‘See, you were hungry!’ Tracey crowed, and Helen realized to her shame that she had devoured all twelve marshmallows, with truly gluttonous speed. She tried to stop the woman from giving her yet more, but the Tupperware lid was already piled high. And they were hard to resist when they prompted such happy memories: her father’s warm, protective bulk pressed against her side, as he sat with his arm around her, outside the tent in Wales; him stealing into her room on Christmas morning, before her mother was awake, to share the packet of marshmallows he had slipped into her Christmas stocking; he eating all the white ones, she the pink. She could still recall the sweet, scented taste in her mouth that lingered joyously till breakfast-time. There were no Christmas stockings after he died; no treats of any kind.
‘Of course, the best way to eat marshmallows,’ Tracey pronounced, ‘is to dip them in melted chocolate. Barry gave me this fabulous chocolate-fountain for my twenty-fifth birthday, last year. We tried out various mixtures and our favourite, we decided, is equal parts milk chocolate and double cream. It’s really yummy, isn’t it, love?’ She paused to scoff a few marshmallows, as if needing further reserves of fuel to power her conversation. ‘And, if there’s any left, we spread it on toast for breakfast the following morning. It’s a pity we didn’t bring chocolate today, but it tends to go all gooey in hot weather. Still, we have loads of other food, Helen. I mean, you can’t exist simply on marshmallows. Barry, be a love and get out the ham-and-cheese sandwiches.’
‘No, really, I—’
Despite her protests, Barry handed her yet another plastic carton and was just urging her to help herself, when his voice was suddenly drowned by an announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize again for the delay, but we are now ready to depart and we should arrive at Slough in approximately eleven minutes.’
As the train lurched into motion, Helen dared entertain a scintilla of hope. She might just make the meeting in time, if the stop at Slough wasn’t too protracted and the train picked up speed en route. She must try to take a positive stance, view this initial hassle as just a mere minor inconvenience and assume that things would ultimately work out. Which meant all further distractions were strictly banned, whether sandwiches, marshmallows or pointless chatter. Her number-one priority was to keep working on her presentation until it was polished to perfection.
Decisively, she pushed the carton back to Barry’s end of the table. ‘It’s really kind of you, Barry, but I’m not hungry, honestly, and I need my full attention for my work.’
Both he and Tracey seemed to accept her statement with gratifying (if uncharacteristic) compliance, and began tucking into the sandwiches themselves. And, despite their chewing and slurping noises, she did actually manage to concentrate until the train pulled into Slough.
However, Slough was a scene of commotion, as a whole influx of visibly harassed people came pouring into the already crowded train, some complaining vociferously about the heat, the endless wait and the deficiencies of the train service in general. The carriage was soon packed with sweaty bodies and resounding with querulous voices. The only free seat – the one next to her – was immediately claimed by an officious-looking woman who wanted it for her daughter, a plump, spotty girl about thirteen. First, Barry had to shift those bags he hadn’t yet moved to the table, although he merely piled them inelegantly on his and Tracey’s laps. The mother watched the manoeuvre with displeasure, then deposited the child in the seat and told her to sit still and shut up.
Barry made no move to transfer his gear to the overhead rack, in order to give up his seat to one of the people standing, who included several elderly folk. And, although Helen felt obliged to offer her own, she allowed her pressing need to work to overrule her conscience. Now that her normal concentration had, at last, returned, she simply couldn’t afford to waste another second. And the train appeared to feel the same, as it pulled out of Slough with commendable rapidity, went zooming on to Reading and stopped there a scant twenty minutes later.
However, further chaos was evident at Reading, where yet more passengers shoved their way into the carriage, despite the fact that the train itself made no attempt to continue on its journey. She eventually realized, to her horror, that three other trains on adjoining platforms were also stationary, and she was compelled to face the daunting possibility that the entire network had ground to a halt.
Barry and Tracey remained their cheerful selves, of course, but then being late for a picnic hardly compared with her own highly stressful predicament. She found herself reflecting on how the couple paid the bills. Being basically young and strong, they were unlikely to be on benefits, so, presumably, they had some sort of job, but perhaps they’d deliberately settled for easy, undemanding work, as being infinitely preferable to health destroying pressures.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to inform you that there will be another delay to our service. The broken-down train is causing problems further down the line, so we are unable to proceed. On behalf of First Great Western, I apologize for …’
What use were mere apologies, she fumed? Things were now looking so serious, she would have to contact the Garden Court and warn them she’d be late. Yet the very idea appalled her, smacking as it did of failure and defeat – both crimes in her mother’s book.
But as the minutes ticked on – and on – and all four stranded trains appeared totally immobilized, she realized she was defeated. They were already fifty-eight minutes late and no train could make up that amount of time, unless, miraculously, it changed into a spaceship. So there was no option but to inform the hotel, however apprehensive she might feel. Although calls were technically forbidden in the Quiet Carriage, many people were already on their mobiles, explaining their missed connections, or simply deploring the delay.
She reached for her own phone, wondering how she would make herself heard in such a noisy atmosphere. But, since it would be more or less impossible to squeeze her way to the vestibule, with a mass of bodies clogging up the aisle, again she had no choice. On the other hand, the thought of a personal confrontation with her main contact, Desmond Stevens, made her distinctly uneasy. An irascible man at the best of times, he was bound to explode in annoyance if she announced the slightest disruption to his plans. It would be less nerve-racking to text – except a text seemed worryingly casual to convey such a crucial message and might rile him even more. Yet, it was imperative to contact him in some way or another, otherwise he and his colleagues would eventually gather round the boardroom table, ready to start the proceedings, and become increasingly impatient as she failed to put in an appearance.
That prospect was so dire, she decided that, despite her misgivings, a text was still preferable to a one-to-one exchange, so she began trying to work out a message that sounded suitably apologetic, whilst exonerating herself from any blame. However, all her attempts sounded either servile or defensive. Another problem was her automatic tendency to lapse into text-speak, which seemed disrespectfully slapdash in the circumstances, and meant she had to keep changing her language to something more aptly formal. Typical, she thought, that even a few lines should cost her so much effort. It was the same with her presentations. However often she went over them and over them, they never seemed quite good enough and, on each and every occasion, her anxiety would mount about them being judged inadequate, or compared unfavourably with pitches from competing firms. She was already sweating with sheer nerves, imagining Desmond’s reaction to her text – disappointment, disapproval, resentment, even anger – and all before she had even sent it.
She was so absorbed in her small, confining universe of dread and indecision, she failed to notice that Barry and Tracey were opening a box of doughnuts, and it wasn’t until the deliciously greasy, sugary smell wafted in her nostrils that she was jolted back to their far less threatening world.
‘Fancy one of these?’ Barry asked the young girl sitting opposite him, who accepted with alacrity. But just as she was reaching out her hand
, her mother intervened, watching hawk-like from the aisle.
‘Myra, put that back immediately! You know you’re not allowed to eat between meals.’
‘But, Mum, we’ll never have lunch at this rate and I’m jolly hungry already.’
‘Well, you’ll have to wait. And, anyway, you’re meant to be getting on with your school-work. I’ve told you twenty times.’
‘I can’t do it here. It’s too distracting.’
‘Myra, I don’t want any argument.’ The mother’s tone was so crushingly severe her daughter simply subsided, blushing furiously as she realized that the three people round the table had been listening to the exchange.
Helen gave her a sympathetic smile. She, too, had blushed at that age and, like Myra, had been cocooned in puppy-fat, deplored by her mother, of course, whereas her father had always approved of her, whatever her size or shape.
But, she wondered, suddenly, would he approve of the person she’d become: the skinny workaholic who spent long hours in a punishing job; was constantly worried about not quite making the grade, and tossed and turned at night about failed presentations, lost chances of promotion, or the risk of being sacked? Was that any sort of existence, for pity’s sake, let alone for someone whose natural inclination was, like his, for a simple life with few pressures and no deadlines? She didn’t even like her job. Half the time, she was pushing products and services she didn’t actually believe in; forced to distort the truth, play down the disadvantages and enthuse about the positives. Whatever the self-help books might claim, being invariably positive could prove a strain in itself and, anyway, did she really want to be zealous and successful, rather than free of that persistent internal slave-driver who mercilessly oppressed her?
‘I’ll have a doughnut,’ she said, loudly – loud enough for her own mother to hear, way up in Peterborough.
‘Great!’ said Tracey, passing her a couple. ‘To tell the truth, I was getting a bit concerned about you. I mean, you seem in such a state. And it can’t be good for you to work so hard. You’ll get blood pressure, like Barry.’
‘Yes, it’s already high,’ she informed them; suddenly wanting to communicate; to tell the heedless world just how difficult it was always having to exert herself, justify her existence, slog, slave, achieve, succeed. She took a large bite of the doughnut, aware of Myra’s envious glance. Her own mother had issued similar admonitions: ‘Don’t eat between meals’, ‘Get on with your homework’, ‘Do as I say’, ‘I’ve told you twenty times.’ Her easy-going father had provided a buffer, of course, and would willingly relax the rules – at least when they were on their own. But the very morning of her eleventh birthday, he had suffered the fatal heart attack and, after that, what else could she do but join her mother’s world – a more relentless and exacting world, in which even tiny derelictions of duty could be seen as major offences.
Barely had she finished the first doughnut when she started on the next, aware that she was breaking rules all round: being greedy, taking other people’s food without offering some in return, leaving grease-marks on her papers, spilling grains of sugar on her clothes, and actually spewing tiny soggy morsels on to the table, because she was talking with her mouth full. Disgusting. Sluttish. Liberating. ‘Fantastic doughnuts,’ she mumbled, through another luscious bite.
‘Yeah, aren’t they great? They’ve just opened a branch of Donut Heaven right near where we live and I went out early this morning to buy a couple of boxes, so they’d be nice and fresh for the journey.’
Helen was startled to realize that this woman she had dismissed as greedy and idle must have lavished time and effort on preparing all the provisions for the train. Everything on show so far had been neatly wrapped and carefully packed; the sandwiches well-filled and freshly made; the scones bursting with jam and cream. You could ‘exert yourself’ and ‘justify your existence’ in ways completely different from those expected in a high-powered job. However unlikely it might sound, Tracey was a perfectionist, like her, striving to meet the highest standards by laying on a sensational spread. And both she and Barry were generous enough to offer their bounty to strangers and so brighten other people’s lives by sharing their largesse. On the rare occasions her mother had prepared food for a journey, it had always been meagre fare. One mustn’t ‘pig oneself’, or ‘over-indulge’, or ‘rot one’s teeth’, or ‘fill up on empty calories’.
Tracey’s voice intruded into her thoughts. ‘You haven’t tried the iced ones,’ she said, opening a second Donut Heaven box. ‘Here, take one of those big squishy chocolate ones – they’re my favourites by a long chalk.’
‘No, really, I couldn’t possibly.’ Two was crime enough, let alone three in a row. Yet, as Tracey began elaborating on the scrumptious, velvety, intensely chocolaty icing, she found herself reaching out for one, almost against her will.
‘And these are my favourites,’ Barry put in, grabbing the box from Tracey and pointing out some custard-filled ones, sprinkled with chopped nuts. ‘You just have to try one, Helen. The creamy filling and crunchy nuts are the perfect combination.’
‘It’s sweet of you, Barry, but absolutely not.’
‘Look, love,’ Tracey said, in a persuasive, almost maternal tone, ‘we might be stuck here for hours, so, if you’re doing all that work, you need something to sustain you. I can see you’re making the same mistake as Barry – missing meals on account of the job-pressures – and all it did in his case was undermine his health. So, you really should think about your own health and try to build yourself up a bit.’
And, to her complete astonishment, she did indeed accept the proffered doughnut, although well aware that she wasn’t hungry, didn’t need it and that it was anything but healthy. It was as if Barry and Tracey were taking her over, subverting her normally rigid self-control.
‘I’m stuffed!’ she groaned, happily, once she had finished all four doughnuts. Weirdly, she was adopting Tracey’s language and even the woman’s sense of pleasure in sheer greed. Yet every bit as strong was the deep alarm she felt at this newly revealed gluttonous streak.
‘No room for a blueberry muffin?’ Tracey asked, with a laugh.
Vehemently, she shook her head, knowing it was time to call a halt. Yet she heard her traitorous voice saying – or was it Tracey’s voice? – ‘Actually, what I would like is another marshmallow or two.’
‘Be our guest! Have as many as you like.’
Although she obeyed, guilt and gratification were still fighting in her mind, and she could only justify herself by swallowing each marshmallow as a tribute to her father. Marshmallows had been their secret transgression, bought only when their mother was absent, and eaten on their fun-filled expeditions: bowling, swimming, skating, or just taking the bus to the Odeon to watch a Disney movie. Always one for pleasure, he believed in enjoying life to the full, in contrast to his restricting, rationing wife.
She was suddenly aware that Myra must have witnessed her consumption of the doughnuts and was still watching her, with a deprived and hungry look. Indeed, she was clearly so distracted that her draconian mother was forced to intervene from the aisle.
‘Myra, would you kindly get on with your work. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘I am working, Mum.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re staring at other people, which is the height of rudeness. And, before that, you were gazing out of the window.’
‘But only to see what was happening – or wasn’t happening, more like.’
‘Yes,’ her mother snapped. ‘This delay is quite intolerable. I intend to demand a refund on our tickets.’
The mother’s ire was echoed throughout the carriage, as passengers continued to complain about the heat, the cramped conditions and their thwarted or aborted plans. Myra, for her part, was sitting hunched in her seat, still not working, just alternately biting her nails and jabbing her pen on the table. Barry and Tracey alone were immune from the general fury and frustration.
‘If this
train doesn’t get a move on soon,’ she wailed, ‘we’ll miss the whole festival.’
‘Where are you going?’ Helen asked her, kindly.
‘Castle Cary,’ she replied, blushing again at being the centre of attention. ‘And it’s a total nightmare turning up so late!’
Jolted back to her own nightmare, Helen’s anxiety reached a record high. She had lost her concentration by gorging on Barry and Tracey’s food, and still hadn’t managed to compose a final text. Moreover, the tide of angry people now jabbering on their mobiles all around her seemed to reproach her own paralysis. Even Tracey had grabbed her phone – although far from sounding angry, she was happily bellowing to, presumably, her mother, explaining they’d be late for the picnic, but not to worry, they’d breeze in sooner or later.
Helen was struck by her tone: forceful yet relaxed, confident yet cheery. No apologies, no grovelling, just a ringing voice, a giggle or two, and an air of buoyant acceptance. Why agonize about things that couldn’t be changed?
All at once, and prompted by the example, Helen seized her own phone and dialled Desmond’s direct number, determined to ignore the flutterings in her stomach, the constriction in her throat.
‘Desmond? Helen Bailey here. I’m sorry to report that the train ahead of us has broken down, and we’re stuck at Reading, along with several other trains… . No, I’m afraid there doesn’t seem much chance of—’
A more compassionate man might have expressed a smidgen of concern for her predicament, or even managed a sympathetic word. But Desmond was impatiently tut-tutting and saying that, since time was of the essence for this project, could they please reschedule for tomorrow.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 20