Matthew squeezed a blue plastic turtle at me. It squirted water all over my trousers.
“What’s Saturday?”
“Oh, you know, Matthew. You know what Saturday is.”
“No, I don’t. What’s a Saturday?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s one of the days of the week. And please don’t stick the turtle up the hot tap. It was bad enough when you managed to get your entire flannel up there last week.”
He ignored me. I continued.
“But, yes. This Saturday is a special one for me. You’ve heard me talking about it. You know. Where we tell everyone about the new chocolate shop. At my work.”
He was now drinking bathwater from a plastic yellow teapot.
“Matthew – if you’ve done a wee in the bathwater again, that’s probably not the best thing to be doing.”
He shrugged and asked me;
“So… is Saturday a boy or a girl? I don’t like it if it’s a girl.”
“For God’s sake, Matthew. We’re not French you know! We don’t have to assign a gender-label to everything!”
I sighed, watching him as he concentrated fiercely on pouring water from the plastic teapot into one of my exfoliation gloves. A little frown; an identikit of Adam. The same glower that etched itself on his father’s face as he tinkered with a chunk of metal from his motorbike on the kitchen table. Just before I pow-slapped him for making such a mess.
I decided to spill the emotional beans.
“I guess, Matthew, I’m just worried about feeling embarrassed. On Saturday. And maybe… even… perhaps that I’ll be acting with an element of hypocrisy. Because I guess, there’s still quite a few aspects – about everything really - that I genuinely feel confused about.”
Matthew jerked his shoulders again. I noted a hint of sympathy, however.
“So, what do you think that I should do? If it all goes wrong on Saturday?”
He looked at me, narrowing his eyes.
“Haahm. Let’s fink.” I waited. And waited. I took the exfoliation glove off him and removed a Lego man from the pinky finger.
His brow was furrowed when he finally replied.
“Ahm finkin' you could maybe poo in your pants.”
Some helpful advice there. Especially given that I was learning rather a lot about diversionary tactics from Michael these days.
CHAPTER 25
Before I knew it, it was far too early on a Saturday morning and there I was - swapping my kids for several trays of cakes and biscuits - at a certain Stalybridge terraced home.
I was about to pull away from the kerb, but then I stopped and wound down the window, calling out;
“Look. If it’s too much fuss, don’t worry about driving over to Medlock for the whole thing. It won’t be anything very impressive. Just me. And a few stalls. And a bouncy castle.”
Mum called back, “Oh no, love. We’ll see you in a few hours. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I flicked the radio on, trying to soothe the butterflies that were now looping-the-loop their way around my stomach with a bit of Radio Four. But someone had re-programmed all of the channels and the only radio presenter that I could summon up seemed to be that of Steve Wright on Radio Two. This had all the hallmarks of a Matthew-prank. The previous day, whilst I nipped into the corner shop for a loaf of bread and a tin of sardines, I had left him on his own in the car for only two minutes and on my return, I had noticed that ominous grin playing around the corners of his mouth.
Cheers for that, Matthew.
Listening to the inane banter of the UK’s most one-dimensional resident was not something that I felt up for, at the best of times. And today my nerves were a-jangling enough as it was. I stabbed the ‘off’ switch just before Ol’ Wrighty could furnish the British population with his views about whether the world was indeed a happier place when we had just four TV channels to choose from, as opposed to four thousand.
But this was ridiculous. Not Steve Wright, I mean – although he is patently a bit of a dingbat - no, I refer to me. To my attitude; to all of this. This kind of stuff was my bread and butter; my meat and pudding. I was used to giving speeches at conferences; at running workshops for terribly ‘important’ people - whether it be up north or for the Whitehall civil servant sorts in London. And this? Come on, Rachael. Get a bloody great big grip. In comparison to ladling out the spiel in Portcullis House, or on the terraces at the House of Commons, this was just some piddling little community event. A poxy little affair designed to help a few women who were probably incapable of ‘getting’ the bigger picture. And who wouldn’t be grateful anyway, for all the efforts that I had gone to, to set up the whole enterprise for them.
Well, that had been the gospel according to Shaun Elliot, a few weeks back. When we had had a bit of an argument about my reasoning behind why I wouldn’t change jobs and go and work for him instead.
But Shaun was talking bollocks. And I knew myself well enough these days, to realise that the jitters had rather a lot more to do with the fact that I had invested so much time and emotional energy in the initiative. And further; that the entire idea had been born from Adam’s words. From the beloved bane of my life - who had prodded me to set up something; “based on your own chocolate and coffee addictions. But, you know - something that - maybe also helps your margarine-alised women out. Or whatever unflattering term you’re using for your poor down n’ out floozies these days.”
So, in a way, today was all about remembering Adam. For me, at any rate.
But, still. If I was going to be entirely honest with myself, that unsettled feeling – the writhing nerves – was being stoked to an uncomfortable degree by the fact that Shaun and Michael would also be present in the same room together. Call me a prude if you will, but I think that it’s a strange enough feeling for anyone; having to share a few square yards of space with two men that you have recently experienced carnal relations with, without all eyes of the press, public, your work colleagues and your family - also being on you.
So, no. I wasn’t looking forward to the vibe. I was hoping, however, that both men would be able to find it in themselves to rise above the media-manipulating squabbles of the last few days. But Michael wasn’t a straightforward bet either; having previously revealed an unpredictable streak when he had tagged along with me and Miss Simpson to the Brindleford estate and helped Vinnie out by riding his motorbike home for him. A touch of the old, reckless ex-army fella thing, perhaps.
And Shaun? Well, Shaun was Shaun. You could never tell.
And then there were my parents. Would Lydia point out – in public - to Ma and Pa, that it was this minister whose doorstep I had been prancing about on in my ‘new knicker-things’?
No wonder I was feeling like Basket Case of the Year.
Just before leaving the house that morning, I had fired off a text to Michael. A tiny part of me hoped that he might have had to cancel his appearance. Goat running amok in the lobby of the Commons sort of disaster. Or Russian nuclear warheads discovered underneath the Trafford Centre. Or something.
ME: U still up for 2day?
MICHAEL: Just onto M6. Wdn’t miss it 4 the world.
What was it with everyone not wanting to miss our launch for the bloody, sodding world?
As soon as I arrived, Bev was in my face. She was insisting that she borrow my keys to the Centre.
“'Cause thievin’ scrotes always try it on at events like this. Don’t be forgettin’ that we’ve got laptops and shite in here,” she told me. Over the last few years I had discovered that it was wise to pay heed to Bev, whenever she adopted that oh-so unusual serious tone in her voice. “It's called 'distraction burglary', Rachael. Only last week, our Tony and Leonie – who live just round the corner from here - had their entire kitchen taken out whilst they were watchin’ ‘Homes Under The Hammer.’ I mean it. All of the units – gone - in half an hour! So, I’m going to do a once-round and check that every single door what we don’t use today is locked up properly.”
I handed over the keys and did my best not to smile at the irony of what had happened to Tony and Leonie. In five minutes, she was back again, rollocking me for several unlocked internal doors.
“You’re slackin’, Rach. You should be givin’ Jules - that so-called cleaner of ours - a bloody rocket up the arse for not doin’ this every night of the week.”
I nodded, but disregarded her advice. Because Jules scared the crap out of me.
“Fine – but make sure you keep the fire exit routes unlocked, won't you? The fire officers bored me shitless about all of that sort of thing, the other day.”
Dee trundled over to us, reeking of a potent concoction. It seemed that she had not-so-expertly disguised the cigarette smoke with a recent blast of Beyonce’s Midnight Heat. She heard me asking Bev to liaise with the police, who had just arrived, to give the place a once-over because of Michael's presence.
“Hang on. Police? You’re kiddin’! A load of pigs crawlin’ about all over the place? I’ve only just had ‘em round again – last bleedin’ night! They reckon our Harrison were involved in the Aldi turnover…”
“Harrison now!” screeched Bev. “He’s only thirteen! Are you goin’ for a family record or summat? That’ll be four of ‘em banged up in the last two years if you…”
“Bev,” I interrupted. “Just make sure you tell either the local police or the Special Protection officers who are part of Michael Chiswick’s team – that apart from the two main fire exits in the hall, all of the internal doors have been locked.”
Bev raised a hand to me;
“Awright, Miss Keks,” and wandered off to find a bizzy. She called back over her shoulder; “Dee – best make sure that face painter's got non-allergic face paints. Last time she was here - your Drew got a bad reaction, didn't he? His face totally blew up. His nose ended up lookin’ like a septic bell-end.”
Dee narrowed her eyes but followed the advice and went off to steam-roller Flossie and her Face Paints. A nudge against my shoulder announced the presence of Gill, dressed in her weekend best. Combats, DMs from the 1980's and various shades of khaki.
“Rachael, I've just reminded Sandra and Cerys on reception that they're not to let any press or media into the building until after the event formally ends. About one o'clock-ish, yeah?”
“Nice one. Last thing we need is a bunch of tosspot journalists trucking up and playing to the crowds because of the spat between the council and the government.”
“Yup. And I've gone over the changes with the two of them. Men welcome. New era, eh?”
Keeping our building safe and secure was paramount. We were going to continue to keep half of Sisters’ Space 'safe' for women, with no access permitted for men. But the co-operative had voted that male customers would be welcome in the cafe and shop. Yet this decision had come with various logistical problems. The buzz-in intercom and video camera system at the entrance to the building were all well and good, but this wasn’t going to be the best approach to running the new business and allowing the public in on a daily basis. What we really needed was a separate entrance and shop frontage, but this would require quite a bit more money than the social enterprise loan would give us. So, for the time being – and certainly for today - passing through the reception area to access the shop and café was the only way into the building for our new customers.
Our volunteer reception staff were not keen on the changes. They didn’t want to take responsibility for ‘buzzing in’ customers. Sandra had tactfully put it like this;
“We can hardly say to every bloke who comes to the front door for the next few months; ‘So do you want to buy some chocolate truffles? Or have a large latte? Or are you just here to smash your wife’s face in?”
And then the other receptionist, Cerys - who had turned out to be far less PC than she had come across at her interview - told me;
“And I’m not being funny, but if we’re having to scrutinise the blokes who want to come in here to use the café - to check that they’re not dodgy - then it’s going to be tricky differentiating. Some of the women here look more male and scarier than your average bloke! I mean, I know that Gill is your deputy and everything… but her current girlfriend or whatever you should call him-her looks like she’s just walked out of HMP Forest Bank!”
To get round this dilemma, Martyn Pointer had generously arranged for New Banks to install some panic alarm buttons at the reception and in discreet locations throughout the building. We had also adopted a new policy to ensure that no woman should be left alone, when working in the café or in the adjacent shop during opening hours. And of course, we had the Violent Partner Parade photographs on hand at reception.
“But that still won’t help us if they’re wearing hoodies,” Sandra had moaned.
“Well, we’ll tell them to take off their hoodies,” Cerys added firmly. “That’ll send them off with their tails between their legs. People who wear hoodies are usually scumbags with no fashion sense. And they're always up to no good, those sorts.”
“Cheers for that,” I had said. (I had been wearing my own favourite turquoise hoodie, at the time.)
I moved down the main hall where most of the stalls and activities were set out and headed towards ‘Marmaduke Magician’. We chatted about the best approach for his conjuring tricks that morning. Marmaduke turned out to think himself a bit of a wit - ‘Don’t worry, Missy. I’ve done my research about this place. No sudden noises. No pretending to strangle people with silk scarves. And I bet you wouldn’t want me to bring out the other side of my business today. I do a Punch and Judy show as well!’
Ha Bloody Ha.
I completed my quick tour of the ten stalls. The notorious face-painter, the fake tattoos, the tombola, a second-hand stall, the Citizens Advice Bureau and an adult education stall. The usual suspects. I suppose we could have been a bit more creative, but I didn’t want to detract attention from the Chocolate Factory and the café itself - the flagship baby of Sisters’ Space where the 'posh chocolate' in its gleaming gift packs was ready and waiting along with the prerequisite bacon and sausage butties. And then of course, there was the ugly wanabee-Disney pink and yellow bouncy castle – now fully inflated – which was lurking in the corner of the hall. Some of the women who had turned up early to help, had already deposited their children on it. Cue a handful of somersaulting children, near-fatal crashes and a ‘Shit – Mum, quick! Our Melinda’s having a nosebleed all over her socks!'
Shaun arrived just as Gill and I were running through a final check in the cafe. He was looking sharp. New suit, no doubt. New haircut; a number one. There were few men that could carry off such a short style and look neither like a Neo-Nazi or a Mr Potato Head. But Shaun could manage it. The git.
The Mayor of Medlock sent his apologies. Apparently, he had experienced an angina attack. Although if the rumour mill was anything to go by, we all knew that it was his usual Saturday morning hangover. Instead, Shaun was accompanied by Kath Casey. She shook my hand à la wet lettuce and tried a bit of humour; ‘Hopefully we won’t have to try and extract any old ladies from cupboards today!’ but the forced crinkling of her eyes and the constant glances at her watch said it all. Probably due a round of golf by midday. I was relieved to have Gill by my side when pitched up against these two, so I forgave her for whispering rather too loudly in my ear - “Shaun Elliot’s stalking me – nicking my bloody haircut now!” But she was a good egg. She immediately resorted to her best professional behaviour, attempting to occupy Kath Casey in a bland conversation about the colourful bunting which the women had made. “It’s very gay, isn’t it?” I overheard her telling the council leader, with an impassive expression fixed to her face.
Shaun shook my hand and held it for longer than was necessary.
“Where’s Pointless?” he said, referring to Martyn Pointer.
“I just got a message from his wife,” I replied, extracting my hand from his. “He’s got the shingles. Nasty stuff.”
Shaun grinned. “And it’s
Saturday. He must be gutted. Missing his shift - door-stepping people with his Watchtower magazines. But hey, fair do’s, Stan. Credit where it's due. The place looks great. Good job.”
The hall was filling up now, kids running around after the magician and fighting to get to the front of the ever-lengthening face-painting and tattoo queues. I caught a quick glimpse of Dawn’s eldest, Mason who had arrived on a striped scooter – all sparks and flashing lights - probably even turbocharged. He whizzed towards us at an incredible speed, clipping the end of Councillor Casey’s shoe and causing her to grab her stilettoed foot. She winced, with over-exaggerated pain.
“Sorry,” I apologised on Mason’s behalf. “They get a bit excited with this kind of thing, some of the kids.” Although I doubted whether Dawn would have apologised for Mason. In fact, she probably would have told Councillor Casey that if she wore such stupid shoes at such a busy event then what the hell did she expect?
Shaun looked towards the shrieking kids on the bouncy castle and commented;
“Hmmm. Got a bit of a feel of an ADHD Childhood Convention, hasn’t it?” Then he stuck his hands into his pockets and gestured at the stalls with his head, saying;
“Fake tattoos? I mean… fake? Was that your idea, Rachael? That’s a bloody joke. Half of these kids probably have the real McCoy already. And maybe you should have been giving out free samples of Ritalin...?”
I gave him a look, but he ignored me, carrying on with;
“And I admire your vision for an Adult Education stall. But that’s pushing it a bit when you look at the demographics of this lot.” He turned to Councillor Casey. “You see? Rachael Russell’s always been into her wishful thinking.” Casey crinkled the corners of her lips and simpered;
“Oh, Shaun! You're always stirring the pot, aren't you?”
I turned away and spotted my dad. He had just entered the building and very nearly tripped up over Matthew, who had done his usual trick of ‘I’ll stop suddenly in front of a large adult - just because I can.’ Councillor Casey’s attention had been grabbed by someone who claimed to know her from ‘years back in the Soroptimist Society’ and so Shaun seized the opportunity, taking me by the elbow and gesturing towards the corridor. He wanted a word.
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 27