by Karen Clarke
‘I have to say that, it’s part of my job.’ Alfie’s cheeks glowed red. ‘And I didn’t know you’d only showed up at that flat to take the piss.’
‘As if I could afford to buy it, you knob. I ’aven’t even got a job.’ He caught Daz’s eye and winked. ‘“Easy to maintain, and a great use of space, with plenty of original features”,’ he continued, in the same falsetto, but although Daz smiled, his eyes didn’t join in.
‘Leave ’im alone, Biff.’ He tugged his rucksack free and brushed some of the crumbs out of his hair. ‘Least he’s got a job.’
Biff wrinkled his nose, as if he’d smelt something bad. ‘I’d rather clean toilets wiv my tongue, or be a snot collector than an estate agent,’ he said.
‘Collecting snot’s not a job, you tool.’ Daz’s attempt at bravado fell on deaf ears, as Biff continued to inform Alfie about what he’d rather do than sell houses – including wiping horses’ bottoms, and unblocking sewers with his bare hands – before switching his squinty gaze to me.
‘This your girlfriend, Alfie? Bit old, in’t she?’
‘That’s enough,’ I said sharply. ‘Alfie’s earning a good living, doing something respectable, which is something to be proud of. I suggest you grow up fast, or the only thing you’ll be good for is unblocking sewers with your hands, and then you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face.’ It was the sort of thing my grandmother would have said, but had the effect of wiping the smirk off Biff’s face.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, glancing at Daz who looked mortified. ‘No offence, like.’
‘Plenty taken,’ I said. ‘Now, get lost.’
‘You sounded just like my old form tutor, Mrs Latchford, then,’ said Alfie when they’d gone, deliberately leaving the door open so some of the heat rushed out. ‘Biff backs down when someone stands up to him, and she always used to.’
I decided not to reveal that I was, in fact, a teacher (ex-teacher). I didn’t like that I sounded like one outside the classroom, but I supposed it was a habit that was hard to break, and at least it had its uses. ‘You were at the same school?’ I said.
‘Yeah, they were a couple of years below me, but Biff always took the pi— the mickey ’cos of my dad being an estate agent, see, and ’cos I’m working with him now they think it’s hilarious and a bit sad.’
‘Do you think it’s sad?’
‘Not really,’ said Alfie, shifting from foot to foot. ‘I mean, I used to want to be a footballer, but I was cr— rubbish, and I get good commission, plus Dad’s teaching me a lot.’
‘Well, you should be proud then,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but not many kids want to be estate agents, do they?’ My heart melted when I spotted his leather man-bag. He’d been holding it behind his back, presumably to avoid more taunting from Biff and Daz. ‘At school, when they ask what you want to be, you’re supposed to say scientist, or doctor, or something cool.’
‘You’re earning an honest living,’ I persisted, despite having balked at the admin fees I’d paid Blake’s Properties, grumbling to Mum that it was a pity you couldn’t buy a house direct from the owner, without being fleeced by a middle man. ‘It’s a shame so many children want to be famous, instead of becoming plumbers or electricians. Or estate agents.’ An idea unfurled. ‘You should give a talk at the local primary school,’ I said, packing away my notepad and sliding my coat back on. ‘Every month, a parent or relative came to the school where I used to work—’
‘I knew you sounded like a teacher!’
‘—and talked about their job, to inspire the children,’ I continued, deciding to pretend I hadn’t noticed my slip-up. ‘I think it would be a lovely thing to do.’
He chewed his bottom lip, appearing to give it some thought, and I was pleased to see that his skin had resumed its normal, robust shade of pink. ‘How do I go about that, then?’
‘I’m popping over to see Jill Edwards at Nightingale Primary sometime this week,’ I said, to my surprise. ‘I’ll have a word with her, if you like.’
Chapter Fifteen
As I drove the short distance to the cottage I couldn’t help smiling at Alfie’s parting words.
‘Thanks a lot, Miss, that’s ever so nice of you,’ he’d said, the apples of his cheeks bunching up in a smile. Before I could respond ‘no promises’, he’d gone, clutching his takeaway coffee, his man-bag over his shoulder.
I’d had no intention of going to see Jill Edwards, but Sheelagh’s suggestion from the day before must have implanted itself in my head. Still, if Alfie could make being an estate agent sound cool to a bunch of eight- or nine-year-olds, it would be worth it. Not everyone could end up working in television, I reflected, still fuming over Biff’s derisory comments to Alfie, wishing I’d thought of a more cutting put-down than what had amounted to a schoolmistressy ticking off.
* * *
As I drove up the hill, Doris – out in her front garden, despite the cold – gestured for me to pull over. I stopped and wound down my window as ‘Careless Whisper’ finished playing on my Christmas Number Ones CD and ‘Mr Blobby’ blared out. ‘Sorry,’ I said, switching it off as Doris approached, still in her red coat and scarf, a cloth in one hand and a can of polish in the other.
‘I like a bit of “Mistletoe and Wine” myself,’ she said, peering into the car, taking in the box of chocolate liqueurs, which I’d bought on my upmarket shopping spree, on the passenger seat. ‘You can’t beat Cliff at Christmas, though my Roger preferred that awful Slade song.’ She tutted fondly. ‘Gave himself a sore throat every year at the policeman’s ball, singing along to that,’ she chuckled.
‘I much prefer traditional songs,’ I admitted. ‘I used to love going carol-singing with the children…’ I trailed off, aware that I was talking about school again.
‘Where you used to work?’ Doris’s gaze gripped mine.
‘That’s right.’ Keen not to get drawn in, I changed the subject. ‘Isn’t it a bit chilly to be cleaning your windows?’ Although the wind had dropped, the air was crisp with the threat of snow.
‘I’m not cleaning my windows.’ Doris glanced at the polish in her hand, as though surprised to see it. ‘I was cleaning the lights on my bush,’ she said, nodding to her front garden. ‘They get a bit grubby if you don’t attend to them.’
Hiding a childish smirk, I said, ‘What did you want me for?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her glance darted up the road, and she craned her neck. ‘I think you have a visitor,’ she said. ‘She arrived about half an hour ago in a black Golf, registration delta tango two four, bravo Charlie echo.’
‘Wow.’ So, she’d stopped me to tell me my mum had arrived, and in doing so had delayed my arrival even further. ‘I’d better go then,’ I said, gunning the engine.
‘She looks lovely in blue,’ Doris called, as I wound the window up, and I wondered why she even needed me to spy on Barry Lambert. Perhaps she actually worked for MI6.
* * *
Pulling the car up behind Mum’s, I sat for a moment and took a couple of long breaths. Being out of the house had reinforced the strangeness of my situation, and the thought of facing Mum, as well as Ollie and Craig, felt like an uphill task.
A curtain twitched next door, and I guessed it was Sheelagh, hoping for a glimpse of her hero, but Marmite appeared and gave me an assertive stare.
‘Why do you have to be so creepy?’ I muttered, grabbing the box of chocolates as I got out of the car. Unless I worked out how to cook a partridge, we’d be eating the chocolates for dinner.
As I entered the hall, I was hit by a wall of warmth, and several things struck me at once.
The cottage was starting to feel like home, and I liked the way it enveloped me as I came in.
Mum was laughing her actressy laugh; the one she deployed when she really, really wanted to impress someone, or was rehearsing for a part more over-the-top than usual. As she was currently in the middle of a run, it had to be the former, which meant she’d been Ollied.
; There was a mouth-watering smell wafting out of the kitchen, which probably meant we wouldn’t be eating chocolate liqueurs for dinner.
I’d been about to call out, but instead removed my coat and boots and slid my feet into my slippers, rather liking that no one knew I was there. I could slip upstairs and have a little nap. Or at least visit the bathroom to freshen up.
I ran lightly upstairs, and checked the spare room. The bed was a rumpled mess, and there were clothes spilling out of Ollie’s holdall, but my mouth opened when I realised he’d hung the curtains. Despite being impressed that he’d tackled such a mundane task, I regretted my impulse buy. In reality, the pink floral pattern looked more like chickenpox.
I locked myself in the bathroom, listening to the rumble of Ollie’s voice downstairs, followed by more of Mum’s ringing laughter, and smiled at my reflection as I washed my hands at the basin. For a few months after Dad died, I couldn’t have imagined her ever laughing again, and I marvelled – not for the first time – at the resilience of the human spirit. The Ambrose spirit. Dad always said that if he went first he’d want Mum to be happy, and even to marry again, but that was when he’d been fit and healthy, unaware of the heart condition that would cut short his life at fifty-eight.
As often happened, if I thought about Dad no longer being around to see his children get married, or become a grandfather, or grow old disgracefully with Mum like he’d planned, I felt as if someone was squeezing my heart, and I had to grip the edge of the basin until my breathing settled.
I decided I’d better change my tights before going back downstairs, conscious that Ollie seemed bothered by the hole. I thought again of Craig warning him off the fake-girlfriend idea, and wondered whether I was relieved or disappointed. It was months since I’d been anyone’s girlfriend.
As if I’d conjured him up, I heard Mum say Max’s name as I stepped out onto the landing.
‘He told her he was getting divorced, but changed his mind, and later he confessed to his wife he’d been seeing Lily, and she went and confronted her at school and said some awful things, in front of everyone.’ I froze, one hand on the banister rail. ‘Would you believe, he dumped Lily by text?’
Ollie said something I didn’t quite hear, though I thought I caught the word ‘cad’.
‘And he did it in the form of a poem.’ Closing my eyes, I willed Mum not to repeat it. ‘“My tender sacrifice”, he called it.’ I groaned. ‘“Love leaves a memory no one can steal, but I must return to my old life, to heal.”’
Mum’s tortured delivery elicited a stunned, ‘Please tell me you’re kidding, Fiona,’ from Ollie. Fiona? It hadn’t taken them long to get cosy.
‘“Think of me kindly, for I really do care, but let yourself find a new love to share.”’ I hadn’t realised Mum had memorised Max’s poem, and I wished with all my heart I hadn’t shown it to her. ‘“I will always keep you in my heart, but beg you, sweet Lily, to make a fresh start.”’
‘Chr-i-i-i-st,’ said Ollie, sounding genuinely aghast – as if ending a relationship with poetry was worse than punching a rival, like he had. ‘Not just terrible poetry, and I’m talking absolute kindergarten level, but he made out like he was doing her a massive favour.’
‘I know.’ Mum lowered her voice. ‘I wanted to throttle him.’
‘I didn’t realise you were back.’
I jolted. Craig was at the foot of the stairs, looking up at me.
‘A few minutes ago,’ I said, jogging down to join him. Had he overheard Mum and Ollie’s conversation? ‘I just needed… I just wanted to, er, change my tights.’
His gaze dropped to my feet, where it was evident I was wearing the same pair.
‘I didn’t have any spare,’ I improvised, tugging my cardigan sleeves over my hands. ‘Did you get my note?’
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry I fell asleep like that,’ he said, raising his eyes. ‘I hadn’t realised I was so tired.’
‘It’s fine.’ The light outside had faded, and I was glad he couldn’t see me clearly in the dimness of the hall. ‘I needed some fresh air, anyway.’
‘I thought I’d start dinner, I hope you don’t mind.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen, clearly as awkward as I was. ‘Your mother’s here.’
‘Yes, I saw the car.’ I tucked my hair behind my ears, for something to do. ‘I intended to be back before she arrived.’
‘Ollie’s keeping her company.’
A peal of laughter erupted from the living room. ‘Evidently.’
I noticed he’d changed out of his running gear into a dark green sweater and black jeans, and that his hair was freshly washed and combed back off his face. He’d neatened his beard too, and looked altogether more groomed.
‘I took a shower,’ he said, and I realised I was staring. ‘You weren’t here to ask, so…’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Could this be any more stilted? ‘Was there enough hot water?’
He nodded. ‘Plenty. But it was just a quick one, in case you wanted to take a bath later on.’
‘Good. I mean, not good. But… thanks.’ This was torture. ‘What are you cooking?’
‘Roast partridge and apricot stuffing, with celeriac mash.’ Wow. ‘It shouldn’t be too much longer.’
‘I didn’t know I had any celeriac,’ I said.
‘You’ve got quite a selection of unusual vegetables.’
I felt the beginnings of a blush creep up my throat. ‘Well, it sounds delicious,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to do all that.’
He scratched the top of his head. ‘There wasn’t any point in filming without you here, and I like cooking. It’s relaxing.’
‘I prefer baking.’
His teeth flashed in a smile. ‘I ate a couple of mince pies. They were good.’
‘Thank you.’
A powerful, metallic note erupted from the living room.
‘Ollie brought his trumpet in,’ said Craig.
‘O-kay.’ I wasn’t keen on the sound. I preferred the saxophone, or guitar.
‘You should go through and say hi to your mum. Put her mind at rest.’
Annoyed at being told what to do in my own home, I retorted, ‘I was just about to, when you came out and started talking to me.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ I silently berated myself as he walked back to the kitchen without another word. He was cooking dinner for us, and I was being rude. He could easily make me look bad once he started filming, I reminded myself, and resolved to be nicer.
When I entered the living room, Ollie was playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, while Mum watched from the sofa, her face lit with admiration. Her peacock-blue coat was flung across the armchair, and she was wearing a long-sleeved top in a matching shade with black jeans and low-heeled boots, and a flamingo-pink scarf bunched into a silver clasp.
‘Oh, Lily, you’re back!’ She looked at me over her glasses and flashed a smile of relief as I sat beside her. ‘Isn’t he clever?’ she stage-whispered, returning her gaze to Ollie, who was giving it his all by the Christmas tree, knees braced, head thrown back as he blew into his trumpet. His cheeks were puffed out, and his fingers pumped the valves, while one bare foot tapped along to the beat.
‘Oh when the saints. Go marching in. Oh when the saints go marching iiiiiin. I wanna beeeeeeee, in that number,’ Mum sang lustily, earrings swinging as her head bobbed to and fro. ‘Join in,’ she said, nudging me with her shoulder, but I was too busy trying not to giggle at the absurdity of it all. There was a cameraman cooking dinner in my kitchen, and a celebrity in my living room, playing a trumpet for my mother. Why wasn’t Craig filming this? At least the public would see that Ollie had a talent – even if it was playing an instrument associated with the Salvation Army.
He finished with a triumphant flourish, and took a bow.
Mum applauded wildly. ‘He’s marvellous,’ she gushed, out of the side of her mouth. ‘You should have
told me who your naked man was.’
‘He wasn’t naked, and I didn’t exactly get a chance,’ I replied, out of the side of mine. ‘And if you’d have known, you’d have come anyway.’
‘True,’ she acknowledged, while Ollie replaced his trumpet lovingly in its case. ‘I nearly died when Craig answered the door and said you weren’t here, but then Ollie introduced himself and explained what was happening, and couldn’t have been more delightful.’ She threw him a smile, which he returned full force, adding a wink for my benefit. ‘I thought he got a raw deal being kicked off that show.’
‘I didn’t know you watched Players.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s fascinating. He’s so much better-looking in real life.’
‘Why are you two talking like gangsters?’ said Ollie, plopping in the armchair on top of Mum’s coat.
‘Just saying hi to my mum,’ I said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. It was nice to see her, even if she couldn’t take her eyes off Ollie. ‘Thanks for making her welcome.’
‘The pleasure was all mine,’ he said, sincerely.
Seeing him afresh brought home how out of place he looked in my house, despite his dressed-down appearance. He should be sipping cocktails by a tinkling fountain, or flying a jet to a swanky awards ceremony, not making small talk in an ordinary living room in Shipley.
‘He’s made it look wonderful in here,’ Mum gushed. ‘Quite the transformation.’
‘He’s good with a tree, I’ll give him that,’ I said, while Ollie assumed a faux-modest expression, and pretended to twirl a handlebar moustache. ‘What are those?’ I’d spotted a couple of parcels under the lower branches, wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with extravagant gold bows.