He goes to grab the sweetie.
‘Ah, ah, ahhh,’ I say. ‘Take this to Mummy and come back for the sweetie.’ He practically takes my hand off for the letter and runs in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Mummy letter,’ I hear his muffled babble.
‘Thank you, Georgie.’
She has it. I hand him the sweet, say thank you, and slip out into the Baltic chill of the evening.
Chapter Fourteen
I arrive home to find Nick and Mike smiling like Cheshire Cats. They’ve only gone and booked us flights to Tenerife for this weekend. This weekend! Mike pops a bottle of champagne and a beaming Becky walks into the living room with four glasses.
‘Here’s to the business buddies,’ announces Mike.
‘Cheers!’ we chorus, clinking glasses together.
We sit around the table and call out for a Chinese. No time to cook, too much to discuss. We look at my brochures and argue good humouredly about how we need to be in a commercial-ish area, but not one full of spewing Club 18-30-types. I don’t know anyone aged thirty who goes on these holidays. It should be call Club Eighteen to Twenty-two and a Half. By then you are fed up of being urinated on in the pool and treading through rivers of vomit to get to your room. Or at least, I was. We finally decide to travel around the island at the weekend, looking for possible sites and take it from there.
‘Oh, Lucy, so how did the resignation go?’ asks Becky.
‘Well, I kind of gave it to Georgie to give to his mum on the way out the door,’ I say with a grimace, feeling slightly ashamed.
‘So, you got a two and a half-year-old to hand in your notice for you,’ laughs Nick.
Well, of course it sounds really bad when you put it like that.
‘Oh, wait till you see what I was going to write,’ I giggle, trying to change the subject from my spinelessness. I delve into my bag and – with a flourish – hand over my hilarious resignation.
All three huddle around and read. Becky smiles as she mouths the words. Well, it is pretty funny. The boys focus hard, faces serious. Becky finishes first,
‘Very nice,’ she smiles.
‘Not funny, though,’ frowns Nick.
‘What? Have you all had a sense of humour bypass? Simon’s shitty pants? Sylvia’s head up her arse? Henry’s shares in Kleenex?’ I finish lamely. Well, I thought it was funny. They all look at me confused.
‘Look,’ I say, snatching back the letter. ‘Maybe it’s funnier read aloud.’ I skim through.
Dear Sylvia and Simon,
It is with great reluctance that I am giving you my one-month’s notice... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
I stare at their three worried faces in horror. Becky bites her bottom lip and stares back at me. Mike’s eyes are wide and shining. Nick shakes his head and gives me a lopsided smile.
‘You gave them the wrong letter. Didn’t you?’
I pace the room anxiously as the other three practically wet themselves laughing and demand to know what was in the other letter. I can’t even bring myself to remember, I am so mortified.
‘Oh, come on, Lucy!’ Nick holds his stomach. ‘You are so fired anyway. Embrace the moment.’
I tentatively think back, cringing, and sink my Champagne quickly. I recite as much as I can remember. Pretty much all of it word for word, unfortunately. I have never seen anyone laugh as much as those three that moment. My mobile rings.
Oh fuck fuck fuck!
Becky snatches it up.
‘Sylvia, home,’ she exhales.
‘Put it down,’ I order. ‘Put it down!’ Silence. We all wait, shoulders hunched and grimacing, for the voicemail beep.
Beep-Beeeeep. It sounds pissed off.
I snatch it up and put it on speaker phone.
‘You have One. New. Message. Message. One.’
‘Lucy? Sylvia. Well what can I say? I received your resignation and this is just to let you know we will not be requiring you to work your notice. Oh, and since you owe me for a Dior top, which I found in next door’s bin, I will be keeping your holiday pay. Goodbye.’ Click.
We look around each other. Purple-faced. Nick is the first to laugh. My sides ache. Guess I should have listened to my mouth after all, and just told her to get lost. Kind of did, I guess.
The upside is that Nick and I can head to Edinburgh the very next day without me taking any sick time. Nick has two days off. He works as a carer with disabled adults and often works weekends. We arrive in Edinburgh and I breathe in the Scottish air.
‘Put hairs on your chest this will,’ I announce.
‘Bloody Hell! It’s cold,’ shivers Nick.
It’s possibly only one degree colder in Scotland than in England, but so may English people expect it to be like the Antarctic that they find it colder than it actually is. We take the bus up to the Care Home where I have to meet Maisie’s solicitor. As we sit in the interview room, Ellie and I reminisce about Maisie. She elbows me, and leans in to whisper:
‘Remember that student Social Care Officer we had?’
‘Don’t,’ I hiss. ‘Do not make me laugh. This is supposed to be solemn. He will think I’m disrespecting the dead.’ I nod in the direction of the solicitor, pulling up outside in his Mercedes.
Ellie continues to Nick, as if I’m not there, in hushed tones.
‘Lucy was supervising the student, assisting Maisie with her bath.’ She glances at me for confirmation.
“Och, Maisie,” says the student, “you have letters on your sponges, now let’s see. Is B for body?”
“No,” says Maisie. “B is for boobs.”
So, then the student picks up one with A, on it.
“Well, what can A be for?” she asks.
“What do they teach you young ’uns in college these days?’ Maisie sighed, “A is for me arse, dearie.”’
Nick and Ellie chortle. I can’t help but join in. I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes, just in time for the Centre Manager to open the door and announce,
‘Mr. White, the solicitor, is here,’ before shaking her head in confusion and walking out.
So all is done and dusted. My cheque from Maisie is banked, but I have yet to open a letter they found addressed to me. I want to do that without Nick around. It’s personal. I know he would just irritate me by looking over my shoulder to read along. We head up to the crematorium to place flowers on Maisie’s little plot, where her ashes are buried. I unscrew a bottle of sherry and tip half on.
‘A toast! Maisie – to you! Cheers, hen! For all the good times, the memories and, of course, the money. You really shouldn’t have, but I appreciate it. I promise to spend it on booze, shoes and gorgeous young men. I won’t waste a penny of it.’
I swig from the sherry and pass the bottle to Nick for a swig. He makes a disgusted face and hands it back to me. I tip the rest out onto Maisie’s plot.
‘Come see me sometime on the big psychic telephone,’ I say. ‘Love and miss you lots!’ Nick and I walk through the drizzle and head to Prince’s Street for an impromptu, and very belated, wake.
Nick heads to the bar. There are many people waiting to be served.
‘Luce, I’m just going to pop to the cash point, back in a mo,’ he tells me. Perfect, I think, reaching into my bag for Maisie’s letter. I have been itching to read it for hours now. I look at her familiar scrawl on the envelope and feel a pang of loss. Much as I adored working with older people, it takes a certain kind of person to have the ability to detach themselves when the inevitable for us all happens. Looking back, I wonder at why I ever thought I could do this job. As Ellie put it when I handed in my notice:
‘It’s not for the chicken-hearted among us.’
I ended up doing my bereavement counselling course, anyway. Very kind of them, I thought. Ellie informed me that even though I was leaving, they still felt it would be of benefit to me. It was and it wasn’t. Much of it was about distancing yourself in the first place. That didn’t make sense to me. Many of these people h
ave no family who visit. Where’s the harm in a little hug here and there? Or sitting and having a chat, which I often did while I ate my lunch, in either Harry, Bessie or Maisie’s rooms? Maisie actually told me once that she couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged her before I arrived. Probably her husband, who had died twenty years ago. Distancing myself never was an option. The part of the course that did help me a bit was the philosophical approach they encouraged you to have. How the quality of care they received had enhanced their wellbeing, how they had been fortunate to have long, healthy and mostly happy lives… blah de blah. I open Maisie’s letter as carefully as I can, and begin to read.
My Darling Lucy,
If you are reading this it means I’ve popped my clogs! Excellent news for your Bank Manager, not so great for me. Obviously I have got fed up sitting in my own pish and dribble and, let’s face it, the hubby has got off lightly with twenty odd years peace and quiet from me, it’s about time I made up for it. Anyway, I thought I’d drop you a wee note to say why I’ve left you all my worldlies. This includes any incontinence pads left over, you’ll need them one day, ducky, don’t think you won’t. Oh, and the crocheted loo roll cover I know you so admire, hahaha. Back to the point. I wanted to leave you a little something because you may not have realised it, but you really made the last couple of years of my life very happy. When you left, I thought that’d be the end of it, but I really enjoyed your letters about your life in London. They really made me laugh. I wish I’d done it myself. I guess what I’m saying, Lucy, is that I thought of you as the daughter I never had. You did so much for all us wrinklies, but expected nothing in return. Don’t get me wrong, the staff in the home were all lovely, but with you, we could tell you weren’t being PAID to care. You really did. So raise a toast for me and know I’ll be around, haunting you. What fun that’ll be! I’ll come and dance at your wedding with you. IF you ever bloody well get married!
Love and hugs (thanks for all of yours),
Maisie Munroe
xxx
I stare into space as Nick walks back in, covered in a layer of drizzle. He gives me a big hug and I smile. I hand him the letter to read and head over to the bar. It’s definitely Maisie’s round.
Chapter Fifteen
Nick and I catch the train up to Arbroath. He hasn’t met any of the family yet, and I want to spend as much time as I can with them since we will soon be in Tenerife. We’ll be too busy, I’m assuming, to have a holiday back home. Nick nervously looks out of the window at the sea rushing past us.
‘Gorgeous scenery,’ he mumbles.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ I say, picking up on his tension. ‘They will love you. More importantly, you’re probably the most normal boyfriend I have ever had. So far.’ I give him a suspicious once over.
I call Mary from Dundee and she says she will be at the station. Nick fidgets in his seat. ‘She’s the least of your worries,’ I mutter under my breath.
Mum has organised a big family meal out. We’ve been here for an hour and, so far, Nick has met Mum, Mary and, of course, Poopsy. So far, so painless – even if Poops did decide to use Nick’s leg as a scratching post. Mum has force-fed him to within an inch of his life. Even she has now decided enough is enough, and he won’t manage his tea. I haven’t actually mentioned the money yet, but I’m aiming to give my Mum and sister a couple of thousand pounds each. After what Gran, via Brenda the medium, has said, Mary will need every penny. I choose my moment carefully and then casually mention to Mum about Maisie’s inheritance. She gives a loud whoop and says how kind Maisie was. She goes quiet when I mention we are heading off to Tenerife, but I reason with her that it takes less time to fly there than it takes to travel to London by train. She seems a bit happier with this. That and the fact that it means Nick and I must be reasonably serious about each other; there’s a possibility of the daughter not being a maiden. She has, however, accepted that she will only have grand-kittens and not grandchildren from me.
I mention how I would like her and Mary to have £2000 each. She smiles and gives me a big hug. I know she has been struggling, but is so generous she would hand over her last pound to any one of us.
‘Mary’s is on one condition though, Mum,’ and I explain what the medium had said about her break-up. ‘I want it to go to Mary and the kids, not on a holiday or a new sound system for him. So I’m not telling her about the money yet. Can you just keep it safe for her, please?’
Mum agrees, and puts on the kettle to celebrate.
An hour and a half later and we have all congregated in our favourite restaurant near the harbour. It does all traditional Scottish dishes and I’m attempting to force Nick to try some haggis. He eventually gives in, turns a touch green and then announces he loves it.
‘It’s the idea of knowing what it is, I think,’ says Nick. ‘The taste is actually really nice, though. What is offal anyway? I’ve always been scared to ask, but I know it can’t be good.’
‘Sheep’s arsehole,’ Craig informs him. Nick coughs and spits his third forkful into a napkin, much to the hilarity of the rest of us. I’m pleased to see Nick is managing to hold his own with some of the more sarcastic family members. He has been completely accepted, to that point that Betty informs me that if we ever break up, they’re keeping him and letting me go. Charming.
We head back to Mum’s house and, of course, the family albums are pulled out. No new boyfriend escapes the initiation of:
1) Seeing how fat I was as a baby.
‘We called her football face,’ Betty helpfully provides.
2) The naked in the bath photo, aged five, with my fingers covering my teeny nipples.
3) The ‘toilet surprise’ picture from last year, when my Mum’s bathroom lock was busted. At some point we have pictures of all of us staring like rabbits in headlights as the entire family attempted to cram into the doorway and shout, ‘surprise!’
The subject turns to the car crash that is my love life – and it is discussed in great detail yet again. Something I hadn’t intended to tell Nick about so early on, but it’s pointed out by Mum that he’d best know what he’s up against before we leave for Spain. My family love nothing better than fresh blood to spill all to about one of us. I do it myself. As a young family member, it’s a rite of passage to be allowed to join in the humiliating stories about each one of us. Mum ponders for a moment. I try to read what she could possibly come up with next. I watch carefully as it clicks into place in her mind. She remembers the other album in the divan, and heads off to find it. I thought I’d got away with it. It is, unfortunately, the worst. The teenage years. Yes, the dodgy perm photo, of course, accompanied by fetching electric blue eyeliner and mascara, pale lilac lipstick and shoulder pads. I look like a quarterback in drag.
‘I think I may have to dump you,’ laughs Nick as he takes a second look, unable to quite believe what he’s seen first time around.
‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ says my cousin, Emma. Nick laughs uproariously and then notices no one else is joining in.
‘Joe never dumped me because of the pictures,’ I smirk, ‘the whole family moved to Portugal.’
‘Yes, to a safe house,’ whispers Mary, ‘such was their fear you would breed with their son, they went into witness protection!’
The evening continues in a similar fashion, with as many disastrous stories about me as they can remember. Luckily, it doesn’t seem to have put Nick off. In fact, he gives me a squeeze in the kitchen when we make up yet more sandwiches and tells me he loves me even more now. I throw him a look that says, are you mad? I seem more real now, apparently.
The time comes, with my reputation now in shreds, to head back to London. You’d think we were leaving forever, the carry on there is. Many promises to visit; even some of the younger ones offering their services to do a summer’s work experience. I assume that means get drunk every night and cop off with tourists without the beady eye of a parent nearby. Nick enthuses practically all the way, recounting stori
es and anecdotes from the past few days. I have yet to find a boyfriend who doesn’t love them. In fact, some ‘exes’ have even asked if I’d mind if they kept in touch with them all when we’ve broken up. We arrive back to mine at 10.30 that night, and decide to have an early one before we fly off to Tenerife in the morning. I make a couple of hot chocolates and fall asleep practically the second my head hits the pillow.
We arrive in Tenerife the next morning, after a turbulent white-knuckle ride of a flight that sees me spending twenty minutes breathing into a paper bag to calm a panic attack. Not sure what’s worse, the indignity of being such a wimp on flights or that people think I’m a glue sniffer. The others joke that they will have to Mr. T. me in future. I retort that they’re all crazy fools. After we land, I feel unbelievable relief overwhelm me. I glance back at our plane as I race down the steps. I’m checking for L- plates. I swear that a seventeen year-old boy-racer hijacked that flight. We make our way to the hotel, taking a more detailed interest in our surroundings than most of the tourists.
‘What is “To Let” in Spanish?’ I ask.
Becky shrugs: ‘To Letto?’
Now that we have arrived and it’s all so real, I suddenly feel we are out of our depth.
Nick and Mike have decided between them that they will take control of the negotiations. Nick speaks pretty good Spanish and Mike is a complete control freak – and we would never do it to his standards anyway. To be honest, Becky and I can’t be arsed with the details and would probably completely muck it all up anyhow, ending up in a complete shack surrounded by cattle. I’d much prefer to be in charge of how my kitchen will run, the menu and the activities for the evening. If they want to take charge of the boring stuff then great. Suits me.
Crappily Ever After Page 14