the money. These days, people in our society don’t do enough to help other folk. And no one likes to see women getting knocked about - do they, Terry?”

  An indecipherable comment from my dad in the background indicated that he occasionally begged to differ on that one.

  Thursday morning and at eleven o'clock, I was crouching on my office floor with Kirsty, one of our newest service users. I was attempting to demonstrate how to make up the different information packs for the event. I had presumed that this would be a fool-proof task for anyone to do – but she wasn’t the most confident of women. Just being in the same room as her, made me feel like Two Ton Tessie. So, I was doing my best to speak quietly and to convince her that it really was as easy as cottage pie;

  “See, Kirsty, you’ve got the four categories of guests. You’ve got ‘VIPs’, ‘Professionals’, ‘Media’ and ‘Public’ and I’ve written down which leaflets go with which category. Most are ‘Public’ of course. So, you just follow that and make up the numbers for each category that are listed on the spreadsheet printout. Okay?”

  Kirsty nodded. But then she changed her mind and shook her head, wondering aloud in a small voice;

  “What if I screw it up?”

  I sighed inwardly. Years of abuse and bullying had knocked the edges off her ability to try out something new; even shoving some leaflets in an envelope. It was pathetic - but hardly her fault. Her eyes wandered uncertainly over mine, but I didn’t want her to register my impatience, so I gave her a friendly nudge with my elbow;

  “What’s the worst that can happen? Is someone going to have a paddy because the odd leaflet on home security systems is missing? Come on, Kirsty. People won’t even sodding notice!”

  She shot me a bleak smile and I was about to ladle on more spoonfuls of reassurances when the office phone rang. It was reception.

  “Shaun Elliot to see you, Rachael. He's coming through right now..."

  This was of the blue.

  “No… no! Stacey - he doesn’t have an appointment with me. He can't just walk in here and — ”

  “Sorry – I couldn't stop him!”

  A second later Shaun strolled into my office. Hands in pockets and head tipped on one side. He knew damned well that I’d be furious about the fact that he hadn’t waited in reception; our ‘no men in the building’ policy; the invite-only to male colleagues stuff.

  “Alright?” he said. “Busy getting ready for Saturday, then?”

  “Yes. And we didn’t have an appointment to meet.
So, I can’t really speak with you right now.”

  “Won’t take long. Do you mind?’ he glowered at Kirsty. A look of puzzled anxiety etched itself across her face as she glanced at me. Shaun decided to spell it out for her benefit.

  “Would you mind doing one - I mean.” He jerked his thumb towards the door. Kirsty fumbled and then dropped the stack of leaflets that she was holding. They scrawled across the floor as she scurried off in the opposite direction, calling to me from over her shoulder;

  “Sorry! Sorry, Rachael! I’ll come and tidy them all up again in a minute! Sorry!”

  I raced after her. She scurried down the corridor and into the kitchen, grabbing the kettle.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. “Come back in! He's got no right to do what he just did!”

  “He's that bloke in charge at the council — ”

  Her nervous tic - manic blinking in order clear her vision and to soothe her mind - had kicked in.

  “I know, Kirsty – but I'll tell him to sling his hook. Like I said, he's got no—”

  “No!” She almost shouted back. “I'm… I'm feeling a bit crap, Rachael. Think I've got a migraine coming on. Staring at all those leaflets.”

  I could tell that she was about to cry, so I put my arm round her and gave her a squeeze;

  “Okay, love. You just get yourself some paracetamol. I'll be back in a minute.”

  I strode back to my office and slammed the door behind me. Throwing a look of utter contempt up at the lofty sod, I bent down and commenced with picking up the spilled leaflets.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Shaun? I’ve spent all morning trying to get her to chill out! To try and stop acting like the next man that she encounters is going to smash her face in. And in three seconds flat, you waltz in here with your size twelves and undo all of that!”

  Shaun shrugged and parked himself against my office window. Blocking out most of the sunlight.

  “That’s not my problem. Whatever ‘issues’ your women have here at this place, they’ve still got to live in the real world. And in the real world, people can’t be tiptoeing around them all of the time.”