Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Helen said, tersely, deciding she had better take a stand before she was regaled with the picnic-menu and guest-list, not to mention further details of Tracey’s mother’s ailments. ‘I’m trying to finish an important piece of work, so I’m afraid I can’t talk, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course,’ said Tracey. ‘I completely understand. Barry knows all about deadlines, don’t you, sweetheart? The doctor put him on tablets for his blood pressure and, after that, he had to quit his job. The stress was almost killing him.’

  His weight seemed more likely to kill him, Helen reflected. Built on the same generous scale as Tracey, his paunch was clearly outlined beneath his tight white singlet, along with prominent man-boobs. The pair of them couldn’t be more than thirty, yet both looked in danger of imminent heart attacks. She knew her mind should be on her work, not on these strangers’ health or longevity, yet somehow her eyes kept stealing back to them. Both were distracting presences, Tracey because of her jangling bracelets, wheezy breath and continual fidgeting (the seat clearly inadequate for her sizeable dimensions), and Barry on account of his tattoos. There was hardly a centimetre of skin on his bare arms not covered with a writhing tangle of multi-coloured snakes and hearts and flowers, and what intrigued her in particular were the repetitions of ‘TRACEY’ in elaborate Gothic-script, enclosed by several of the hearts.

  With a conscious effort, she returned to her work and began typing with deliberate emphasis, to stress the point that she was under pressure and wanted no more interruptions.

  Fortunately, the couple were soon preoccupied with their iPads and, since each had a set of headphones, there was no further noise – apart from a few tuttings, groanings and triumphant exclamations, presumably marking the progress (or otherwise) of the computer games they were playing.

  The respite was short-lived, though, and, after a scant ten minutes, Barry struggled to his feet and reached over for the picnic-basket. ‘I’m starving!’ he announced, bringing out a Thermos flask and a large green Tupperware carton. ‘Fancy a scone, Trace?’

  Did they have to talk so loudly, Helen wondered? They were sitting so close to each other, their respective folds of surplus flesh overlapped, so surely a low murmur would suffice. And now Barry was making an annoying rustling noise, as he unwrapped the scones from their greaseproof swaddlings. She couldn’t help glancing in his direction as he set out four apiece, each oozing a calorie-laden spume of butter, jam and cream. He then unpacked two plastic beakers, filled them with coffee and dipped into the basket again for a jar of Coffee-Mate and one of sugar. Indeed, he’d laid claim to so much of the table, there was little room for her stuff.

  ‘Do you prefer these to the Sainsbury’s?’ Tracey asked her husband, as she began munching the first scone.

  ‘I can’t tell any difference, love,’ Barry mumbled through a mouthful. ‘I like this raspberry jam, though.’

  ‘So you should! It’s what they call “pure fruit preserve” and twice the price of the common-and-garden strawberry I used in the Tesco scones. Here, give me a bite, so I can see how the two compare.’

  Far from just a bite, Tracey demolished it all, then they both started on their second scones, discussing the relative merits of the plebeian jam as against the posh preserve. Helen moved her folder from the table to her lap. It was already dotted with crumbs and flecked with swirls of cream, and there was also danger of a coffee-spill if the train should lurch round a bend. Yet that was the least of her problems. More serious was her fatal lack of focus, as she found herself riveted by the progress of the scone-athon – all eight devoured in less time than a normal person would take to consume just one. And scones must be aphrodisiac, since, the minute their mouths were empty, the couple began passionately smooching – kissing and canoodling with the same undisguised relish as they had brought to eating their food.

  She dragged her attention back to her laptop, suppressing a pang of envy. Barry obviously adored this mountain of a woman, with her tree-trunk thighs, flabby bosom and general air of undisciplined neglect, whereas she, a fit size twelve, had no man on the scene – and little time to attract one, given the demands of her job. She tried to imagine a partner so totally besotted, he had her name tattooed right across his body – ridiculous, as well as totally unlikely, and further proof of her deplorable grasshopper mind.

  She had barely typed two more sentences when she was interrupted by snuffling and snoring noises, and realized the pair had dozed off, Barry’s head pillowed against his wife’s capacious breasts, while Tracey dribbled serenely, dead to the world. Well, at least that should put paid to more ear-splitting conversation, so she used the lull to run through her list of marketing ideas, already fairly comprehensive by now: features in the nationals and the regionals, advertisements in the travel press, a stand at the International Travel Show at Olympia, inclusion in the top Wedding Fairs, celebrity endorsement… .

  Pitching to a five-star hotel was, in fact, less challenging than some of her previous jobs; nonetheless, she knew she wasn’t working with any of her usual application. She could no longer blame her two immediate neighbours, now both fast asleep, but the four people at the adjacent table had been prattling and giggling since the train left Paddington, and there were also endless, unnecessary announcements from a logorrhoeic guard. Normally, she could block out such distractions, but today she felt strangely restless, due doubtless to the anxiety engendered by the project. If the Garden Court Hotel were to reject her pitch in favour of a rival PR firm – as had happened only last month with the Elegance Boutique – her boss would hardly overlook two failures in succession. Forget a lover tattooed with her name; the more likely prospect was to be stuck at home, alone, poring over the Situations Vacant, or, worse, having to swallow her pride and register at the Job Centre.

  ‘Stop it!’ she reproved herself, aware that such negativity was totally counterproductive. It was essential that she radiated confidence at the meeting and impressed the Garden Court contingent by her upbeat spirit and strong sense of conviction. In an attempt to change her outlook, she ran through some of the mantras gleaned from a book on positive self-talk: ‘I am successful in all I do. I meet every challenge with assurance and zeal.’ Then, drawing on that zeal, she began thinking up ways to make more of the hotel spa. Obviously, a few well-placed features in luxury magazines would attract the right type of client, but perhaps she should go further and suggest a total rebranding – new name, new image, new beauty treatments. And maybe persuade a famous actor to eulogize the fabulous break he or she had just enjoyed at the revamped Garden Court: the amount of weight they’d lost, the attentive staff, the sense of total peace… .

  Her own peace was shattered by a couple of kids who came racing down the aisle, shouting taunts and insults at each other. Fortunately, they dashed on to the adjoining carriage, but not before they had woken Barry and Tracey.

  Barry yawned hugely, shook his head and stretched his arms, to rouse himself from his stupor. ‘I must have gone out like a light,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Tracey, her equally extravagant yawn accompanied by a long-drawn out, groaning sigh.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked her, again reaching for the picnic-basket.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a sausage roll.’

  Would she say no to anything, Helen wondered? Barry was already levering the top off a second Tupperware carton, packed tightly with sausage rolls. The enticing smell of warm pastry was a distraction in itself and she couldn’t help but watch as Barry doled out four apiece again. If four helpings were the norm for this couple, was it any wonder they were obese? That picnic-basket, she’d originally assumed, was their contribution to Tracey’s parents’ housewarming but, at this rate, it would be seriously depleted long before they reached the bungalow.

  ‘Fancy one of these?’ Barry offered, passing her the carton.

  ‘Er, no, I won’t, thanks.’ She was touched, despite herself, but disliked the idea of grease and crumbs messing up
her work and, anyway, if she started fraternizing, it might simply open the floodgates. ‘I need all my concentration for this job.’

  ‘What are you working on?’ Tracey enquired, displaying a mouthful of half-masticated pastry.

  Helen had no wish to explain her role as PR consultant, since it would only prompt further questions. ‘It’s, er, confidential,’ she fudged.

  Tracey gave a guffaw. ‘MI5, you mean!’

  ‘Something like that.’ Helen broke off as the train suddenly jerked to a halt and, after a brief glance at her watch, she realized to her dismay that they were already delayed, without this additional hitch. They should have stopped at Reading a good ten minutes ago and this certainly wasn’t Reading, or any recognizable station – more a sort of no-man’s-land. Yet there had been no announcement explaining the delay.

  The longer the train continued to stand idle, the more her worry increased. If she was late for the meeting, she would be seen as unreliable, however fool-proof her excuse. A few pernickety people were bound to ask why she hadn’t caught an earlier train, to guard against any such mishap. Indeed, she had every cause to reproach herself for just such a lack of pre-planning. Nonetheless, she tried her best to return to work by considering a new idea: a special range of luxurious Garden Court toiletries, to be sold nation-wide, as another way of marketing the spa. However, when Barry started rooting in one of the bags again, it interrupted her train of thought, especially when he banged down a giant-sized bottle of Coke. In contrast to her own agitation, he and Tracey seemed totally unfazed and, having finished the last of their sausage rolls, now began gulping the Coke from a couple of plastic tumblers in a violent shade of puce-pink. Barry touched his tumbler to Tracey’s and drank a toast to his ‘wonderful wife’; his final words swamped, as the guard’s booming voice echoed through the carriage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to announce that the train in front of us has broken down, and a large number of passengers are stranded. So we shall have to make an unscheduled stop at Slough, in order to pick them up. I’m afraid this will delay our service, so, on behalf of First Great Western, I apologize for any inconvenience caused.’

  Inconvenience! Helen all but wept. Even with a perfect presentation, this could cost her job, and the most frustrating aspect was her total lack of control. There was nothing she could do to speed up the train, and no way of knowing just how long the delay might be; she was simply at the mercy of indifferent Fate.

  Having refilled his tumbler, Barry pushed the Coke bottle in Helen’s direction. ‘Help yourself. There’s enough for a tribe!’

  ‘No, honestly, I’m fine.’ She needed not Coke, but a double vodka, just to calm herself. When in God’s name were they likely to reach Exeter, when they hadn’t yet made it to Reading?

  ‘Last year, we went to the Lake District,’ he informed her, chattily, ‘and the journey took fifteen hours!’

  ‘Yes, it was fearfully hot, you see’ – Tracey took up the story – ‘rather like today, and there was this sudden thunderstorm, and the lightning brought the power-lines down. We all had to get out at Crewe and wait an age for another train, and that was delayed, as well.’

  ‘And the year before,’ Barry added, with obvious relish, ‘we were coming back from Cambridge and a man threw himself in front of the train, which brought the whole damned network to a halt. We were all turfed out halfway and just stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no trains running in either direction.’

  ‘It was boiling hot on that day, too,’ Tracey chimed in, holding her tumbler out to Barry for a refill. ‘And people were fighting for the few available taxis – not that we could have afforded one, even if we’d been lucky. The railway staff handed out free bottles of water, but we were still sweating like pigs, weren’t we, Barry? In fact, several people fainted, and one man actually had a stroke, or so we read in the paper later.’

  ‘Yeah, poor sod – although he was quite an old geezer, they said. But the bloke who topped himself was only twenty-three. Apparently, more and more people are throwing themselves under trains, some of them only youngsters. But it’s the train-drivers I feel sorry for. Often, they never recover from the shock – you know, burdened with awful guilt the rest of their lives.’

  Increasingly discomfited by this talk of death and delays, Helen was severely tempted to try to find a seat in another carriage. But it would seem extremely rude to unplug her laptop and simply decamp, when this couple were only trying to be friendly. So, after struggling with her conscience, she eventually resorted to a lie. ‘I’ve, er, decided to get out at Slough and not hang about any longer, but I’m desperate to use the toilet first, so if you’ll please excuse me… .’

  ‘But how will you get to Exeter?’ Tracey asked, with maddening logic. ‘Surely no other trains will be running, if passengers are stranded there.’

  ‘I have, er, contingency plans.’

  ‘A helicopter, courtesy of MI5?’ Tracey suggested, with a giggle.

  ‘Sorry, must dash to the loo!’

  Blithely disregarding Helen’s bladder problems, feigned or otherwise, Tracey began explaining her own camel-like capacity to go all day without a pee, however much she drank. ‘I suppose I’m lucky that way. And Barry’s the same, aren’t you, love?’

  Helen merely gathered up her possessions, replaced her laptop in its case and struggled out of her seat.

  ‘Good luck!’ Barry gave her a thumb’s-up sign.

  ‘Yeah, great to have met you and don’t forget to… .’ Tracey was still babbling, as Helen made her way along the aisle, the siren-shrill voice echoing in her wake with further calls of farewell.

  Good riddance, Helen murmured to herself, as she continued through to the adjoining carriage, which seemed to have more than its fair share of children, all with voices louder than Tracey’s, if that could be believed. The only free seat was next to a harassed looking mother with a grizzling baby and an obstreperous toddler – hardly ideal company – so she walked further on, this time to the buffet car. Since it wasn’t particularly crowded, she decided to buy herself an espresso, then move forward up the train and hope to drink it in peace.

  However, once she had paid for her coffee and stumbled along to the next coach, she found it was standing room only. A gaggle of young lads was blocking the aisle, all armed with beer-cans and already belligerently loud, which made it impossible to squeeze her way through – at least not without harassment and catcalls. So she returned, defeated, to the buffet car, although it offered no solution, since there was no way she could work without a proper seat.

  She stood pondering her options. She could walk down the opposite way, in the hope of finding an empty seat, but that would mean passing Barry and Tracey. Anyway, was she really likely to find a peaceful carriage, free of intrusive conversations, squabbling children, or people endlessly yakking on their mobiles? All things considered, Barry and Tracey might actually prove the best bet. At least they were kindly disposed and neither drunk nor aggressive.

  As she retraced her steps to the previous carriage, she could hear the baby screaming hysterically. Its poor mother also had her toddler to contend with – a mini-Mafioso, furiously kicking his seat, whilst also bashing the table with a lethal-looking toy gun. It was almost a relief to return to her original seat, and even to Tracey’s effusive welcome.

  ‘Great to see you back, Helen! Barry was just saying what a lovely person you seemed. But why the change of plan?’

  ‘Well, I, er, made a couple of phone-calls and it seems they’d … prefer me to sit tight.’

  ‘The problem is,’ Barry declared, ‘we don’t know what the devil’s going on. I mean, the guard told us we’d be making an unscheduled stop, but the train hasn’t budged an inch since then, and there’s been no more information.’

  ‘Well, I’d better get back to work,’ Helen said, refusing to indulge in useless speculation, so, having set up her laptop once more, she prised the lid off her paper cup.

  ‘Oh, y
ou drink your coffee black,’ Tracey observed, with interest. ‘Barry and I like it really milky, with loads of froth on top. In fact, Barry’s all-time favourite is frothy hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream. Which reminds me – we brought some marshmallows, didn’t we love, as an extra little snack?’

  Needing no further encouragement, Barry rummaged in one of the bags, produced a giant-sized pack and ripped it open.

  ‘Want some for your coffee?’ Tracey asked, with another of her irrepressible giggles.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Well, why not a few just to eat? You haven’t had a thing, so far.’

  Helen forbore to point out that it was still only ten o’clock and thus not yet time for elevenses, let alone for lunch.

  ‘Are you on a diet or something?’

  ‘No. I just prefer not to eat between meals.’ Even as she said it, she was aware how priggish it sounded, if not downright judgemental, since Barry and Tracey had been eating more or less continuously. Besides, refusing all their offers of food was hardly likely to stop them talking, so she allowed herself to weaken. ‘OK, give me just a couple.’

  Tracey shook a good dozen from the bag, placed them on the carton-lid and pushed them over to Helen, who gazed, intrigued at the small, spongy, cylindrical discs, half of them white, half the palest pink. She hadn’t had marshmallows since childhood – in fact, not since her father died. It was he who had taken her camping and taught her how to toast marshmallows over a camp-fire; the pair of them sitting side by side beneath the stars, relishing the taste and texture: the soft, liquefying sweetness inside contrasting with the caramelized, semi-charred outer layer.

  They had always wolfed down a huge number, unconcerned about rotting their teeth or ruining their appetites. Those were her mother’s concerns and her mother never joined them on the trips. She particularly hated camping and considered holidays in general to be indulgent and unnecessary, having been taught as a girl that work must come before play. And, after she was widowed, there was, in fact, a pressing need for her to slave away all hours, just to pay the bills. And she herself, the dutiful daughter, soon learned to follow suit; adopting her mother’s view of life as precarious and perilous. If a husband and father could die so young, then it was essential to avoid all risks and try to secure a stable future by continually striving and saving.