Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Only if its quick,’ I said. ‘I’ve got better things to do than listen to you slagging off our event or brown-nosing the Leader of the Council.”

  CHAPTER 26

  We headed down the corridor, me with my arms folded. All huffy, like.

  “Just wanted to tell you about your Miss Simpson,” he said.

  “Right. So why couldn’t you tell me in the hall?”

  “Because. Well, Kath Casey...” Shaun shrugged, looking slightly disconcerted. But then continued;

  “I visited her the other day. Your Miss Simpson.”

  “Look, will you stop referring to her as ‘ my Miss Simpson’. She’s not some personal geriatric project of mine that I’ve suddenly decided to take on.”

  “Well, whatever. I visited her at the hostel. On Brindleford. I’ve managed to get her a really good social services package; far better than the kind of thing that New Banks were aiming for. Gotten her Meals on Wheels or Neighbourhood Nutrition or whatever we're supposed to be calling it these days. Plus, a load more extra benefits that… Well. She'd never have had access to without me intervening for her.”

  “Why? Why wouldn't she have got them?”

  “Turns out that she's got a bob or two tucked away in various savings accounts. Even though she lives like Stig of the Dump. And I've always believed even if you do have a few grand above the cut-off point for benefits. Well. It's nobody's business. You should be entitled to everything that scroungers who've never saved a penny in their life manage to get out of the system.”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah. So, I made a few phone-calls. Pulled a few strings. Got her the kind of support package that even Pointless couldn't get.”

  “Right.”

  “The works. Your Aston Martin DBS in personal care, too.”

  Only Shaun could use some poncey car as a metaphor for having your arse wiped by an overworked and underpaid day care nurse. But I didn’t comment on this. He went on to tell me that he'd managed to persuade her to 'give it a go' and that it was better than moving her into a home which the Vim-sprinkled social worker had been angling for.

  “Right.” I gave my watch a purposeful glance. “So why are you telling me this?”

  Shaun looked taken aback.

  “Because – well. I mean, sure, she’s got a bit of dementia and that but… she doesn’t want to go in a home.”

  “No. She doesn’t.”

  “And… I know that you’re being sarky about her not being some ‘project’ of yours, but I… I thought you cared about her. You know – you helped her out on your day off and all of that.”

  “I do. Of course I care about what happens to her. I care about what happens to anyone.”

  “So…?”

  “So what?” I glanced behind him. The hall was bristling with people by now. I pulled a face and carried on;

  “I mean, do you want me to give you a medal ‘cause you actually did something? Something that should be part and parcel of your job description anyway?”

  “Jesus, Stan - visiting batty old ladies and getting paperwork filled in for them isn’t exactly part and parcel of my job these days!”

  “Yeah. Because you’ve got way more important things to do. Like… sorting out backhanders with major supermarket chains so that they can build crappy shops over what used to be our libraries. That’s way more up your street, isn’t it? In your so-called Communities and Leisure department…”

  He bristled. “Christ. I thought you might be pleased. That you might give a shit.”

  I was tempted to provoke him further but something stopped me. His words had definitely had an effect on me, even though I was trying to disguise it. Yes, Shaun Elliot had actually taken the time out to do something personal. For someone else. For a human being who also happened to be old, confused and who also had an unattractive and pongy personal incontinence problem.

  So, I backed down.

  “No. No. I do – give a shit. Sorry. It’s just that I’m… a bit stressed. Yeah – that’s good news. That’s great.” In response, he warded me off with the sneer of a smile.

  “Yeah, well. This isn’t me trying to impress Rachael Russell, Saint of All Things Womanly and Destitute, you know. I just thought that I had to stick up for her. The social worker got Kath Casey on her side and they were banking on shoving her into residential. Kath's exact words were 'Well, Shaun, I’ve never held any truck with listening to the opinions of elderly people who have mental health issues. When you get to that sort of stage in life, you’ve effectively resigned your right to express thoughts on what you think is best for you.”

  “She said that? Bloody hellfire. It's a shame Miss Simpson is so frail these days. A few years ago, I bet she would have eaten the likes of Kath Casey for breakfast.”

  “Yeah,” he gave a tiny smile. “And actually,” he held my gaze, “I think that Miss Simpson’s got a bit of a soft spot for me.” I grinned;

  “That'll be the dementia, Shaun.”

  “Anyway,” he said. “I’m glad that we’re still on okay terms, Stan. I know that you would never have done that stuff… mentioning things. To Jess. That’s not your style.”

  His eyes flicked to the left – down the corridor, checking that no-one was looking in our direction and then his hand moved up, towards me. Reaching to touch my hair. All of my previous bravado seemed to dissipate. It was a staccato moment. I wavered; unsure how to react.

  And then a familiar voice came floating down the corridor.

  “Hey hey hey! Found you at last!”

  I was startled to see a very familiar form. But one that was completely out of place at Sisters’ Space. It was our Vicky; heading towards us at an impressive pace on her crutches. I took a step away from Shaun and in just a few seconds more, she had reached us. She pecked me on the cheek. I asked her why she wasn't in London.

  “Changed my mind at the eleventh hour. Managed to get a lift up north with some bloke. In this incredible Mercedes Benz. I called Mum and Dad when we were just past Birmingham and sprang it on them. So, it looks like I’m going to be staying in Stalybridge for the week. Dad was all ‘Patricia! The Queen of Bloody Sheba is on the phone and has just announced her arrival!’”

  Her eyes danced. But then turned to chips of ice as she looked over at Shaun, acknowledging his presence at last.

  “Hello, Shaun.”

  “Vicky. Long-time no see. Been up to your usual tricks? Skiing with millionaires?”

  Vicky had only met Shaun the once, many moons ago when I had been under the mistaken impression that he and I would one day have a normal, out-in-the-open relationship. I had introduced him to her - at some tea rooms or another in Bramhall. They hadn't taken to each other. Vicky sniffed and checked her nails. As lickety-split as ever.

  “Not quite so glamorous, I’m afraid,” she commented. “Falling down the stairs whilst minding Lydia. I’m not used to kiddy-based chaos. And you're not either, are you?” She tipped her chin at him, her handsome face hardening; “But I believe that your family status quo has changed recently. I heard you got married. How is your wife ?”

  A tremor of embarrassment skittered across my brow, but Shaun's reply was postponed indefinitely, because it turned out that Lydia had spotted Vicky’s departure from the main hall. She came hurtling up the corridor after her auntie and threw herself against my legs, gabbling breathlessly;

  “Mummy! Matthew is being really naughty! He stole a hot dog off a little girl and then wiped ketchup all over his coat. So Grandad told him off and Matthew tried to bite him! Seriously!”

  She smirked with glee. Enjoying grassing her sibling up. And then she noticed who we were standing with.

  “Oh. Hiya. I remember you. You’re Shaun. What're you doing here?”

  Shaun smiled and reached to pat her on the head. Lydia hadn’t seen him since those few weeks after Adam’s death. But she could clearly remember him. Popping around. Every now and then.

  “Hi, Lydia. Jesus Christ, but you've g
rown! What a big girl you are now!”

  Lydia pursed her lips. She disliked her hair being touched. And being patronised.

  “Yes, well. You shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain. And yes - I might have grown up a little bit. Not that I want to. ‘Cause adults are well-boring. But I bet that you haven’t. Are you still an Emoshunnal Tree Tard?”

  There was a stunned silence. Lydia took the opportunity to flounce off, back down the corridor.

  “I have no idea where she got that from,” I apologised to Shaun. He was still looking rather taken aback. I continued with;

  “I mean it's quite an… adult expression, isn't it? She's probably been watching Hollyoaks without my permission or — ”

  Vicky started sniggering and muttered;

  “And on that note, I’m off for a bacon butty. Too many pigs in one building. Some of them need to be made useful. And I'm not referring to the police force, by the way.”

  She made her way back to the hall, hopping after Lydia. I followed her, with Shaun behind me. He seemed to be chunnering something along the lines of;

  “Family of shrews.”

  Back in the hall, Jade stalked her way over to me. She had trowelled on even more black and purple make-up than usual for the big day. She grabbed my arm and hissed;

  “Oi – Rachael. Michael thingymajig has just arrived and he’s askin’ for you. I know that Shirley reckons he’s handsome and ever-such-a-gent, but I still reckon that he’s gay. You should see the twatty tank-top thing what he's wearing.”

  Michael was indeed sporting a dark green tank top. But I thought that it looked rather fetching. A nice contrast to Shaun's sharp-as-a-dart, bespoke Savile Row number. He was wearing it over a white shirt, with casual trousers. I wondered if he and Shaun had deliberately co-ordinated their outfits the day before. Nah. Probably not.

  Trevor was standing directly behind Michael. I glanced around, attempting to look for the additional bodyguard that Michael said he had been forced to ‘put up with’ for today. It turned out that because this was an official ministerial appearance, the risk had been assessed as being greater than usual. Perhaps Minder Number Two was hanging out with the special police officers who Michael had told me would be doing some low-key scouting for bombs that morning. Graham the Griper from the constituency office was also tailing the minister. He and I had previously met back in August, when Michael had first visited the Women’s Centre. In his late fifties, his hair a tangle of steely-grey curls, Graham was heavily overweight and today he was sweating profusely. At least with all the noise in the background, I couldn’t hear his usual moaning minnie performance. But to give him his dues, he worked hard at his job – which wasn't paid, after all. He nudged Michael that I had arrived. The minister's eyes met mine. He smiled widely, dimples a-dancing.

  “Minister. Good to see you again,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Thanks so much for staying in touch with us.”

  There was an impish glint in his eye;

  “Rachael. Great to see you in the flesh again.” And then he surprised me by keeping hold of my hand and planting a quick kiss on my cheek; murmuring in my ear; “Less of the clothes and more of the flesh next time…”

  I tried not to smirk as I nodded over to our little makeshift stage and outlined the order of the day; explaining that there would be time for press interviews, once the event had ended.

  “Perfectly sensible. Sounds good to me,” said Michael.

  A sudden 'Woah!' came from the side of the hall. I looked over to see that Matthew had fallen head first into the Lucky Dip barrel. Dad was too busy trying to win a bottle of whisky on the tombola to notice. Lydia and Grandma were trying to extract the kid. Good. At least it kept Liddy from noticing the arrival of Michael and Trevor.

  Shaun and Councillor Casey emerged from the crowd, making their way towards us. Given the expression on her face, I half expected Casey to proffer a ‘You May Kiss My Ring’ gesture, rather than a handshake.

  “Minister, we’re most impressed that you could find time to come along to a such a small local event like this. Although I do have to say that it’s a shame that your department hasn’t made an effort so far to respond to the letter that the council sent to you. Several days ago now; in relation to our revenue funding shortfall.”

  I glanced at Michael. His brows were knitted - annoyed. Shaun towered over the Councillor and cocked his head to one side. A frosty atmosphere suspended itself above the three individuals. Casey, as political leader of the council commenced with most of the talking, but it was all snipes and jibes at the government. Still, I tried to remind myself that Michael knew that. He got the deal; it was just another day at work for him. When Councillor Casey finally decided to pause for breath, I suggested to the three of them that it was time for us to climb onto the makeshift stage. We stepped up to the platform together, tailed by Trevor.

  “I'm afraid we don't have a microphone,” I told them. “I tried to borrow one from your Partnerships Directorate. Who referred me to the Community Outreach Department. They took two weeks to get back to me and then put me onto the Council’s Procurement and Entertainments Team. Who didn't get back to me until yesterday. And apparently, the only mic available was broken.”

  “Central government cutbacks again,” said Shaun through wolfish teeth.

  Michael pretended not to hear and rubbed his hands together.

  “Not to worry. I’m used to shouting from the hustings. Enough of this reliance on technology. It'll be like the old days. And blimey – look at this lot now. You’ve got a great turnout today, Rachael. Good show!”

  I caught Shaun rolling his eyes and mouthing ‘good show’ to himself. Then he lobbed a glance at me, but I refused to meet his gaze.

  Michael was right – the hall was now packed with at least two hundred people. I noticed that Matthew had now been released from the barrel and was snorting and spitting sawdust at as many people as he could. There was a queue of at least another eighty folk outside, snaking around the building and waiting to be buzzed in. A couple of days before, I had met with a representative of the ‘crowd control’ section of the local police force so that we could plan the safest approach for the event. We had agreed that it would be dangerous to try and get a large group of people through the hall, down the corridor and into the much smaller space that housed the café and shop itself. So instead, we had opted for a ‘gesture of opening’ in the main hall.

  I beckoned to Shirley and Andrea who were standing below us at the foot of the steps. One slow, shuffling step after another, they climbed up and onto the stage, laden with a large tray which housed a bulky object covered with a green velvet cloth. I noticed that Shirley’s hands were trembling. This part of the day was certainly a big deal to her; the two of them had been working on some kind of a ‘creation’ for over a fortnight - their own idea and their own design apparently. I, however, had had been instructed to;

  “Stay away from it – and from us, whilst we’re working on it. It’s a surprise for you, Rachael, as much as for anyone else.”

  And it damned well was. It turned out to be the most amazing replica of the women’s centre, constructed entirely in different types and shades of chocolate. Our building – Medlock town centre’s former primary school – had been recreated in exact miniature format. Every brick, every window, every tiny detail – even the redundant netball posts outside my office. Standing outside the building was a dinky chocolate family. A man. A smaller woman with a pony tail. Next to her had been sculptured a diminutive girl and an even tinier boy. It was incredible. And I was flooded with emotion. Because I had once told Shirley that the idea of the café and the chocolatiers had been suggested to me by Adam, just a few months before he was killed. Which was probably why she had wanted their creation to be an extra special surprise for me. She had deliberately put a family of four outside of the chocolate Sisters’ Space. She could be a real soft bugger like that.

  So, I dug my nails into the palm of my hand and I tried
not to think of Adam. Not the time or the place to start getting all sentimental.

  Interestingly, the arrival of the chocolate creation took the edge off the frosty atmosphere. Funny how chocolate can always bring people together, drooling with enthusiasm at the luscious brown stuff.

  Michael told Andrea and Shirley; “Good God! You two are a pair of seriously talented women!”

  As per usual, Andrea was too embarrassed to speak but Shirley provided an admirable response.

  “Well. To be fair, it wasn’t just us. We didn’t grow the cocoa beans now, did we? The women farmers that we’re linked with in Ghana did that bit of the job. So we shouldn’t really forget their role in all of this.”

  Michael murmured his agreement and I was genuinely impressed with her take on things. But Shaun wasn't. He sighed with impatience and deliberately muttered, so that only I could hear him;

  “ So on message…”

  I gave him a look of contempt. He threw back at me a ‘What’s the big deal?’ grimace. I decided not to rise to the bait. Fair trade, concern for people on the other side of the world who he would never meet himself, clearly didn’t matter to Shaun. No doubt because they didn’t happen to pay Council Tax to Medlock. Perhaps I should just pity him for having developed this attitude. As opposed to wanting to knee him in the bollocks.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was time to get cracking. I clapped my hands together as loudly as I could, trying to attract the attention of a throng of noisy adults and shrieking children. No such luck. This really was where a microphone would have done the trick. I tried again, but the crowd continued to ignore the small, agitated looking lady hopping about on a crap stage. But just as I was about to turn to Shaun and ask him for a bit of help with the yelling, I felt a firm nudge against my shoulder. Someone pushed a bottle of whisky into my hands. It was my dad. He gave me a nod, curved his thumb and forefinger into a circle and stuck them into his mouth, producing one his finest Stalybridge Celtic ‘football whistles.’ I should have tried harder to master this as a kid but I had never even been able to do it, prompting my mother to once comment 'She whistles nearly as badly as she sings, doesn't she, Terry?'